Please spread far and wide....
Who: Nathaniel Tarn: poet, translator, anthropologist, and editor; author of thirty volumes of poetry, and numerous translations (including acclaimed versions of Pablo Neruda, Victor Segalen, and others);
Selected Poems 1950-2000 published in 2002 by Wesleyan University Press; selected essays in poetics and anthropology
Views from the Weaving Mountain published in 1991 by University of New Mexico Press; specialist in Highland Maya studies and the sociology of Buddhist institutions; one of Marcel Duchamp's chess partners.
Who: Janet Rodney: digital artist, poet, and letterpress printer; author of four books of poetry, including
Orphydice,
Atitlan / Alashka, and the meditative memoir
The Book of Craving; fifteen year resident of Spain while a journalist, editor, translator, and interpreter.
What: Desert City Poetry Series, you never thought it would never happen.
When: This Saturday, February 17th, 8pm, 2007, the year formerly known as "next year."
Where: Internationalist Books, 405 W. Franklin Street, Chapel Hill, North Carolina, same place, fresh air.
How much: $2 donation which will contribute to the hospital bills of Philadelphia poet
Frank Sherlock. Current contribution information
available here.Why: "Rite of return / elegant orange "bird" / shines on my memory / flying the sun from west to east" "you are right, / at this time the mind / is a mirror to the sun / the heart a coal / bright in, the wind, / nothing / is mine / but the ride"
See you there....
Nathaniel TarnJanet Rodney"Ancestors"
by Nathaniel Tarn
"At the exact site of the Lituanica's tragedy, in the forest of Soldin, Germany, the Aero Club of Lithuania rented for ninety nine years a . . . circle-shaped area and erected a monument. (The
inscription:) "Here died as heroes the Transatlantic Flyers Darius & Girenas " (July 15, 1933) . . . After World War II, that part of Germany was annexed to Poland and Lithuania was occupied by the Soviets."
Small provincial town
in "my" fathers' land
at creation's edge -
border post deserted,
a line of lindens,
opposite post deserted,
no crossings anymore
as there once were
between old world and new.
"God's Playground" here
as they used to call it:
what does He play with
what is the message of a life,
what is the information,
what can the play mean
from bit to life, and back?
Other end of town:
small sunlit graveyard field
edged with small jungles:
hazels, apples, roses, ferns,
nettles, mushrooms, herbs -
loud with warblers,
storks overhead
birds of my secret childhood.
Rite of return
elegant orange "bird"
shines on my memory
flying the sun from west to east
back to its homeland,
the two boys clean
pure-blooded heroes -
narrative simple
a nation's testament
torn out of anonymity
the double fit
thanks X and gentle Y.
When was "our" departure:
before the warning signs
were clearly witnessed
or very near the terminus
of possibility -
by which way forward
under the lindens
was it to left,
was it to right
they went from east to west
and to what purpose
to what end in "me"?
Scrabble to read the graves
four hours the heat increasing.
Small stone book-shape -
third the way down from top -
grips one pointed gravestone
(like a clown's hat)
perhaps a sign of "us"
whose trade was bookbinding.
When not finding's no matter -
this is community -
"my" people sunk into
"our" people floating here
their stones on the grass sea.
So that it does not matter
if name sings here or not:
what is a name inside oblivion?
Not enough money
to buy the right equipment
homed into heroism:
arrival no arrival
a crash short of the goal
in a "great neighbor" country,
the whole scene under glass
shrine in its own museum
when it had been subtracted
out from the swastikas.
Crowd size at funeral
never yet seen in all of history.
Behind the pointed grave,
thick trees spread darkness,
huge long-house trench:
a thousand hidden there -
but not by natural
demise - shot in the neck:
it will take lifetimes
to read those dead.
Came to the sky
these luftmenschen too early
against the grain
of their determinations.
Now I'm at table:
Gorge at my life deep sun!
Take down the charming pilots
and too "my" ancestors!
In the town,
"they" who are always present
holding a festival
of later generations.
Midway between creations
all ate and drank the same
heard the same blood beat
of excremental music -
we paid them no attention.
How many of "their" fathers
might have helped
to fill that field?
"Their" flyers:
nothing as infiltrated
as "our" sallow legions
storm troopers in their time
would soon dispose of.
How could a record flight else
among so many
bring home the corpses
embalmed,
later, hidden for years
from various oppressors
until again, an independence.
While it is on record
(those who don't sleep or dream)
that in a neighbor town
"they" stood on rooftops
many smiling
to watch the shooting circus.
from /Crystals/
by Janet Rodney
I.
The time
of which I write
is a memory
of getting back
to Mother Earth, mouth
pressed to hers, desire's
irresistible
curl of lips
when love
for Father Water
is strongest
I look for his eye and hear
a hellish laughter
as from outside
up from the ocean.
II.
Long after all horizons
have proved themselves mortal
I see my rider shadow
galloping along the beach,
it is August, lead-bellied
gulls rise toward the Rock
where Atlantic currents
and Mediterranean mix
wild roses
corrupting on its face,
you are right,
at this time the mind
is a mirror to the sun
the heart a coal
bright in, the wind,
nothing
is mine
but the ride
before the sequence
vanishes like lead
drawn down
thru deep water.
XV. The Androgynous Principle (A)
In a small dream
in a small room
in a small town in New Jersey
I am on the make,
a huntress stepping out
of fathomless woods
her small breasts
are smooth
as riverstones
her own phallus, a knife
hung around her neck
instrument
of delight.
The prey this evening
is elusive:
she would like to be
worthy of her victim
who doesn't appear
to cruise these parts
this hour
would like to give her body
to the victim of her choice
precisely when he, the hunted,
steps out of her
moves in, penetrating, manly,
fucking in blindness
bringing them news
of light.
XVI. The Androgynous Principle (B)
Each day the sun
rises inside her eye
looking
for new fields,
at night drops
like a coin into water, she
is blown back by
darkness, her coat of shells
catching a light
from below
where he is hidden,
shining in water he waits
while she
dangles her clothes on a tree,
descends to the edge,
water rising slowly up
her body
between her thighs
he drinks her.
XVII.
Here we are
and all we see
is more
than ourselves,
the failing leaves
and flowerheads
float on the canal
like scales of carp
downriver
here we are and more,
wind driving thru
the cracks of our windows
bringing on the cold
we know
from our skin
(and over hard ground walk
the circuit of each other)
that winter
has made it
our way again
