An 'antidote for the excesses of civiliation'

Hey. Today's poem is "Poppies," by Mary Oliver.

It was recommended me by friend, and after reading it I think I'm in love with this lady. It is quite obvious we were meant to be. Surely, there must have been some sort of cosmic mishap, a mistake which caused me to be born in '86 and she '35. Life can be so cruel.

Oliver attended Ohio State University and Vasser College, dropping out of both, then making it as a poet in the world, publishing more than a dozen books of poems.

She has won a whole slew of awards, including the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award. You can read more about all her shenanigans here.

It's hard to say why I like "Poppies" so much. Usually nature poems cause me to point up my nose, sneering. But it isn't spoiled by the cheesiness of trancendentalists, and then it isn't really about nature—or poppies—for that matter, is it?

Once in English we read Frost's "Fireflies in the Garden," and the good teacher Allen said, "Poems are never about what they say they're about. Poems are always about people." Or something similar to that.

The poem's chock full of life and death, of thumbing the nose at death, giving it the bird and sitting in warm suns and all that stuff. Like Royal Tenenbaum, "Scrapping and yelling. Mixing it up. Loving every minute with this damn crew."

"Of course nothing stops the cold, / black, curved blade" and but for now we live, and "what can you do about it— / deep blue night?"

Picture-play

There will be regalete rejoicing today. In a celebration of the beauty of the day, there will be a flurry of short poems, all of the imagist persuasion.

These poems are like a direct injection of experience into your brain.

What I mean is this: sometimes we see something, a leaf fall, for example, that strikes us as beautiful, or noteworthy in some way.

However, if we try to convey this to someone ("I saw a leaf fall, and it was so cool), it's likely that it won't have the same meaning for them. We can't communicate it.

The beauty of imagetic poetry is that, if it's done right, the moment can be transported across the void between us people, in the same vividity of the original eye. We see what they see, feel what they feel.

Enjoy.

Ezra Pound, "In a Station of the Metro"

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;

Petals on a wet, black bough.

Taniguchi Buson "The Piercing Chill I Feel"

The piercing chill I feel:

my dead wife's comb, in our bedroom,

under my heel ...

T E Hulme "Image"

Old houses were scaffolding once

and workmen whistling

Penny Harter

broken bowl

the pieces

still rocking

Jennifer Brutshy

Born Again

she speaks excitedly

of death

Adelle Foley "Learning to Shave (Father Teaching Son)

A nick on the jaw

The razor's edge of manhood

Along the bloodline

To finish it off, a "vortograph" of imagist Ezra Pound

Apollo-gee

I give an apology for not writing. The great gods of the internet chose to cut unseen cords over the past few days, leaving a mysterious void where once was the information superhighway.

In addition to this, school decided to engage in some sort of sudden-death match, where all classes converged in fatal battles, melees of my making, like the The Running Man, but with pencils instead of flamethrowers, neon lights, and chainsaws. And it ain't over yet.

But it is back on. To celebrate, let's enjoy a poetry plethorum.

First, "Biopsy," from Sophie Cabot Black. She's a teacher at Colombia University and has two books of poems. There is something beautiful about the intersecting of human experience.

Second, ""When I was one-and-twenty..." by A E Housman. It's a poem who's lesson I should've learned by now. It will give you special insight into the state of my love-life. It's cheesy, but it's true.

Thanks to copyright mortality, read it below.

"When I was one-and-twenty..."

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.
'But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.
When I was one-and-twenty

I heard him say again,
'The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.
'And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

And third, the anonymous, fabulous "The Virtues of Carnation Milk." I love it most for its gratuitous use of profanity. You just can't beat that.

Anonymous puts out some of the best verse out there. I've heard that he's from South Dakota, and is working on a screenplay.

"The Virtues of Carnation Milk"

Carnation Milk is the best in the land;
Here I sit with a can in my hand --
No tits to pull, no hay to pitch,

You just punch a hole in the son of a bitch.

The Junk of Dreams: Jane Gentry's "The Concept of Morning"

Today's poem is "The Concept of Morning." It was written by Jane Gentry, Poet Laureate of Kentucky from 2007-2008, recipient of various honors, and professor at the University of Kentucky. You can read all about it here.

