Sunday, October 24, 2010

Network Dream



I am hanging to the outside of a creature,
ripe with experience,
one brain cell of a new being.

Conscious of something new?
aware? growing?
projected to the whole world?
Is it inside me?

Who leads and thinks by talking?
and then makes it a challenge not to roll back on promises made,
and then make good on ones we cannot.
We are still twiddling our thumbs.

My son Arjun,
has a hat pulled over his face
on the sidewalk
near the Bedford Hotel.

A grown up five year old
standing beside his mother
looking at me as I drive away
hoping very much that I would take him somewhere
here in New York City.

My daughter Maya
climbs onto my back
giggling, shrieking with laughter
nibbles on my ear.

Dreams, more active dreams . . .

A terrible cataclysmic fight with Ami on Sunday
after the one right before Stevo’s fortieth birthday on Saturday
that left us numb
couldn’t communicate
bag in hand off to New York
the kids hang with their mother,
I'm outcast.

I shiver down to Mott Street after a frantic drive
and awake afraid
in early predawn
call my sleepless wife,
who cries when she hears my voice

I return that very morning
A large note and heart proclaiming her love.
She left the heat on,
and chocolate cake in the refrigerator.

Two days with family in all their fullness.


Dad

Thursday December 6, 1995 - The mad business grows. My brother Steve, a sales machine, keeps bringing in the search work, we are doubling our size every six months. First taste of success today, I managed to sublet part of the new space at 565 5th Avenue. Construction has started there, I attend on Tuesday mornings coffee meetings with the builders and architect. A variety of sweet rolls sit on top of a banged and dented Knack Box. On one side of the vast open space a contractor's draughtsman in overalls sketches layouts and designs for the HVAC (High Volume Air Conditioning) on an large slanted worktable. Steve B and I survey the red and blue lines chalked onto the floor and ceiling facing each other in textured perfection, the broad open views down 5th Avenue to the Empire State Building, West towards 6th Avenue, East to the Pan Am and buildings around Grand Central. The views are silent and still and magnificent, the architecture at this height concealing all traces of the life form that created this. Like a magnificent coral reef the huge city is built by the tiniest animals, whose lives are integrally entwined with its architecture. We are builders. Like coral, we exist by building societies much larger than our individual selves. Perhaps this is the reason that the lives of tigers so fascinate us; they are by contrast, creatures that do not build, who live alone, whose contact with its own kind is minimal.

Young Derek A, our broker, has made another bid to become part of Highland. After a disastrous meeting with Jim P, (Jim dismissed him as a ‘lightweight’), Derek calls with a valuable piece of information. The entire trading department at Republic National Bank has walked out to join Credit Suisse. I inform Joe H and Georges H of this, Joe hops on it. Next thing I know Derek is at Highland, sitting in Jane E's desk, gathering the facts. He has pointed out a potentially very big fish. As I told him later, someone has to get that fish to bite, and then land it.

Chris M calls. We catch up. He’s still working at the AIDS center on Rivington Street, says a lot of people are dying now. A hundred and fifty since August. They come to the center, then they get sicker, then they die.

Have just discovered “Wired” magazine, amazed that I had not contacted its good journalism before this time. Insights into business, information age development. It very much is a networked magazine, a kind of information center.

I have noticed, merely by virtue of my being in charge of data and computing at Highland, that people report to me with interesting tidbits of information. As if all the wires that feed back to the servers in my little office, also fed to the great world outside, so socially I am at a data hub. I am tickled by the looks of surprise Stevo and his partners give me when I pass along one of these little goodies for them to make money with. They wonder “how did he get this ?”

Late afternoon meetings at dePolo Dunbar with Steve Brooks and Joe Lee. We’re on furniture selection now, but today we rushed through a change on the sublet space making it much better. The people from D'accord are renting it and are paying for the changes.

December 11, 1995 - Monday, weary after New York day at the office, the more difficult because of what happened on Saturday.




Friday December 9, 1995 - Mom calls Highland. She is cool, asks where Stevo is, I tell her he’s in a meeting, “How are you," I ask, how is Dad. “He’s terrible Markie”, then overcome, she sobs out “You better come home quickly your Dad is hanging on. He wanted Jock Lorrison to put him to sleep yesterday, but I told him to hang on till his kids got home.” She tells me on Thursday he felt energetic and loaded the car with junk from the garage. At night he ran a fever, had trouble breathing. Yesterday he could not get out of bed. “We’re loosing him Markie. You better hurry.”

