40% chance

“According to recent DNA analysis, through the history of the human race about 80 percent of the women reproduced, but only 40 percent of men reproduced.”

quoted from A Billion Wicked Thoughts: what the world’s largest experiment reveals about human desire by Ogi Ogas and Sai Gaddam

I remember a primate researcher saying that human sexual dimorphism (in regard to the relative sizes of men and women) is consistent with our being the descendants of families of one father and two mothers. In a species that is primarily monogamous the males and females are much the same size and weight. Gibbons, an example. On the other extreme would be gorillas – big big male, several much smaller females.

the single most popular

“[W]hat is the single most popular search term users enter into the PornHub search engine?

“Mom”

quoted from A Billion Wicked Thoughts: what the world’s largest experiment reveals about human desire by Ogi Ogas and Sai Gaddam

Glenn Ingersoll in silhouette at 2012 Berkeley Poetry Festival

This was in May of this year. The sound is fairly good. Crank it up!

update: When I first watched this I couldn't see my face, but it looks like the contrast has been improved quite a bit. Thanks, litseen!

More Berkeley Poetry Festivals vids at the litseen youtube channel.

How’s your cultural literacy?

Delving my pile of reading one night I passed from Heaney to Meeker:

from “In the Attic” by Seamus Heaney

Like Jim Hawkins aloft in the crosstrees
Of Hispaniola, nothing underneath him
But still green water and clean bottom sand,

The ship aground, the canted mast far out
Above a seafloor where striped fish pass in shoals –
And when they’ve passed, the face of Israel Hands

That rose in the shrouds before Jim shot him dead
Appears to rise again … “But he was dead enough,”
the story says, “being both shot and drowned.”

source: The New Yorker February 9 & 16, 2009

The dunes rose steeply at the back of the cottage with their endless waves of white sand; the paths twisted and climbed through the stunted sprawling pines, half buried in sand – pines that could be climbed, and that, if you sort of squinted your eyes, became very like the crow’s nest of a sailing ship such as the one Jim Hawkins had sailed on. He could imagine his tormenters, in gay pirate costumes (but none so gay as his), toppling one after the other into the sea after some particularly deadly encounter with his trusty blade.

source: Better Angel a novel by Richard Meeker

The Meeker novel was originally published in 1933. I was reading an Alyson Publications paperback reissue. According to the introduction “Better Angel is possibly the first novel published in America to show male homosexuality in a positive light …” The excerpt above is from when the hero was a boy.

I didn’t remember who Jim Hawkins was until I got to the second passage. Oh yeah. Him.

Sambo unexpectedly in the pile of reading

When I was a kid for a treat my mother would take our family to Sambo’s, a diner not unlike Lyon’s or Denny’s. I remember the art on the walls, menus, and placemats told the Sambo story, not quite so I understood it, but colorfully enough that I was fascinated by particular scenes – the boy in the turban, the tigers. At some point I heard the Sambo story was considered racist. Why? The boy seemed clever and resourceful and won out over scary tigers. Was it mainly the illustrations in the original storybook, The Story of Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman, that created the problem? Bannerman was British and may have intended the story to be about dark-skinned South Asians; tigers live in Indian, not Africa, after all. David Pilgrim in an essay about “The Picaninny Caricature” says Bannerman’s Sambo “is very dark, has a broad nose, and the stereotypical exaggerated red lips and rolling eyes found in black caricatures,” which he sees as a clearly African rather than South Asian lampoon. Besides the illustrations, the names Bannerman chose for her characters suggest racist stereotypes. “At the time that the book was originally published Sambo was an established anti-black epithet, a generic degrading reference.” And there’s nothing flattering about Sambo’s parents’ names – Mumbo and Jumbo.

Pilgrim doesn’t think Helen Bannerman meant to be malicious. But her work was much pirated and imitated – and itself subject to lampoon and caricature – and non-Bannerman versions took the Sambo story into clearly ugly territory, reinforcing hateful attitudes about African Americans. Says David Pilgrim, “By the 1960s the book was seen as a remnant of a racist past.”

The Sambo’s restaurant chain is no more. At its height in the 70s, according to Wikipedia, there were 1200 Sambo’s restaurants. Controversy over the name as well as some sort of “corporate level decisions … led to Sambo's … demise.” The first Sambo’s still exists in Santa Barbara, California.

Sambo popped his head up one night recently. I was reading a little of this and a little of that, as I do. In his book on the Moon’s origins, The Big Splat, Dana Mackenzie says back in the early days of the solar system the Moon and the Earth orbited quite close to each other, they spun a lot quicker, and they hadn’t yet cooled into hard globes. They were, in other words, “whirling around each other like the tigers in an Indian folktale who chased each other around a tree until they melted into butter.” Oh, I said to myself, Mackenzie’s talking about the Sambo story.

In Ellen Conroy Kennedy’s The Negritude Poets the Sambo story comes up in a very different context. Kennedy says two women were getting to know each other “at the Dakar Festival, in April 1966.” Both women were American. One woman had a son, “a beautiful child of about five or six, [who] had been playing tiger, and growling, ‘Watch out! Watch out! I’m going to eat you up!’ [The white woman said] in surprise, ‘Hey, that’s what the tiger said to Sambo! And he said, “Oh, please, Mister Tiger, don’t eat me up, and I’ll give you my fine green umbrella! …”’ [ellipsis in original] Suddenly the boy’s mother, who was black, turned on the other woman and gave her a furious tongue-lashing. Hearing the word ‘Sambo,’ she thought the stranger had meant to insult her child.” The white woman, shocked at this reaction, reports the incident to her friend, the poet Edouart J. Maunick. “[S]he burst into uncontrollable sobs trying to explain what had happened. Maunick was much moved.”

Edouard Maunick wrote a poem in response, “Letter to Ellen Conroy Kennedy.” Yes, the white woman was the editor/translator herself. Maunick offers solace and a philosophical shake of the head at the legacy of painful words. “The byword is despair / sign and symbol of / a terrible divide / the war of words / the war of roots and branches / lies heavy in a stranger’s mouth / despite her uncontrary mind …”

a found poem by Kent Mannis

can a profit business
use voluntaries
people from a non profit organization
for a set price
for each voluntaries,
in other word a profit business
for stadium stand
using voluntaries people thought
a non profit organization
an classify them
as non employees.

….

No, Kent did not write the above. He works for an internet company that provides employment law compliance information to employers. So he gets questions, some straightforward (“Do I have to pay my employees overtime on a federal holiday?”), some less so … The one above – Kent broke it into lines – has, as one of Kent’s colleagues said, “a certain beauty.”

Even if I didn’t hear stories nearly every day from Kent about this or that employment law topic he’s had to confront, I think I’d find this one funny. It has that flavor of language that ought to resolve into meaning, that you feel is surely about to, that if you only held it on your tongue a bit longer you’d be able to name, and yet …

a senryu by Kent Mannis

bumper to bumper
rolling a joint on College
such concentration

word of the day: plantigrade

[S]aid Snuffer gruffly, “but let me tell you one thing, never cross a bear. A crossed bear is a cross bear and beware of him.” Paying no attention to the mirth of the outlaws, Snuffer went calmly on with his recital. “I am as you have probably noticed, a plantigrade, carnivorous animal, though I much prefer fruit, vegetables, fish and honey.”

definition: walking on the whole sole of the foot, as humans, and bears.

source: Ojo in Oz by Ruth Plumly Thompson

I am reading through Ruth Plumly Thompson’s contributions to the Oz series for the first time in chronological order. On the whole I’m enjoying the experience. In Ojo in Oz Thompson gives Ojo his biggest role since his first appearance in Baum’s The Patchwork Girl of Oz.

Notes toward an autobiography by others, part 11

Reading Daniel Allex Cox’s Shuck, a novel about a rentboy in New York City who wants to be a writer, I came across a couple quotes that read like I could’ve said them:

“I spent hours in Barnes and Noble, nosing out which magazines felt empty without my writing.”

“I’m doing my best to stay positive, but I have to tell you that trying to get published … feels like buying raffle tickets for a prize that’s already been given out by a church that’s already burned down.”

I used to flip through piles of literary magazines in the bookstore trying to figure out which wanted me. Editors often complain that the poetry they receive is nothing like anything they’ve published before, thus surely the poet has not read an issue of their magazine. If they got an amazing poem that was nothing like anything they’d published before it would be an automatic discard? Because what you want to publish is what you’ve already published?

I give editors the benefit of the doubt – maybe what they really mean is they get a lot of poetry they can’t stand and if the poets would only read their amazing magazine the poets would know not to send them that crap! Yeah? What this means is you send them poems that sound as much like what they’ve published as you can find in your oeuvre … or you send them what you’ve got that’s ready and hope they find a place for that amazing poem that isn’t exactly what they’ve already published. Usually I fail to meet their needs. Which are mysterious, anyway.