The poem is prefaced by a quote from "The Memoirs of Hadrian," which is as intriguing as the poem is beautiful, and the two compliment each other nicely. The quote tells what we descend into at night; the poem, the escape of it.

"Three Scenes from Jurassic Park," by Mike Ramm

"Three Scenes from Jurassic Park"

T-rex chews up the jeep with the kids inside.

When he bellows from the depths of his

tremendous chest, my six year old son roars,

"I know what he's saying; he's saying,

'I'm king and I can do what I want!'"

The gallimimus herd wheels every which way,

trying to escape the pursuit of King Tyrant Lizard.

My ten year old son, who can actually pronounce

pachycephalosaurus and every dinosaur in print,

informs me that coloring dinosaurs is guesswork,

and I can assign them any color I please.

Dr. Grant stares out the helicopter window

at a flock of birds which, as the theory goes,

evolved from dinosaurs, and I think maybe

there's hope for a bellowing world after all

if T-rex himself could lose the drive to be king

renouncing his title, diminishing himself until

the orange chest held just enough air for a song,

until fledgling wings delivered him into the sky.

*****

A year ago I bought a quarterly poetry journal for a quarter at a used book store.

One poem stood out to me in it. It was "Three Scenes from Jurassic Park," by Mike Ramm. The poem took a pop-culture resident and extracted something inspired from it. I love it when stuff does that.

On a lark, I googled "Mike Ramm," and found an email address. It turned out to be the same Mike. He's agreed to let me use the poem, and also answered a few questions for me. What a swell dude.

Mike Ramm Q &A

Question # 1. What is poetry to you?

I certainly hold with Robert Frost when he says a poem is a momentary stay against the confusion of the world. The key word, of course, being momentary. A poem temporarily crystalizes something that is otherwise ineffable.

Question #2 What do you do?

I've been teaching high school English for twenty-two years. (So what do you plan to do with your degree in English, Jeff?)

Question #3 Do you still writing occasionally?

Just starting to write again. Something about 9/11 forced the writer in me underground. Paying too much attention to politics is toxic to the imagination. Not surprising, though, my recent poems mostly focus on environmental and cultural issues.

Much thanks to Mike for his help.

Junk Mail: "Posthumous," by Jean Nordhaus

Today's poem is "Posthumous." It was written by Jean Nordhaus. You should read it here. Really, why wouldn't you? having come this far.

I first heard this poem listening to Garrison Keillor's "The Writer's Almanac" podcast, and it stuck with me ever since.

My grandmother's junk mail still routinely arrives at our door step. When it started I wondered how the senders didn't know that she was dead, and considered what her son felt as I watched him intercept telegrams to the dead.

Aside from the small gems of description found throughout (letters become "cold flakes drifting/through the mail slot," and "the last tremblings of your voice/have drained from my telephone wire."), it performs well that creative magic, where cotidian threads are woven into something extra-ordinary.

Nordhaus is a member of the Washington Writers' Publishing House, a non-profit press in the Washington-Baltimore areas. She has published four books, including Innocence, which, oddly enough, you can read here.

"The Dead" by Billy Collins

I rest on Sundays, so all I'll do is post this, of Billy Collins' (one-time poet laureate of the US) "The Dead."

It's beautiful, and speaks for itself.

Learning to Fall: John Updike's "Baseball"

So it's the fourth of July, so I guess the poem should have some sort of Patriotism.

What could be more American than baseball? Without further babble, I give you "Baseball," by John Updike, who (RIP) died just a few months ago.

I was finished with baseball in second grade, when I took one to the eye playing some warm-up-catch with the only girl on our team. I was on the Expos, and a week earlier I had caught a pop-fly with my nose, a "dark star," a "leaden meteor" on my head. Bloody bloody stuff. So I was done and through, not one of the "chosen"

This poem captures the sport beautifully though. Reading it, I thought I could feel what baseball, and America, is:

"...beneath

the good cheer and sly jazz the chance of failure is everybody's right,

beginning with baseball."

