Ron Silliman, briefly, is a poet involved with the "Language" school. As I noted in one of the first PftB posts, his long-standing and widely-read (in the poetry world) blog, threatened to come to a halt at the beginning of April. A few days ago, I was notified by the library at ISU via e-mail that the copy of Silliman's gigantic tome The Alphabet (a collection, in one volume, of a long, eponymous poem, some thirty years in the making, and published in bits and pieces over the decades), which I've had out for a while, has been recalled. Silliman might be happy to know that there's more than one person in Ames, Iowa who wants to read his poetry. So, before I bring it back to the circulation desk, here's a very small section of a section. From the long poem "VOG", here is "It Takes a Village."
Midlife, I
discovered I
was not
where I'd
expected.
Tattoo
parlor called
Etch a Wretch.
Arguments in the conference room
over numbers, faces,
functions,
the next
"work force action."
Just as suddenly
a curtain drew
over the last of summer.
Mariah Carey
on watching
African relief infomercials
featuring footage
of starving children,
"I mean I'd
love to be
skinny like that
but not with all
those flies
and death and stuff."
Legos with which
to construct a universe,
an "ant-farm" for humans.
Post-toddler syntax
starts to emerge,
bubbles
along the lower lip.
Red-winged beetle
against the dashboard's black
hardshell plastic
moves to a new
abode. Aubade
bade him well
to do its bidding.
I wake, having slept
with one fist clenched.
The HR officer weeps.
Vending maching
that rejects all coins.
Penmanship is destiny.
Ms. Gabrielle Mintz
considers the act of naming.
Lion paces
the rim of its cage.
Plastic figurine
of ape pounding chest
no larger than my thumb.
Flightless bird.
Irony only strengthens
that which it opposes.
Waiting for the IPO.
Old XL sweatshirt
grown tight at the wrists
constricts full extension
of the arms
when swinging
imaginary bat.
Full eclipse
behind gathering clouds.
Old stone foundation
of burned-out hospital
(1778 - 1964)
today is little
more than
a place to picnic,
historical marker
by the first chief surgeon's
lone tomb.
Outdoor kiln
at the edge
of a field of
chestnuts
belches flame
from old yellow bricks.
Passengers
must remain with their baggage
at all times.
All the many muches.
Brother,
can you paradigm?
A harsh wind
on an otherwise clear day
foretells autumn.
Helicopter sickness.
He gets out of his bed,
lays a blanket on the floor
and sleeps on that.
Moonless night,
the only
light leaking
from a basement window,
these trees
reach upward
into the dark.
By the river
the box eaters
kneel in a circle.
An effect of
surrealism
sells
luxury transportation:
Everything changes
but the sole.
Is your
web site
a secret?
What at first
coming down
the great stairs
appear to be
giant
multi-colored
mushrooms
turn out
as we approach
to be
umbrellas wet
from the rain.
Like a rock.
the old
ad theme
drives
Chevy trucks
o new
market share.
Rustle of
squirrels
in the rain-heavy
branches.
Boy struggles
to pull shirt
over head.
The logic
of detail in dreams:
this desk
uncluttered
upon which I find
a check
in the amount of
$10,000.
At her name
she steps forward
upon the gallows platform
to hear
herself reprieved,
the camera's focus
narrowing
to a head shot
as she again
descends the stairs,
the other
smiling prisoners
disappearing
into the busy
background
until
- the crowd gasps!
- we see silhouettes
swinging
in the air.
The carnage
of toy
soldiers
spread over the rug.
Sleeps
with her arms
about her head
as if to ward off blows.
Voiced vowel
owl-like
all over
the lake.
Problem of usury
prevents interest
by Islamic banks.
Clamor am
or will be
heard, hurt, hard
of earring
round solid gold
through the nose
cheek or lip
above / below
a body
of knowledge
slow to heel.
The caterer's plate
upon which sit
stuffed mushrooms
steaming.
The world
is all that
has your face.
General
Protection
Fault.
Goo Goo Doll anthem,
the old ball game.
Animal fecal matter
as origin of tetanus
(and as for the source
of this vaccine...).
By the next morning
the balloons
no longer hover
at the ceiling.
Rabbit with the most pearls
must be
the oyster bunny.
Each day the wolves become bolder,
moving now into the outskirts of town.
With each gust, a new torrent of leaves
descends from the red-orange sky.
Month when the snails
go into hibernation.
A rune
of puzzles
playing back.
Lake effect syntax
converts meaning to sorrow,
glacier of intent (mucous)
tidal behind the eyes
draining like swallowing rope
thick where the knots catch,
fiber burn
against inner flesh.
Cellophane flower
upon closer inspection
has eyes, becomes
ghost-on-a-straw.
The course of true love
gathers no moss.
Tall, thin, handsome
African man,
high cheekbones, hint
of a Caribbean speech,
his skin a different tint
each time we meet.
Sun rising
over the canal
casts my shadow
as it writes.
The line, though brittle,
does not break.
Often I wake
as though peeling
layers of dream.
Soft clothing on a cold night,
the hum in the walls
of the furnace,
broken moon trapped
in the leafless oak,
deer at the garden's rim
in sheer silhouette.
Boy's voices
high in the far
part of the house.
Medicine as metaphor,
metaphor as medicine.
The grumpet in the moon
is found none too soon,
dinos in the bath alas.
Bells and whistles,
harlequins with trained monkeys,
the light in the hall,
the chairs arranged in a circle.
Another first chapbook
of slightly closeted sex poems
involving my friend
their teacher. The furnace
ignites with a rush.
First flurries. A thirst
not quenched by
a burst of citrus
searing the throat.
If the cape is an affectation,
the question remains "of what?"
Old man and the C.
Oppen at the rim
of his own party,
silent... watching....
Behind which wall
hidden furnace roars
to heat the entire house.
Forest light, leaves
thick as snow.
Love your other.
Eleven exits off 95,
all there is to Delaware.
Moment at which
in the power politics
of marriage, Hillary
Rodham becomes Clinton,
becomes blonde, becomes
fashionable (con-
tact lens as
reverse scarification),
in return for which
she becomes what?
The torrent of leaves
arrives at an end.
Out on the porch
the smell of a cigar
smooth as suede
fills the cold autumn air.
The deference engine
will get us only
part way through the soiree
barely past the white
mounds of cauliflower,
the orange cubes of cheddar,
the rectangular trays
of steaming squares of fried something.
Sleep as desire.
Rising at dawn, waiting
for gravity to clear the senses.
Song of the toilet bowl
filling by degree.
Reference empathy irregardless,
child's cough
hacking in the night,
hallucinated sleeplessness,
low ash sky
clings to the trees.
The microwave sings
five short beeps,
hoarse song of the modem,
pattern recognition
as our own mode of grief.
--
The "Notes" following the poems state that all of VOG was written circa 1985-99. The Alphabet itself was published in 2008 by the University of Alabama Press.
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