i'll give you lhude sing cuccu, motherfucker

Svmer is icumen in
Lhude sing cuccu!
Growe� sed and blowe� med
and spring...

goddam fucking pollen.

Quote of the day, 2/17/07

A Confession

My Lord, I loved strawberry jam
And the dark sweetness of a woman's body.
Also well-chilled vodka, herring in olive oil,
Scents, of cinnamon, of cloves.
So what kind of prophet am I? Why should the spirit
Have visited such a man? Many others
Were justly called, and trustworthy.
Who would have trusted me? For they saw
How I empty glasses, throw myself on food,
And glance greedily at the waitress's neck.
Flawed and aware of it. Desiring greatness,
Able to recognize greatness wherever it is,
And yet not quite, only in part, clairvoyant,
I knew what was left for smaller men like me:
A feast of brief hopes, a rally of the proud,
A tournament of hunchbacks, literature.


--Czeslaw Milosz

Neruda meme

Started by Sylvia, picked up at Zuky, among other places (he's got a list)

The Unknown

I want to measure how much I do not know
and this is how I do it:
aimlessly, I knock, they open, I enter and I see
yesterday's portraits on the walls,
the dining-room of the woman and the man,
the chairs, the beds, the salt-shakers
only then do I understand
that there, they do not know me.
I leave, and I don't know these streets,
nor how many men devoured by that street,
how many poor exciting women,
workers of many races-
unsatisfying compensation.

(n.b. this is me dicking around with my very rusty Spanish but still feeling this translation isn't quite working somehow, poetically speaking, the original translation follows and then the original Spanish:

The Unknown One

I want to measure how much I do not know
and this is how I arrive
casually, I knock, they open, I enter and see
yesterday's portraits on the walls,
the dining-room of the woman and the man,
the chairs, the beds, the salt-cellars,
only then do I understand
that there they do not know me.
I leave, and I know not which streets I walk,
nor how many men that street devours,
how many poor and tantalizing women
working people of various races,
and lamentable remuneration.


El Desconocido

Quiero medir lo mucho que no sé
y es así como llego
sin rumbo, toco y abren, entro y miro
lost retratos de ayer en las paredes,
el comedor de la mujer y el hombre
los sillones, las camas, los saleros,
sólo entonces comprendo
que allí no me conocen.
Salgo no sé qué calles voy pisando,
ni cuántos hombres devoró esta calle,
cuántas pobres mujeres incitantes,
trabajadores de diversa raza
de emolumentos insatisfactorios.

...eh. any Spanish-speakers want to take a shot?

"Feminism of the monstrous"

I like it. And I love this post, and the woman who wrote it.

I am done with traps. I am done with the philosophy of traps, and I am done with the feminism of who owns my body for what cause.
It is time for something that tells you that I am here for blood--my blood, the blood of my loved ones, the blood of the people who have battered themselves against my life and found me still here.

It is time for a feminism of the monstrous.

That is this body. That is this me. That is the voice that says get your names off of my parts and your hands off them too, that says stop colonizing my reality and telling me what I mean without listening to a word I say.

What I say may be in a language incomprehensible, but there is a time for that, and it is right now, because this is a monster's creed. It is for the cobbled-together, the sewn-up, the grafted-on. It is for the golden, the under-the-earth, the foreign, the travels-by-night; the filthy ship-sinking cave-dwelling bone-cracking gorgeousness that says hell no, I am not tidy. I am not easy. I am not what you suppose me to be and until you listen to my voice and look me in my eyes, I will cling fast to this life no matter how far you drive me, how deep, with how many torches and pitchforks, biting back the whole way down. I will not give you my suicide. I will not give you my surrender.

This is for the Lilim, because you forget that the next part after your co-opted icon parts ways with Adam and goes her own way is and she begat monsters, and she becomes terrifying. This is for the Gorgons and the vampires and the chimaeras, for Cybele and Baba Yaga, Hel and Ashtoreth, for Lamia and Scylla, for Kali and Kapo 'ula-kina'u. This is for all of them with teeth...