Stevo and I rush to the limousine. Outside the Park Avenue building it is cold. Inside the car, I try to work on the computer. It is of no use, a pointless distraction. Stevo begins to talk about his plans for growing the business. Big money talk. That's his defense. I respond with mine, of kind, cold expressions. There are all types of mergers and acquisitions. What are we doing? I wonder.

Why can’t I write this?

Cottage Street is empty when I reach home, Ami and the children arrive a few minutes later. I quickly surrender my suit, Ami arranges for Maureen to look after the kids. I get the car from the garage, and after a few brief errands, (a Fedex of the Highland Payroll to Fidelity Investments, getting gas, etc.) we are on our way towards Woodbury.

This is the dying road. Twice before, for my grandfather, and grandmother, we have navigated these turns because one of our family was dying. I remember speeding in the car towards my grandfather's house the day he died. I lost control and spun up onto a bank. It was like one of those runaway truck ramps, a heaven-sent bit of landscaping that saved me. Today I wasn't driving.

At the house we dashed out of the car and across the lawn. The back door is open, but no one is downstairs. I climb the back stairs to a house that seems empty. How many times one does certain things, yet we usually have only one memory of it.

Jeff and Barbie, and Mom and Dad were all in Dad’s room. His breathing is heavy and regular and loud, and sounds like the regular wheezing of a machine. There is a machine too administering oxygen with a purring and gasping of its own through a tube tied about his bald head, and stuck into his nose.

“Marko! Stevo!” he gasps. “You look great. You look successful!”

“Where did you get that coat?”

“Be kind to the ones that love you, Marko. By the way Marko, I want you to take that ripoff of Picasso that I did and paint over it.”

I promise him I’ll do that, but that I’ll leave something of his underneath.

“Yes but you must sign it with your name Marko!”

“No Dad, its a collaborative effort”.

“And would you finish painting in that picture of Kon’s. I promised him I’d do it but just don’t think I going to get around to it. Would you mind?”

Over the next few hours he musters enough strength to have words with each of his children.

His breathing becomes tired and strained. He is drenched in sweat. His body is running full tilt to hold itself. He begs for morphine. We give it to him in small doses. Jock Lorrison, his doctor and neighbor arrives with more morphine and advice on how to administer a dose that will make death less painful. Andrew and I work out the milligrams per liter.

By evening he has no strength for talking. He has pulled into himself, into the cold desperate clammy self of the mind trying to hold its own against the onslaught of failing body, a loyal body of cells, now an army in disarray. The knight withdraws to his castle, the drawbridge is up, cut off from the world about, he abandons his horses, his armor, his arms, awaiting the outcome of the siege.

“Are you thinking Dad”, I ask him.

He nods.

“Good thoughts?”

He nods again.

I want to ask him if he is afraid, but I can tell that he is in spite of everything and so I don’t make him say it.

His hand is alternately warm and cold.

We cook a meal, and eat it, with wine, in bizarre celebration, downstairs with the fire burning. How hard it is hard to separate these moments from the other ones like it. Andrew occasionally laughs his explosive laugh. Barbie busies herself in the kitchen with the dishes and the wine and the deserts. It is a flawless production. All Mom’s family meals were like that, and they became more so over time.

I find myself wondering if it is appropriate to celebrate like this, to drink wine, or eat ham, and rich deserts. The living must go on. So I eat, like the others, and it tastes good.

We take turns, in shifts, by his side. Not much talking now, occasionally Mom asks if he needs anything. Then amazingly he wants to shit. Chuckles and sighs of relief. The old guy has energy still. Jeff and Mom help him out of his bed, “Everyone else out of the room, he’s embarrassed.”

But the old body can’t eliminate its poisons. He strains and heaves, and falls in exhaustion to the sheets. Mom asks Andy and I to direct her in giving a generous dose of morphine.

But we never had to administer the two syringes full that Doc Lorrison said would spare him the ultimate misery. Two cc’s and he is off into peaceful sleep breathing in a relaxed manner.

It is getting late, we divide up rooms and go to our beds. Ami and I climb into Andrew’s boyhood bed, and fall quickly asleep. It feels like Christmas night, such nights when all of a family gather into a small house and await a miracle. Steve and Jody bed down in Mom and Dad’s room, Jeff and Jennifer sleep in Barb’s old Bed, Punta and Dave make their digs on the living room floor. Mom decides to sleep with Dad. She climbs in the far side of his bed facing his back. He will not roll over much tonight.

