above and below.
a mosh pit in brooklyn, a poetry reading in the lower east side.
“Just imagine looking out your
window directly on the East River with nothing intervening between your view of
the Statue of Liberty, way down the harbour, and the marvelous beauty of
Brooklyn Bridge close above you on your right! All of the great new skyscrapers
of lower Manhattan are marshaled directly across from you, and there is a
constant stream of tugs, liners, sail boats, etc in procession before you on
the river! It’s really a magnificent place to live. This section of Brooklyn is
very old, but all the houses are in splendid condition ....”
-
Hart
Crane to his mother and grandmother in the spring of 1924.
We all cross the bridge in our own
ways, each generation does, making our way from Brooklyn to Manhattan, vice
versa, walking with the gods, the visitors from parts unknown, the cars to the left, the cyclists to the
right, careening between people starring at the city. Riding I look down at the sun sparkling in the
water, feeling gravity pull me, wondering if the wood will remain, will I’ll
ride through the sky, careening into the water?
Whitman wrote about his journeys
here, Crossing Brooklyn
Ferry.
“Flood-tide below me! I see you face to face!
Clouds of the west—sun there half an hour high—I see you
also face to face.
Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how
curious you are to me!
On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross,
returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose,
And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are
more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.”
Here and there, we cross, from land
to water, city to city, borough to
borough, country to country, Brooklyn to Manhattan, through time, Ohio
to New York, Brooklyn to Paris and back.
It was all fine and good to be an ex pat there with
Djuna Barnes and Gertrude Stein. But no
fun when the bar tab came.
Hart Crane found out, spending six days in
jail, protesting his bill.
Paris back to New York.
Finishing the Bridge.
Another magnificent failure,
joining Melville and Kafka, transforming consciousness, to little acclaim in his
own time.
That only comes after were gone.
New York to Mexico, another tide,
another transformation.
April 27, 1932, Hart Crane hurled
himself into the Gulf of Mexico. "Goodbye, everybody!" witnesses
testified, as he big them adieu.
To the Lower East Side from
Brooklyn, I take the bike friendly
Manhattan Bridge, instead of the
Brooklyn Bridge I ride to City Hall and Wall Street Demos.
Sun’s shining on the Lower East Side, I park at the Lower East Side Ecology
Center on East 7th, where we’re
reading.
Meeting at 2, reading at 330.
Or perhaps that was starting at 330 and reading who
knows when on Saturday?
Brennan’s last party had morphed
from dancing to record playing to
poetry reading.
Brennan read from his James Franco collection
that Saturday night.
People were running late so we chat.
Marlene talks about her favorite poems from Robert Kelly
and John
Weiners,
Not Complete is Brennan’s favorite.
“I have a thing about James Franco,”
notes Brennan, reading untitled, like a beat poet.
The
Dunio Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke is Marlene’s favorite:
“Perhaps there remains
some tree on a slope, that we can see
again each day: there remains to us yesterday’s street,
and the thinned-out loyalty of a habit
that liked us, and so stayed, and never departed.”
Someone suggests we read;
The Ballad Of The Hanged Men
By François
Villon:
“Men my brothers who after us live,
have your hearts against us not hardened.
For—if of poor us you take pity,
God of you sooner will show mercy.
You see us here, attached.
As for the flesh we too well have fed,
long since it's been devoured or has rotted.
And we the bones are becoming ash and dust.
…
Rain has washed us, laundered us,
and the sun has dried us black.
Worse—ravens plucked our eyes hollow
and picked our beards and brows…”
have your hearts against us not hardened.
For—if of poor us you take pity,
God of you sooner will show mercy.
You see us here, attached.
As for the flesh we too well have fed,
long since it's been devoured or has rotted.
And we the bones are becoming ash and dust.
…
Rain has washed us, laundered us,
and the sun has dried us black.
Worse—ravens plucked our eyes hollow
and picked our beards and brows…”
Hart Crane is on everyone’s mind.
We read
“At Melville's Tomb”
Its last lines:
“No farther tides . . .
High in the azure steeps Monody shall not wake the
mariner.
This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps..”
An ephemeral feeling grasps us.
People start dropping by.
Brennan’s making everyone a Cuttle
Sark.
Its Hart Crane’s favorite drink, he
regales us.
The bard drank it in Marseilles, where he confessed he, “slept with his thirty sailors and he began again to drink Cutty Sark."
The bard drank it in Marseilles, where he confessed he, “slept with his thirty sailors and he began again to drink Cutty Sark."
The conversation turns to Whitman, backwards glances, meeting friends along the
waterfront, the sailors on the docks, at
the piers.
And to Crane reimagining the
Wasteland. He moved to New York to rep
after college.
He’s an ecstatic writer, connecting
everything in his life, the water, the reflections of the sun, the poems, the
tides, Whitman, even eternity with a moment under the piers where he waited,
wrote poems in his mind.
Its five PM.
We’re about to start reading.
The buzzer rings.
Brennan gets up and makes another
Cutty Sark.
Tells the story again.
We’re about to start the poem.
