This series was begun quite a few years ago after I read a note somewhere about how Charles Darwin had raised some 50 plants from the seeds he retrieved from a ball of mud. Each poem is part of this series but each is also meant to stand on its own.

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BASKET, BUTTON, MINSTER

…the three Fuegians traveling on board the Beagle

were the expeditions prize specimens….they had been

collected by Fitzroy…and were in the process of

being shipped back.

— from CHARLES DARWIN by Janet Browne

Fuegia Basket

Imagine regret, a stone face, the pickled

corpse that lies in the hold. Each effect

translated into passage, a profit’s chorus,

the shining eyes of a white man’s faith.

Now I am a sleeve, a shining buckle.

Does my petticoat show? Do I stare

as if my eyes were fixed on a pin? King

William and Queen Adelaide, it is their

plain ring I wear. A modest bonnet

to shield , the chilly hedges

of an English spring. I grow round

on biscuits, stews and the sloth

of a lady waiting. I must move my

bundle or tip the boat. There is really

no home but the body now. Soon

I will be cast off with my things. A crate

flung from a wave, with whatever it is kind ladies

have packed for me so that I will forget

among the teacups, trays and folded pleats

of things, butter-bolts and beaver hats,

who I am.

Jemmy Button

Ripeness prevails. Take this leaf for instance

so green, so green it makes me laugh.

Poor, poor fellow! I say to the gentleman

rocking with the waves, it is a sticky

thicket indeed. Each wave must surely

return from where it came. A shore, perhaps,

some inlet where no devilish rain may spill,

where the trees stand quiet and straight

as a princely guard. I can see my face

in my shoes, the polished cloth

of the sea, a silver spoon deep

in its drawer. Do not step on them

little, little boy. You who are too much

a skylark. I will tonight unfold

my things, my hat, my gloves, the deep,

deep pockets where hands are kept.

Is it not cool this evening? Each climate

and color has its place. I make no

distinction or care. I am here to only

take what is given. Do not trouble

a bird’s spirit by shooting it in the sky.

Where I come from there are plenty of trees.

Wait.

York Minster

Why bother with an explanation? Every corner

will cease to be, erased, its details

will not hold a crease or seam.

I will not bend in the garden but leave

the rake standing, a stick in the English

mud. My fingers will not touch

a root’s claw nor plant a seed.

Your dream is not whole, no current

will carry it, no cry disturb it. You are

too hairy. I cannot see your face.

There is a shadow grown about

your lips. I move along careless,

opening every gate, winter climbs

the hillsides, rain excites the leaves. A clock

is filled with moments. Mirrors live

among the rocks. There are fires burning

where I should be.

DARWIN’S AMANUENSIS

The copying was done by Mr. E. Norman, who began this

work many years ago when village schoolmaster at Down.

— from THE LIFE OF CHARLES DARWIN by Francis Darwin

 

….(or some amanuensis) will aid in deciphering any of the scraps

which the Editor may think possibly of use.

— Charles Darwin in a letter to his wife Emma, July 5, 1844

Commas scatter like small birds twittering

in the undergrowth of pages. Mr. Norman

sat beneath the world’s shadows, its flights

of stairs descending to gray cellar floors,

oaks stirring in the moonlight as threads

of another cold December snapped

through the floorboards of his cottage.

And then months later the garden a haze

of color, the fly-wheel rattling in the well,

sparrows skimming the open fields

their shrill little cries barely noticed as Mr. Darwin’s

carriage came and left these variations

on cauliflowers, fertilized ova or scribbles

of something of Chapter VI — The Cause of Tears.

Nothing to swallow or disapprove of, schoolboys

to reprimand or hands grappling for heaven

or rent, but simply the point of it — a mirror

of efficiency — these clear-eyed sonnets

of mimicry — every phloxe, beak and period

of the maestro’s notes sung double-spaced

now and ready for correction.

My Poems come in sets and the sets come from questions. Whole Milk wanted to know what poetry was w/o its most obvious tool, the line break. Whole Milk also contained everything I knew. That book dried me out. After Meng Chiao came about two years later. It wanted to explore what line breaks could do that punctuation could not. Both of these books could have been written anywhere. The location was in my head. Boulder, Brevard, Bangkok and Seoul played little part. In 33 Times Before Sunrise, I wanted to change that. I wanted location to be key. I also wanted to see why words with a left margin and uniform spacing would not work as a poem, but those same words, when spread over the page, worked well. I used old tools and new tools to write 33 Times. It dealt with space and the ground under my ass. It ended when I left Seoul.