I know that sounds bad, that failure is everybody's right, but it is—we all fail. A ridiculous whiff in baseball youth will help us know now, that after the crushing failures, it's okay. The world has not yet ended.

"Dream Home" William Reichard

Today's poem is "Dream Home," by William Reichard. You can whisked away, to it, by clicking here.

Reichard is from Minnesota, and has published a book of poetry, This Brightness: Poems. There is a short review of the book, where he is quoted:

“I learned a lot about storytelling from watching old movies on television. A visual method of dramatizing mood and message plays out in my poetry, so I owe as much to Hollywood as I do to any specific school of poetic form when it comes to the success of my own creative work.”

"Dream House" begins happily enough, panning the "elegant yet simple" world "south of here." The pleasures—outdoor breakfasts and afternoon swims—only becomes melancholy in the last lines, where the illusion cedes to reality, and only sad, longing voices remain to answer the televisional cry: "And we do, oh Lord. Yes we do."

Plural Monism: Suji Kwock Kim's "Drunk Metaphysics after Ko Un"

Today's poem, "Drunk Metaphysics after Ko Un," by Suji Kwock Kim, can be brought right to your computer screen if you click here.

Watch her read "Drunk Metaphysics" (jump to 17:10), and other poems, below.



I stumbled across Kim's poetry by accident while researching Richard Beban for this very post. Her poetry is acute. "Drunk" is minimal, but meaningful: Are we one? or trillions? And which—of those many—makes us, us?

This talk of division continues, and goes further, in another poem of Kim's, "Monologue for an Onion." It is beautiful, and penetrating, and true. What is at our center?

If you like what Kim does in these poems, you might like these: Julia de Burgos, "To Julia de Burgos" Pablo Neruda "Ode to the Liver."

Wishing Things Were Different: "Antimatter" by Russell Edson

Todays super-fun poem about a special mirror, "Antimatter," by Russell Edson, can be read here, or here, or here. They're all good places to read the thing. Which one you choose is just fate—or

choice—I guess.

Actually, the Lowbrow team has had a change of mind. Due to recent and unforseeable events (you can't blame us) the poem of the day has changed.

It is now "The Reason Why the Closet-man is Never Sad," which you must read by clicking here.

We apologize for making you read "Antimatter," which we love, but it was just the wrong one. "Closet-man" gives a much better first impression of Edson as a poet, the slyness and the wit of his surreal worlds. The closet-man is

obviously sad and afraid of the consequences of living, which we infer this from the ironic title, and, in a most melancholy way, from the unconvincing repetition of the lines "I am never sad."

Playfully whimsical, seriously serious, and often poignant, Edson is a poet alive and kicking. He has published eleven books of poems. Despite of the quality of his work, he has largely remained out of the public eye, and is a self-described hermit.

Thanks to the boon and bane of Google Books, you can read one full book of Edsons poetry online, and preview two others. Click here to be taken to them.

McSweeeney magazine The Believer has an article on Russell Edson, click here to read it.

While talking to Mark Tursi, in the journal Double Room, Edson really pegged what poetry is. Or at least what we, of the offices of Lowbrow Lit, believe it to be:

"All the arts have a strong affinity with poetry. But the difference is that all the other arts are attached to sensory organs like eyes and ears. Poetry can be heard, read, or tapped out on one's back in Morse code; it can be read as Braille through the fingertips. In other words, all other arts have a physical presence which writing has always to earn."

Lastly enjoy this video, an animation to accompany Edson as he reads "Let Us Consider."

Dreams are what you wake up from: "The Scratch" by Raymond Carver

For today's poem, "The Scratch," by Raymond Carver, click here.

This is a favorite of mine. It is short and simple, but true, and asks a question. This one is especially relevant to me right now, because I can't seem to stop shooting myself in the foot. Figuratively. It happens so often, that I have to ask—why would a man raise up his hand against himself?—and fear the answer.

Carver is one of the States' most major writers. He grew up in Wahington, worked as a teacher, janitor, library assistant textbook editor, etc., and was largely unrecognized as a writer until the early 80's.

