65. Caedmon’s hymn } & DeathTV 1 - 6

The Venerable Bede included his translation, from Old English into Latin, of a hymn by Caedmon, a cowherd visited by God in a dream and commanded to sing verses inspired by scripture. Bede noted a common translator’s lament: “…for it is impossible to make a literal translation, no matter how well-written, of poetry into another language without losing some of the beauty and dignity.”

With the help of a literal, interlinear translation of the Old English included in the Norton Anthology of English Literature, I took a moment to translate Caedmon’s hymn to the Creation—the hymn he wrote, according to Bede, immediately after Caedmon’s first dream. I attempted to maintain alliteration where I could, which lead to some (maybe) unusual choices. For example, “weard” means guard; God is described in the hymn as “heofonrices Weard” or “heaven-kingdom’s Guardian.” I like guardian for weard, but I prefer ward or even warrior—a word used in "The Dream of the Rood" to describe Christ’s disciples. I’m not entirely happy with the result:

Now shall we herald     heaven’s warrior
the Measurer’s might     and his mind,
          the
Wonder-Father’s work—     everyone’s wonder—
          when He,
endless Divine,     established All.

He first shaped,     for earth-born,
heaven to roof.     Holy sculptor,
endless Divine—     after, told
for us Earth’s form—    Master almighty.


My "after, told" is a leap. The Old English reads "aefter teode" which literally means "afterwards made"; I thought of John's "In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God," thus, told = make—as God spoke the world into existence.

Saturday will see another new edition of Open Letters Monthly. My review of DeathTV (1 - 6) included. DeathTV is a chapbook by Colby Somerville from Lightful Press, their third publication. Here are two poems by Somerville; I like "#2." I mention in my review that DeathTV reminded me in places of Jessica Smith's poetry. I was also reminded of Matthew Klane's work, especially Hell [TV] 1 - 11, published in 2004.

64. “Everything Odder } Than Everything Else”

A second mysterious epistle from the Crotchthrottle. The Wyrre Jimes has me on his list, has had since that night on Wickenden Street.

After dinner with Elizabeth D., en route to my car, I was hailed by a man dressed in a suit like a costume from a Victorian period-film. Wisdom nearly kept me from stopping, but my instinct was for trust; I followed him onto a side street. He gave me a cup—I lifted the lid—coffee. “For the road,” he said. His voice was muted—typical for a bass player. “Why not have a listen,” he said. He slipped a CD into my jacket pocket, shook my hand—those fingers! strong as an ape’s—also typical for a bass player. That was two years ago, the Crotchthrottle’s first record: Slap-fight at the Coffee Shop. A joke title. The music was more complex. Ominous drones, driving drum beats, little melodies that meander and double.

Today, their latest record, Everything Odder Than Everything Else. The album art is remarkable. A group shot of famous men seated across an invisible chasm. Where the chasm warps the light, the camera revealed their true faces. Their faces like the strange faces of the Croththrottle: Heimeier Axia, Jimes, Lysander Foley, and Atom McPhee. The only face that appeared as it did in our world is Albert Einstein’s. That’s no surprise.

Their music, again, is mostly instrumental, though Axia’s voice appears on “King of the Space Elephants,” “Except Ants,” submerged on the excellent “Intersecting Lines,” and on “Cabinet.” He’s getting bolder. Everybody knows about the space elephants, but not everybody knows about the lines. The chasm. While the music on the new record resembles that of the first, it’s a lot more open. The tracks meander less. McPhee’s drums are more subtle. The bass and the effects lead and the ominous drones are given more space. This progress the result, I can only assume, of their deepening interaction with the Jellyfish.

Generally, I try not to know too much about the Jellyfish and the chasm—I know they operate hand-in-hand and push consciousness and such-and-such. The Crotchthrottle’s music is about as deep into that head-space as I’m comfortable with. For you? Everything Odder… may be just the passage you were trying to open with Robitussin and non-Euclidian geometry. I say bypass all that. Get a magnifying glass and a set of headphones. Listen to Everything Odder… and search the album art for secret compass points.

Okay. Accepting street-coffee from Jimes was a bit more than just listening to their music. I'm a hypocrite. Forgive me. But my instinct was good. The coffee was kind. That night two years ago, the dark route from Providence to Hartford shone.

63. Reading } The Poetry Institute, New Haven.

A black bank clock read 98 degrees and a bit past 6pm. Too late to revisit the museum. I sat in a line of shade outside a bar and drank rum and ate a tomato while adding a few lines to OUTLAND. At 6:30 I climbed up a steep staircase to The Institute Library (founded 1826). The a.c. was on full. I drank red wine from a plastic cup and perused a copy of I.E.S. Edwards’ The Pyramids of Egypt.

Twenty-plus attendees formed a half-circle in the reading room. I stood by a heavy, round table, beneath a lamp that hung from the high ceiling and read from OUTLAND, an untitled story, and from Green. After, I sold out the Color Plates I brought. I owe a copy to Alice-Anne, co-host, and I owe thanks to both her and to Mark for inviting me to read.

From a book sale cart by the door of the library I bought a book called The Crystal Geyser. In it is an anecdote about living men and women who are able to crystallize the blood in their veins when they picture a certain hill and the stone long ago placed at its top.

62. Reading } The Poetry Institute, New Haven.

My youngest and I strolled downtown New Haven on Mother’s Day. We spent a lot of time at the Yale University Art Gallery. There’s a lot of open space on the main floor, where she wandered between a Sol LeWitt and a cuneiform tablet from the palace of Assurnasirpal II.