After spending the summer in the States I am back in Seoul. I wonder if 33 Times is picking back up in this series, or if this series is something different. These poems seem to be dealing with the same formal questions, but the location of the writing and the circumstances surrounding the writing have changed. I no longer write on a computer or at a Buddhist monastery. Now I write on a bus or outside Sang-yeon’s office or on my bed. The only thing consistent with this set is the notebook.

North Korea conducted a nuclear test just before I returned to Seoul. The thought that a missile could be in the air right now, though irrational, is present. The Bomb is never far away from these poems.

Oct 27th

6:03p

Sean building

Seoul

*

Neighbor

A yellow coat

                     a keyhole

  & I can leave                       Sunday morning

         jellyroll               let me

    a green light walk

silently     next door

Above the March

coat her belly

     rainy day

     taxi

and parents alike

danced    and did not

sing to keep dry

High Noon

(oct 23^rd)

Here we have

   the world

                                          on ice

                                            my darling

                   aghast without

                   gas are you

where letter blocks don’t

          tell me

  sew buttons around

                     yr door no more

When I stop drinking

(oct 24^th)

Angel pants the ether

no stop light     be drunk

supine moon double shot

the sun into its grave

No laughing matter

(Seoul. October 25, 2006)

Room

        and hair

                turn

                                                            miles away

                from the                     bomb

debt in                debt out

       sky                  night sky

                    my lung

            bruised and mosquito bite

                                                                            I am

                              in love

                                        I hope

I do not

        die

        here

about “Zone”

This sonnet sequence was written during a bus trip that began in Greenfield, MA and ended — approximately three and a half to four hours later — in Albany, NY. The text is composed exclusively of language observed during the trip, e.g., billboard taglines, road signs, bumper stickers, etc.

The process of writing “Zone” was an experiment in observed abstraction, or “abstracting from life,” akin to de Kooning’s compositional process, with the obvious exception that both the observed (language in the form of type) and the observer (author) were often moving at variable, yet high rates of speed.

The title is taken from a Guston painting, an image of which was conjured and kept in mind by my observation of the word “zone,” more than once, while on the road. I owe a debt to Kerouac for the dash-method punctuation, as well as to the corresponding dashes of lane dividers painted on the road itself. You might say that both the loose sonnet structure and the sequence’s epigraph were matters of meaningful coincidence, as I’d been reading Berrigan and Stein before boarding the bus to cut across the Northeastern American landscape, a landscape relentlessly signed by a textually oriented culture.

Zone

for Jess, Sarah, Langston and Archie

“If it seems I have little to do but move ideas: / a problematic of being there.”

—Chuck Stein, “The Cumulus”