As to the second quote, that there is no prize, not really. It’s all smoking ruins. Well. I don’t know. When a poem does land somewhere, it’s sweet. It’s ephemeral. Does anybody read it? The rewards of publication don’t quite match the effort. I’m not compiling a resume, don’t intend to teach, so have no need to publish to get and keep my professorship. Part of what tempts me about self-publication is the feedback. If you sell a copy you know right away. If you give a copy away you know who you handed it to or you write the letter to the stranger you admire and include your book and hope they read it. If there’s any response at all you don’t have to rely on some far off publisher to let you know.

Sadly, I am no better at being a publisher than I am at battering down the doors of the magazines. I did a couple chapbooks fifteen or twenty years ago and sold them to friends and co-workers. Haven’t tried that in ages, though.

My poetry career creeps along. But I continue to write. And I continue to find value in my writing. And there the rewards are.

Last few years I’ve only managed to get work out a few times. I sent to two places this month. One has rejected me. The other always takes a long time to reply.

hurts

Darryl … called me a year or two later and said … I had wounded him terribly by making him doubt his sexuality. I guess he was clueless enough to think maybe he was gay just because I said so, and then when he found out he wasn’t I turned into a demon bitch in his mind. It was one of those phone calls that make[s] you realize someone has been relentlessly seething about something you don’t even remember.

That’s from Jennifer Blowdryer’s autobiographical White Trash Debutante. Now and then I get to feeling guilty about some mean thing I did way back when and wondering how unhealed that person I wounded might still be. Other times I wonder if some other so-and-so who hurt me real bad ever realized he hurt me. How could he not! Then I wonder which events stuck in my head are ones that matter to other people. As age gathers the years into a fatter past and my brain’s capacity doesn’t commensurately enlarge, I note that recent events really can’t compete in emotional weight with childhood injustices. Why? Maybe those old hurts got the mental real estate and, boy, they ain’t giving it up. They’ve been revisited frequently so have an insurmountable statistical advantage over the newer tears. Not to say you can’t hurt me today like you hurt me yesterday. I don’t know. Don’t make that a goal, ‘K?

anthropodenial

Frans de Waal suggests that the continuing prohibition on anthropomorphizing chimpanzees smacks of something he calls anthropodenial, “a blindness to the humanlike characteristics of other animals, or the animal-like characteristics of ourselves,” a blindness that emerges from our subconscious need to promote human exceptionalism at all costs.

I’ve written before on this blog about what Andrew Westoll here calls “human exceptionalism.” I’ve not been sympathetic to the tendency.

Although I can’t quite say I’m fond of the particular coinage offered by Frans de Waal, it’s probably useful to have a pejorative to counter the pejorative. Denying that nonhuman beings have emotions is one of those thought games that, when imposed on the real world, has justified a lot of cruel behavior. The prohibition on anthropomorphism, it seems to me, is closely allied to the ranking of human races. They may seem like us, but it’s an illusion. Really, those creatures displaying human-like characteristics aren’t human. Therefore it is okay to treat them in a way we would never tolerate with other humans. See: chattel slavery. On the other hand, it’s hard to imagine, if you read up on torture, the dropping of the atom bomb, the factories of death in Germany or the neighbor-to-neighbor machete killings in Rwanda, what atrocity one could name that humans refrain from perpetrating on other humans.

quote source: The Chimps of Fauna Sanctuary: a true story of resilience and recovery by Andrew Westoll

"my brother and his husband"

The Smith nuclear family and their spouses went out to dinner … It was a glorious evening, everyone talking, laughing, eating heartily, and enjoying being together. My sister and her husband lived in Japan at the time, my brother and his husband lived in Florida, and Jen and I were out in California, so it was rare that my mom could get all her kids together in one place.

This happy little family reunion is described in filmmaker Kevin Smith’s new memoir disguised as a self-help book, Tough Sh*t: life advice from a fat, lazy slob who did good. I’ve tried to think before about what it means to be gay and find that considered unremarkable, uncontroversial certainly, merely one aspect of the way one is identified in a crowd scene written by a non-gay person. Kevin Smith has a brother and that brother has a husband.

Now and then I read histories about gay people. The people who research and write such histories are faced with a difficult task. If Kevin Smith had written about his family getting together a hundred years ago, or fifty, or if he weren’t the type of writer he is, unashamed and cheerily confrontational, the brother’s husband might have gone unmentioned. That doesn’t mean the brother’s husband wouldn’t have been there, nor does it mean that the siblings would have considered the brother’s husband a stranger or even considered him unmentionable among themselves, but he would have been left out of the description and everyone would have understood that including him in the description would have required a dangerous explanation, putting information out that would implicate loved ones in criminal acts. Thus things that were actually taking place are left out of the written record, or, if written down, carefully guarded and destroyed should the possibility arise that they might be read by unsympathetic eyes. The historical record is an edited one, censored often by the actors themselves. The testimony of a primary source can be the closest we get to the truth, but that doesn’t mean it is the truth. Who kissed who, who fucked who, who lived a long and loving life together, these are stories we don’t get unfiltered.

Yes, he really meant husband.

But what did he mean by that?

pile of reading

Ishi: last of his tribe by Theodora Kroeber
Theodora Kroeber was the wife of Alfred Kroeber, the chairman of the Dept of Anthropology at the University of California when Ishi was found. In California you know Ishi. His story is taught in elementary school. Ishi was the last survivor of a small tribe of California Indians. They only made it as long as they had by living in hiding from the Whites. When Ishi found himself alone he no longer cared whether he lived or died, so he turned himself in. The Kroebers helped to find a place for Ishi in his last years. I didn’t think I’d read this book, a story-like biography of Ishi and his tribe in hiding, but once I started it it seemed familiar. I suspect I have read it, perhaps for school, or maybe I heard one of my grade school teachers read it aloud.

Neuromancer by William Gibson
I plucked this tattered copy of Neuromancer from the shelf thinking it would be a good thing to read on our Kauai trip. Turned out it requires a little more concentration than a casual bite, you gotta pay attention to the world Gibson creates. It’s one of the first cyberspace novels (pub. 1984) and some of the territory Gibson pioneers gets taken up by the Matrix movies, among other things.

The Big Splat, or how our moon came to be by Dana Mackenzie
I bought this book when the author gave a talk at a local bookstore. My receipt was jammed in the book and I’m using it as a placemark. 2003. I stuck it on the shelf cuz in the talk Mackenzie pretty much answered the question about the moon’s origins, even showing some nifty animations of the proto-Earth being struck by a Mars-sized body, going all liquid, then coalescing into the Earth and Moon as we know them. Science books, especially astronomy books, often spend a lot of time on earlier theories, and The Big Splat is no exception. I bog down a bit in the review of Aristotle and Anaxagoras.

The Yellow Knight of Oz by Ruth Plumly Thompson
I’ve read L. Frank Baum’s Oz books in order and more than once. They were all available to me as a kid. Not so Ruth Plumly Thompson’s 19 sequels. I became a collector just so I could read those out of print stories. Once I finally got them all in readable if often battered form, I lost interest in first editions and printing variants. I would still like to have copies that contain all the illustrations. The illustrations produced as separate glued-in color plates were too expensive, the publishers thought, to keep in late reprints. If you want those pictures you have to be ready to pay some high prices. I’m really not. Anyway, after I completed the Thompson set, reading them as I got them, basically in random order, I knew some day I would reread them all in the order they’d been written. But I long assumed that would be a rereading of the entire Oz series from the beginning. This spring I decided, since revisiting Baum wouldn’t tell me much I didn’t know, I would reread Thompson on her own. I’ve often liked Thompson’s writing and she deserved an independent evaluation. Yellow Knight features an original Thompson creation in the lead, Sir Hokus of Pokes, a King Arthur-type knight that she introduced in her very first Oz book, The Royal Book of Oz. With Yellow Knight Thompson gives Sir Hokus a back story.

The Hidden Europe: what Eastern Europeans can teach us by Francis Tapon
I saw Mr Tapon give a talk and slideshow at the Berkeley Library a few months ago. Eastern Europe hasn’t featured as one of my dream destinations. The dreariness of the communist legacy being one reason, the persistent homophobia being a strong current obstacle. But Tapon’s twitchy energy and the grand nature of his project (he visited all the countries in person, sometimes couchsurfing) intrigued me. So I put a reserve on one of the library copies of the book. At more than 700 pages it takes time to read; I’ve had to return the book to the library and get it out again. Right now I’m in the midst of his chapter on Hungary.

White Trash Debutante by Jennifer Blowdryer
Jennifer Blowdryer writes her autobiography. Jennifer takes her last name from her first punk rock band, The Blowdryers. Sounds like she formed the band for the most punk rock of reasons, boredom, alienation, not being good at anything she could stand to do, and a need to be the center of attention. I’ve heard her read from her writings and bought this at one of those readings, maybe even the one I asked her to do for Poetry & Pizza.