Finally.
The buzzer rings again.
More introductions.
We read:
“The Bridge: To Brooklyn Bridge How
many dawns, chill from his rippling rest The seagull's wings shall dip and
pivot him, Shedding white rings of tumult, building high Over the chained bay
waters Liberty-- Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes As apparitional
as sails that cross Some page of figures to be filed away; --Till elevators
drop us from our day . . . I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights With
multitudes bent toward some flashing scene Never disclosed, but hastened to
again, Foretold to other eyes on the same screen; And Thee, across the harbor,
silver-paced As though the sun took step of thee, yet left Some motion ever
unspent in thy stride,-- Implicitly thy freedom staying thee! Out of some
subway scuttle, cell or loft A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets, Tilting there
momently, shrill shirt ballooning, A jest falls from the speechless caravan.
Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks, A rip-tooth of the sky's
acetylene; All afternoon the cloud-flown derricks turn . . . Thy cables breathe
the North Atlantic still. And obscure as that heaven of the Jews, Thy guerdon .
. . Accolade thou dost bestow Of anonymity time cannot raise: Vibrant reprieve
and pardon thou dost show. O harp and altar, of the fury fused, (How could mere
toil align thy choiring strings!) Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge,
Prayer of pariah, and the lover's cry,-- Again the traffic lights that skim thy
swift Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars, Beading thy path--condense
eternity: And we have seen night lifted in thine arms. Under thy shadow by the
piers I waited; Only in darkness is thy shadow clear. The City's fiery parcels
all undone, Already snow submerges an iron year . . . O Sleepless as the river
under thee, Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod, Unto us lowliest
sometime sweep, descend And of the curveship lend a myth to God.”
He started at the end with Atlantis.
Thinking about Whitman’s trips across
the Brooklyn ferry, he was ecstatic, channeling energy in his alchemy of words,
the steam pipes, the men, go to the river, you will feel them, the metaphysical; its his phenomenology of
consciousness, weaving his internal
recordings of the sun, the birds,
the reflection in the water, the people flowing from one world to
another, across the ocean, coming and going.
Navigating between here and there,
like Rip Van Wrinkle, walking into an alien world, between past and future, groggy from a dream.
On finding America, in a cafe, in a
myth between here and here, voicing aligning.
“The Bridge: Atlantis
Through the bound cable strands, the
arching path Upward, veering with light, the flight of strings,— Taut miles of
shuttling moonlight syncopate The whispered rush, telepathy of wires. Up the
index of night, granite and steel— Transparent meshes—fleckless the gleaming
staves— Sibylline voices flicker, waveringly stream As though a god were issue
of the strings. . . . And through that cordage, threading with its call One arc
synoptic of all tides below— Their labyrinthine mouths of history Pouring reply
as though all ships at sea Complighted in one vibrant breath made cry,— “Make
thy love sure—to weave whose song we ply!” —From black embankments, moveless
soundings hailed, So seven oceans answer from their dream. And on, obliquely up
bright carrier bars New octaves trestle the twin monoliths Beyond whose frosted
capes the moon bequeaths Two worlds of sleep (O arching strands of song!)—
Onward and up the crystal-flooded aisle White tempest nets file upward, upward
ring With silver terraces the humming spars, The loft of vision, palladium helm
of stars. Sheerly the eyes, like seagulls stung with rime— Slit and propelled
by glistening fins of light— Pick biting way up towering looms that press
Sidelong with flight of blade on tendon blade —Tomorrows into yesteryear—and
link What cipher-script of time no traveller reads But who, through smoking
pyres of love and death, Searches the timeless laugh of mythic spears. Like
hails, farewells—up planet-sequined heights Some trillion whispering hammers
glimmer Tyre: Serenely, sharply up the long anvil cry www.PoemHunter.com - The
World's Poetry Archive 37 Of inchling aeons silence rivets Troy. And you, aloft
there—Jason! hesting Shout! Still wrapping harness to the swarming air! Silvery
the rushing wake, surpassing call, Beams yelling Aeolus! splintered in the straits!