Come — listen together — on the go to corner

clearance — energy valley only — textile

hour slow — hidden glass — junk

falls west to North Adams — sale lane real

estate — Mohawk island — here

Miner St. — rotary lounge — info ahead

closed — doubled weigh

1 mile — phoenix south wisdom entering

call box call box call river —

weigh next right limit — it’s true —

area services — sanitary buckle up —

stop chemical freestyle — Mill River open

Whately — use attractions — it’s ok

to curse at heavy information —

Apportioned diamond — proud to be an American —

Motors project — mile police — only you know

long view pioneer — south speed music

wanted and available — wines and lodging — tiger

next press show turns — Tom Western —

open shell — attractions one way north —

maintenance designs — home office

exit — charburger yes we’re open liquors —

office dialysis — WWII banquet — Angelo’s

Old South Street lot — long term other —

stop stop in — pan staff — hours wanted the people —

sub pots — anytime SooRa — Lucky Nails —

market limit — parking for gas — center time deliveries—

laser grandstands entering and left —

Wrong emerging speed — south Oxbow — entering

max gross — Brooklyn sterling when gov’t lies —

war is not a scenic project clean —

class of 1964 — south options access —

Ingleside — Wyckoff — lift this no welcome

salida de velocity — Uno 65 —

iron suites — exposition it’s the law —

bridge detour vision — custom country —

Chicopee digital access depot —

civic center mercy on route to exit —

yield time bronze closeouts

and recycle — hemp let it grow —

universal light support opens their hearts

for your mobile balance —

Hourly Springfield — green line people —

memories people — think of it as one

zone — start talking before cold is the new hot —

five star ride — get connected —

hopelessly about change — art lab lines —

independence — gather a group and get northeast —

entrance the gas — home of some new bus —

your public only — welcome going —

I can’t see you — main tone hour — where the news

hits home system — Agawam —

coffee break north — and begin: Yankee

river border — callbox NY — left accepted

official swift — no turns available —

communications speed —

Ramp up — permanent logistics disabled and yield —

Je me souviens — 911—

low flying planes next state police — discharging

fast — Maplewood Ice pike — Albany 73 —

click it or security — 14’-2”—

breakdown town keep courteous — stay only stopping —

Wal-Mart manic plaza — dew to protect

and feel good about must — reduced

salt merge entering buff — US Mail —

road work keep slow in 1936 —

Tonawana — transport express sport —

rock gone Berkshires — picking up

9 miles ahead — pay wide official —

The Clark has right of way —

Quality fuels modular traffic — Happy 50^th Leanne —

play ground — drop-box west — High St. —

clover October heart xing —

one way speed hotel — Lucky Nails —

java moving — Cracker Jack chez nous —

electrical labs — hats & jewels — 4 HR art studio —

Housatonic dead end — jacuzzi century —

Bombay laurel children — acres edge

Shakespeare & Co. use extreme caution —

Police officer ahead — vacancy west —

bump — the summer marker — limit only

living commercial — horses prohibited —

Taconic Ave. — Morse 45 — moss code gables —

be a litter lugger — fresh eggs—

Here to corner sunset use turn signals — Tanglewood —

15 minute parking worldwide — the hand

of man a table gallery — Lenox cellar — owner church —

1767 — junction color sanctuary — eyebrow

parlor days — fine Italian water resource —

motorcar curves — internet breakfast — special rates —

open sun — rise amazing affordable asters —

south mountain 1897 — designers

posted Zion — Shaker Hill — any time heavy —

South St. north — cross walk creative plan —

colt place apple tree crowne — Melville’s arrowhead —

Park square — class market — drive-thru wealth

management — center community command —

independent living — juvenile court —

Space available — on a roll networks — we deliver for you

speedy world — 1 hour spirits — variety —

temporary oasis and Park Place custom —

you are here — preventative maintenance

and clean machines — try to breakdown concrete —

heart motel — Grape St. — the friendly winds —

surveying — gaming — donate life —

shaker exotic — no no through traffic —

wild spirit liberty machine shop —

Francis Ave. — drop ahead — pass not do — 5% grade —

impeach the chimp — I am pagan

and I vote — why don’t more people wear capes?

Grove rock falling — welcome

to the Empire State — handheld brickyard —

Drive Johnson — convenience official since 1925 —

antique spirits — high visibility —

liberty perfection gifts with care — honk if you’re impatient —

Is it 2008 yet? Bishops appeal thank you —

Columbia County — Budweiser sale the pillars —

Ezra gates — Howe caverns — installation

protective on 20 — speed zone —

mobile creeks — available in energy valley lots —

race fans — any information owner —

money tractor — Brainard — west south north —

driveways Keatsing — schoolhouse bliss —

foundation modular century ahead —

yes we’re open impact — saved by the blood of Ace —

use low gear — I’ll just quit breathing —

Patchwork — share the low on faith — supreme $3.19 —

mulch — topsoil — seven oaks Shodack — blackberry action —

leadership for sale — food shack style —

Beaver Rd. — cedar hacker’s Albany 8 —

woolens — tartans — piping supplies made easy —

guaranteed lowest systems — baby goats —

music in the park — Dear Edwina

hazard electrocution — EZ on / EZ off — health —

free 6 miles urgent message express —

Hudson Valley atlas — mile 73 — the power

of being there — time to evolve alive — you never know —

progressive foi grois — attractions — exit — Empire —

Dutch apple weed and seed community —

Green St. — Liberty St. — this is my cart.

6.27.06 / Happy Birthday to Frank O’Hara

Preface:

In an attempt to exercise my craft, I have been writing daily. I have further challenged myself to sharpen my discipline by writing a single poem each day. The outcome of this exercise is the following poems. These poems are held by common themes – a sense of caution and lessons detailing our daily lives. These poems also share the connections between individuals and quotidian objects. They reveal the struggle in defining things and the difficulty in finding language to explain. This project has evolved into a series of many poems reflecting my interactions with the world and how they shape my relationship to them – whether they are inanimate objects or other people. Furthermore, these relationships have shaped my language and view of the world. While cautious in tone, these poems were borne out of a need to write without fear. These poems express in words, what is sometimes abstract, intangible, and, in some instances, unspeakable. Enjoy!

