Lying in a Hammock

"Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota"

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,   

Asleep on the black trunk,

Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.   

Down the ravine behind the empty house,   

The cowbells follow one another   

Into the distances of the afternoon.   

To my right,

In a field of sunlight between two pines,   

The droppings of last year’s horses   

Blaze up into golden stones.

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.   

A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.

I have wasted my life.

- by James Wright, first published in The Paris Review (1961)

A Midwestern Summer

So James Tate was a poet who died last Wednesday. I don't really know where to start this post, but that concrete fact seemed as good as anyplace. He was born in Kansas City and did the whole college thing--including a stint at the Iowa Writers' Workshop--before eventually becoming a professor at UMass Amherst in 1971, where he stayed until his death.

Tate and Gordon Cairnie, one of the founders of The Grolier,
as captured by Elsa Dorfman in 1965

His writing has been strangely present around me since then. I hadn't read a single Tate poem until last week, when my dad e-mailed me his obituary. The next day, I went to a poetry reading by Nick Flynn at the MFA. Flynn, whose work I admire quite a bit, was one of Tate's students back in the day, so he read a poem that he'd worked on with him.

Not that any of this holds special meaning or significance. I'm aware that it doesn't, and that I have an extreme inclination to over-interpreting symbolism. But the connections were there, and I am a sucker for both poetry and Kansas Citians.

Here is a poem by Tate. Some of its imagery reminds me of simple hot summers in Platte County, where we'd go near the river to swim and to put pennies on the railroad tracks. With nothing better to do, thinking we knew everything, we'd sit and wait for freight trains to come by and blow loud wind, impossibly close, in our hair and ears.

"Success Comes to Cow Creek"

I sit on the tracks,
a hundred feet from
earth, fifty from the
water. Gerald is
inching toward me
as grim, slow, and
determined as a
season, because he
has no trade and wants
none. It’s been nine months
since I last listened
to his fate, but I
know what he will say:
he’s the fire hydrant
of the underdog.

When he reaches my
point above the creek,
he sits down without
salutation, and
spits profoundly out
past the edge, and peeks
for meaning in the
ripple it brings. He
scowls. He speaks: when you
walk down any street
you see nothing but
coagulations
of shit and vomit,
and I’m sick of it.
I suggest suicide;
he prefers murder,
and spits again for
the sake of all the
great devout losers.

A conductor’s horn
concerto breaks the
air, and we, two doomed
pennies on the track,
shove off and somersault
like anesthetized
fleas, ruffling the
ideal locomotive
poised on the water
with our light, dry bodies.
Gerald shouts
terrifically as
he sails downstream like
a young man with a
destination. I
swim toward shore as
fast as my boots will
allow; as always,
neglecting to drown.

-From The Lost Pilot (1961) 

(Side note: The weekend was, in short: marimba music, cameras, cleaning, and sweet old dogs. Mondays are killer, but I'm trying this new self-imposed bedtime thing. Maybe I'll finally establish some semblance of routine.)

Thanks for reading this, dear friend.

I Don't Know Why

- "(I Don't Know Why) But I Do by Clarence "Frogman" Henry (1961)

Running Scared

El Camino auto-post number three: Today I'm probably in Palas de Rei.

This is perhaps one of the saddest songs I've ever heard. The recording is from "Black and White Night," which was a special concert from 1988. The whole concert was focused on Roy Orbison, but if that weren't good enough, he managed to get a bunch of other really cool people (i.e. Elvis Costello, Bruce Springsteen, Tom Waits, k.d. lang, Jackson Browne, Bonnie Raitt...) to perform with him.

-"Running Scared" by Roy Orbison, from Black and White Night (1988), originally released in 1961

Permanently

Because I won't have my laptop this week, I've lined up some tidbits in the interim...

El Camino auto-post number one: Today I'm probably in Sarria.

This is a poem I recently discovered by the writer Kenneth Koch. I'm a sucker for sappy love poems.

"Permanently"

One day the Nouns were clustered in the street.
An Adjective walked by, with her dark beauty.
The Nouns were struck, moved, changed.
The next day a Verb drove up, and created the Sentence.

Each Sentence says one thing—for example, “Although it was a dark rainy day when
        the Adjective walked by, I shall remember the pure and sweet expression on her face
        until the day I perish from the green, effective earth."
Or, “Will you please close the window, Andrew?”
Or, for example, “Thank you, the pink pot of flowers on the window sill has changed color
        recently to a light yellow, due to the heat from the boiler factory which exists nearby.”

In the springtime the Sentences and the Nouns lay silently on the grass.
A lonely Conjunction here and there would call, “And! But!”
But the Adjective did not emerge.

As the Adjective is lost in the sentence,
So I am lost in your eyes, ears, nose, and throat—
You have enchanted me with a single kiss
Which can never be undone
Until the destruction of language.

-Written in 1960 by Kenneth Koch, from the collection Permanently (1961)

Steps

Frank O'Hara had a beautiful nose.

"Like a boxer."

In all seriousness, he was a poet--among other things--with a seemingly upbeat life. After serving in the navy during World War II, he began college at Harvard, where he was roommates with the delightfully idiosyncratic illustrator and writer Edward Gorey. Later, he got his master's degree, moved to New York, and eventually became a curator at the Museum of Modern Art. In addition, he was an accomplished pianist. When he had the time to do all of this, I have no idea. His early death, though unfortunate, was appropriately absurd: he was struck and killed by a Jeep on a beach.

But let's get to the good stuff. This is a poem I only recently discovered. It's wonderfully exuberant and observant.

"Steps"

How funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
and St. Bridget’s steeple leaning a little to the left

here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way
for people to rub up against each other
and when their surgical appliances lock
they stay together
for the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
that painting’s not so blue

where’s Lana Turner
she’s out eating
and Garbo’s backstage at the Met
everyone’s taking their coat off
so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
and the park’s full of dancers with their tights and shoes
in little bags
who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
why not
the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we’re all winning
we’re alive

the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building’s no longer rivalled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)

and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining

oh god it’s wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much

-Frank O'Hara, from Lunch Poems (1964), written in 1961