tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post1562044401051968701..comments2024-01-28T03:56:39.351-08:00Comments on TOM CLARK: Edward Dorn: HemlocksUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-5000282657389772912012-01-16T06:43:38.226-08:002012-01-16T06:43:38.226-08:00Steve,
Idyllic it does seem in imaginal retrospec...Steve,<br /><br />Idyllic it does seem in imaginal retrospect, but, from what I gather, things were actually a bit ragged around the edges, at the time. (Poverty, medical troubles for Helene, among other inconveniences...)<br /><br /><br />Curtis,<br /><br />About the sound structure here -- quite sophisticated, really -- you might be interested to know that when Denise Levertov published this poem in The Nation, a New York attorney named Harold Cammer wrote to E.D. to say he was unable to "see why it was published as a poem".<br /><br />(For a poet of real originality, in any age, it's uphill all the way.) <br /><br /><br />Susan, <br /><br />Another wonderful poem. We are humbled.<br /><br />I’ve longed for more. But, what is more? More—<br />there’s more time, in a little drawer.<br /><br />(Sometimes, these days -- well, nights, my form of day -- bumbling in the dark, I can't find that drawer...)<br /><br />I got those postcards too.TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-12476666720362127102012-01-15T17:24:31.535-08:002012-01-15T17:24:31.535-08:00Meeting Ed
Ed knew it was important to say goodby...Meeting Ed<br /><br />Ed knew it was important to say goodbye to me—I’m not sure how he knew this, as he was dying, or did Jenny write the postcards for him? They have the same handwriting—and use those great ink pens, real dark and fresh and professional. Those pens that are strong and clear and important. I just needed every last bit of attention from Ed. I did. The few lines sustained me, kept me going those last dreary, stressful years with Adam. How I made it through, I do not know or realize but just that contact with the poetry world helped me to survive, keep going in the now. I did not want to stay so isolated, despite living in Hawaii, despite not being able to afford lots of trips home to Oregon. Stuck but not stuck, the self that complied. <br />Ed, watching how I did things, my poker face.<br />The most unusual things coming from his mouth. His laugh. Who was he?<br />A humble celebrity? Ed, who were you, really? An unhappy, bitter man? A man in awe of life.<br />Cruel, ironic comments. Acerbic LOL. Sarcastic does not describe. Then, the poet, poetry. The lightness, the transformation. Real magic, all these words. There is no place for them to stick or even think about sticking. The haunts, the daydreams I’ve had—me, my loneliness then. <br /><br />They may be cold now, those postcards, ten years later. They may be easier to look at. They could be.<br />All that work. Somehow, it was a lot—of course, bowing down to poetry. Bow down to the way it goes or can go. Because poetry is important.<br />Yes. Ha, ha, ha. That’s what all the fun was, what it all was for. All the worry—pledging to it, finally, endlessly. Promising poetry that you will serve it?Susan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-33246458815002257652012-01-15T17:08:40.829-08:002012-01-15T17:08:40.829-08:00My Oregon Self
Stand of Ponderosa at Rickreall
t...My Oregon Self<br /><br /><br />Stand of Ponderosa at Rickreall<br />two massive old ones—gateway to Oregon.<br /><br />I feel like I am in a quandary. Bright fuchsia rhododendrons.<br />Snow-laden breeze. Italian workers cottage my parents own.<br />Their future. Their place of rest. Until they die,<br />it will be their home.<br />Also, the place that I realized. New aspen trees planted<br />on the slope behind Super 8. They are reaching the highway air,<br />exchanging it. The best things in life are free. All the time, there’s <br />the other and the other best. I’ve missed myself. My Oregon self.<br />Is nutty. Is whimsical. Is 89 years old. The next day, I’ve become<br />my other self.<br /><br />I’ve longed for more. But, what is more? More—<br />there’s more time, in a little drawer.<br /><br />A great rest followed me here. It caved-in. It supposed a different<br />decision. A made-up land. The other sort of reminder pulled aside.<br />A thimble remaining behind.<br />Perhaps a clock. Barging ahead, behind, a hidden platform.<br />A Hemlock, a Fir.Susan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-62899757192883184022012-01-14T15:29:11.240-08:002012-01-14T15:29:11.240-08:00Echoing Aditya: "And what sounds." This...Echoing Aditya: "And what sounds." This has been my soundtrack of the day. CurtisACravanhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00315707533118640284noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-3770900276485055082012-01-14T10:58:27.467-08:002012-01-14T10:58:27.467-08:00Tom,