Soon all the lights are out, and the only sounds are those of the house creaking and the world outside. Cars pass and their headlights sweep the white plaster. Everywhere there is an illusion of Christmas, of Santa Clause about to appear somewhere, or to hang a heavy stocking on the hammered metal latch of my door.

Such a night one wanted a God to appear, and to manifest himself in a ray of light, to shine out of the dark branches and snow and cold gloom of the frozen wintered earth, and enter the house of beings and give himself. I needed to remind myself, this night is different. Dad will probably die tonight I told myself.

By morning he was not dead at all.

“How is he”, I asked.

“He’s fine. He’s resting.” Mom whispered.

Jennifer had been downstairs making a pot coffee and had brought cup of it up to Mom. She propped herself in the bed, as she might of at any time. “Isn’t he beautiful”. She reminded me of her descriptions of a sleeping infant, those newborns whose face is ageless, and in the image of its creator, and bears no trace of human ways or cares. Mom was always calling attention to the complexions of the newborn infants. It was cliche yes, but true. Dad’s face was a pale and beautiful white.

Somehow the thought occurred that he might be recovering, that the fever was gone, and the hemorrhages in his lungs closed over. If he was resting he might rise up again and regain his health.

I observed his breathing, which was shallow, and took his pulse which was very weak but regular. His skin though was too cool. I realized there wasn’t long. No heat in the body, pale the skin, the forces of life retreat to a core. His face is pale but calm, but his skin does seem smoother more childlike. He is still there, gently, but barely.

I sat with him and held his hand and asked him a few questions. He was completely unconscious and unresponsive. Mom said something like “He’s resting now, ever so peacefully.” She got up and covered him over, and excused herself, and walked down the hall to the bathroom.

Dad took a short staggered breath then let out barely audible sigh. At first I thought nothing, but no breaths followed.

Ami was behind me. “Call Mom” I shouted. “He’s gone”.

Everyone gathered. Mom uttered a wail, a real cry of anguish. It was the one time I have heard my mother make an emotional sound that did not seem for effect. It was up from the young and early part of her, it felt to be from the heart of a teenage bride deprived of a young husband, the wail of a child for a downed father, of an old woman for her son. It was the kind of wail a Gypsy woman makes when her man has died, not the kind of sound I expected my mother to make.

Her arms went out to Dad, flailing, pleading, clawing, trying to draw him back. It was an instinctive movement, one that is only seen in bereavement. The elbows go apart and raise up, the wrists go out and fingers went straight like strings swept by a fierce wind. She seemed to be wanting to claw him back, as if she were losing grip of him off the deck of ship. There was a terrible row of noises, a clenching and wailing in everyone’s throat. Dad’s breath had indeed stopped.

We stood over Dad. I had the idea his being had gone above us and was looking down, so I turned and looked up at the ceiling. I did not see him, but I did see his perspective of things, a round of heads bent over a yellowed lifeless body, and one head turned up to the sky, fiercely making eye contact with a spirit on the way to being dispersed. I had the impression that Dad commented on this observation, and saw it almost as if it were a painting by Balthus. Some of us cried. Eventually there was nothing to do but leave the room. We drank coffee, ate some breakfast.

Occasionally I would run back upstairs.

We undressed him, washed him off, and put him in a clean nightshirt and turned him over so he lay on his back. His face had begun to turn yellowish, his skin was puffed, in death he was nearly unrecognizable.

I went to the studio and got some of his paper and pencils and went back and did two sketches of him. They were deathlike in appearance, that is they resembled their subject, but their subject did resemble my father at all. I inscribed them both and later gave one to my mother.

I drove Ami home to New Haven, and returned, on snowy roads. Near the intersection in Woodbury I braked and the car would not stop. It slid on the slick snow and made a slow lazy three hundred and sixty degree spin, narrowly missing another vehicle.

