varia

Pictured above, Robert Duncan (born 7 January 1919; died 3 February 1988), in a 1985 photograph by John Tranter

The Temple of the Animals The temple of the animals has fallen into disrepair. The pad of feet has faded. The panthers flee the shadows of the day. The smell of musk has faded but lingers there… lingers, lingers. Ah, bitterly in my room. Tired, I recall the animals of last year: the altars of the bear, tribunals of the ape, solitudes of elephantine gloom, rare zebra-striped retreats, prophecies of dog, sanctuaries of the pygmy deer. Were there rituals I had forgotten? animal calls to which those animal voices replied, calld and calld until that jungle stirrd. Were there voices that I heard? Love was the very animal made his lair, slept out his winter in my heart. Did he seek my heart or ever sleep there? I have seen the animals depart, forgotten their voices, or barely remembered — like the last speech when the company goes or the beloved face that the heart knows, forgets and knows — I have heard the dying footsteps fall. The sound has faded, but lingers here. Ah, bitterly I recall the animals of last year. (first published in Poetry, 1957)

Pictured above, Robert Duncan (born 7 January 1919; died 3 February 1988), in a 1985 photograph by John Tranter


The Temple of the Animals

The temple of the animals has fallen into disrepair.
The pad of feet has faded.
The panthers flee the shadows of the day.
The smell of musk has faded but lingers there…
lingers, lingers. Ah, bitterly in my room.
Tired, I recall the animals of last year:
the altars of the bear, tribunals of the ape,
solitudes of elephantine gloom, rare
zebra-striped retreats, prophecies of dog,
sanctuaries of the pygmy deer.

Were there rituals I had forgotten? animal calls
to which those animal voices replied,
calld and calld until that jungle stirrd.
Were there voices that I heard?
Love was the very animal made his lair,
slept out his winter in my heart.
Did he seek my heart or ever
sleep there?

I have seen the animals depart,
forgotten their voices, or barely remembered
— like the last speech when the company goes
or the beloved face that the heart knows,
forgets and knows —
I have heard the dying footsteps fall.
The sound has faded, but lingers here.
Ah, bitterly I recall
the animals of last year.



(first published in Poetry, 1957)

Pictured above, Jan. 4, 1966, a painting by On Kawara (born 2 January 1933), from his Today series

Pictured above, Jan. 4, 1966, a painting by On Kawara (born 2 January 1933), from his Today series

Pictured above, a plate from Coloured Figures from English Fungi, published 1789-1791, with illustrations by James Sowerby

A poem by Emily Dickinson (born 10 December 1830; died 15 May 1886):
The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants - At Evening, it is not At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop opon a Spot As if it tarried always And yet it’s whole Career Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay - And fleeter than a Tare - ’Tis Vegetation’s Juggler - The Germ of Alibi - Doth like a Bubble antedate And like a Bubble, hie - I feel as if the Grass was pleased To have it intermit - This surreptitious Scion Of Summer’s circumspect. Had Nature any supple Face Or could she one contemn - Had Nature an Apostate - That Mushroom - it is Him!More Dickinson posts:
Winter is good
Emily Dickinson and Roni Horn
She faces front, unafraid, her eyes wide and clear

Pictured above, a plate from Coloured Figures from English Fungi, published 1789-1791, with illustrations by James Sowerby

A poem by Emily Dickinson (born 10 December 1830; died 15 May 1886):

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants -
At Evening, it is not
At Morning, in a Truffled Hut
It stop opon a Spot

As if it tarried always
And yet it’s whole Career
Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay -
And fleeter than a Tare -

’Tis Vegetation’s Juggler -
The Germ of Alibi -
Doth like a Bubble antedate
And like a Bubble, hie -

I feel as if the Grass was pleased
To have it intermit -
This surreptitious Scion
Of Summer’s circumspect.

Had Nature any supple Face
Or could she one contemn -
Had Nature an Apostate -
That Mushroom - it is Him!



More Dickinson posts:

Winter is good

Emily Dickinson and Roni Horn

She faces front, unafraid, her eyes wide and clear

The 3rd movement of Let me sing into your ear, composed in 2010 by Marco Stroppa (born 8 December 1959) for amplified basset horn and chamber orchestra, performed by Michele Marelli, for whom the work was written and to whom it is dedicated, in a live performance at Donaueschinger Musiktage 2010, under the baton of Peter Eötvös.

An excerpt from Aria, composed in 1999 by Beat Furrer (born 6 December 1954), performed here by the ensemble Wet Ink at Roulette in New York, 2009

Wet Ink:

Kate Soper (voice), Meighan Stoops (clarinet), Ian Antonio (percussion), Eric Wubbels (piano), Joshua Modney (violin), Miranda Sielaff (viola), Isabel Castellvi (cello), Carl Bettendorf (conductor)

Pictured above, a diagram that was created to accompany an 1802 lecture given before the Royal Society by Thomas Young (1773-1829), illustrating Young’s wave theory of light

Here is a poem by Anne Tardos (born 1 December 1943):



Nine, 40

Take a good look, she says about her inventory.
Palatially housed, her inflammatory and multifaceted
                set of selves.
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
The exact velocity of quantum particles cannot be known.
Like wave equations in the space of certain dimensions.
I never thought that things would go this far.
Angular momentum of closely-knit and sexually
                 adventurous people.
Any piece of matter, when heated, starts to glow.
It’s that kind of relationship that’s built on friction. 