Mountain Hemlock (Tsuga mertensia -- beautif...Tom,<br /><br />Mountain Hemlock (Tsuga mertensia -- beautiful Latin name around the "Red house. Green tree in mist." Goat in the yard chewing on Helene's buttons, peeing on Ed -- what an idyllic scene it all seems to be. . . .<br /><br />1.14<br /><br />light coming into sky above still black<br />ridge, waning moon across from branches<br />in foreground, wave sounding in channel<br /><br /> and by means of an act, but<br /> that it in its recent<br /><br /> being abstract, at the same<br /> time, music as object<br /><br />sunlight reflected in windblown channel,<br />line of jet trail in cloudless blue skySTEPHEN RATCLIFFEhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12339481653546188412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-86786843793276551582012-01-14T10:20:12.490-08:002012-01-14T10:20:12.490-08:00Aditya, this wonderful poem offers you many thanks...Aditya, this wonderful poem offers you many thanks, my poet friend.<br /><br /><br />Artur, let us amicably exchange concessions, then.<br /><br /><br />Vassilis, I did remember your origins in the course of working up this post. During Dorn's stay in the Northwest, during which he briefly held a series of casual and temporary jobs, he did indeed put in a period as a lumberjack, working for Scott Paper. For a farm lad from Illinois, that was challenging work, to be sure. But he took on whatever he could get. There was a spell of working on a chicken farm, a stint in construction at Sedro-Woolley, & c. <br /><br />Were he still with us, and we could all miraculously gather, I'm sure you and he would have had some stories to trade and share.TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-80257326366557635432012-01-14T09:56:00.525-08:002012-01-14T09:56:00.525-08:00Having spent most of my adolescent years in and ar...Having spent most of my adolescent years in and around hemlock, fir and cedar country—then better known as Weyerhaeuser World, Pacific County, Washington State, this particular post stirs up sweet memories, to wit: <br /><br />My best friend’s dad was a saw-filer before opening up the first Dairy Queen in Raymond and one of the hardest drinking, most intelligent Finns around, proud of his self-taught learning. He always enjoyed telling anybody who wanted to listen the story of his asking the Greek owner of one of the local taverns the following question in front of a bar packed with loggers eager for edification: “Jim, you’re a descendent of the ancient Greeks, so you should know—who drank the hemlock?”—only to get this most audaciously logical answer in return: “Weyerhaeuser!!!”vazambam (Vassilis Zambaras)https://www.blogger.com/profile/14515165428574974933noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-75332616101154176502012-01-14T08:49:41.873-08:002012-01-14T08:49:41.873-08:00Yes, I concede.
Artur.Yes, I concede.<br /><br />Artur.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-24121348236721274982012-01-14T08:29:09.517-08:002012-01-14T08:29:09.517-08:00Tom
Hemlocks! What a beautiful poem.
Its snowin...Tom<br /><br />Hemlocks! What a beautiful poem.<br /> <br />Its snowing everywhere in Himachal Pradesh (not my house tho. We live in low lying areas.)<br /><br /><br />And what sounds! Beautiful.<br /><br />And how continuous Tom. This life.<br /><br />To read-<br /><br /><i>The only immediate res of the poem are its sounds.</i><br /><br />by Robert Duncan and to hear them here.<br /><br />PS- Also reminds me of HB (you remember?). She was ruminating once at yr blog-<br />Maybe we should all evaporate and rain down again. <br />I wonder if she had read this poem. But beautiful, don't you think?<br /><br />Time is our cud too. And Helene knew this I suppose.<br /><br />Beautiful post Tom. Thanks.adityahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16078144194220301083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-29464508672545692782012-01-14T07:53:16.614-08:002012-01-14T07:53:16.614-08:00Artur,
Your fellow goat lovers here feel exactly ...Artur,<br /><br />Your fellow goat lovers here feel exactly the same way.<br /><br />But, to be fair, that was part of a curious form of make-it-up-as-you-go subsistence farming in which the impoverished poet and his family were engaged.<br /><br />Helene's retrospective comments suggest that misgivings about the slaughter of the innocents haunted her even at the time. <br /><br />(And you must concede she gives credit where due, when it comes to the peeing-power!)TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-68245741643212525372012-01-14T06:15:34.084-08:002012-01-14T06:15:34.084-08:00taking them to be slaughtered was a nightmare
Goo...<i>taking them to be slaughtered was a nightmare</i><br /><br />Good!<br /><br />Nice goats, though.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com