— Ezra Pound, Canto 1

Exile’s Letter

From the Chinese of Li Po, usually considered the greatest poet of China: written by him while in exile about 760 A. D., to the Hereditary War-Councillor of Sho, “recollecting former companionship.”

So-kin of Rakuho, ancient friend, I now remember
That you built me a special tavern,
By the south side of the bridge at Ten-Shin.
With yellow gold and white jewels we paid for the songs and laughter,
And we were drunk for month after month, forgetting the kings and princes.
Intelligent men came drifting in, from the sea and from the west border,
And with them, and with you especially, there was nothing at cross-purpose;
And they made nothing of sea-crossing or of mountain-crossing,
If only they could be of that fellowship.
And we all spoke out our hearts and minds and without regret.
And then I was sent off to South Wei, smothered in laurel groves,
And you to the north of Raku-hoku,
Till we had nothing but thoughts and memories between us.
And when separation had come to its worst
We met, and travelled together into Sen-Go
Through all the thirty-six folds of the turning and twisting waters;
Into a valley of a thousand bright flowers that was the first valley,
And on into ten thousand valleys full of voices and pine-winds.
With silver harness and reins of gold, prostrating themselves on the ground,
Out came the East-of-Kan foreman and his company;
And there came also the “True-man” of Shi-yo to meet me,
Playing on a jewelled mouth-organ.
In the storied houses of San-Ko they gave us more Sennin music;
Many instruments, like the sound of young phœnix broods.
And the foreman of Kan-Chu, drunk,
Danced because his long sleeves
Wouldn’t keep still, with that music playing.
And I, wrapped in brocade, went to sleep with my head on his lap,
And my spirit so high that it was all over the heavens.

And before the end of the day we were scattered like stars or rain.
I had to be off to So, far away over the waters,
You back to your river-bridge.
And your father, who was brave as a leopard,
Was governor in Hei Shu and put down the barbarian rabble.
And one May he had you send for me, despite the long distance;
And what with broken wheels and so on, I won’t say it wasn’t hard going
Over roads twisted like sheep’s guts.
And I was still going, late in the year, in the cutting wind from the north
And thinking how little you cared for the cost and you caring enough to pay it.
Then what a reception!
Red jade cups, food well set, on a blue jewelled table;
And I was drunk, and had no thought of returning;
And you would walk out with me to the western corner of the castle,
To the dynastic temple, with the water about it clear as blue jade,
With boats floating, and the sound of mouth-organs and drums,
With ripples like dragon-scales going grass-green on the water,
Pleasure lasting, with courtezans going and coming without hindrance,
With the willow-flakes falling like snow,
And the vermilioned girls getting drunk about sunset,
And the waters a hundred feet deep reflecting green eyebrows—
Eyebrows painted green are a fine sight in young moonlight,
Gracefully painted—and the girls singing back at each other,
Dancing in transparent brocade,
And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it,
Tossing it up under the clouds.

And all this comes to an end,
And is not again to be met with.
I went up to the court for examination,
Tried Layu’s luck, offered the Choyu song,
And got no promotion,
And went back to the East Mountains white-headed.

And once again we met, later, at the South Bridge head.
And then the crowd broke up—you went north to San palace.
And if you ask how I regret that parting?
It is like the flowers falling at spring’s end, confused, whirled in a tangle.
What is the use of talking! And there is no end of talking—
There is no end of things in the heart.

I call in the boy,
Have him sit on his knees to write and seal this,
And I send it a thousand miles, thinking.

(Translated by Ezra Pound from the notes of the late Ernest Fenollosa, and the decipherings of the Professors Mori and Araga.)

This one is by Pablo Neruda.

This question of morality in fetching information is a stickyslick one, and I haven’t plumbed the full track of its stone wall for uneven spots yet. (If you have thoughts, I would like to hear them: Where are the boundaries?) There are, and always will be, nefarious means of procuring reading material–and it’s wise to keep these methods shambling along, preserved for the hour when you need them for samizdat, to smuggle free speech beneath a hostile government–but remember, kids, writers like to get paid. If you don’t pay the writer, the writer may go away. So pay for what you value, and if you do, maybe your favorite writers won’t go away until they write you another book. (One way to get around this is to only love writers who are already dead. You can find their work in several places.)