*

conversation between air and pedal

You force the air in and the door is free standing. You say come one and all. These days nothing has a smell only the blank look and the eyes in fury. I come after names and each foot becomes increased backwards as you and I are doing this talking. Free standing and farther and farther is where we are headed. You are the black and white photo that each of us hides in. You are amongst the empty cans: the bedrooms in this house, the space without the room, the hour on the hand. I come after names and each one name follows another. You are the back pedal and the bead. I come after each name, and each one is like the whole or the grain in a cup. You are the red in the painting, crimson like the flag of China. You are cherries on cement. You are seeds eaten by birds. Each one is being brought back to weeds and worms. I come after names and each one is mistaken for the weeds and the weeks in the months ahead. You force it all in and you say that soon the ones in gray will be calling. You force the air in and the pedals are running back. O, I wish it would all run back.

*

conversation with cement and glass

You are the process space takes. You are blue ink and table. You are everything made of cement, steel, and glass. You are the broken and out of the broken come you, come frame, come the brand new. You are a building of every room. You are every window has a view of cityscape and river. Today this river seems so new to me. You are everything new to me. You are the stone masonry and everything that we are gathering. You write the light and become fascinated by what is natural and sunlight. You are unlike oatmeal in the morning. You are bright walls. You grow your own vegetables and share them with others. You recommend concrete and brick and natural glass. You are glass. In this city, you welcome objects of light and you know that the earth is worth it. You begin and you find the salt and the wood. You are not about memory but you proclaim that the wood is pure. You recommend all things with light and smoke. I will bring the inch of fire and afterwards you can bring the inch of olive oil and season. You are steel and everything efficient. I am walking to you. I am toasting you.

*

conversation with the boulevard

You are what we are gathering. You avoid the poison ivy and you welcome in the wild. You welcome the mushrooms and the writhing worms. You are unlike the dead earth. You grow fingers and point to us. You always say, come close. Tomorrow, you may welcome the salt and the wood. But today, you bring up all the empty contracts and you place our name on the line. The warm earth is you and you are in many ways the primary, the flavors, the rendition. It is not the light or the steaming white rice in a bowl on the table that brings the multitudes together. Not today. Instead the advisors introduce the distance and they bring in the poplars and their magic. I have walked around you in every occasion. I have brought people to your destination because you are in many ways the source. We want this to be the bringing forth of voice and the meeting point. We want this place to flourish and grow. Will you feed us?

*

conversation with the deep-sea diver

Each one thing is against me today. The mirror is against the surface and the light is against the aluminum sheet randomly sitting in the garage. Today your heart is heavy. Too much coffee in the brain and everything between these ten days pass eventually like an individual decade. It seems that the dark and the waves crashing beneath deep-sea discoveries become like wanderings against the shore. All around the edges become like underwater salted sounds made up of muscles and barren seabeds, barren and everything else becomes the source. Each one thing is against the paper today and even the water becomes blurred, becomes blurred clouds, like steam rising above something else. Breathe this oxygen. Breathe these two hundred years. Breathe in a minute and then breathe in three hundred through each lung. Breathe the source. Breath all the exploitation of all that is and everything that is becoming years and sounds. Deep in the ocean floor is a fish. Deep in the ocean is something crawling and then something becoming something else.

*

conversation with this hidden crevice

You are a hidden crevice, hidden like a slant of light. You are funny without any meaning and without latitude. You remain and glare at the light. Your picture is without frame. You are a music note in pause. What should we get for her? The leaves outside are like a wave. In the distance a cat is tearing apart a dead alley mouse. Blue in the background almost calms the steam. Give her wine or perhaps an empty tin or a copper key. You are the line under the frame. You are the tongue in between an opening. You are closing in and perhaps it is a way to keep the flowers from laughing. You are a hidden crevice. You are a house filled with the scent of homemade meals and a pocket full of dust. You are a list of vegetables. I keep reading you and I keep hoping that the safety pins will turn around and recite names of absence, names of light. You are a hidden crevice and empty white light.

*

conversation between the two rooms

You are the soft sound between two rooms. Something is floating near the windows. You are everything in writing. You are the tree and the broken glass at night. I hear rumbling in the basement while clothes turn in a dryer. You are the things in between this marriage: the old nightstand and a letter buried in a bag. Somewhere someday the dirt will have order and the noises in the landscape will no longer call to me. You said that the bottles steer you in every direction but you also mentioned that what is behind the explanation has everything to do with recognition and the running dial. You mentioned the ceilings and their length. And these days you and I only think of duck duck duck. You are the second night. You are somewhere between dividing two mountains. You say the world runs and everywhere the tables turn.