I returned to Woodbury shortly before two. At two-o'clock promptly two men and a woman from Munson Funeral home showed up in a black four-wheel drive vehicle. The woman had some paperwork for Mom to sign, and she wanted a check down payment as well. The two men, one young the other swarthy and appeared to be in his late forties, brought upstairs a red vinyl body bag supported by two poles. Stevo and Jeff helped them transfer Dad’s body to the bag. It required a lot of strength. At one point the nightshirt and the towel covering Dad’s genitals came off. Jeffrey hurriedly covered them over. It all would be ashes soon enough. That swollen thing of his, so large in death, always modest when we saw it while he was swimming. The thing that sowed each of us. Jeff bent over Dad and kissed him, a little like the prince who awakes sleeping Beauty. “Goodbye Dado” he said. It was silly but touching, and I respected Jeff for it. It was cliche, all of it was cliche, because cliches are all any of us has to deal with experiences like this that we are familiar with, but not first hand.

It took all of Steve and Jeff and the two of them from the funeral home to carry Dad downstairs. I watched from a distance, as if guiding by looking on. It was incredible -the struggle he seemed to give merely by being of sheer weight - they nearly lost him and fell down the front stairs. Once clear of the twists and turns around the front hall and dining room, they shouldered him through the kitchen and out the back door.

Barbie stood on the back steps as his vinyl wrapped body went down the walk. The exertions of Steve and Jeff had overcome their grief temporarily. Barbie uttered a muffled cry, like something repressed and caged, angry, “Goodbye Dado you miserable fuck-up,”. She sobbed, then wheeled and turned into the house. I heard her run up to her room.

The black four wheel drive vehicle slipped away. I heard the doors slam. Then I gazed out over the cornfields and saw it come into view again as it headed down Weekeepeemee Road. It braked at one point and the lights shone red. The sky was cloudy. The river was dark.

Kali's Place



Why do you go there?
All that asbestos, rusty pipes hanging
the white thighs of your woman
hair knotted, roped, flowing waves that follow
with insects tangled
scorpions
water bugs
crawling things
teeth red and dripping
the blood of your children.

She eats them she is eating you
those round agates you call the child
the work of crystals
doped with potash
sedentary impurities
kept in a deep vault
you in your death grinding them ever smaller
exceedingly
you ask so little
to have them stolen away and set in silver
by a follower of Dionysus.

I hear the dull thud of bodies
thrown in a heap
after your slab cutting saw has opened their guts.
of garnet blood.

Death devours
your kinderen.

By the of the first wheel, you reduce them,
empty their bowels and washing in clear warmth
the succor of the wetting stream.

To the second the dull buzz of their nails clipped and neatened
to the third their navels cleaned
and fourth hair shaped and combed
the fifth a special problem no turning back
and the sixth, too soon, a dullness impossible to remove,
timed properly adds a luxuriant glow to their skin.

Do you long to come out, into light again?
From your dungeon, dark as Hades?
Damp and wet, a place of crimes,
you stand on earth stained and lay bare your soul.

To Michalla


How are things my beauty,
. . . does life treat you right ?
Seeing wondrous things beneath the summer night?
. . . Or have you become a trifle moody . . .
As the winter drives out light.

Oh, Michalla beauty so clear . .
Though you are thousands of miles from here.
I find solace in your blessings, pure,
And know you're made of gold, for sure.

Don Donald's Casa


Don Donald's Casa Solos:
 . . . a mammal’s DNA.
 . . . a solomn man on LSD  1
 . . . an Andaman man,  2
 . . . Laocoön and Sons,   6
 . . . a moss man commands a dodo,  3
 . . . and a Dallas man’s ass,  4
 . . . a mad madam scolds a class.
 . . . a sad sac Lama,  5
 . . . and a canal Anaconda.  7

So a cosmos cools:
 . . . a nasal, sad old man,
 . . . also a Mom at odds, 'n a cocoon,
 . . . solos a calm moon,
 . . . a mad and common loon.

A Lacandon man condoms a mass a’ clams,  8
 . . . no almond-ananas salad, 9
 . . . no canola, no salmon, no cod,
 . . . cocoa.

London calls Canada:
 . . . Adam, a con man, ammos a small cannon . . .  10
 . . .

A mall-doll calls a local mass.   11


NOTES ON THS POEM:

This work is a lipogram, spelled with a very constrained set of letters, in this case with only the letters, M, A, C, D O, N, L, S. The true name of this establishment I am keeping a mystery for legal reasons. Other lipograms I've written may be found here.

