Gianni Simone’s new Kairen, issues 10 and 11 are out. Highlights are Bernd Reichert, Theo Breuer, Guido Vermeulen and Carla Bertola’s mail art ABC’s on visual and text poetries, Michael Basinski, Geoffrey Huth, Keiichi Nakamura, Pete Spence. I don’t think David Baptist Chirot’s rubbing piece turned out well in this xerox format–though of course his work is always of interest as are his prose-poems on the act of creating his art. Oh yes, and Reed Altemus’ vispo tree in a high wind provides an interesting combination of sentimentality and collage. Misato Yarita’s essay “On Concrete and Visual Poetry” trans. by Kyoko Kanda is a good introduction to Japanese vispo. Laura Ryder’s poems include some great nude pix that serve as a good introduction to her anatomy.
My opinion about most of the usual suspects of American vispo is that they are, on the whole, woefully underinformed (read American-centric) concerning the richness of vispo in Europe, Asia and other countries. I believe that this problem has something to do with the American weather map that one sees on the evening news–nothing but the USA floating in the middle of the void. Hopefully Gianni’s effort will help remedy that situation.
Kairan
Gianni Simone
3-3-23 Nagatsuta, Midori-ku, Yokohama-shi
226-0027 Kanagawa-ken, Japan
Looking for submissions. Also, please make sure you contribute something to cover postage.
Gianni also produces an interesting zine about foreigners living in Japan.
I rose at the dead of night,
And went to the lattice alone
To look for my mother’s ghost
Where the ghostly moonlight shone.
My friends had failed one by one,
Middle-aged, young, and old,
Till the ghosts were warmer to me
Than my friends that had grown cold.
I looked and I saw the ghosts
Dotting plain and mound:
They stood in the blank moonlight,
But no shadow lay on the ground:
They spoke without a voice
And they leaped without a sound.
I called: ‘O my Mother dear,’–
I sobbed: ‘O my Mother kind,
Make a lonely bed for me
And shelter it from the wind.
‘Tell the others not to come
To see me night or day:
But I need not tell my friends
To be sure to keep away.’
My Mother raised her eyes,
They were blank and could not see:
Yet they held me with their stare
While they seemed to look at me.
She opened her mouth and spoke;
I could not hear a word,
While my flesh crept on my bones
And every hair was stirred.
She knew that I could not hear
The message that she told
Whether I had long to wait
Or soon should sleep in the mould.
I saw her toss her shadowless hair
And wring her hands in the cold.
I strained to catch her words,
And she strained to make me hear;
But never a sound of words
Fell on my straining ear.
From midnight to the cockcrow
I kept my watch in pain
While the subtle ghosts grew subtler
In the sad night on the wane
From midnight to the cockcrow
I watched till all were gone,
Some to sleep in the shifting sea
And some under turf and stone:
Living had failed and dead had failed,
And I was indeed alone.
A virtuous man, travelling with his wife and family, stopped at an inn a large section of which was locked up and disused because it was haunted by a Yao Kuei. The traveller offered to stay up all night and destroy the ghost, and sitting fearlessly, sword in hand, at about midnight, was confronted by a venerable old gentleman with a long white beard. The armed man rose to his feet, accused the newcomer of being an evil demon and made ready to slay him. The old man smiled and explained that he was not not a Kuei, but the guardian spirit of the district, and had called in person to thank the traveller for his kindness–’Your arrival has disposed of the Yao Kuei…but should they return before morning, have at them with your sword!’ The old gentleman departed and the traveller remained on guard. Soon, a strange black-faced creature entered the room–he struck off its head. Later he had the same experience with a white-faced creature; and so it continued at intervals till cock-crow, when he called the people of the inn to witness his victory. Each brought a lantern and the haunted room was soon filled with light. The walls were splashed and the floor streaming with blood, and there in a heap lay the decapitated corpses of the traveller’s wife, children, and servants. ‘The Yao Kuei has tricked me!’ he cried, and fell dead.
