Favorite Books and Writers

What's great about lists like this is they make you feel good. Its an emphasis on the positive. These are just some off the top of my head...

Faulkner One thing about books is the places you encounter them. I first remember the Sound and the Fury as a kid. I pulled it out of my mother's bookshelf and read some of it thinking, how weird. It wasn't until about 20 years later that I read and felt the Faulkner pellmell. But whenever I think of Faulkner, I think of that hard covered dusty modern library edition. I also remember reading the short story "the Bear" (paperback) in Antigua Guatemala and thinking, why has it been so long since I'd read some Faulkner. Then there's that image of dragging a coffin all around everywhere. I do not remember when I read "As I lay Dying," as the image is so strong and ridiculous and fascinating that its place in reading time is lost.

Mark Twain I am sorta putting this in for Suldog. My connection with Mark Twain is a performance given in high school by a classmate. This guy was a couple of years ahead of me. I forget his name which is too bad because he's probably sickeningly successful. But he did the best Mark Twain performance in which for one hour, dressed in a white suit with white mustache and wig, he kept the attention of a large group of high schoolers.

Confederacy of Dunces The BBC did a top 100 list recently and this book was not on there! Not only that, but Midnight's Children was on there while this one wasn't! FAIL! I don't care how great the BBC does a british accent, they loose.

Tale of Two Cities I can't help it. Dickens knows how to set a scene.

Steinbeck For a guy with the middle name Ernst he did alright. I'm putting him in though for this Canadian fellow that had the rattiest chunk of dreadlock hanging down to his butt I've ever seen. I ran into the Canadian at the "Last Resort," a bar in Panachel Guatemala. Say "Steinbeck" to him and his sentences would start connecting and he'd even turn on his barstool some. If I were to pick a Steinbeck book I'd pick "Cannery Row" but then I've never read "Grapes of Wrath." *After a while, the not reading becomes more distinctive than the reading. But, I suppose I'll read it sometime anyway.*

Yehuda Amichai Selected poetry translated by Chana Bloch and Stephen Mitchell. Amichai's words are liquid.
Wildpeace
"Not the peace of a cease-fire,
not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,
but rather
as in the heart when the excitement is over
and you can talk only about a great weariness."...

Li Po and Emily Dickinson People say that the referring to Emily Dickinson by her full name, vs just Dickinson is sexist. And, that may be true. But its also how she wrote. She is some one you want to cherish with a couple more syllables. Li Po will always be my favorite ancient oriental inebriate.

A Treasury of Great Poems Louis Untermeyer. Tales of a misspent youth.

James Baldwin Another pellmell writer. I think I might pick "Go Tell It on the Mountain" but the image I have of him is his eyes on the cover of a book of essays, "Nobody Knows My Name." Also, when I think of Baldwin, and I believe I've read everything by him, I slide into thinking about the room with lights in the Invisible Man. I bet anything Baldwin wished he'd written that scene.

Rex Stout No list is complete without Rex Stout. ;) I like his writing attitude. He's like the black and white Thin Man movies of mystery books. Here's my collection of Rex Stout books...

The collection is almost but not totally complete. However, the age range of the paperbacks is perfect, and some of the covers are fabulous. Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin rock.

Where Were You Thom Gunn?

(This post is regarding a job application where I gave a 5 minute presentation in front of other job applicants and the employer.) (lol.)

"Ahem." Taps lectern. Peers about near sightedly.

I have noticed. As fool incarnate, one does not have rearview mirrors. One gets side view mirrors. Its part of the deal. The reason is obvious. Rearview mirrors are unnecessary and redundant. Side view mirrors are where you see those who already are in the act of passing you.

"Ahem."

Job shopping is weird. Particularly for someone whose best response is 6 edits away. And who automatically subverts all expectation, as homage to a youth spent amassing poetry books and attending poetry slams. To date my best non-answer is "Whether you like to be around a group of people fits within the spectrum of attending a basketball game or going to the bathroom." lol. I cringe to admit it, but yes I said that. lol. And, *sigh,* I didn't get the job. lol.

"Ahem." (Here I imaginarily pull my blog close and launch into a dreary recital of metals. Including several important facts about silver. lol. Would that I'd become momentarily discombobulated and lifted my left leg behind me, arms outstretched and skated forward in the hopeful to be fulfilled pose of a Christmas special. Or, like my 6 edits away from elegance in this post.)

"Ahem."

And in the side view mirror looms a fellow presenter's take on "Biogeography." Guy, if you ever stub an optical nerve upon this post, let it be known, you are my hero. I would like to know what your name is because you are that great. At that moment in time I was distracted by a rearview mirror that was not there. I should have risked a glance at the side view where you launched into another realm. Not often is one invited into an alternate universe in a 5 minute presentation for a job. You taught me something.... even if it can't pay the mortgage.

Thom Gunn, where were you.

"On motorcycles, up the road, they come:
Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boy,
Until the distance throws them forth, their hum
Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh.
In goggles, donned impersonality,
In gleaming jackets trophied with the dust,
They strap in doubt--by hiding it, robust--
And almost hear a meaning in their noise. "

The place I first encountered Thom Gunn's poetry was a used book store on Broadway in Chicago, a couple of blocks north of Diversey. Another couple of phrases in the same "On the Move" poem....

"Men manufacture both machine and soul,
And use what they imperfectly control
To dare a future from the taken routes."