 1: A 'solomn' is a pimp. Biblical word.
 2: One of the good things about Don Donald's Casas is that there is no discrimination based on race, or country of origin. The Adaman islands, in the Bay of Bengal resisted colonization until very recently. Fr. Wikipedia: "In 1974, a film crew and anthropologist Trilokinath Pandit attempted friendly contact by leaving a tethered pig, some pots and pans, some fruit and toys on the beach at North Sentinel Island. One of the islanders shot the film director in the thigh with an arrow. The following year, European visitors were repulsed with arrows."
 3: This refers to many of this nation's dispossessed, making clothing out of whatever they find, wherever they find it. I have seen resourceful men in their last years of life living clothed in what very nearly amounts to sphagnum moss, warming up on a cold day in a Don Donald's casa.
 4: Dallas Man is clearly one of the 1% at this particular Don Donald's. However his trousers are riding kind of low, even though he wears no gun. 
 5: A representative from that repressed religion of Buddha.
 6: Laocoön warned the Trojans not to allow the wooden horse to be brought into the city of Troy. Poseidon, God of the Sea, sent sea serpents to devour (and shut up) Laocoön and his two sons, which the Trojans interpreted as an omen that the horse should be admitted into the city. The rest you know. Troy fell when warriors hidden within, snuck out during the night. In this instance I'm imagining a noisy father, wrestling something, perhaps resembling a 'Canal Anaconda' with his two sons. The Laocoön topic was taken up in a play by Sophocles, fitting, since every day at Don Donald's, a human tragedy is staged in epic proportions.
 7: Don Donald's are usually found along converted wetlands, and mall-ways, in stretches of abused land converted to shopping chains. Here we see Laocoön serpent again. The food on offer there is subsistence level nourishment, providing daytime housing to a variety of niche inhabitants.
 8 A hunter-gatherer from the neighborhood has unrolled his sleeping bag and reveals a strange see-through sac stretched around a bounty of shellfish. Mercury alert.
 9 Almond bits sprinkled on pineapple.
 10 Adam (the first con man) i.e. a Cop . . . in one of the places around this country where they hold all the power. . . recharges his weapon.
 11 I've always found it fascinating when the prettiest girl in the room talks makes confession, in public.

Lines that require no notation,
Try instead, your imagination.

Come and Manipulate Form



In new black, my angel said,
"Hear when metal can almost be our music."
Cunning, so she stuck there:

“I weld men and damage with model dreams,
Control my body!
Glass husband, you are guile!
Though bold perfume is a calm instrument.”

I sleep, scream, subject to an edge.
A daughter thought, "Write, dazzle, cook . .
   make love at passion’s bed."
And you improve, I know her . .
   She gives, above work.

If they try a limpid fool, ignore it!
Sculpt every phobia
Take a sadistic horny death.
   bed sounds have psychedelic nerve
My grand sane wife, pities me
For when her wasted part forms like a baby,
   she sings.

Characters your temper must ebb
Start a submissive life, show night lust,
Denial, so original companions open up your system,
Investigate the head, see whose side is straight and deep.

Without competition, analyze this mess.
Mother never abuses,
She takes my canvas, my mortar,
Forgets my blue dead street.

Freedom’s a silhouette, my mellifluous sibling said,
"I’ll worry when you run out."



with M____ J___ 7/13/06, 78, 79, 80

The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

What's in a Name?

Names are myths, and letters the archetypes that compose them, symbols that function as usable signs put to use on a daily basis by every person on the planet. Our names define who we are, wings on our shoulders that bear us up, or stuck to our tails, like a donkey.

Possibility and limitation both, holding hopes, desires, fears, courage, wealth and poverty all at once. They are our burden, and release. They are heavy loads that we carry, but they are also light and bear us aloft. They illuminate, and obscure, they are painful, and what is joyous both. They may make us great, or may cripple us terribly.

Letters, are the DNA of myth. Our own letters, recombine in our actions, in words we chose, and in our pre-selection of what we read. We scan for our name through the universe of experience. Names express, like our genes, in the jobs we take, professions we choose, the mates we select, and the children we bear. They in turn we name again, their children, the companies they work for, places they live, and countries they travel to. Those who know us choose in part, for our name, and the mythos of our letters. So they become our friends, lovers, enemies.

A names affects everything.

Some change a name in order to shed karma that follows like a curse, or, to avoid associates that they fear will affect their future, and more commonly, to bring possibilities into their lives that add new dimension. Inventing a new name creates a new future. Millions have done so from Madonna to Tiger Woods.

Name change is karma invention, a correction of the record as regards who we are.