City of Concrete and Hope by Luke Warm Water
A chapbook of poems by a Lakota/Sioux poet living in Oakland. “My first year living / in the San Francisco bay area / knowing nobody / I ate my Thanksgiving meal with homeless / so I didn’t have to feel so alone”

The Negritude Poets: an anthology of translations from the French edited by Ellen Conroy Kennedy
I brought this anthology home from the library because it contains poems by Tchicaya U Tam’si, a poet who is now represented in my personal anthology by two poems copied out several years apart. U Tam’si’s poems don’t appear until page 200 but I didn’t jump ahead. I guess I wanted to build the suspense. Now that I’ve read this batch of U Tam’si I want to read more. While there are other poets of interest in the anthology U Tam’si is the one I had the most sympathy with. He’s more playful than most.

Legitimate Dangers: American poets of the new century edited by Michael Dumanis and Cate Marvin
My generation. Many of the poets in this 2006 anthology are younger than me – and all have published a book or two (or more). My poems wouldn’t seem out of place among these post-Surrealist, post-Language school works. I’ve gotten to page 79 (a little less than 400 to go). I haven’t yet marked anything for rereading.

a brain teaser

In her new book on dolphins Diana Reiss describes a scene she couldn’t explain:

I was often puzzled at the sight of a ring of river rocks encircling the central drain at the bottom of the pool. These smooth-surfaced eight- or nine-inch oval river rocks were stewn here and there on the bottom by divers so the dolphins could rub their bodies along them. … A quick investigation revealed that the divers weren’t responsible [for the rings.] How did the dolphins move these rocks?

Did the dolphins pick the stones up with their mouths? No, says Reiss. “If they used their mouths, the dolphins would injure their teeth.”

Perhaps a dolphin would push the stone along the floor of the pool with its nose (or, as the “nose” is called in dolphins, the rostrum, there being no “nose” to the dolphin snout)? Reiss dismisses that guess, too. “Pushing with their snouts, the dolphins would injure their rostrums.”

The dolphin researchers had to keep a sharp eye out to catch the dolphins at their task.

It’s a clever and elegant solution.

They saw the dolphin, Stormy, with a stone. “Stormy turned upside dow, placed the top of her head on a rock, sucked it onto her blowhole, then turned right-side up and swam away with it atop her head.”

As to why the rings, the dolphins never told. Art?

source: The Dolphin in the Mirror: exploring dolphin minds and saving dolphin lives by Diana Reiss

an interesting mistake

Scientific discoveries [Georges-Louis Leclerc Buffon] declared, are really quite easy to make, and will quickly perish unless they are explained with elegance and grace. That is because mere facts are not human achievements – they belong to the natural word and are therefore hors de l’homme, “outside of mankind.” Eloquence, by contrast, is the highest evidence of human agency and genius …

How closely did you read the above quote? Did you note the typo?

With “world” missing its el, the statement’s meanings struggle more than intended.

source: Is That a Fish in Your Ear?: translation and the meaning of everything by David Bellos

“saying the same thing”

[L]anguage [is] a rich, illogical, and complicated tool for making fine and often arbitrary distinctions – for discriminating, separating out, and saying the same thing in different ways.

source: Is That a Fish in Your Ear?: translation and the meaning of everything by David Bellos

“they can’t be anything else”

She … turned to me and said that by being in bed with me she was also doing something she had never done before, which was sleep with a man who was Chinese. I thought of telling her that I was helping her do something I had never done before, which was sleep with someone who was Chinese … A Chinese woman once told me that many people want to have an interracial relationship once, but few want to have more than one. Suppose, I told her, all your relationships are interracial, they can’t be anything else because of who your parents were. In my case, a mixture of Chinese and English. In her case, a mixture of Chinese and German.

source: My Symptoms, a collection of short stories by John Yau

The Gay Agenda: Killng and the Straitjacket

[T]hey want to win the right to mimic the institutional straitjacket of state-controlled marriage, and to openly join the armed forces in state-sanctioned killing.

That’s historian & playwright Martin Duberman in his recent Waiting to Land: a (mostly) political memoir, 1985-2008. The “they” would be “the national gay organizations [or] most gay people – who’ve expressed no wish for a radical analysis of class nor a radical alliance with straight left-wingers.” Or both, gay organizations and most gay people. Duberman does mean both, doesn’t he?

This formulation of the goals of marriage equality and of the eradication of sexual orientation discrimination in government employment (including the military, at last) is the bitterest and most sarcastic I’ve seen, though the critique is not unfamiliar. Or, rather, the “left-winger” opposition to the military and to the patriarchal family structure enforced by traditional marriage and family law is familiar. The critique is muddled.

When gay people marry legally are they “mimic[king] the institutional straitjacket of state-controlled marriage” or being bound by it? The language smacks of the old stereotype of a gay or lesbian couple having to sort by gender role. Which is the Man, which the Woman? Seems beneath a longtime gay activist, theorist and historian like Duberman. Same sex marriage is only possible where marriages are egalitarian. If one partner must be subjugated to the other, as has been the traditional assumption in patriarchal marriage (woman subjugated to the man), how would that be applied in a same sex household? Is this where the mimicking comes in?

As to the military, I may be a passivist, of all things. I can’t say as I approve of the armed forces, certainly not in the business of killing to enforce U.S. hegemony (or “interests,” as it’s so often put). But, as with that queer “mimic,” there’s a word in Duberman’s formulation that gets me, “openly.” Should we remove it, what do we have? “They want to win the right to … join the armed forces in state-sanctioned killing.” I’m not sure there’s any right currently to join the armed forces. Is there? If you don’t match what the military is looking for, physically, say, the military doesn’t have to take you. You’ve no right to be a soldier. Now let’s try the sentence another way: “They want to win the right to [live] openly [even in] the armed forces” where they are currently serving in secret. Gay people have always been in the armed forces (usually secretly), performing “state-sanctioned killing,” among other things. What Duberman would do is what, end state-sanctioned killing? And how does singling out gay careerists for career destruction serve this end? It’s always good to destroy a soldier’s career because soldiering is immoral and if this burden falls extra hard on gays, well, that’ll help the cause, because the no state-sanctioned killing cause needs soldiers and who better than the aggrieved gay (former) member of the armed services? That suggests it’s best when the state hurts people, we want the state to hurt people, for it is from encouraging the institution to hurt people that the opposition to the institution gains strength.

I wonder if that’s true.

Judging by the behavior of the civilian police in the smiting of the Occupy protesters, including gays and women hasn’t gentled paramilitary culture. So it would be silly of me to suggest that allowing gays to serve openly would serve any kind of peacenik purpose. I am angered by anti-gay military policies for two main reasons. The first would be those directly harmed by the policy, the people who are attacked by the institution for no reason other than prejudice and judeo-christian conventions, the blackmail power it gives to harassers (protest your treatment and you will be fingered as a lez and lose your career and your harasser will go unpunished), the culture of internal suspicion and spying. The second would be the legitimizing effect of military service. If gay people are honored as soldiers, their families honored, there will no longer be an honored place in the foundational institutions of the United States for the official designation of gays, lesbians, and bisexuals as inferior, substandard, suspect.

I don’t expect magic to come from that. If the draft came back I wouldn’t celebrate the fact that gays would be rounded up along with everyone else. They would be anyway, of course. As they always have. Sure, a few would get out of it by asserting their homosexuality, if homosexuality remained a disqualification for service. But if the military needs bodies, it takes them. Later, when you’re not needed, that’s when the anti-gay policy becomes convenient. You’re tossed out and denied benefits you’ve earned, your separation paperwork declares you unfit (even if you fought as well as anybody) - and civilian employers, unsurprisingly, have been known to discriminate against morally unfit people.

There is one other thing I’d like to mention. Though military service and marriage may or may not be the most important priorities for a gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgender movement, they do seem to be the fights the right-wingers have been most eager to engage, partly as a money-raising tool. Not to fight these battles would be to abandon the field to the hating religionists. Would that be wise?