His most canonized work is the short story "Cathedral," where a blind man unwittingly teachings a man, one with the power of sight, to see.

Carver died 2 August 1988, at 50, from lung cancer, in Port Angeles, Washington.

His gravestone reads:

LATE FRAGMENT

And did you get what

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself

beloved on the earth.

The marker also includes his poem "Gravy," which is largely autobiographical, hugely beautiful, and enormously touching, and you really should be reading it, like, now.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Ch-ch-change: In Which The Team Takes a New Direction

There has been controversy here at the offices of Lowbrow Lit. A vote has been made and changes will be undertaken.

It all started when Vice-president in Chief Officer Mortimer Fredericks threw his computer screen the length of the building. It sailed through the air with a noteworthy spiral -- Morty played football in college -- then burst against the wall. Mort spoke these words:

"A violent bloom,

that flower is thus

no fragrance.

no color.

just techno dusts"

We began snapping our fingers involuntarily.

After day it was a landslide, a snowball, yes, an avalanche, and there was no stopping it. One by one we fell. Marketing Account Coronel Gertrude Smith spouted verse over her morning Red Zinger. Our accountant, Rochester, vocally observed cotidian nonsense all day long in iambic pentameter. And then I, Chief Executive Person of Lowbrow Lit, inspired by their passion, penned these very lines you read now.

In the end, it was decided to create a blog that featured one poem daily, and maybe other stuff inbetween.

Rochester, trying to be clever, said, "A poem a day, will keep the doctor away," but we slapped him for that one.

In conclusion, there will be changes made in the coming days. Do not be alarmed, expect them. Enjoy.

The Man in the High Castle: Progress

So in my off-time from school assignments I've been keeping up with The Man in the High Castle. Quite frankly I'm not sure what to say about the book. So far it consists of various intertwining story-lines, that are certainley working toward a climax or some sort of conclusion (I hope, at least), and until I get there I cannot say much. Nevertheless, here are some observations:

Characters: Known for hasty writing, Dick leaves something to be desired in the prose, at least in my opinion he does. We must note, however, that he never aspired to lyrical heights, but -- according to interviews -- churned out stories mostly to pay the bills. Despite these short-comings, manages to create some interesting characters. My favorite is Mr. Tagomi.

Concepts: There have been some interesting concepts of aesthetics and history in the book so far. Dick plays with the nature of objects as real and fake, imitations and the real thing. This is a prominent theme; the book even appears to be self-aware that it is an imitation of real history, and there is a sense of metaficiton, as a book within the book has an additional alternate history per the ending of WW2.

Here is a fan trailer someone made for a would-be movie of the book. It's pretty interesting.

As I finish the book, I will post more.

A Work of Worth: Grace McSorely

Death, romance, and humor, all at no cost to online readers. What more could you ask of a graphic novel?

I first became aware of the comic while watching the music video you see below (too add some class to your browsing, hit play). Naturally, I looked the thing up online. It was Grace McSorely. In the book, we meet Grace and her boyfriend, Death. Yeah, they met on the internet. We become witness to the day-to-day workings of their relationship, their adventures, and their mishaps. In addition to all of this, it just happens to be awesome.

The book is familiar, slightly surreal and quietly conveyed. There is humor, there is sadness, and the drawings are cooly copacetic.

The comic's craft is equal to its art. The book was written, drawn, and published by one sole creator, Katie Murphy. Read about it here. She drew the pages, printed them on a home press, then sewed them together. If that doesn't knock your socks off, I don't know what will.

One of the things I love about the book is that it's the product of one person's passions and elbow grease. In a time when most art seems the product of audience screenings, it's refreshing to see someone create something from their own ideas.

Read the comic. Enjoy it. Then get inspired to do something too.

Faulkner and Dick, Gods and Monsters

In an interview with German writer Uwe Anton, Philip K. Dick cited William Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech to describe the purpose of his protagonists, which he described as neither heroes nor anti-heroes. Here is what Faulkner said, "I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail....because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance... [The writer's duty is] to help man endure by reminding him of ... the glory of his past."

