For Bobby

"O Mary, open your eyelids. I am in the domain of silence, the kingdom of the crazy and the sleeper. There is blood here..."

I've still got that Wislawa Symborska you gave me
"View with a Grain of Sand"
though the meaning still escapes me somewhat
tied up in the razor's deft stroke
of the syllogism
of who stood at the view
or who beheld the thing
or (let's have another laugh)
traveling companions
in a funny sense again,
unlikely as it would seem
Christ, an oyster'd know what to do...

still no end of fun, your filthy little beggar's
still banging his head against the wall
that won't give way, forever
that damned curious experiment
the dog's head
still lolls about
on mechanical veins and wires
still searching for infinity
or next week
really anything at all
but the dinosaur skeleton's
any given Tuesday
Spot's still half mad, I fear
under the bench yet
and pretending
he's a wolf
as for the suicide's room
Christ, we should ask Dorian
what the politicians  
might have thought

but we never took that trip to Swan Point, you know
though perhaps we'll dig up old Lovecraft yet
whereas Ferlinghetti wrote so eloquently of such things
as the hunting hawks of the inner heart
the things of the night out here
perch, stalk and fall
on much darker wings
indeed, the mirror fell off my bookshelf
by the door
I can't say
anything reflecting back
in its thousand
shattered shards
looks a whole lot
of anything like me
anymore

God, I wish my head'd leave it alone, so often its my parents, college, old AS220, or you.
at least I'm still writing, the raving rambling of crazy or simply tired men
and now they're giving me dirty looks out on the curb, just like back then
(if the French Quarter speaks, it's still "allez-vous en...")
I guess my head's been living on the wrong side of the street again
you know the Holy Fool loves to play the partisan...

of course, every word of that's mad

but not more so than you or I

I worried this might become something
of the young poet's obligatory
f**k you piece
but the simple fact is
it's been a few too many times I've missed you
and music, for that matter
they're not much for singing out here
perhaps it's the tone deaf condition
of the city cemetery
or maybe they simply know better
but they said it was the end of the road
so why not admit as much
in another letter never sent
to the history book's labyrinth
Lord knows that they
out there
on the street
have never read it.

I guess that's about it
Ulysses is getting fat
I'm getting drunk
and you know they still
can't get me to pay the rent
in their curious sense

but all the same

my old friend
executioner
the written repeat
I'd hope this would find you well

for there is blood here, and I pray I haven't eaten it.

Author's Note

Eh, why not. Not the sort of thing I'd planned on writing when signing up, but that's what I've got. For a lady I used to know. Something of the old laughing lady, in the Neil Young sense. And something else, perhaps. I wish her well.

Reviews

[Ken e Bujold]

Well for what you got its damn impressive JL. Love the easy mix of academic knowledge with everyday language and biting satire. Right in my wheelhouse. Plus who can't love a poet with a cat Ulysses? now I wonder named for Homer or Joyce (god i hope its the former)

Ken e

[John Sullivan]

Thank you for your thoughts! Yup, Ulysses was named in the Homeric tradition, maybe a little bit of the civil war general too. Great cat, who has sadly left us.

[Vishuddha]

This piece has much intrigue. I feel there is much history here and double meaning in many lines which only real friends share. Gotten drunk together, gone crazy together. Understand one another in ways all the others don't. Friendship is a fine thing. Thank you for sharing yours. You portray it beautifully and the intervention of time, of things left undone, of who you once were, who you still are, are haunting.

[John Sullivan]

My response to you is going to sound mad, I fear, but I've been sitting here for a while now digging through memory, and the sad fact is my remembrance of her, myself, and those days is accurate.

I truly wish the reality of it was as warm as the image the poem evoked for you. We weren't lovers, not in the sense you mean, though the sad, simple truth is I think about her these days a good deal more often than some of the women I have known as such. The sad truth is it's only on good days I can look back on her and those days and remember her as a friend, for she spent far more time playing the part of some enemy. All of that likely sounds mad.

So let me try to answer you in a different way. In your "The Garden" and your "A Disciple of Zarathustra," you've (and I do believe that those two pieces read very well back to back, a continuation of themes, one after the other) painted an image of the world as you've seen it, as it stands today. Imagine, if you would, that my humble letter stands somewhere within the reality you've described. I'd hardly dress myself in Zarathustra's clothes, so imagine myself then as something of the daredevil chasing fame on the tightrope, and her as something of the pickpocket magician, working the crowd (the sad truth is she played quite the disappearing act.) You might have it there.

Let me try one more time. I related to a young poetess the other day an anecdote I'm going to relate to you now. I lived in Providence, Rhode Island for a time. In Providence, there's a bookstore called Ada Books, which is one of the better bookstores in one of the hipper neighborhoods downtown. They have a giant banner in their window that reads "Love is a Battlefield." Or "Love is a War," something like that. I used to walk by it everyday and it's sort of stuck with me. I think that sentiment does in fact say something about these days, and something of my generation. These are cruel days we live in, I think, on such matters as love and friendship of the manner you've written, and I think her and I played some parts within whatever it is that sentiment might communicate.