The Wizard of Oz did not run for president

From Debt: the first 5,000 years by David Graeber:

L. Frank Baum’s book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, which appeared in 1900, is widely recognized to be a parable for the Populist campaign of William Jennings Bryan, who twice ran for president on the Free Silver platform – vowing to replace the gold standard with a bimetallic system that would allow the free creation of silver money alongside gold. … [O]ne of the main constituencies for the movement was debtors: particularly, Midwestern farm families such as Dorothy’s, who had been facing a massive wave of foreclosures during the severe recession of the 1890s. According to the Populist reading, the Wicked Witches of the East and West represent the East and West Coast bankers (promoters of and benefactors from the tight money supply), the Scarecrow represented the farmers (who didn’t have the brains to avoid the debt trap), the Tin Woodsman [sic] was the industrial proletariat (who didn’t have the heart to act in solidarity with the farmers), the Cowardly Lion represented the political class (who didn’t have the courage to intervene). The yellow brick road, silver slippers, emerald city, and hapless Wizard presumably speak for themselves. “Oz” is of course the standard abbreviation for “ounce.” As an attempt to create a new myth, Baum’s story was remarkably effective. As political propaganda, less so. William Jennings Bryan failed in three attempts to win the presidency, the silver standard was never adopted, and few nowadays even remember what The Wonderful Wizard of Oz was originally supposed to be about.

David Graeber follows up on this passage from the main text in the notes section at the back of the book:

Baum never admitted that the book had a political subtext, but even those who doubt he put one in intentionally … admit that such a meaning was quickly attributed to it – there were already explicit political references in the stage version of 1902, only two years after the book’s original publication.

Perhaps, the most incontrovertible piece of evidence for Wizard’s being a political allegory is this:

Dorothy represents Teddy Roosevelt, since syllabically, “dor-o-thee” is the same as “thee-o-dor,” only backwards.

In his bibliography David Graeber gives the following sources for the above:

Littlefield, Henry. 1963. “The Wizard of Oz: Parable on Populism.” American Quarterly 16 (1): 47-98.

Rockoff, Hugh. 1990. “The ‘Wizard of Oz’ as a Monetary Allegory.” Journal of Political Economy 98 (4): 739-760.

Parker, David B. 1994. “The Rise and Fall of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz as a ‘Parable on Populism.’” Journal of the Georgia Association of Historians 14: 49-63.

Taylor, Quentin P. 2005. “Money and Politics in the Land of Oz.” The Independent Review 9 (3): 413-426.

I learned from Graeber’s Debt and I admire his devotion to tracking down this story – four sources! – but what I learned from Debt was not this nonsense about The Wizard of Oz. I was going to slap Graeber around myself but then I happened upon this passage in Paul R. Bienvenue’s The Book Collector’s Guide to L. Frank Baum and Oz:

The impact of [The Wizard of Oz] on American culture was felt almost immediately. The front page of The Syracuse Sunday Herald printed what may have been the first Wizard of Oz-inspired political cartoon on January 20, 1901 [four months after the book was published], and the story continues to be a favorite of cartoonists today. Critics were quick to ascribe symbolic and political meanings to the story : an early review revealed that ‘under the sweet simplicity of the tale for children is a satiric allegory on modern history for big people,’ with the Scarecrow, Tin Woodman, and Cowardly Lion representing Russia, Germany, and Great Britain. Over half a century later, the ‘Populist Parable’ theory of The Wizard of Oz, designed by Henry Littlefield as a simple tool for teaching high school American history, would become dogma to academics worldwide, in spite of later protestations from Littlefield himself that it had no basis in fact.

Paul Bienvenue’s sources:

The review that claimed the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, and the Cowardly Lion “were originally supposed to” represent European nations was published in The Beacon (Boston), Sept. 1900.

Littlefield, Henry M., “The Wizard of Allegory,” The Baum Bugle v. 36: 1, Spring 1992, p.24; see also Michael Gessel, “Tale of a Parable,” p. 19-23 of the same issue. The Baum Bugle is the official publication of the International Wizard of Oz Club. I’ve been a member myself since 1980.

Perhaps, Mr Graeber, L. Frank Baum never “admitted” he wrote a political allegory in The Wizard of Oz, not because he didn’t, but because as allegory it was meant to be broad and child-like. Check your paper today (if you still get a paper) and see if a political cartoonist hasn’t taken advantage of the simple allegorical possibilities of Brainless, Heartless, and Cowardly. Or the humbug wizard hiding behind a screen. What was the story originally supposed to be about? Not William Jennings Bryan.

Best Poems of 2003

Tachibana Akemi ….. 2 poems beginning “Happiness is”
Wakayama Bokusui ….. “Look at the mountain …”
Yosa Buson ….. 3 haiku
Chiyojo ….. 2 hokku
Billy Collins ….. The Best Cigarette & Budapest
Gregory Corso ….. Dialogue – 2 Dollmakers
Lucille Lang Day ….. from Field Notes: “Sea Slugs”
Jean Follain ….. October Thoughts
Jim Harrison & Ted Kooser ….. 10 poems from Braided Creek
Ozaki Hosai ….. “Carved into Buddha’s form …”
Kobayashi Issa ….. 7 haiku
Jakuren ….. “Loneliness has no special color …”
George Oppen ….. from Twenty-Six Fragments
Priest Saigyo ….. “At the roadside” & “The deep snow that” & “Ice wedged fast” & “In a hailstorm” & “Today again”
Senryu by anonymous poets ….. 5 senryu
Princess Shikishi ….. “Would there were other means of consolation …”
Fujiwara no Shunzei ….. One-Sided Love
Tanigawa Gan ….. Morning in a Foreign Land
Natsume Seibi ….. “Once when my five-year-old daughter was out playing …”
Shigeji Tsuboi ….. Balloon
Masaoka Shiki ….. 3 haiku
Ishikawa Takuboku ….. 2 haiku
a Tsukeai, an anonymous ‘linking’ poem ….. “I made her wet …”
John Yau ….. A Sheaf of Pleasant Voices
Ishihara Yoshiro ….. Song of the Ringing in the Ear
Kinoshita Yuji ….. Late Summer

Since 1989 I’ve been collecting poems. The best poems are the poems I like best, not just the poems I like, admire, think are done well, but the poems I want to spend time with and look forward to returning to because they strike something inside me that might, for all I know, be peculiar to me. Not so peculiar that someone else didn’t write the poem, but unique enough that just cuz I think it’s great it don’t mean everybody else will. So. The best poems are the ones that work best for me. No surprise, eh? It’s not like there’s objective criteria, you know.

With “The Best Poems of 2003” I am exposing the last of the contents of the looseleaf binder that I’ve been filling up for the last 12 years.

These are the other eleven:

The Best Poems of 2011

The Best Poems of 2010

The Best Poems of 2009

The Best Poems of 2008

The Best Poems of 2007

The Best Poems of 2006

The Best Poems of 2005

The Best Poems of 2004

The Best Poems of 2002

The Best Poems of 2001

The Best Poems of 2000

Best Poems of 2002

Anonymous ….. Li Sons D’un Cornet
Guillaume Apollinaire ….. There Is
Janine Canan ….. from Travels: “The crayfish has gotten huge”
Marc Cohen ….. Stairway Beach
Marceline Desbordes-Valmore ….. The Roses of Saadi
Emily Dickinson ….. “I reason, Earth is short” & “Is Bliss then, such Abyss” & “Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?” & “We grow accustomed to the Dark”
Annie Dillard ….. The Hunter
words from the Hmong language …. txij txej, etc.
Marc Elihu Hofstadter ….. The Nap & Poetry & A Sunday Afternoon in January
Miroslav Holub ….. Interferon
Kobayashi Issa ….. 9 haiku
Valery Larbaud ….. The Gift of Himself
Salvador Diaz Miron ….. The Example
Pierre Reverdy ….. Air
Sappho ….. “heart” (a fragment)
Tristan Tzara ….. Epidermis of the Night-time Growth
John Updike ….. Dog’s Death
W. B. Yeats ….. He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

As I read a book of poems I keep placemarks handy. When I read a poem that really impresses me I pop in a placemark so I can easily find the poem for a revisit. If after rereading the poem several times it still strikes a personal chord, such that I don’t want to leave it behind, look forward to reading it again, and find the physical discomfort and hassle of copying the work out by hand a mild form of payment for something that will give me pleasure for years to come, the poem shows up in a list of “Best Poems” for whatever year I found it. I have filled a few looseleaf binders with these poems. The years 2000 through 2011 fill one such binder.

The Best Poems of 2011

The Best Poems of 2010

The Best Poems of 2009

The Best Poems of 2008

The Best Poems of 2007

The Best Poems of 2006

The Best Poems of 2005

The Best Poems of 2004

The Best Poems of 2001

The Best Poems of 2000

Best Poems of 2001

Rafael Alberti ….. The Dead Angels
Yehuda Amichai ….. The Narrow Valley
Paul Celan ….. “Husks of the finite …”
Gunter Eich ….. A Mixture of Routes
an Eskimo song ….. The Word-Fisher
Edward Field ….. To My Country
Louise Gluck ….. Screened Porch
Thom Gunn ….. In the Post Office ….. A Young Novelist
Lyn Hejinian ….. from Nights
Brad Leithauser ….. On a Seaside Mountain
Richard McCann ….. Nights of 1990
Leslie Norris ….. The Pit Ponies
Marlene Pearson ….. To Document a 20-second Hug …
Julien Poirier ….. “Slow astronauts are obliged”
Joanna Sondheim ….. “breeze within”
Alfonso Quijada Urias ….. There’s an Orange Tree Out There
Victor Valle ….. Teofilo
Alice Walker ….. from African Images: “A strange noise!” & “The native women”
Ray A. Young Bear ….. Always Is He Criticized

I heard Louise Gluck read “Screened Porch” this spring. She read in UC Berkeley’s Lunch Poems series. I was only able to make half of her hour reading as it was on my lunch break and getting up the hill from the public library where I work took ten minutes hoofing. It was a little strange hearing her say words I’ve repeated to myself many times, as though she had snuck the poem out of a place I’d thought hidden.