One friend obtained release from repressive events in her past by renaming herself Rainbow Girl. Descended from a Native American tradition of re-naming, Rainbow is for Lauren, what Raven has become to me. A symbol of guidance. I noticed this when I met Rainbow, . . this began a thought processes that led to a form of poetry that was name-based, and lipogrammatic. 2.

Ancient cultures ritualistically conferred new names when a child reached maturity. Similar to Christian Baptism, in older cultures, it celebrates the rebirth of the child as an adult. The Thread Ceremony for Brahmans in India, the Jewish Bar and Bat Mitzvah, coming of age in all cultures, traditionally awards a new name. Myths associated with the new name, are deemed appropriate to the person to whom it is given.

Names are the myth of who we are, as is Whitman's Song of Myself. Named, we are dealt cards, the letters, each conveys a powerful mythos.

Traditions break when societies loose contact with the mythologies of names. When a culture forgets what names mean it invariably breaks. Carl Jung dubbed the collapsed stratum of the collective unconscious, 'archetypes', for a reason. All that is forgotten and compacted in the attic of the human mind continues to work through us in ways we cannot describe.Type, and letters are signs and symbols, reference cards for accessing this content. Understanding a name means understanding the myths at work within the symbolic bedrock of our souls, beneath the sounds and words that letters signify.

What are letters?

Signs that stand for a sound when spoken? Not really. Even our dictionary resorts to another symbol set when describing how to pronounce. For instance, 'pheasant' which by some dictionaries is pronounced:
employs the two letters 'ph', to sound like 'f'. One cannot defend phonetic spelling as the sole reason for letters. What of Chinese script? Korean, Japanese, Arabic? Increasingly English is taking on letter forms that have no phonetic component whatsoever. Mathematical symbols, scientific symbols. Even the much used smilies :) evolve towards 'letter' status.

Did one day a bright Phoenician have an idea for representing each spoken sound with a graphic symbol. Not at all. Letters, characters, as building blocks of language were never a sudden invention, or inspiration.

They evolved, over many generations. There's a story. They carried with them rituals of history, chapters of civilization, victories, and defeats.

Letters are the story of humanity, of all our myths and stories, compacted. Even today letters are still forming. We're not through with alphabets, even today. The ancient Greek alphabet has fewer letters than modern Greek. So with every language. Mathematics, physics, astrology, all of these activities compete to provide letters to our vocabulary.

The story of each letter is a myth, and a history unto itself. As united symbols of the collective unconscious, they are the makers of dreams.

-:-

The forgoing describes some of the background behind the lipogrammatic odes which I write using constrained letter sets taken from a person's name.

There is a long tradition of constrained writing. 3. From Nestor of Laranda who composed a lipogrammatic Illiad to Gyles Brandreth who has rewritten Shakespeare's plays with reduced letter sets, such as Macbeth without "A" or "E"; Twelfth Night without "O" or "L"; and Othello without the letter "O".

Whereas most of these writers explore language as a kind of codified reduction, an ode allows a spirit of generosity, exploring everything that can be said with a person's name. Sometimes I'll combine the letters of two persons, if they are a couple. Invariably the result shows the overlap in the relationship, such as in a poem I wrote for Niki Notarile and her husband Chris. They were surviving by making short horror and martial arts films, on reduced budgets:

   I ink a letter to a Niki an' Chris Notarile
   In a sentence to share an altar . . .
   I notice Niki Notarile enthrall in action,
   A tattoo tantra, letters in attraction:

   A, C, E, H, I, K, L, N, O, R, S, an' T.

   As an actress Asian martial artist, she entices, slices, . . . entrails.
   A ancient lion she roars, he's her trainer, a killer cat alert,
   Stalks the stairs, knocks, kicks, attacks.

I sing their song, rejoicing in each of their letters.

Here's the beginning of an ode I wrote for my son Arjun prior to his graduation:

   Hear an ode on paper to Arjun Brandreth Potter . . .
   Be Dante here to tone a rap.
   Or Auden to pen a Bornean pantun
   . . . or Borat, to rune a rondeau
   A troubadour pater’ penned an epode tune,
   To a Buddha hunter, Arjun.
   A, J, B, D, E, H, N, P, R, T, U and O.


The foregoing stanza was written with only Arjun's 12 letters. These letters, given to him at birth by his mother and I, and have guided him unfailingly, towards his loves, which are birds, plants, creatures, nature, the natural world. These are his genes for singing the diversity of everything that lives.