The First Annual Shoe Box Award

When I decided, desperately, to go into business for myself, some of the books I read said a mentor is needed for success. I don't have a mentor. I don't have a mental image of a mentor. In fact, I was not sure I have a hero or even had one as a kid. But then I remembered... that shoe box, kept in the closet, stuffed with my grade school poetic attempts. Emily Dickinson was a hero, of course. What kid wouldn't respond to "I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you-- Nobody-- Too?" That's pure candy to a young ear. Also to bring in a Frog. What genius.

There's Rillke's Panther to T.S. Elliot's "I grow old, I grow old, I wear my trousers rolled." That phrase still rattles about in my brain sometimes when I'm thinking and walking home. Generally I don't know much about the personal life of the poets, Baudelaire being an exception. With him I think of his poetic concept, and his decorating his Parisian apartment in opulence on borrowed money. There's Catallus, Ginseberg's reading of Catallus, Shappho, Frost and Yehuda Amichai and his

"Not the peace of cease-fire,
not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,
but rather
as in the heart when the excitement is over
and you can talk only about a great weariness..."

That guy is pure liquid to the soul. Wildpeace. Then there's Bishop's Fish and Silverstein...."If I had wheels instead of feet/ And roses 'stead of eyes/ Then I could drive to the flower show/ And maybe win a prize." And no rambling is complete without Li Po (my favorite ancient oriental inebriate) dancing with the moon and his shadow and writing "only good drinkers can ever gain real fame." Ha! That says it all.

I have a bookcase now... no shoe boxes. I even burned my old stuffed shoe box years ago. It was rather anti-climatic. And not regretted at all (truely bad stuff!) I did it outside, and had to keep stirring the mess as there was too much paper. My advice to anyone thinking on doing such a thing... use starter fluid.

So the first and probably only Shoe Box Award goes to Emily Dickinson who with her poetry established an immediate and personal link through which others' words would also flow. A big round of applause for my hero, Emily Dickinson.

My Favorite Ancient Oriental Inebriate

Li Po. He's the Man:

"Past and present do not differ,
both must reach understanding
but I, though old, yet have not
reached understanding; "

Does he not rock?

"youngsters, what have you to say?
for you in your time will also
change to be old men of the hills."

(from My Wine Cup Beside) Honestly, I'd give my left fallopian tube to write like that.
And a poem of night, wine, desire and dancing...

"Alone and Drinking under the Moon"

"Amongst the flowers I
am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
to drink with me, its reflection
and mine in the wine cup, just
the three of us;"

Did E.D. read Li Po? Or did she channel him?
Some historian with finely matted brain cells would know. I don't. But this music needs to get out of the dust jackets and into the firmament.

"........I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me;..."

There are few folks that can foil this mess of modern life.
My Li Po story. (Everyone has one about their favorite celebrity, right? And Li Po is The Man.) I went to the MFA in Boston, MA, and wandered into the Asian exhibit. On the wall was a glass case with a wire hanging down and at the end of it, a hook. The title of the work was portrait of Li Po, and I don't know whether it said "Ancient Oriental Inebriate" or whether my brainiac supplied that. But I stood there, gazing at this seemingly empty case, for awhile. Finally, defeated, I'm like, I do not understand. There are no vibes, no intuition or cognition happening.

Then looked down. At the bottom of the DISPLAY case was a note saying picture removed for photographing.
LI PO RULES!

An Explaination

About the Insect. That poem was written maybe 10yrs ago. At the time it needed one more line. I've looked at it a few times since then thinking, what is missing.... Then the other day, in a desperate fit of procrastination I saw this poem and the missing line. I'm not sure how I feel about the poem anymore, but it is finished. Kind of unfortunately finished. I like to think there is a bit of poetry occassionally in my hands and what I make... but it ain't in my head. I haven't written a poem in years. Sometimes I feel if I weren't so tired, so distracted by life... Maybe if I had more or fresher brain cells...

Whatever. I know I haven't caught a honeybee in years. But also, when I think about them now I feel bad. They are dying? The worker bees can't find their way back to the hive? That intricate society of the honey bees may become extinct? That really.... when people talk about dinosaurs its like a joke. This isn't a joke. You know. The LITTLE GUY THAT SAMPLES OUR CLOVER NEEDS TO ROCK ON.

Insects

In the black and white photo
I am two. I squat
and hold a bug between
thumb and finger--
an intent look on my face.

A man sits beside me and says
"I don't love you." I don't know this man.
Three stops until I'm free.
The train isn't crowded enough.

In every school project I used bugs.
I never killed them.
Honey bees were my favorite catch--
scooping them one-handed off the clover
like gold dust.

He says, "I like your hat."
I move towards the door.
Should I leave should I stay
does he look violent.
Already I am late.

I taught a friend how to catch bees.
I told her they won't sting--
If they sting they die--
Just be gentle.

The man gets off at my stop--
I try another exit but there he is
in front on the stairs turned, and
scanning the crowd--

My friend got stung. You squeezed too hard
I told her. There was light
on the clover. The air was light.
We ran from the field.
I remember the length of her hair.

Not a Baudelaire

Whenever one is contemplating the stupidity of ones fiscal choices in ones life, (you can see the orgins of my "ones" post), Baudelaire is useful. Frankly, I feel that if anyone can achieve the originality and conceit of Baudelaire, stupe on, as it were. The guy is beautiful. A hero, without a doubt. So when I was fussing over a new batch of photos the title appeared intrinsic with this poor bastard child of Picasso.... Not a Baudelaire.