The Best Poems of 2011

The Best Poems of 2010

The Best Poems of 2009

The Best Poems of 2008

The Best Poems of 2007

The Best Poems of 2006

The Best Poems of 2005

The Best Poems of 2004

The Best Poems of 2000

Best Poems of 2000

Anonymous ….. haiku
Gary Aspenberg ….. “Homeopathic Poem I”
Basho ….. haiku
Buson ….. haiku
Blaise Cendrars ….. “Fish Cove”
Chiyo-ni ….. haiku
Clark Coolidge ….. “Combed Through the Ballardian Perspex” and “The Image Links” and “On the Light”
Russell Edson ….. “For Many Years”
Jorie Graham ….. “Opulence"
Ha Jin ….. “A General’s Comments on a Politician”
Robert Hass ….. “Layover”
David Ignatow ….. “Circling the Silence” and “Staying Alive”
Ikkyu ….. “something in us always wants to cry out”
Robinson Jeffers ….. “Cremation”
Samuel Johnson ….. “asylum”
haiku ….. Joso
Anna Karnienska ….. “A Prayer That Will Be Answered”
Philip Levine ….. “The Mortal Words of Zweik”
Federico Garcia Lorca ….. “Rundown Church”
Bronislaw Maj ….. “A Leaf”
Czeslaw Milosz ….. “One Life”
Mo Fei ….. “Stuck in Place” and “Young Prophet”
Robert Morgan ….. “Bellrope”
Po Chu-i ….. “Evening Rain” and “Sick and Old, Same as Ever”
Lawrence Raab ….. “Sudden Appearance of a Monster at a Window”
Shang Qin ….. “Electric Lock”
a Southern Bushman song ….. “The Day We Die”
Wnag Ping ….. “Of Flesh and Spirit”
Yang Lian ….. “An Elegy for Poetry”
Zhang Zhen ….. “Deep into Smaland”
Zhen Danyi ….. “Poem”
Zou Jingzhi ….. “Old Bowl”

Listmania! Some people like lists. Me? Not a huge fan. Even when I’m sympathetic to the purposes of the lists. I’m exposing my “Best Poems” lists on the blog more because I have them than that I need to wave them around. I ought to be writing something about these. But I always feel like my expounding on poetry is redundant at best. If I think the poem is great stuff I should hand it to you and you would have opportunity to judge for yourself. On the other hand, why should you care what I think is good?

The above is the contents page for the poems I hand-copied from various sources in the year 2000. Occasionally I’ve told a poet about capturing his poem and tried to convey my reasons. I recall telling Robert Hass that I’d copied out “Layover.” It was at one of his readings. What was he supposed to say? I think he nodded, said, “Oh,” in that mild noncommittal way he has.

The Best Poems of 2011

The Best Poems of 2010

The Best Poems of 2009

The Best Poems of 2008

The Best Poems of 2007

The Best Poems of 2006

The Best Poems of 2005

The Best Poems of 2004

The Best Poems of 2009

Anonymous ….. “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” and “We Shall Overcome”
Benjamin Franklin ….. from “Poor Richard’s Almanack”
Gintaras Grajauskas ….. “World in Your Pocket”
Kaylin Haught ….. “God Says Yes to Me”
Lee Hays and Pete Seeger ….. “If I Had a Hammer”
Marc Elihu Hofstadter ….. “Black Angel”
Emma Lazarus ….. “The New Colossus”
Percy Montross ….. “Clementine”
Geoffrey G. O’Brien ….. “Old War Injury”
Plato ….. “Socrates to His Lover”

plus haiku by Keiho

The Best Poems of 2011

The Best Poems of 2010

The Best Poems of 2008

The Best Poems of 2007

The Best Poems of 2006

The Best Poems of 2005

The Best Poems of 2004

Coincidence

A few days ago I’m reading before bed like usual. I read some pages from a book, then I put it down and pick up another, go a few pages further into that one. In Stephen Burt’s Close Calls with Nonsense, his essays on current poetry, I come across a discussion of the way the Australian poet John Tranter has mined “Dover Beach” to create some poems of his own. Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” ends thus:

And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

So I put aside Close Calls with Nonsense and pick up Gregory Benford’s science fiction novel Timescape. The characters hear noises out in the garage so go to investigate. They surprise some thieves and one of our heroes brandishes a fireplace poker.

Markham swung the poker back and forth in front of him. The men seemed paralyzed by the sound of it. In the gloom they could not tell how close it came. Markham could not judge the distance either. Ignorant armies clash by night, he thought giddily.

So, hey, that was fun, going from one book to another and encountering the same line of poetry in two different contexts.

Then I remembered that a few days previous I had read Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” in its entirety in an anthology edited by Robert Bly, News of the Universe: poems of twofold consciousness, a book I’m still working my way through.

update:
There’s one more item. I’ve been reading another anthology, The Cento: a collection of collage poems, edited by Theresa Malphrus Welford. As Welford explains, “A cento is a collage-poem composed of lines lifted from other sources – often … from great poets of the past.” I came across the placemark last night (2/5/12). I’d put it in a couple days after the Close Calls/Timescape incident. Maybe I was prepared by that, making it seemed natural when in a contribution by David Lehman I came across this:

… To begin the morning right,
The small rain down can rain

Where ignorant armies clash by night
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Glenn Ingersoll reading from a Roger story, plus some Fact poems

Louis Cuneo has uploaded to youtube selections from the Touch of the Poet series, which took place in the basement of the UC Berkeley Art Museum. This is me reading from a notebook. The video announces itself as documenting a 1997 reading then seems to change its mind and say it's 1998. I can't remember myself, but I may be able to get the correct date from a diary. Not that it matters so much. The chapbook I read from at the end is one Kent put together on the computer at home.

The Best Poems of 2010

Steven J. Bernstein ….. “Murdered in the Middle of the Dance”
Walid Bitar ….. “A Moral Climate”
Sargon Boulus ….. “How Middle-Eastern Singing Was Born”
John Cage ….. from “Themes and Variations”
Heidi E. Cooper ….. “untitled”
Najwari Darwish ….. “Clouds”
Michael Davidson ….. “Thinking the Alps”
Lucille Lang Day ….. “In Praise of Jellyfish” and “Near Kibbutz Nir David”
Andrew Demcak ….. “Postcard”
Dmitry Golynko-Volfson ….. “Passing the Church of the French Consulate”
Ko Un ….. from “Flowers of a Moment”
Alexander Kushner ….. “Memoirs”
Ann Lauterbach ….. “Clamor”
Rachida Madani ….. from “Tales of a Severed Head”
Thylias Moss ….. “The Lynching”
Rea Nikonova ….. “312 steps …”
Michael Palmer ….. “Voice and Address”
Po Chu I ….. “Sleeplessness”
Vasko Popa ….. “The Starry Snail” from “Heaven’s Ring”
Samih Al-Qasim ….. from “An Inquest”
Alejo Dao’ud Rodriguez ….. “Sing Sing Sits Up the River”
Sohrab Sepehri ….. “At the Hamlet of Golestaneh”
John Oliver Simon ….. “Caminos” and “El Canto” and “Endecasilabos” and “Jade”
Patricia Smith ….. “Annie Pearl Smith Discovers Moonlight”
Jeet Thayil ….. “Spiritus Mundi”
Alexandr Ulanov ….. “Untitled”
Keith Waldrop ….. “Wandering Curves”
Wang Shih Ch’eng ….. “The Red-Petaled Plum”
Marjorie Welish ….. “Skin”
Adam Zagajewski ….. “At Daybreak”

plus haiku by Buson, Seibi

In the links below I talked about how my “best poems” lists come about, so if you’ve Googled yourself or some other obscure poet and come here all unknowing, but really want to know, do a little link diving.