And here is what Dick said: "The entire universe and all the parts therein continually malfunction. But the great merit of the human being is that the human being is isomorphic with his malfunctioning universe....And when he recognizes that he is a malfunctioning part in a malfunctioning system instead of succumbing to this realization and just lying down and saying...there's nothing that can be done, [h]e goes on trying.
...And I think that it's certain Faulkner's man will not merely endure, he will prevail. That in the midst of the rubble, there will still be the sound of a man's voice planning, arguing, and proposing solutions. I think Faulkner caught the essence of what is really great about human beings, and so I don't write about heroes. "

I think that they are saying this: there is greater beauty in mankind's strivings for perfection than in the achievement of it.

One of my favorite paintings is a large representation of massive waterfalls. It hangs in a library I frequent and is mediocre at best with its dull colors and dumb cliches, such as the stripe slathered across the abyss, a sulking rainbow. The amateur artist invoked the auteur and failed. He probably knew it was no Rembrandt, seeing it through to the end.

When I see the painting, I see the struggle of man -- the gasps for the divine breath that made Adam animate, and could make us more than mammals. Marked with the scars of that conflict, the work transcends banality and enters the inspired.

In the classic film The Super Mario Bros. Movie, there is this great line. Daisy (a character) says, "It’s beautiful. It’s almost as if he was a monster trying to be a human being..."
The artist, the writer, the creator, is a human being trying to be a god.

Antiques, Nazis, and the Illusion of Reality: Philip K Dick's The Man in the High Castle

This semester at BYU-Idaho has been kind to me. My teachers are awesome. The classes are interesting, and for the first time in my college career (which, admittedly, is not that much) I have had free time to read for myself.

I've been reading voraciously.

In the past three weeks or so I've knoc

ked back six novels, some poetry here and there, and numerous short stories. I love every moment of it.

Next on the reading list is Philip K. Dick's The Man in the High Castle. It's basically about this: America lost WWII. The country is now part of Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan. The back cover describes it as "harrowing" and "breaking the barrier between science fiction and the serious novel of ideas." Sounds good to me. Oh yeah. And it won the Hugo Award for Best Novel.

First off, Philip K. Dick was little crazy, but self-admittedly so. Click here to read a brief

illustrated history of Dick's stranger musings, drawn by the legendary comic artist R. Crumb.

Here is a cool 10 minute BBC documentary on him.

Secondly, the man was absolutely brilliant. Don't let the stigmatic "science fiction" tag fool you. This is serious stuff. In my opinion, the profound is best expressed through the banal. In the words of my brother, "...it's less pretentious and more sincere." I agree.

With 36 novels and 121 short stories (the majority were published in cheap sci-fi mags), Dick was overlooked in his lifetime and wrote in poverty. Like many of the brilliant, his contribution to the arts was only appreciated after his death.

Just check out this fancy The Library of America edition of his works. You only get in that if

you're dead and hot stuff.

A quotable quote regarding the dude:

"[He] has chosen to handle ... material too nutty to accept, too admonitory to forget, too haunting to abandon."

—Washington Post

Hot diggity. Let's get reading. I'll be tracking my progress and questions here.

Happy trails.

Book Report: Flatland

Edwin A. Abbott's Flatland is intriguing, enormously influential, and refreshingly simple. It is also much overlooked.

A person would enjoy this book if they once studied star-slugged skies as youth, or cheered on the Fantastic Four versus Dr. Doom, or -- as the Introduction puts it best -- if you: "...are young at heart and the sense of wonder still stirs within you, [beat] YOU WILL READ WITHOUT PAUSE." [Shouting not in original.] So read it.

It is a still-studied mathematics of the fourth dimension and pre-dated Einstein. It is a satiric comedy, and a religious parable.

It has social themes sharpening Orwell's 1984

It was published in 1884.

Abbott was an English schoolmaster, and basically a regular Dumbledore*. Straight out of Rowling. In Flatland we, as readers, become the Potters and learn from a legend.

Its alarmingly brief -- about 100 pages -- divided into "1. This World" and "2. Other Worlds."