Go now, my lemursnails of finding, and peruse what you may use.

Addendum: As I was about to post this, I learned that Fravia+, the genius of search, died last May. He taught me a lot, and I’m sad that he’s gone.

(Too, he killed himself after writing it, so there’s that added weight.)

For your convenience, since I can’t find the English and Spanish side-by-side, or formatted in a readable way, I’ve included the poem below:

tiger the color of light, brown deer
on the outskirts of night, girl glimpsed
leaning over green balconies of rain,
adolescent incalculable face,
I’ve forgotten your name, Melusina,
Laura, Isabel, Persephone, Mary,
your face is all the faces and none,
you are all the hours and none…

— Octavio Paz, Piedra de Sol

(I found this snippet while searching through past story notes and realized that I’ve tried to write the same story at least four times. This time maybe I’ll finish it and move on. Or just move on.)

“I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the colour of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat…”

– Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
than
too late.

–Charles Bukowski

Bricabrac is my to-be-monthly poetry mix zine, full of the poems I like and think you should like.

I love the way April’s issue looks. Tofer Moran, the wondrous designer, clothier, and my fellow musician, has beautifully executed my idea of creating something similar to a mix-tape for poetry, done in hard-copy. His design skills make this so much more legitimate.

These are the poems on my mind this month. And because the best things are better shared, I’ve been leaving these around Durham, NC, like little pots of gold, ready to be someone’s found treasure. Or like diseased rats at the bottom of one’s soup, depending on your metaphor.

Catch the disease (or become fabulously wealthy. Again, depending on your metaphor). If you live near me, ask for one. If you don’t, download the case and the innards and assemble this sucker yourself:

Bricabrac 1 :: 04/09 case

Bricabrac 1 :: 04/09 fold-out book

Assembly instructions:

Print the fold-out double-sided, then fold the 11″x17″ in half horizontally twice, then once vertically, to create a booklet (like a zoo map).

To assemble the case, print the 8.5″x11″ and fold it in half horizontally. Then unfold it and fold down the tabs so you have a sort of very shallow trough. Align the case as if it were a book you were reading and tape down the left side tabs. You should end up with something that looks like a CD case, with restraining tabs on the top and bottom of the right half. Put the fold-out beneath them, turned sideways.

That was horribly cryptic; sorry. Maybe I’ll make a video.

If you don’t want to do all that difficult folding, you could come to Durham and walk around Brightleaf and hope you happen on one. Check the gutter.

_{(Also, I included one of my poems in here, nestled among the greats. Vanity, your name is Self-published.)}

In the nascent spirit of papernet, I’m going to post PDFs of these mixes (on what schedule, I have no idea). My friend, Tofer Moran, designer, artist, musician and et-cetera-extraordinaire, is helping me lay it out.  He had the idea to make it one zoo-map-like sheet, as opposed to my idea of cutting books and stapling and so forth. This is why I pass ideas through my friends. Because their ideas are good. And less work. The single sheet is more true to the idea of papernet, and it looks so cool; you would not believe it.

Bricabrac (the title was his idea also) will be one 11″x17″ sheet, folded into eight sections, surrounded by another 8.5″x11″ sheet folded into an envelope. You’ll be able to print it out and assemble it yourself, or you can email me your address and I’ll mail you one I put together. I might read the poems aloud and post the recording as well; I’m not sure. I’ll almost certainly read my own poems aloud at some point.

I’ve never edited an antholody, or magazine, or even made a mix of music, so I have no idea what I’m doing. That’s ok by me. There’s no real criteria for these poems, they’re just the ones I’ve noticed lately. And if you love a particular poem or poet, let me know down there in the comments. Bricabrac is all about sharing good poetry.