The Best Poems of 2011

The Best Poems of 2008

The Best Poems of 2007

The Best Poems of 2006

The Best Poems of 2005

The Best Poems of 2004

pile of reading

Timescape by Gregory Benford
This science fiction novel was published in 1980. I remember reading a review of it, probably in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine. I don’t remember the review being an all out rave, but it was positive enough for me to pick Timescape off the shelf at the paperback book exchange in Sebastopol when I had credit to use. The book then sat in a box in the closet for years. I brought it to Berkeley when I cleared out my mother’s house. It’s okay. I’m about halfway through. Characters living in 1998 are trying to send messages via tachyons to characters living in 1963, hoping the folks in ’63 will manage to head off some of the fomenting ecological disasters of the late ‘90s. I read another SF novel recently that was set in a year that came and went. Benford doesn’t fill his 1998 with spaceships the way Frederic Brown did.

If You Knew Then What I Know Now by Ryan Van Meter
A collection of essays, the ones I’ve read so far recounting memories of a sissy boy childhood and awakening gay sexual feelings. “First” describes a car ride in which the five-year-old Ryan proposes to his five-year-old beloved, Ben. That’s what people in love do, they get married, right?

Close Calls with Nonsense: reading new poetry essays by Stephen Burt
Twenty years ago I swore off reading critical essays because I was reading all these critical essays in order to find out what I should be reading but rarely actually reading the works the essays were written about. That’s what you do when you’re an intellectual, read thinkers writing about art. Right? No more reading about fiction or poetry, I sternly directed myself. You must devote your reading time to the poetry or fiction that these critical thinkers are thinking critically about. It was a good choice. I gave myself permission very recently to read essays again. Since I’ve been reading without the help of the judgments of others I have developed judgments of my own so when I read a critic, Stephen Burt in this case, I have confidence in my own opinions and have some perspective on the critic’s take. I’ve read a few of the contemporary poets Burt talks about here – D.A. Powell, August Kleinzahler, Rae Armantrout – but mostly not – Liz Waldner, Laura Kasischke, H.L. Hix. I don’t know what I’ll take away from this book, exactly. On the whole I think it better I go back to reading poetry to the exclusion of people talking about poetry. It only matters so much what others think. If Burt loves somebody I care not for, so what?

Paradiso Diaspora poems by John Yau
John Yau is a favorite. I just read a selected by him. Liking this one less, the writing seems slacker, but there are lots of fun lines. “[T]hose of us perched in the back rows, and there are far more of us than there are seats, can’t tell which entrance in the hours erected by the sky’s solid façade might prove useful should the mounting chatter take a turn for the worse …”

The Wounded Alphabet: poems collected and new, 1953-1983 by George Hitchcock
Both Yau and Hitchcock ply surrealistic bayous. Yau is playful and shifts from serious to goofy over the course of a poem (or a line). Hitchcock doesn’t do fun. He’s all serious, often in that melodramatic tone I associate with 19th century verse. “[S]omewhere in the years outside these walls / A boy, shivering, dives in a golden river // Still searching for a bit of porcelain, / White, in the shape of a fish.”

The Cento: a collection of collage poems edited by Theresa Malphrus Welford
The poems I crafted from titles owned by the UC Berkeley library would fit well in here.

News of the Universe: poems of twofold consciousness chosen and introduced by Robert Bly
A Sierra Club publication that wants to be more ambitious that just being a collection of nature poems. I understand there’s a new edition available, but I’m reading the old one which was given to me by my first landlady in Berkeley.

Drama: an actor’s education by John Lithgow
This memoir can be fun, can be a bit much. “In the towns, the streets are eerily empty. The carousel in Oak Bluffs is shuttered and silent. As the days pass, all signs of human life disappear from the windswept beaches, leaving them desolate and melancholy.” The streets can’t just be empty, they have to be “eerily empty.” The beaches without humans on them are necessarily “melancholy”? Drama, indeed.

From Hell a graphic novel by Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell
I was going to read this someday. When I saw that the West Branch copy had been misshelved at Central I decided I would be doing the library a favor by checking it out so that when it came back it could be directed to the owning location. Alan Moore is interesting. I don’t always love his stuff. In fact, I often find it a tad overwritten. And Eddie Campbell’s art is a bit scratchy and stiff. But I don’t doubt this is worth reading, even if I did see the forgettable movie version (Moore hates all movie adaptations of his work) and don’t care about Jack the Ripper.

The Best Poems of 2011

Anita Barrows ….. “The Ancestors”
Guy Bennett …. “Poem after Josef Sudek” and “Condensed Poem” and “Necessary Poem”
Molly Fisk ….. “Red River” and “This is the Story of My Life”
Angela Weld Grimke ….. “Tenebris”
Paul Guest ….. “Elba”
Judith Herzberg ….. “Kinneret”
Rachel Korn ….. “From Here to There”
Donna M. Lane ….. “Pajamas”
Nicanor Parra ….. “A Man”
Gyorgy Petri ….. “I Am Stuck, Lord, on Your Hook”
Edouard Roditi ….. “The Paths of Prayer”
Harvey Shapiro ….. “Like a Beach”
Leonora Speyer ….. “The Ladder”
Anna Swir ….. “He Was Lucky”
Julia Vinograd ….. “Street Musician”
Stanislaw Wygodski ….. “Winter Journey”

plus haiku by John Brandi (2), Margaret Chula (2), Cid Corman (2), Raffael de Gruttola, Diane di Prima, Bernard Lionel Einbond, David Elliott, Sandra Fuhringer, Christopher Herold (3), Brent Partridge, Alan Pizzarelli, Jane Reichhold, Frank K. Robinson, Alexis Rotella (2), Edith Shiffert, Ruby Spriggs, Tom Tico, Anita Virgil

Did you make my list of the Best Poems of 2011? If you did, yay for you, I guess. If you didn’t, well, maybe I didn’t read any of your poems.

The list is a favorites list, which poems I liked best of those read in 2011.

I keep a stack of placemarks ready whenever I’m reading poetry. If a poem strikes me just right, I pop a placemark into the book so I can revisit. If, after several rereadings, I decide it’s a poem I don’t want to leave behind, I hand copy the poem and slip it into a 3-ring binder. I’ve been doing this for about 24 years so I’ve got some fat binders.The one I’ve been filling for the last twelve years has finally gotten too tight, so I’m moving it to the archive shelf and starting anew.

On the first of the year I read aloud all the poems I’ve collected over the previous year. Usually I’m reading to myself, in case you were wondering. This year Kent listened in. Of course, he had his own opinions and wasn’t afraid to question my choices. If you want your tastes reflected, friends, fill your own notebooks. On the whole, though, he seemed to enjoy it, even tearing up over Donna Lane’s “Pajamas.”

I haven’t posted a “Best Poems” list since 2008, so I have 2009 and 2010 to share with you folks. Yes, I had favorites those years, too.

The Best Poems of 2008

The Best Poems of 2007

The Best Poems of 2006

The Best Poems of 2005

The Best Poems of 2004

a tale of two Burroughses

Tarzan fascinated me and inspired a lifelong love of Africa, its people, and its wildlife. … When I first read Tarzan, going to Africa became an imperative. And I also desperately wanted to be able to communicate with animals as my hero did. Edgar Rice Burroughs never set foot in Africa (in fact, William S. Burroughs has probably been a more reliable guide to me), and his descriptions bear no relation to what it actually looks like, or what it’s like to live there …

So the book that set Tony Fitzjohn on his way to becoming the main assistant to George Adamson in the camp Adamson set up to return orphaned and failed pet lions to the wild in Kenya was a book that bore “no relation” to reality … There’s something about the magic of the imagination, eh? Africa is more accessible than Barsoom!

There’s something else in the quote I’m going to point out. I read several books at once and it’s not uncommon for me to turn from one book, a book on lions, say, to another set in an entirely different milieu, U.S. indie rock, maybe, and in that same reading period find the different books talk about the same thing. William S. Burroughs, in this case. In my January First post I quote from Bob Mould. He stole a book from the library, Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs. A Brit who ends up a lion caretaker in Africa and an upstate NYer who ends up a rock star were both into William Burroughs.

source: Born Wild: the extraordinary story of one man’s passion for Africa by Tony Fitzjohn

“the ground had become impregnated with urine”

[L]ions are not particular about where they urinate. They will do it lying, sitting or standing, at any time and in any place, although they are most particular about where they defecate and will always move well away from their sleeping places. It is quite possible that their free and easy habits of urination have a definite purpose. Lion urine appears to be an insect repellent as I noticed this to be the case of Elsa and her sisters; their small night enclosure became heavily infested by fleas, but after a time, when the ground had become impregnated with urine, the fleas disappeared.

source: A Lifetime with Lions by George Adamson

According to Masters & Johnson

I’d heard that Masters & Johnson, the sex researchers, had studied gay people, but that their final report was riddled with homophobia. In her book on sex research Mary Roach reads the M&J report and lets us know, not only is it flawed by homophobia, the gay people come off as better lovers than hets.

