During the Presidents’ Week staycay,
this little piggy, it’s fair to say, and sans modesty, went to market: writing on
a baily dasis, and patting myself on the back over this blogpost title: Half of One,
Six Dozen of the Other, a political commentary of sorts.
This little piggy early
voted, and when I received today a letter from candidate Mike Bloomberg I was concerned that the C-note enclosed would have to be returned because I didn't vote for him. But no worries, there wasn't even a fiver, nothing, cheap bastard, so no harm no foul.
So yes, I early voted in my state’s
Super Tuesday election. Bernie. Bernie.
I also voted for the incumbent congressperson because he’s a Democrat,
and the incumbent state assemblyperson—although he is a Republican—because his
first name is Randy.
Things are getting better and continue
to evolve at Write Up The Road. Being
a part of the collective is assisting me in keeping my head in the writing
game.
And this little piggy has two more
poetry books to recommend. I didn’t research either poet so I have no notion of
their biographies beyond what is in the books. But I see somebody that looks
like me in these poems. I can relate, I’ve been there. Yet at the same time the
writing is such that I feel like I’m also seeing and experiencing the situation
for the first time. To me that’s the entertaining heart of literature. I love
to read as though I’m at a production, a show, like a movie, or an opera, it’s
an event, produced by the writer’s magic, talent, technique, call it what you
will. And even though there were officially no classes this week, this little
piggy got taken to school, twice, learning some of how it’s done, and even more
being shown that it can be.
Poems about various empires in
various historical periods on various continents, and the residue of their
dissolution, due often to war and its aftermath. An empire always striking back
eventually implodes from exhaustion. That’s what’s being written about for the
most part in this book. And written so well. At times Aeneid-like. It
references many cultures, even mixes in some English translations of Romanian
verse. Damn interesting.
And there are other themes,
too. “A Visit from His Muse” about a quickie with a muse in a cheap
motel. Another, “Showgirl,” a steely elegy for a person I
had to Google.
And I so nodded in agreement
at the conclusion of “El Mercado”
“…know that few pass through
here, that few
Stop in this high desert town
by the border,
And that whatever you’ve come
looking for
You probably won’t find.”
Unless its good poetry you be
wanting.
This is a wild ride. Everything’s
exaggerated. Like the title. Bombastic.
Couple of examples:
From “New Adventures in
Sci-fi”
“No caps on our data plans, no
gaps in our Medicaid
through the fevers of spring,
through our seventeen
Months of summer, our seven
throngs of fall
when the leaves change several
times an hour
Until it snows those days we
really need it to snow
so the sun can thaw the barrio
dry, lay itself easy
As a leg draped across your
legs on a porch swing.”
And then this one, a virtual job
description/job interview for the position of poet titled “What We Call a Mountain in the Valley,
They Call a Hill on the Mountain.” The document starts by
interrogating the basic premise of the poet’s (or any artist’s) motivation, why
do this?
“Aren’t the rigors of traffic
ample? Aren’t child-rearing
And the triumph of income over
expenditure ambition
Enough?”
Later in the piece the
prospective poet is being grilled about their precious conceit:
“And if we don’t comprehend
it, do you believe someday we will?
That the poem will blossom
before us some morning
Like a green light at Daytona?”
And I liked the advice from another
poem: “In a story about Paris, you shouldn’t
mention Paris.”
So yeah, every work of art
that I get off my ass to pay attention to, changes me. The better the work, the
bigger the change. A painting, a video, a concert, a poem, whatever dazzles me,
I’m not the same artist afterward. It ups my game. It challenges me to be as
fine in my art and style as that artist is in theirs.
These composers’ musics were
on during the week, my own private nation under a groove: Lois Vierk, Unsuk Chin,
John Adams, Grant Green, Alexander Scriabin.