Chinese folk tale, in A Survey of the Occult by John Franklyn, 1935.
Methought I saw my late espoused Saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Jove’s great Son to her glad Husband gave,
Rescu’d from death by force though pale and faint.
Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,
Purification in the old Law did save,
And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was vail’d, yet to my fancied sight,
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’d
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But O as to embrace me she enclin’d
I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my sight.
–John Milton. c. 1658.
For/ From Lew
Lew Welch just turned up one day,
live as you and me. “Damn, Lew” I said,
“you didn’t shoot yourself after all.”
“Yes I did” he said,
and even then I felt the tingling down my back.
“Yes you did, too” I said–”I can feel it now.”
“Yeah” he said,
“There’s a basic fear between your world and
mine. I don’t know why.
What I came to say was,
teach the children about the cycles.
The life cycles. All other cycles.
That’s what it’s all about, and it’s all forgot.”
About the time that Shakespeare was finding himself as a playwright and poet, the Elizabethan magus, polymath and spy John Dee was involved in a series of scrying sessions with his unsavory side-kick Edward Kelly. During the sessions, Kelly would peer into a crystal or a “shew-stone”–a polished piece of obsidian fitted into a frame–and report back to Dee on what he saw and heard. In this author’s humble opinion, the following is one of the most interesting–and profound–texts that a ghost ever had a hand in. It was allegedly uttered by a slatternly looking spirit immediately after the infamous wife-swapping incident, in which–due to the suggestion of the angels (according to Kelly)–Dee and Kelly swapped wives for an evening, much to the aversion of Jane Dee. The arresting thing about this poem is its resemblance to the “Thunder, The Perfect Mind” text found in the Nag Hammadi Library of about 1000 years earlier.
Transcribed from Cotton Appendix XLVI, Division XII, ?Actio Tertio Trebonae Generalis?, ff.
218-220.
I am the dowghter of fortitude, & ravyshed every howr, from
my youth, for behold, I am understanding, &
science dwelleth in me: & the hevens oppress me,
They covet and desyre me with infinite appetite
few or none that are erthy have embraced me
for I am shadowed with the circle of the sonne: and covered with
the morning clouds: my feet are swifter than the wynds,
& my hands are sweter than the morning dew. My garments
are from the beginning: & my dweling place is in my
self. The lyon knoweth not where I walk: neyther
do the bestes of the field understand me. I am deflowered & am
yet a virgin. I sanctifie & am not sanctified
happy is he that embraceth me. for in the night season
I am sweete, in the day full of pleasure
my company is a harmony of many Cymballs
And my lips sweeter than helth it self. I am a harlot
for such as ravish me: and a virgin with such as know
me not: for lo I am loved of many: & I am a
lover to many: and as many as come unto me as they should
do, have their enterteynment. Purge your streets o
you sons of men, & wash your howses clean
Make your selves holy, & put on righteousness
Cast out your old strumpets, & burn their cloathes
Absteyn from the company of other women that are
defyled, that are sluttish, & not so handsome, &
bewtiful as I. And then will I come & dwell
amongst you. And behold I will bring furth
Children unto you: & they shall be the sons of comfort
I will open my garments, & stand naked before you
that your love may be more enflamed toward me.
As yet, I walk in the clowds, As yet, I am carryed with
the wyndes: And can not descend unto you for the multitude
of your abominations, & the filthy lothesomnes of your dwelling
places.
***
Now therfor, let the erth give furth her fruits unto
you: And let the mowntayns forsake theyre barrenness
wher your fotesteps shall remayne. happy is he that
slauteth you: & cursed is he that holdeth up his
hands against you. & power shall be given unto
you from hence furth to resyst your enemies: & the
lord shall always here you in the types of your
trubbles, And I am sent unto you to play
the harlot with you: And am to enrich you with the
spoyles of other men: prepare for me, for I come
shortly. Provyde your Chambers for me that they
may be swete & clenly: for I will make a
dwelling place amongst you: and I will be
common with the father & the sonne, yea and with
all them that truly favoreth you
for my youth, is in her flowre and my strength is not
to be extinguished with man. Strong am I above &
below. Therefor, provyde for me. for behold I now
salute you. And let peace be amongst you: for I
am the Dawghter of Cumfort. Disclose not
my secrets unto women: nether let them understand
how swete I am. for all things belongeth not unto
every one
I come unto you again.