They ‘tended to move slowly … and to linger at … [each] stage of stimulative response, making each step in tension increment something to be appreciated …’ They teased each other ‘in an obvious effort to prolong the stimulatee’s high levels of sexual excitation.’

Those are some of Roach’s excerpts from Masters & Johnson, thus Roach’s elisions and interpolation. Some of the couples were singles randomly assigned by the researchers. For the shy among us, you might note that all the couples, male/male, female/female, and female/male, performed under lights in a lab while being observed. All must have been pretty confident about their ability to showcase their skills.

According to Masters & Johnson a woman would get about as turned on by her female lover’s arousal as by anything happening exclusive to herself. This, you might or might not be surprised to learn, was not the case with hets. The goal in het sex is climax, with both boys and girls trying to push their partners to rapid release. M&J call this “goal orientation, … trying to get something done,” with main focus on the genitals, and by that I mean the penis.

Meanwhile, the homosexual men lavished attention on their partners’ entire bodies. And the gay men, like the gay women, were adept at the tease.

The gay lovers “talked far more easily, often, and openly about what they did and didn’t enjoy. Gay men and women simply seemed more comfortable in the world of sex.”

And the homophobia? Where did that come in? “Masters & Johnson spent the second half of the book touting a therapy for helping homosexuals convert to heterosexuality.” Oh. One can see how that would overshadow the research’s positives.

source: Bonk: the curious coupling of science and sex by Mary Roach

“Smoking … the timepiece of my life”

I started smoking a pack a day at the beginning of college, and by the end, I was up to three packs a day. Smoking had become both the centerpiece and timepiece of my life. Every cigarette was six minutes long, and I could practically mark out the whole day with smoking, like a sundial. Six minutes on, nine minutes off. Repeat sixty times a day.

When I came across this passage in Bob Mould’s new memoir I was surprised. Here was a reason for smoking that had never occurred to me. Cigarette as timepiece!

I remember being delighted the first time I was given candy cigarettes. I could mime the grown-ups at last. I could playact the mystery of smoking. It wasn’t very good candy. And I wasn’t that picky about candy! Fiddling with the candy cigarette told me nothing about what would make one want to suck smoke and stink up their clothes. I did like fire. And cigarette lighters. Having permission to set little fires all day everywhere seemed seductive.

When my brother told me he’d been secretly smoking cigarettes I pestered him to explain what he got out of it. The explanation didn’t sound sufficient. Something about a waky buzz? I tried, smoking at least one cigarette sitting behind a bush near the little league bleachers. When it made me sick I was told that’s what happens to everybody, but you get over that. Plus there’s something cool about it because the people who smoke are cool. Oh? My stepmother was cool? I liked her all right. But, I don’t know, cool?

source: See a Little Light: the trail of rage and melody by Bob Mould with Michael Azerrad

another memoir, another library thief

During the day, my work-study job was at the library. I would move quietly through the stacks, restocking the returned books and observing people studying quietly – or discreetly pleasuring themselves in an obscure alcove. It happened all the time. I also lifted the library’s lone copy of Naked Lunch for my personal collection.

source: See a Little Light: the trail of rage and melody by Bob Mould with Michael Azerrad

compare to our last library thief

“Ambassadors of affable storms honor my effigy”

Thanks, George Hitchcock, for giving me the title of this last post of 2011. The words are from his poem “My Days and Nights,” which appears in The Wounded Alphabet: Poems Collected and New, 1953-1983. See you all in Twelve!

“a matter of common report”

I have to quote this excerpt from the medieval guidebook to the prosecution of witches, Malleus Maleficarium. The author takes as a given that everybody knows about “those witches who … sometimes collect male organs [yes, penises] in great numbers, as many as twenty or thirty members together, and put them in a bird’s nest or shut them up in a box, where they move themselves like living members, and eat oats and corn, as has been seen by many and is a matter of common report[.]” (The ellipsis is in the original excerpt.)

source: Bonk: the curious coupling of science and sex by Mary Roach

“I like America”

In his book on poetry, Beautiful and Pointless, David Orr does some research. Into the Google search box he slips a phrase like “I like baseball,” then compares the number of results to a phrase like “I love baseball.” “I like baseball,” Orr says, returns nearly 5 times as many results as “I love baseball.” Orr:

[T]he phrase “I like music” appears roughly three times as often as “I love music,” and the phrase “I like movies” is about five times as common as “I love movies.” (Indeed, the general preference for “I like X” is stronger than you might expect: Even “I love America” gets roundly stomped by “I like America,” just as “I love beer” is, to my sorrow and surprise, trumped by “I like beer.”) But the phrase “I love poetry” beats “I like poetry” by a ratio of two to one. … [N]o matter how many times I ran these particular searches (and I did this repeatedly over several days), I never got a result in which “I love poetry” failed to outperform the “like” version; in fact, one particular, presumably aberrant search returned thirty-six occurrences of “love” for every occurrence of “like.”

I repeated the experiment. For “I like poetry” I got about 1,260,000 results. For “I love poetry” I got about 4,170,000 results.

Then I thought, why not, I’ll try, “I don’t like poetry,” and got about 961,000 results. For “I hate poetry” I got about 285,000 results. Amusingly, many of the initial “I hate poetry” results are poems or poetry discussion groups.

I did pretty quickly find another supposedly atypical love/like asymmetry. “I love sex” (about 31,000,000 results) vs. “I like sex” (about 11,900,000 results). Does this say something about Poetry?

Interestingly, considering yesterday’s post, the likes vs. the loves as regards ping-pong are fairly comparable: “I like ping pong” (about 287,000 results) vs. “I love ping pong” (about 263,000 results). (For Orr the likes vs. the loves for “poker” came out about the same.) He also searches Cooking (2.8 : 1), Gardening (2.54 : 1), Romance Novels (3.36 : 1), and Stamp Collecting (3.5 : 1).

source: Beautiful and Pointless: a guide to modern poetry by David Orr

Poetry as Ping-Pong

What is Poetry? One might “claim that all fictional and/or figurative language is a subset of poetry.”

I like this claim. The above formulation is David Orr’s, from his book on poetry, Beautiful and Pointless. I prefer to say, “Poetry is Art created using the material of Language.” This subsumes “all fictional and/or figurative language” under the term Poetry, doesn’t it. I partly like this definition because it makes so grand a pronouncement as to stymie argument, or, rather, to move the argument so far away from the usual fussing over line breaks and stressed syllables that those tiresome old niggly bits don’t even come up.

David Orr does not approve. He calls this an “untenable position.” He says this “is like asserting that all games played with vaguely spherical objects are really ping-pong.”

So. Poetry is Ping-Pong? No, Mr Orr. Poetry is not Ping-Pong. No more than it’s Tennis. Or Football – can one say American football is played with a “vaguely spherical object” anyway? Is poetry a game? What score does one need in order to win?

source: Beautiful and Pointless: a guide to modern poetry by David Orr

“atypical and exceptional”

[C]ompetitions are the way in which many, if not most, books of poems are published nowadays. For example, when you see a phrase like ‘Winner of the Colorado Prize for Poetry’ on the cover of a collection, it means that the manuscript in question was selected in an open competition … Typically, books published through these competitions have a series editor who appoints judges each year, and in some cases those judges are anonymous. In addition, these contests cost money to enter – usually around thirty dollars or so. … Every year, large numbers of poets … end up spending hundreds [of dollars] for the chance to publish a book …

The above comes from David Orr’s new book about poetry today, Beautiful and Pointless. I quote him mainly to introduce the next quote, this one from Carolyne Wright’s essay on how her books came to be:

[T]he publication of both my first and so-called second books qualified, according to some rubrics, as a chapbook and a limited edition, respectively – they represented such atypical and exceptional publishing circumstances that very few publishing contest organizers could determine what their actual designation was. Before sending to competitions for second or third books, on several occasions I had to query managing editors and explain these circumstances in order to learn whether I was qualified to submit. Fortunately, the ostensible third collection, Seasons of Mangoes and Brainfire, won the Blue Lynx Prize, an open competition for poets at any stage of their publishing career, so the status of earlier collections didn’t matter.

When Carolyne Wright’s first two books – each of which was the winner of a different competition – turned out not to fit the standard definition of a full-length poetry book, she found herself in difficulty. Wright seems to have concluded she could not ethically enter a first book competition, but could she justify entering a second book competition? In the end, as she says, she managed to win a competition that wasn’t restricted to first books or second books. (Or third books? Who knew there were competitions exclusively for third books?) Carolyne Wright seems to have gone all-in on the competition as the way to see her books into print.

I hate contests. Well, not per se. But I do hate that contests have become “the way … most books of poems are published.” It seems to me that if you are going to get into the business of publishing poetry you should choose to publish what you love. Or who you love. There is no money in it. The reward you’re going to get (if you get any at all) is seeing poetry you believe in by poets you admire get into the hands of readers who, for a few precious moments, will not be wasting their time reading bad poetry by tiresome poets. And you’re going to be putting a lot of time and effort – and your own money – into that triumph. So why waste your time publishing anything but what you love?