*************************************


...For the especial duty of God's messengers is to preach repentance, to admonish the offenders of their offenses, and to say to the wicked, "Thou shalt die the death, except thou repent." This, I trust, no man will deny to be the proper office of all God's messengers, to preach (as I have said) repentance and remission of sins. But neither of both can be done, except the conscience of the offenders be accused and convicted of transgression. But how shall any man repent, not knowing wherein he has offended? And where no repentance is found, there can be no entry to grace. And therefore, I say, that of necessity it is that this monstiferous empire of women (which amongst all enormities that this day do abound upon the face of the whole earth, is most detestable and damnable) be openly revealed and plainly declared to the world, to the end that some may repent and be saved.

...[The Empire of Women is
Repugnant to Nature]

And first, where I affirm the empire of a woman to be a thing repugnant to nature, I mean not only that God, by the order of his creation, has spoiled [deprived] woman of authority and dominion, but also that man has seen, proved, and pronounced just causes why it should be. Man, I say, in many other cases, does in this behalf see very clearly. [14]For the causes are so manifest, that they cannot be hid. For who can deny but it is repugnant to nature, that the blind shall be appointed to lead and conduct such as do see? That the weak, the sick, and impotent persons shall nourish and keep the whole and strong? And finally, that the foolish, mad, and frenetic shall govern the discreet, and give counsel to such as be sober of mind? And such be all women, compared unto man in bearing of authority.

...And therefore yet again I repeat, that which before I have affirmed: to wit, that a woman promoted to sit in the seat of God (that is, to teach, to judge, or to reign above man) is a monster in nature, contumely to God, and a thing most repugnant to his will and ordinance. For he has deprived them, as before is proved, of speaking in the congregation, and has expressly forbidden them to usurp any kind of authority above man. How then will he suffer them to reign and have empire above realms and nations? He will never, I say, approve it, because it is a thing most repugnant to his perfect ordinance...

[48]Tertullian, in his book of Women's Apparel, after he has shown many causes why gorgeous apparel is abominable and odious in a woman, adds these words, speaking as it were to every woman by name: [49]"Do you not know," says he, "that you are Eve. The sentence of God lives and is effectual against this kind; and in this world, of necessity it is, that the punishment also live. You are the port and gate of the devil. You are the first transgressor of God's law. You did persuade and easily deceive him whom the devil durst not assault. For your merit (that is, for your death), it behooved the Son of God to suffer the death; and does it yet abide in your mind to deck you above your skin coats?"...

[53]Augustine, in his twenty-second book written Against Faustus, proves that a woman ought to serve her husband as unto God, affirming that in nothing has woman equal power with man, saving that neither of both have power over their own bodies. By which he would plainly conclude, that woman ought never to pretend nor thirst for that power and authority which are due to man. [54]For so he does explain himself in another place, affirming that woman ought to be repressed and bridled betimes, if she aspires to any dominion; alleging that it is dangerous and perilous to suffer her to proceed, although it is in temporal and corporeal things...

..."For woman," says he, "has not her example from the body and from the flesh, that so she shall be subject to man, as the flesh is unto the Spirit, because that the flesh in the weakness and mortality of this life lusts and strives against the Spirit..."

Yea, it is plain, that all [every] woman is commanded to serve, to be in humility and subjection. Which thing yet speaks the same writer more plainly in these words:[60] "It is not permitted to women to speak, but to be in silence, as the law says (1 Cor. 14:34)...

Let the reasons of this writer be marked, for further he yet proceeds, after that he has in many words lamented the effeminate manners of men, who were so far degenerated to the weakness of woman...


--John Knox, "First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women"

Stealing this

from pal fastlad, who just put it up himself:

Desires

Like beautiful bodies of the dead who had not grown old
and they shut them, with tears, in a magnificent mausoleum,
with roses at the head and jasmine at the feet --
this is what desires resemble that have passed
without fulfillment; with none of them having achieved
a night of sensual delight, or a bright morning.

- Constantine P. Cavafy (1904)

"let the soft animal of your body love what it loves"

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.


-Mary Oliver.