It is the story of a two-dimensional [hence Flatland] square and all the social implications of living in the 2nd dimension. Of course, this social structure collapses upon encountering the 3rd, 4th, 5th, and so on dimensions.

Surprisingly, as I read it, all I can think is how relevant it is in contemporary culture.

Check it out. You will be entertained. And challenged.

PS: There've also been a few attempts at turning it into a film. I was going to embed them, but they look prrretty lame. Check them out on youtube if you're interested.

*just read his wikipedia article.

************* EMERGENCY BROADCAST *****************

BREAKING NEWS
National Free Comic Book Day is tomorrow, May 2nd. That's right, free comic books folks, and they're usually those of the high-quality variety, as they want to get us all hooked. There could be no better day to get into the comic world. Act now at a comic shop near you, found here.

Of the titles offered, the one I'm most interested in picking up is Resurrection #0, a sci-fi venture. I don't know much about the rag, but the publisher, Oni Press, is one I definitely trust.

They are relatively new on the scene (founded in 1997) and cater to the more indie-style market. Their comics are largely creator controlled, and as a result they have attracted a large quantity of good writers who don't want to compromise their highly original creations. You can visit their website here.

We have three click options if you want to learn more about this radtastic event.

1. Click here to read about this event in one of Madison County's fine newspapers.

2. Click here to browse the available titles and get free pdf previews.

3. Or here, for an unbiased history, a la wiki.

Enjoy.

A beginning, ink-stained teeth, and Bendis

An Explanation:

In early years, I devoured books. My father once explained, "He is [beat] an aggressive reader." The family unit entire was, and where other young ones were chastised for watching TV in excess, our little band of progenoids were perhaps the only children punished for reading too much -- "Aaron! Put the book down and clean or I'll rip your eyes out!" were fond memories of mother.

They were days of pleasure reading swamped in Bradbury, Coville, Lovecraft, Scieszka, Sachar, Stine and Vonnegut; the only criterion was captivation by story.

Then began the public educations with literary force-feedings, the ink staining our teeth. After thirteen years of this, it's no wonder that many a person despises reading and shudders at the thought of turning paper-pulp pages. Immersed in the thrilling seriousness of it all, I forgot

why I read in the first place: because it was fun, entertaining, exciting.

Nevertheless, I love books. Even the highbrow. But lowbrow has a place in our lives, an important one. Oddly enough, it keeps our feet on the ground, more than does the verite. We read for pleasure, we escape, we feel good.

So no more shame for the lowbrow, the comics, horror, mystery, crime, fantasy, sci-fi, romance. We need it. Plus, I think it's often more the illuminator of humanity than the laboriously meaningful novels.

This rocket will now be launching with a Mr. Brian Michael Bendis.This bald guy to the right is him.

He is probably the most prolific of contemporary comic books writers, at times penned 3-4 titles at once. And they were dang good.

The best of Bendis and most impressive

are his early works: Goldfish, Jinx, and

Torso.

They abound with an amateur's passion, are funny,

and often poignant. His characters grasp for

humanity in amoral worlds and are forced to

balance survival and conscience on a mortal scale.

Today we will consider Jinx, later Torso.

Jinx is a modern retelling of Serio Leones' The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, but Bendis' crime

novel delves deeper into the nature of greed, desire, and the implications of moral compromise.

Bendis' illustrations are rendered in a noir-ish black and white, and were actually drawn from

photographs of his friends who graciously posed for the project.

My favorite moment of the novel is the

first, a flashback. The protagonist, Jinx, reclines,

in awe of countless bills descending like snow.

One man is dead in the foreground, another is

mortally wounded. Her eyes, however cannot

leave the money. And amid the loss of human life,

all she can say is, "Wow."

This one panel introduces us perfectly to the

struggles that pervade Bendis' early work.

Pick it up of whichever bookselling site you prefer,

or venture into the unknown realms, the local comic

shop, which you can find here.

*a quick rant. I have a disdain for the term "graphic novel". A rose by any name would smell as sweet. It's juvenile to have to

change the name of something before we will regard as worthwhile, yet it seems necessary in a pseudo-P.C. sort of way. But to me they are just "comics", as I have always known them, being just as good.