June, 1587.
You can read more of Dee and Kelly’s texts in Meric Casaubon’s A True & Faithful Relation of What paffed for many Yeers Between Dr. John Dee and Some Spirits. (London: 1659)
It gives us great pleasure to that Paolo Javier’s the time at the end of this writing was honoured by Small Press Traffic as one of five outstanding books of poetry to represent SPT’s choice for ‘Books of the Year 2004′. Other poets honoured alongside Paolo were Jeanne Heuving, Christine Hume, Kaia Sand, and Ron Silliman. Read a PDF of the press release by clicking here.
If you’re in the States, best bet is to grab Paolo’s book from Paolo’s page at Small Press Distribution. We’re getting close to the end of our print run, and this announcement will probably see us sell out of this fine book?so grab ‘em while ya can!
If you’re in Canada or on the other side of the pond(s), best to drop us a line, or browse through our store.
On a personal note, I’d just like to say that Paolo’s book was a daring first book, the time at the end of this writing It was presented to us a few years ago, when a newly reinvigorated Ahadada was looking for something that encapsulated our aesthetic. So kudos to Paolo for having the courage to take risks in his first book. It paid off not only with great honor for the Press, but ensured that we will continue to present young, important voices.
Writes Rodrigo Toscano: “Paolo Javier’s 60 lv bo(e)mbs is one of the most radically detourned poetics that I’ve encountered in a long time. Rocking hard the perimeter of a national American literary metabolic center, Javier deftly develops what critical theorists have only been able to talk about: the birth of a non-idealist anticipatory-resilient para-national subject. His poetry engenders a polysemic motility that gives inner-life to this new state of independence. What does that mean? It means your kolonial momma’s got your poppa’s digits ? by the products.
Elizabeth Smither, the very fine New Zealand poet, has sent us work for a future Ahadada project. Thanks and welcome!
I’m also pleased to say that I’ve made contact with the legendary translator Burton Watson–it seems he’s almost a neighhbor of mine!–and will meet him in the near future for lunch.
The latest issue of Philip Rowland’s Noon arrived in my box several days ago. I was happy to see that the same beautiful format as the first volume has been followed: a hand-bound, Japanese style washi book of 71 pages in a plastic slip-case. Noon is just the right size to take with you wherever you go–great to dip into at your leisure. Indeed, the short poem asks for close and repeated reading just as the physical corpus of Noon invites repeated handling, so both content and vehicle make a grand combination. This issue does not let us down. There are fine poems from Alan Halsey, David Jaffin, and Rosmarie Waldrop. Alastair Noon’s “Reading Kafka” infuses concrete poetry with new life, and is worthy of the anthologies if there is ever a revival of this form.
Noon is an impressive journal worthy of your support.
Noon appears twice a year, in March and September.
Submissions and subscriptions to: Philip Rowland,
Sijo 8-23-21-510,
Setagaya-ku, Tokyo 157-0066,
Japan.
Email: noonpress at mac.com
Please check editorial address in advance of sending.
Potential subscribers, purchasers, please e-mail Mr. Rowland for prices.
The emperor of the Southern Sea was Lickety, the emperor of the Northern Sea was Split, and the emperor of the Center was Wonton. Lickety and Split often met each other in the land of Wonton, and Wonton treated them very well. Wanting to repay Wonton’s kindness, Lickety and Split said, “All people have seven holes for seeing, hearing, and breathing. Wonton alone lacks them. Let’s try boring some holes for him.” So every day they bored one hole, and on the seventh day Wonton died.
–Chunag Tzu
From Victor Mair’s great translation Wandering On The Way. See our review elsewhere on this site.
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