O for a muse of Gouda

This post from midwesterntransport reminded me of James McIntyre. My favorite Awful Poet, I think. I know fastlad will vouch for Amanda McKittrick Ros, and it is true that it is hard to compete with the sheer genius of, for instance, "On Visiting Westminster Abbey:"

Holy Moses! Have a look!
Flesh decayed in every nook!
Some rare bits of brain lie here,
Mortal loads of beef and beer,
Some of whom are turned to dust,
Every one bids lost to lust;
Royal flesh so tinged with 'blue'
Undergoes the same as you.

All the same. You have to admire a poet who picks a theme, a leitmotif, if you will, and sticks with it. For many poets it is love; for others, it is death; for Amanda McKittrick Ros, it was, among other things, her intense hatred for her critics. For James McIntyre, it was cheese.



For example, this classic piece, in which the author transcends mere prosaic curds and whey to find a near-mystical note. "Prophecy of a Ten Ton Cheese:"


In presenting this delicate, dainty morsel to the imagination of the people, I believed that it could be realized. I viewed the machine that turned and raised the mamoth cheese, and saw the powerful machine invented by James Ireland at the West Oxford companies factory to turn the great and fine cheese he was making there. This company with but little assistance could produce a ten ton cheese.


Who hath prophetic vision sees
In future times a ten ton cheese,
Several companies could join
To furnish curd for great combine
More honor far than making gun
Of mighty size and many a ton.

Machine it could be made with ease
That could turn this monster cheese,
The greatest honour to our land
Would be this orb of finest brand,
Three hundred curd they would need squeeze
For to make this mammoth cheese.

So British lands could confederate
Three hundred provinces in one state,
When all in harmony agrees
To be pressed in one like this cheese,
Then one skillful hand could acquire
Power to move British empire.

But various curds must be combined
And each factory their curd must grind,
To blend harmonious in one
This great cheese of mighty span,
And uniform in quality
A glorious reality.

But it will need a powerful press
This cheese queen to caress,
And a large extent of charms
Hoop will encircle in its arms,
And we do not now despair,
But we shall see it at world's fair.

And view the people all agog, so
Excited o'er it in Chicago,
To seek fresh conquests queen of cheese
She may sail across the seas,
Where she would meet reception grand
From the warm hearts in old England.

Yes, indeed, Blessed Are The Cheesemakers. Or indeed all makers of dairy products:

The milk it floats in great spring flood
Though it is not so rich and good,
Let us be thankful for this stream
Of milk and also curds and cream.

...And so we see that there is room for infinite subtlety and variation even within the narrow strictures of a particular form or subject. From the single inspiration of fermented and pasteurized cow-juice, the poet produces a plethora of small masterpieces. "Father Ranney, the Cheese Pioneer." "Oxford Cheese Ode." "Fertile Lands and Mammoth Cheese." And others still. In his own way, Mssr. McIntyre proved to be as unexpectedly fertile and bounteous as the frozen Canadian tundra, flowing with milk and...milk, which was his muse. Truly, we shall not see his like again soon.**




So I say to you, midwesterntransport and all whose significant others have ever uttered the moving lines "I love you more than cheddar," consider: you're in fine company. Truly, is cheese not, in fact, a worthy metaphor for love? Might not the dairy-besotted poet in fact see profound symbolism in the delicate, delicious substance which only grows finer as it ages? And besides, consider: it could have been worse.

It could have been Limburger.

***************************************

**While it is true that I am not familiar enough with contemporary poetry to name a worthy successor to Ros or McIntyre, if we can expand the criteria to include prose fiction, I for one put in a vote for one Pastor G. Edwin Lint, a number of whose works, including two full-length novels, can be read in full online.

From "Gone: A Novel About the Rapture.

Chapter 22: Demons?

Ronni turned pale and rose from her chair to stare out the window at the frozen, snow-covered Susquehanna River. "You're right about the cat, Dan. What you saw and heard was not ordinary and you folks have a right to know the truth about that, too. There's no telling what's ahead for all of us and the more information we all have, the better off we'll be. Remember that movie, the Exorcist?"

The Marlows had read the book and seen the movie.

"Well, my cat was demon-possessed tonight when he was shot."