From gulfs unfolding, terrible of drums, Tall Vision-of-the-Voyage, tensely
spare— Bridge, lifting night to cycloramic crest Of deepest day—O Choir,
translating time Into what multitudinous Verb the suns And synergy of waters
ever fuse, recast In myriad syllables,—Psalm of Cathay! O Love, thy white,
pervasive Paradigm . . . ! We left the haven hanging in the night Sheened
harbor lanterns backward fled the keel. Pacific here at time’s end, bearing
corn,— Eyes stammer through the pangs of dust and steel. And still the
circular, indubitable frieze Of heaven’s meditation, yoking wave To kneeling
wave, one song devoutly binds— The vernal strophe chimes from deathless
strings! O Thou steeled Cognizance whose leap commits The agile precincts of
the lark’s return; Within whose lariat sweep encinctured sing In single
chrysalis the many twain,— Of stars Thou art the stitch and stallion glow And
like an organ, Thou, with sound of doom— Sight, sound and flesh Thou leadest from
time’s realm As love strikes clear direction for the helm. Swift peal of
secular light, intrinsic Myth Whose fell unshadow is death’s utter wound,— O
River-throated—iridescently upborne Through the bright drench and fabric of our
veins; With white escarpments swinging into light, Sustained in tears the
cities are endowed And justified conclamant with ripe fields Revolving through
their harvests in sweet torment. Forever Deity’s glittering Pledge, O Thou
Whose canticle fresh chemistry assigns To wrapt inception and beatitude,—
Always through blinding cables, to our joy, Of thy white seizure springs the
prophecy: Always through spiring cordage, pyramids Of silver sequel, Deity’s
young name Kinetic of white choiring wings . . . ascends. Migrations that must needs
void memory, Inventions that cobblestone the heart,— Unspeakable Thou Bridge to
Thee, O Love. Thy pardon for this history, whitest Flower, O Answerer of
all,—Anemone,— Now while thy petals spend the suns about us, hold— (O Thou
whose radiance doth inherit me) Atlantis,—hold thy floating singer late! So to
thine Everpresence, beyond time, Like spears ensanguined of one tolling star
That bleeds infinity—the orphic strings, Sidereal phalanxes, leap and converge:
—One Song, one Bridge of Fire! Is it Cathay, Now pity steeps the grass and
rainbows ring The serpent with the eagle in the leaves. . . . ? Whispers
antiphonal in azure swing. Harold Hart Crane”
We along, rapt.
Thinking about Macbeth.
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and
tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from
day to day,
To the last syllable of
recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have
lighted fools
The way to dusty death.”
Barbara and Judy chat a way with
Drew.
Brennan reads Weiners,
Walking our parents to bed,
Where they pass out.
That feels familiar me.
Whisky is pouring.
Exquisite corpses are everywhere.
No one knows the rules.
Drew confesses:
Why do I hate Flarf so
much?
BY DREW GARDNER
She came from the mountains, killing zombies
at will. Some people cried “but that was cool!” and I could only whisper “we
should NOT be killing zombies!” What have you
gotten yourself to do? Did it ever occur to you that you may in fact hate
yourself? I know I do . . . I’m not nearly high enough yet—and you’re
not helping. My group got invited to join the Flarfist Collective, set up some
hibachis and do what we do best, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t have so
much of a problem with this writing if it were a library and I checked out the
entire world as if it were a single book. Strike “helpful” off your list.
The 4th quarter gets pretty intense and the announcers are usually trying
to figure out who is going to become overwhelmed by their own arrogant
nightmares. It would upset the stomach of the balance of nature. I always go
red over the stupidest things and I have no clue why. Whether it’s speaking in
front of the class or someone asking me why I think I have the right to say
anything. Why do I need an enemy to feel okay about what I’m doing? Observe
yourself as you browse with sophistication through the topic of
Authorship &Credibility. Why do I hate the surface of the
world so much that I want to poison it? Why do I hate this so much? Well .
. . you Hate Your Fucking Dad! Why is the screen so damn small? And why
does the car turn so sharply? And why is the only sound I hear the sound of a
raft of marmosets? BECAUSE I’m fucking ANXIOUS AS HELL about EVERYTHING. AAAAAAAAARGH. It’s even worse: “I’ll tell you
later.” The medium is literally made of thousands of beautiful, living,
breathing wolves. Why do I hate the moon so much? Unpublish your ideas in
reverse. People hate any new way of writing. My girlfriend really hates it.
There is not so much daytime left. Life is like spring snow tossing off
mercurial Creeley-like escapes from life-threatening health problems. In summer
we love winter in winter we love summer—all poetry is written in social
mercurochrome. Since I hate the abridgement of life, a function of needing to
please unpleaseable parents is more what this is about. Hate and love—if those
are the options I just want to love and hate lobsters. The oddity
is not so much that Blake held these eccentric views for most of his life, but
that in modern civilization they not only extend the hand, so that it could not
complain about complaining about something it hadn’t even bothered to read, and
instead formed a halfway decent indie rock band. I’m actually starting to get
much more interested in white people than I used to be. Why do I hate Flarf so
much? Because it is against everything good this country once espoused. Why do
I hate Flarf so much? Because of the awful conflict it places the law-abiding
or police-fearing poets under.”
Its getting dangerous, so I get up.
Bigging my friends in the Lower East Side
adieu.
Riding,
Back in Brooklyn, the kids dancing on
Bond Street.
Bodies flying.
A mosh pit to trap music in the
warehouse.
It takes a long time to them that warmed up.
But here they are.
Sweaty boys boys boys.
Girls, girls, girls.
Music, music, music.
Fun police arrive.
You have to shut it down at 10.
Enough time for one more song.
A thousand of them,
Two cops.
Why not keep on dancing?
Cops in the head.
No justice, no peace.
Fuck the police.
Sirens in Saturday night.
The kids walk away, into the Brooklyn
night.
Get out of the streets, scream the police.
They keep on walking,
To their own magic waterfront,
Along the Gowanus.
meanwhile in brooklyn
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