Pictured above, a diagram that was created to accompany an 1802 lecture given before the Royal Society by Thomas Young (1773-1829), illustrating Young’s wave theory of light

Here is a poem by Anne Tardos (born 1 December 1943):

Nine, 40

Take a good look, she says about her inventory.

Palatially housed, her inflammatory and multifaceted

                set of selves.

Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.

The exact velocity of quantum particles cannot be known.

Like wave equations in the space of certain dimensions.

I never thought that things would go this far.

Angular momentum of closely-knit and sexually

                 adventurous people.

Any piece of matter, when heated, starts to glow.

It’s that kind of relationship that’s built on friction. 

Veronica Forrest-Thomson (born 28 November 1947; died 26 April 1975), pictured above in a 1972 photograph by Jonathan Culler Pastoral
They are our creatures, clover, and they love us Through the long summer meadows’ diesel fumes. Smooth as their scent and contours clear however Less than enough to compensate for names.
Jagged are names and not our creatures Either in kind or movement like the flowers. Raised voices in a car or by a river Remind us of the world that is not ours.
Silence in grass and solace in blank verdure Summon the frightful glare of nouns and nerves. The gentle foal linguistically wounded Squeals like a car’s brakes Like our twisted words.

Veronica Forrest-Thomson (born 28 November 1947; died 26 April 1975), pictured above in a 1972 photograph by Jonathan Culler 



Pastoral

They are our creatures, clover, and they love us
Through the long summer meadows’ diesel fumes.
Smooth as their scent and contours clear however
Less than enough to compensate for names.

Jagged are names and not our creatures
Either in kind or movement like the flowers.
Raised voices in a car or by a river
Remind us of the world that is not ours.

Silence in grass and solace in blank verdure
Summon the frightful glare of nouns and nerves.
The gentle foal linguistically wounded
Squeals like a car’s brakes
Like our twisted words.

Above, a recent photograph from Appalachian West Virginia.

An excerpt from The Self in a Consumer Society, by Zygmunt Bauman (born 19 November 1925)

'But you can tell one kind of society from another by the dimensions along which it stratifies its members, and, like all other societies, the postmodern, consumer society is a stratified one. Those “high up” and “low down” are plotted in a society of consumers along the lines of mobility—the freedom to choose where to be. Those “high up” travel through life to their hearts’ desire and pick and choose their destinations by the joys they offer. Those “low down” are thrown out from the site they would rather stay in, and if they do not move, it is the site that is pulled from under their feet. When they travel, their destination, more often than not, is of somebody else’s choosing and seldom enjoyable; and when they arrive, they occupy a highly unprepossessing site that they would gladly leave behind if they had anywhere else to go. But they don’t. They have nowhere else to go; there is nowhere else where they are likely to be welcomed.'


More Zygmunt Bauman here

Above, a recent photograph from Appalachian West Virginia.

An excerpt from The Self in a Consumer Society, by Zygmunt Bauman (born 19 November 1925)

'But you can tell one kind of society from another by the dimensions along which it stratifies its members, and, like all other societies, the postmodern, consumer society is a stratified one. Those “high up” and “low down” are plotted in a society of consumers along the lines of mobility—the freedom to choose where to be. Those “high up” travel through life to their hearts’ desire and pick and choose their destinations by the joys they offer. Those “low down” are thrown out from the site they would rather stay in, and if they do not move, it is the site that is pulled from under their feet. When they travel, their destination, more often than not, is of somebody else’s choosing and seldom enjoyable; and when they arrive, they occupy a highly unprepossessing site that they would gladly leave behind if they had anywhere else to go. But they don’t. They have nowhere else to go; there is nowhere else where they are likely to be welcomed.'

More Zygmunt Bauman here

Pictured above, Joanne Kyger (born 19 November1934), in India, in a 1962 photograph by her friend Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)

Sunday in the Storm Era, written in December 2001 by Kyger:

 ”these are extraordinary times”          so we can do whatever we want ha ha
          the sky darkens                stitching the white pillow cover
                If I had my way I’d sit and watch          the grey and poundy waves all day …
             The candle lights for Cypress          must be down at the channel now      where the tide rushes out   from the lagoon and keeps on going out
way out … remember?

                                                 now the evening sky                                  looks pretty clear                                                                         that                               was a history                            just happened

Pictured above, Joanne Kyger (born 19 November1934), in India, in a 1962 photograph by her friend Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)

Sunday in the Storm Era, written in December 2001 by Kyger:

 ”these are extraordinary times”
         so we can do whatever we want ha ha


         the sky darkens
               stitching the white pillow cover


               If I had my way I’d sit and watch
         the grey and poundy waves all day …

             The candle lights for Cypress 
        must be down at the channel now 
    where the tide rushes out
  from the lagoon and keeps on going out

way out … remember?

                                                 now the evening sky 
                                looks pretty clear
                                                                        that
                              was a history 
                          just happened

A Bunch O Blues, composed by W. C. Handy (born 16 November 1873; died 28 March 1958); performed here in an archival recording of Handy’s Orchestra of Memphis, recorded in New York City, September, 1917.  (Full discography and list of band members here)