Dan looked surprised but Karen laughed harshly. "All right, Ronni! You've reached my breaking point now. My twins are gone, your husband and two children are missing. Mark tells us the entire population of his institution is wiped out. And maybe, just maybe I can accept this business of what you call a rapture with a God of judgment and Jesus Christ with his marriage feast or whatever. But no demon possession!. No way demon possession. That's nothing but the invention of primitive and superstitious minds in an incorrect diagnosis of a seizure disorder or insanity or both. But definitely not demon possession. The only thing evil in that cat was a can of spoiled cat food!"

Then!


Chapter 25: Demons!

Dan faced the dresser from his position in the doorway and he had a perfect shot at the back of a down-covered baby-shaped head. His finger tensed on the trigger and then he paused. It isn't easy to shoot the image of a 6-month-old baby, even when the target is most likely not a baby at all but some sort of demonic entity. The action of the creature on the left in scooping up a globule of congealed bilge and flinging it at Karen's face erased his hesitation, however...

But I mean any kind of thief

When I went
looking for the Foe
I called him "he"
the one in the fast
car and the outside lane,
the getaway man
who came and took
and went, a stranger

but I mean any kind of thief--
of souls, pride, the heart,
of land, space, air and work.
I mean the thief of truth
of meaning

the one who goes
by what is said
and not by what is done
that one
that kind of liar
the fantasizer

smoker of bad wishes;
the cold one, who, shivering
steals your thunder and your fire
then calls you poor,
calls you "Queen of Wants"

and wants.

When I went looking
for the Foe I thought of
boots and leather, barbed
wire fences, aggressive
legal stances and the
colonizer
who takes the heart
out of your sky, diverts
the light from your eye
into his own

but I mean any
kind of Foe, her, the
sap-sucking cannibalizer,
idea-eater, and the one,
the ones who make war
with rents and wages

the masked mate,
who makes war with love
and personal rages
the raper who takes
your sense of self
and wholeness,
flame of trust
and leaves you trembling,
crusted with his fear.

the daisy bringer
who calls you Queen for a Day
and takes your year

the friend who cries on your shoulder
and never sees your grief
who looks in your mirror
and calls you low
and calls you less
than you you are
I mean the Foe
that one
I mean any kind of thief.

--Judy Grahn, "The Queen of Wands"

stunned. no words.

reading "My Private Casbah," her poem, and the posts below.

To shift the focus a bit after all that

(although some of the material strikes familiar chords now)

there is some gorgeous, powerful writing on this blog, Deyes Karayib.

A snippet:

I had not touched a woman …yet
When I have been called
“Madivine woman”
My divine woman
Word of one hundred thousand evils
Word of isolation, desolation
Lonely nights, hand stuck between my legs...

from an earlier post:

It was like it always is: seething agony touched with desire. The faces changed or the perfume was familiar, besides that, it was the same. Except this time, this time there was no giving in, not really. Not until it was the right time or the right place, if ever the right person. Ashes fell in swirls, covering her eyelashes in gray soot and I kissed them, transferring darkish splotches on my lips. She only laughs like she does and I am taken. The soot is gritty between my teeth but I am slow to grind it further into dust, now mud as it mixes with my saliva.

" Carolyn... Carolyn..."

" Yes, I am sorry. "

And I give her my far away look; the one that always makes her ask me where have I been and all I can tell her is no where. But all she ever manages to do is come closer and kiss my lips, like kissing me is going to make it all go away...

...Milo was my mother's answer to late nights at Christie's and sleepover's that lasted for weeks before she would think I was no longer her daughter. She hated that relaxed look I had when I would come home: like nothing could be finer than life how I had it. I would give her that look that would make her ask me where I had been, only this time I would smile and leave her unanswered. I knew I had been lost in folds of warm flesh. Tight pink openings and desires hot enough to make me cum with my clothes still on.

Then there was Milo. Arrogant, self assured Milo. Kiss my mother's ass and wish he could have been good enough for me Milo.

" You don't have to love him now Carolyn... that can come later." And she would smile her worst saccharin smile making me sick to my stomach. She fed me lies about how good he was and how much we would have in common. Just like she fed him snakes to make him mean, to make him know that he had to change me, to make him grow to hate in me what he didn't even know...