The letters MUST BE SUNG! Why is this?

Ritual is the essence of learning, and song or poetry is a medium of ritual. All poetry, in fact all language, begins as ritual structure. Even young birds learning to sing, with one note, then three (composed of two sounds). . . in the structure A-B-A.

It is impossible to obtain to an understanding of character without a name, and likewise impossible to understand a name without the letters. The letters are the myths, of Ravens, of Jesus, of past kings, and Gods that guide us. Mythology is embedded in archetypal language. If we do not acknowledge this, at the onset of our investigations, how will we ever hope to understand what affect names have on us?

Here's a song written with a very reduced letter set for a model who worked for me briefly. Her real passion was dance:

   Blend a Cuban dance Danielle,
   U decide, u include,
   A dance Danielle, in Danube?
   Blend a Cuban dance Danielle
   In Albania, an Indian audience?

Anagrams are the most concise of lipograms. Whereas a lipogram allows for open composition constrained to a particular set of letters, an anagram is a single 1 to 1 rearrangement of just the letters in a word, name or phrase. For instance one may rearrange the letters in Clint Eastwood's name to get . . . "Old West Action". Madame Curie may be written as "Radium came". Tom Cruise, "I'm so cuter". Count Dracula, "A cauldron cut".

Anagrams of famous places and businesses may define the success or failure of the enterprise: Western Union becomes "No Wire Unsent", NewsCorp may be rewritten as "Pew! Scorn!" 1.

Lipograms, and anagrams put into relief an essential fact about language: language is code. Awash in words we often forget that our moment to moment thoughts are submitted to a matrix of words, letters, and myths. Writing and speaking are acts of coding. Whether composing daily speech, or writing code for a computer, we see how coding, and cryptology are fundamental to an understanding of poetic and linguistic structure.

In the simplest possible name there are myths at works. Here is one written about a Native American woman living who adopted the name "Sioux Lilly".

   Sioux Lilly's solo is S, I, O, U, Y, L, X
   Sioux Lilly’s soul is ill . . .
   Sioux Lilly's loss is silly
   Sioux Lilly's IOU is six

   Sioux Lilly's ill is loss of soil . . .
   Sioux Lilly's ill is . . . oil.


These poems are not 'fixed' in any way. I re-arrange them all the time, searching for the optimal composition that follows the implied vocabulary to maximum effect. They are our subconscious song. So they are sung again and again, in our heads, and recombined, so long as the rules (all rituals have rules) are obeyed. As poems they are reflections of the diversity, or power, weakness, or strength, contained in our names.

The ancients understood that singing an Ode, or a poem about a person could be healing. It could confer power, physical strength in battle, luck, wealth, fortune in marriage, remembrance after death.

Names are not absolutes. Some names fall like an anvil out of the sky and seem to crush the bearer, who then rises in spite of that burden, and surmounts it.

But the myths of the letters have that written in as well.

I am not saying that our lives are predetermined by the letters and words that can be cast from our given names. I am saying that they reverberate in us like another force that continuously stirs our precious liquid.

We make our names and our names make us.

Let me give you an example:

I worked with an art model whose name was Malin. She was from Sweden, and being Swedish meant she was unaware of the Latin Root 'mal', meaning 'bad' or 'evil'. Of course Modern Swedish has inherited very little from Latin. The name, a diminutive of 'Magdalena', is commonly used in Sweden, also in Hindi speaking communities. The irony is it is also an English name that used to mean "strong little warrior", but likely fell out of use when William the Conqueror came to Britain bringing French with him. Anxious to avoid the negative connotation of "mal', few are named Malin by modern English speakers.

To make matters worse Malin's email address (similar, but changed to protect her identity) was EvilFairi@Blah.net. Yet there was nothing 'mal' or 'evil' in Malin's character whatsoever. She was a sweet, honest girl, from a good family from another country. So why was her life such a continuous litany of setbacks, and disappointments?

"Malin, why have you chosen this email. Do you think you are Evil?"

She was surprised by my question. The reason for the email address was that she lived in the East Village!

Small of build, she considered herself a 'fairy' of the East Village of New York City. 'Evil' stood for 'East Village'. As a foreigner she was not familiar enough with English to be able to recognize the confusion, so by error, she had conferred upon herself a very negative email address, which is close to being a name.