Forgive this rambling gibberish. The simple fact is, I've read a great deal of the work you've posted, and respect you as a poetess of a considerable prowess. I've tried to answer your thoughts as you've written them to the person, the self of you, that I've read in your poetry. I think I've failed in that, in a few too many ways, though if anything of my response does in fact speak to you, do know it was meant from an honest place. Would that this piece were a simple remembrance of two old lovers, but I fear that perhaps my generation's made such things a bit complicated. If nothing else, my life, or at least as it's all wrapped up in my head, has been a bit more complicated.

Clearly, I think far too much about such things, I hope a word of that made sense.

All my best.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this has a mix of avant-garde and beat poetry....sounds like ginsberg with a nice reference to one of my favorites, ferlinghetti.
this reminds me how much i miss the 60's and some women i met back then...
i was totally absorbed, thank you.

jacob

[John Sullivan]

First of all, thank you for your words, sir, truly.

Both Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti were pretty big for me. I was fortunate to discover both at a time when both of their respective writings spoke to me, in a sense. Right time, right place, that sort of thing. Of the two, I would have to say I've had an easier time relating to Ferlinghetti's work as a whole, but good God, Ginsburg was brilliant, though I have to pick and choose with his stuff a little more.

As far as the poetry goes, I'd have to throw something else out there. A few years back, I was fortunate enough to attend a good number of slam poetry/spoken word events, and they've stuck with me. I grew up in and live in the urban Northeast, and coming off the streets as it were, there was, in my experience, a certain sort of particular and aggressive sort of spoken word style being presented at the time, something perhaps half in the hip-hop cadence, but half harkening back to the spoken word tradition, which does in most ways find itself right back at the Beats. This piece doesn't quite have it, but what I heard out there does remain in my mind as something of a poetic language/standard/rhythm to aspire to.

As far as the woman... I told her once, as an answer to a question of her's, that she had me wrapped around her little finger, and that that, in my opinion, it was a fine place to be. The smile she gave me wasn't necessarily kind, but neither was she, really. I still think about her a good deal. Eh, it's an honest response, though it really doesn't say a whole lot.

Thank you for reading, sir, and thank you for your words.

[ANTO]

"Christ, an oyster'd know what to do..." - too witty JL
Spot sounds like a wonderful wee character.

"I worried this might become something
of the young poet's obligatory
f**k you piece" - Im glad you veered it away from that dead end JL - this reads so much much more without that.

So many personal vignettes here JL - a beautiful montage. Of a special time in your life shared with a kindred spirit - another lover of words.Clearly very dear to you. So your sharing is all the more special, for me and for us.

and thank you for turning me onto the poetry of Anne Sexton too my friend.

[John Sullivan]

As always, sir, too kind. I'm no great wit, and Spot's certainly a character.

She was a bit more, to get right in it. It's difficult. She played the part of one of the easiest "f**k you" women of my life, but she insisted on leaving me with a little more. A lover of words, her, yes. I wouldn't say a lover of me. That said, I've missed her words more than I miss any of my current bullshit. We spent some fine time together.

On Anne Sexton... bear with me once again. I had a professor, a fellow by the name of Randy Blasing, back in my college days, who used to take a few minutes every class to, more or less, tell us his thoughts, outside of the curriculum, of what he thought we ought to really be reading, what he thought were the truest, most insightful words we could be filling our young minds with. He once, in the middle of one of those digressions, looked me in the in the eye, and held his gaze for a moment. Then he told me that "You, you're in love with Anne Sexton." Bear in mind that this is a true story. This was a man who knew how to command a room, if you get what I mean. When he spoke, you listened. To this day, I've spent many a long hour reading the poetry of Anne Sexton, and I fear I can't tell you exactly what he meant, though I thought I had it once or twice, really, it's strange...

Anyways.

At this point the whole thing sounds mad, perhaps, and fair enough. It wasn't until a few years later, however, I discovered this Professor of Contemporary Literature was in fact a published poet, a published and respected poet with something like eight books to his name. And a renowned translator and academician to boot.

This fellow: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/randy-blasing

Who wrote this: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse/150/6#!/20601252

And this: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse/146/6#!/20600439

I don't relate this you to brag. You know, about whom I've known or studied under or whatever. There's nothing of pride or vanity to this. The sad truth is, I came that close to failing that man's class. Lord knows what madness I was caught up in, but it took a lesser miracle to make it through his final exam, that class, that semester. But I remember his words. I did learn a great deal in that class, first and foremost perhaps, something of Anne Sexton, whom I've read ever since. Really, I've got a great affection for her still, a most complicated lady.

Really, sorry for putting you through more of my rambling gibberish.

And thanks, as always, for reading.

[ANTO]

No JL - not rambling, not gibberish. Im glad you told me all that you did. I found it very interesting, educational and inspiring....and real. The professor sounds like a remarkably astute people reader as well as all the rest - you have been lucky to have such interesting people in your life and Im sure Bobby would say the same about you.
Thank you JLS

[John Sullivan]

Thank you as always, sir, for your time and your words. I've sent you a friend request, I hope you don't mind. Someone just sent me one a few days back, so as something of the new guy around here I must confess I only realized in that moment that this indeed a feature this website has. My best Anto, always good to hear from you.