While I stood by the glass doors leading to the museum’s barren sculpture garden, one of the staff—a young woman—asked me, “How old?” My youngest tapped the covers of all the books faced-out on a low shelf behind a green couch. “A year,” I said. “She’s so cute.” I thanked the woman. She said, “Have you seen the horn?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly, but before I could ask the woman to repeat herself she added, “Sometimes it’s a very bright red.”

A big photography book fell from the low shelf. The noise startled my youngest, who cried. I swooped in to soothe her. By the time all was well, the young woman was gone. I didn’t think about her or what she’d asked till now, now because I’ll be back in New Haven this Thursday.

I’m on to give a reading at The Poetry Institute. Doors open at 6:30. There’s an open mic at about 7 and then, after “a short social break,” I’ll read. I gather after that there’s a “feature poet Q&A.” I have new work, and hope to write more between now an then.

Maybe I’ll have time before the reading to revisit the museum. I’m almost certain the woman wasn’t asking me about an exhibit, but what else would she’ve been asking about?

61. Kate makes } city.

When our paths last crossed, Kate Shapira gave me a “Tell me about a change in your city or town” postcard, a pre-stamped, screen-printed, 5 x 7 card. So far, 10 of the 50 cards were returned to Kate. I kept my answer simple. Tho I’m not sure what Kate intends to do with these texts (beyond posting them on her blog), my assumption is that it’s the beginning of a community-based poetry project. Do our texts become found text for Kate to reshape? If so I approve.

Flim Forum published a selection from How We Saved the City, Kate’s latest book (from Stockport Flats’ Meander Scar series), in A Sing Economy. A subject of those poems is the impact of city on human beings—a further expression of her interest in community. Her own, but—and the postcard series points to this—other communities as well.

The postcard asked me to do what she does, that is, to think about where I live. To engage. That’s activism, right?

If you buy any of her books, she’ll send you a copy of her newest chapbook Ground (while she has ‘em).

60. Notes made on } Objects for a Fog Death.

Fingerless gloves. “We stop here to take / pictures of these / questions.” What motivated Julie Doxsee to write these poems? Can we reverse engineer “Kitchen Tour” to its writing exercise origin (“Those are [x]”)? How much for the phrase “teeth / fill with fog”? Good / but / the questions / are / dull.

Like Z.S., another Black Ocean poet, Doxsee has a pool of words she reaches for (eyes and eyeglasses [frequently destroyed, specifically crushed], water, the sky, lemons, the moon, etc.); their resonance is only their own, not Doxsee’s.

“Architecture”; see Inferno, Canto V: :“'Poet,' said I, 'fain would I speak to those two / That seem to ride as light as any foam, / and hand in hand on the dark wind drifting go.'” The cyclone, “the black wind” that has Francesca and Paolo swept up forever. A poem about an extra-marital affair. More ocean = Black Ocean. "If I write / my address on your wrist / the fog will wash it off....” Intrigue is the romance: “One day we read for pastime how in thrall / Lord Lancelot lay to love, who loved the Queen....” [Dante, Dorothy L. Sayers trans.]

Poems as surreal witticisms, not “cut-ups.”

My song is more important than yours. “You disguised you” and “I will send me.” All movies =. “I poured you / I wrapped you” and “I wrote a song about you.”

Doxsee’s interest in miniaturization (a forest beneath a slice of tomato on a vending machine sandwich) recalls a typesetter’s box wall-mounted and filled with nick-knacks instead of metal letters. A glass spark plug, a plastic sea shell, a walnut, etc.

The excellent title points to “it,” again, as in “sail it oarless” [the roller coaster]. Wizard of Oz. Eye patch. Already crushed by a house / prepared to stay shriveled and / tinned by the little / boy who wears a red shirt.

59. A new anthology } of old stories.

Paul Walther’s “The Toll” is the first story I bought for New Genre. My initial response was disbelief: was it possible someone sent me a good story, or did all the bad submissions lower my standards? Nope. The story was good. Is good.

Now, “The Toll” is dusted off for a reprint anthology called Hauntings. The anthologist mentioned on her blog that she was “reading for… a reprint anthology for Tachyon…. I'm looking for stories published between around 1985 – 2011 and would prefer stories that haven't been reprinted lately. I've chosen stories by Peter Straub, Neil Gaiman, Joyce Carol Oates, Pat Cadigan, and Caitlin R. Kiernan and have several others I'm likely taking. But otherwise I'm open to suggestions.”

“The Toll”—along with another story I published in New Genre (“The Line I Walk” by M.J. Murphy) and a story of my own—was suggested. “The Toll” was selected by the anthologist for reprint.

A list of the authors included in the anthology was posted at Tachyon (along with some of the worst catalog copy I’ve seen in a while. Dig it: “This spine-tingling anthology—complied by the horror genre's most acclaimed editor—collects a chilling array of ghost stories from the past twenty-five years. Our obsession with the mysteries of the afterlife is explored in these supernatural tales….” Tachyon! Tell me how this anthology contributes something new, how it offers up horror stories from the past twenty-plus years even avid readers may have missed, and that the stories approach what it means to be haunted with intensity and intelligence. Don’t resort to William Castle-esque, movie-house gibberish).

Reprint anthologies give stories a second life. New Genre is an obscure journal with a tiny readership, and New Genre #1 is nearly thirteen years old. “The Toll,” reprinted, will be set in front of a bigger audience. I am grateful for that. Paul’s story deserves to be read (again).

[The image above is an early layout of the cover for issue #1 of New Genre; not much was changed for the final version.]