Malin's first name, combined with the email address, and her lack of comprehension of English, in a subtle way was bringing about all her disastrous problems. The email address reinforced a word-rooted suspicion in her name itself. Without the email, she would have been helped most likely instead of hindered.

And I mean disastrous. Her visas were revoked. She was fired everywhere. Constantly looking for work. And after she worked she often would not be paid.

And yet, she kept her strength up, maintained a good attitude, without ever suspecting that her email address was working against her. I realized the problem, (almost immediately) and when she realized the innocent spirit in which she had dubbed her email account, she was considerate, appreciative, but skeptical.

To this day I don't know if she has changed either her name, or her email at this point in time.

Karl Jung understood these principles, as well as poets of past ages.

In ancient Greece, and around the mead halls of Medieval Wales, odes were fashioned spontaneously so that names could be sung, at banquets, before battles, at crucial moments in life. All were conscious of the power contained in words, and letters. These poems were not fixed, in fact they were flexible. The poet only had to be able to manipulate the large vocabulary as a performance.

Lipograms appear late in human history, almost as a kind of regression, from ever expanding alphabets, instead condensing backwards, working with fewer letters.

"Gadsby: Champion of Youth" was a 1939 novel written by Ernest Vincent Wright who tied down the "e" key of his typewriter. Seemingly an impossible task at the time, it nevertheless tells a story. To me that story is one of human media and technology being used to 'filter out' the noise of modern society.

Bards in the mead halls of old Wales didn't fumble for written notes. They could compose on the spot, with structure, rhyme, meter, etc.

The modern poet is drowning in vocabulary. He needs a device to focus and sharpen the image of his subject. When snapping a photograph you don't want every light ray in the universe to enter the camera, you only want a selected set of photons to do the work. But what selects? Do you really want the modern mythos dictated by advertising, and everything else that you read?

Working with lipograms, and in particular, with given names, gave focus to me.

I began a long program of poems written to friends, lovers, family, about places, and fictional characters, and even more importantly, about strangers. They are here on this blog. Look for them. They begin with a singing of the letters . . . of that name.

Notes:

1. Anagrams may be explored through this wonderful site. You may also enter phrases and have all possible anagrams for a set of English letters returned to your computer.
2. Lipograms, or constrained letter set writing may be further explored here.
3. Constrained Writing is a well developed literary tradition and takes many forms. Start at Wikipedia

Carp Us Down



The Carp:
  "Make some commune in your studio
   Follow behind, chanting face to body . . . "

Naughty Drunk:
 "Soft and sad, how hard to know,
   how Monstrous!
   Carp us down. . .
   We men are done."

The Dead:
 "A marvelous age of mildew grows.
   Move! I never need some sweet reason . . .
    . . . but make true measure."

Wretch:
  "Whose free toss will blood some dust?
   Delight them! . . . Run married rascal!
   Your stance sure could seek some sharp dirty old woman.
   Speak out to form a young society."

Daddy:
  "Such memories confront Mama!"

Stranger:
  "Please blast your breath, greasily drawn
   Thou would live electric . . .
   I'll better pair hype, I won't ever play or strum, to relate
   A bird sees no phobia -
   Hey! A saucy psychedelic crowd!

   My mind is almost like some edge . . .
   Let yourself make some nerve with will.
   God knows my dance will end up less bitter."

Dry Cunning Leader:
  "What pain she mouthed!
   You'll sleep less, see bold pictures in the air!
   Some memory thing will reverse our number.

   So clot, feel mouth, butt, stale,
   but when despair gets you down,
    . . . Duh!. . way down,
   Then chisel your grip!

   And so, start as a sculpture, and believe!
   Use her sibling . . . . always dazzle.
   Express, get reason
   The date is risky, sweep away your wants.
   Understand sense, esteem!"

Most Overbearing Whip:
  "The ancient question they choose to call a finger.
   Aesthetically, I thought, "The fool is classy"
   If they attack, . . . they hate her
   Committed in awe to some windward fool,
   Cuckolds about and through,
   Giving life to the dish."

Hollow Slippery Toad:
  "Notorious perfect serpent!
   Have respect! Beautify my Death."

Fellow Minion:
  "Introduce coward, how she licked thee!
   As a cat around our open obsessive work."


October 10, 2007, with Natasha Romanova,  79, 80, 81

The Muse Poems:

  1  2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


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