There is no money in it? Not in selling poetry. (Yes, every so often there’s going to be the freak like Billy Collins or the perennial dead poet who gets assigned in enough college courses to make it worth a publisher’s while to keep her – and books about her – in print. There is a little bit of money in selling poetry. It just doesn’t spread far.)

There is money in publishing poetry. But it’s not from selling it to readers. The money comes from the other side of the transaction – the poets. Poets are so desperate to get into print they shell out hundreds of dollars in contest entry fees. $30+ entry fees fund the publication of the lucky winners. It could be you’re super talented (or super connected) and you win the very first contest you enter. One wants to believe one would be that poet! But even good poets who have published frequently in literary magazines and ezines have to enter contests over and over before they win. And there isn’t even a guarantee anyone will win. A few years ago the name poet who was hired to judge one of the most prestigious contests, The Yale Series of Younger Poets, decided not one of the manuscripts submitted was worthy of his recommendation. The prize went unawarded that year. Fun, huh?

Do these prize books sell out their print runs? More frequently than the book brought out by the publisher who put his effort into it out of love? Some contests will send the winning book out to all entrants. Is that a way to get it read?

Because so many poets are academics, David Orr says, they have to publish in order to keep their jobs. The contest entry fee as a business expense? If you never win, what happens?

sources: Beautiful and Pointless: a guide to modern poetry by David Orr, and “A Reply to Storms: How Some Collections Were Ordered (or Disordered)” by Carolyne Wright, appearing in the bookOrdering the Storm: How to Put Together a Book of Poems edited by Susan Grimm

what I picked up at A.P.E.

Gaylord Phoenix by Edie Fake I’ve purchased mini comics, but this is the first time I’ve seen a collected edition.

Lies Grown Ups Told Me a comics anthology edited by Nomi Kane, Caitlin M., and Jen Vaughn

Love Is the Reason: a Cavalcade of Boys story by Tim Fish

Wish the World and Sidewalk Empire: the avenues mini comics by Eddie H. Ahn

The Book of Boy Trouble!, vol. 2: Born to Trouble a comics anthology edited by Robert Kirby and David Kelly

Luci’s Let Down created and written by Marjee Chmiel, art by Sandra Lanz

Pardon Our Dust no. 4, Spring 2011, a tabloid-sized literary & art magazine out of the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena

plus scads of postcards – most free promo, though I did hand over money for one or two.

The Alternative Press Expo (A.P.E.) in San Francisco continues for a few more hours today.

“A screaming comes across the sky.”

I found The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. So much for memory.

I remember buying a copy of the Books of Wonder edition of Wizard for the son of our contractor. The contractor had borrowed a copy of the recent University of Nebraska edition of Baum’s Twinkle Tales, a collection of fantasies starring a girl named Twinkle that were actually set on the prairie, rather than in a separate fantasy land like Oz (or Mo or Ix). The contractor’s son reportedly loved the book, but had never read The Wizard of Oz so when I saw the Books of Wonder edition at the used bookstore I bought it as a gift.

The contractor had had the strange notion I’d be doing him a big boon in his seven-year-old son’s eyes if I found an original edition of The Twinkle Tales. The contractor’s own eyes clearly glazed over when I said the U of NE paperback is the first time all those stories appeared together and tracking down the originals would be very expensive and … And I knew having some dumb collectible wouldn’t be any fun for a small boy.

When I found the copy of Wizard in good condition without a dust jacket I knew it the better choice. A couple weeks later the boy came to the house with his mother and, after parental prodding, thanked me for the book. But what gratified me more than a few mumbled words was the way he hung onto the book and swung it around while he talked about it and talked about how he liked the Wicked Witch.

I liked the Books of Wonder edition and decided I would get one for myself. So I guess it seemed like a lot of time passed between the purchases. Must not have. Because I discovered the copy I bought for myself (also used, but with dust jacket!) at the bottom of the shelves I shoved my Oz books onto, hidden behind cardboard to keep the construction dust from coating them (& to protect from cats peeing). Time elongated over the course of that renovation …

Finding the book after looking for it so long was almost a disappointment. I’d taken to picturing myself paging through other editions in search of the perfect unDenslow Wizard, thus shaking up my settled notion of the classic. Okay, so I was wrong about the book not being purchased “long after things had to be gotten out of the way of the workers and the dust.” My tactile memory was good, even if my chronology was whack. And, having looked over another illustrator at the bookstore I ducked into on my way home from the dentist this morning, I’m good with W.W.

I did buy an Oz book while I was there. Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz. Also a Books of Wonder edition. Nice color plates. I got it for 20% off because I was able to identify the opening sentence the bookseller had written as a challenge on the chalkboard on the sidewalk. “You Googled it!” he said. Oh please.

“A screaming comes across the sky.”

The Mysterious Disappearance of Oz

Sometime in the last year I found a like-new copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz at a local used bookstore. It’s a recent edition created by Books of Wonder & Morrow, but it is modeled after the first edition of Wizard and W.W. Denslow’s beautiful design.

I’ve been imagining rereading the Oz series, all 40+ books, and I was thinking that recent acquisition would be a fine place to start. Y’gotta start with Wizard, of course, but there are many editions and many illustrators who have added their vision to Baum’s. Being as I fell in love with Wizard reading a Dover edition, a paperback which does a pretty good job of reproducing Denslow’s design – as well as his illustrations – and considering I virtually have the book memorized I read it so many times as a child, perhaps it would make the reread a fresher experience if I took advantage of an edition illustrated by someone very unlike Denslow.

Sacrilege!

… No, no. It’s not a bad thought, actually.

A thought that probably would not have entered my head had not that nice BoW/M edition gone missing. I have no idea where it could be. I haven’t dug down to the bottom of every pile or opened every stacked box, but I was sure I had no need to. Since the renovation completed we’ve been unpacking boxes, not filling them. I don’t remember when exactly I bought this new edition, but it was quite recently, long after things had to be gotten out of the way of the workers and the dust. So where could it have hidden itself?

stats

For LoveSettlement, my other blog, I set up a Sitemeter, but for Dare I Read I haven’t had any statistics. Until this week. When Blogger decided at last to offer some up on the publishing dashboard.

I didn’t have a Sitemeter on DIR because when I signed up for it, it didn’t look like you could have more than one. Maybe that changed or maybe I just didn’t understand the way it worked. But LuvSet got so few visitors that the stats service told me little; it hardly seemed worth bothering with. The one thing that seemed clear, the more frequently I posted, the fewer visitors I got. The “Thousand” project, which has been just about all LuvSet’s been occupied with this 490 days, sure hasn’t brought in the readers.

When I got the Sitemeter I was making efforts to promote LuvSet. DIR I was just letting gather what eyeballs it could on its own. I didn’t figure people would care that much about my reading. My one test to see if DIR was getting noticed was adding Google Adsense. I forget how long the ads have been there, hunkered down in the right hand column. Two years? Three? Five? You don’t get a check until the ads have earned $100. So far the account has accrued $7.01. Only $93 away from getting paid. Thanks, new dashboard! I haven’t checked the account in ages. Now it’s so easy to see.

So it’s fun to see info you used to have to search for. I now know which is my most popular post: Dialect in Wuthering Heights

The post (from 2008) gets twice the page views of any other on DIR, not just in the history of the blog, but every day.

The top four most visited posts are all from 2008. The fifth is from May of this year.

If you’re curious, they are:

#2 Stegosaurus v. Tyrannosaurus

#3 Ant Head Sutures

#4 The French in Tropic of Cancer

#5 Cowboys and Pistols

And to put this in perspective, not even the Wuthering Heights post has yet had a thousand visitors.

what I picked up at SF Zine Fest

The Comic Book Guide to the Mission: a cartoon tour through San Francisco’s Mission District collected and edited by Lauren Davis

Kiss and Tell: a romantic resume, ages 0 to 22 by MariNaomi

Estrus Collection, vol. 2 by MariNaomi

Elf World Vol. 2, No.2 edited by Francois Vigneault

Ebb and Flood no. 1 by Brian Herrick

a painting of a falling robot by Adam Davis

also a bunch of postcards, most of them free promo, one or two purchased

"two guys who kissed each other – often"

SimCity and The Sims are games designed by a shy skinny guy named Will Wright. He worked on SimCity on spec while at Broderbund but that company couldn’t see a way to market it. Not until Wright formed a new software company, Maxis, with business partner Jeff Braun did SimCity get its chance. Gee, it was a huge success. In his book on the history of videogames Harold Goldberg describes the trouble huge success got more than one videogame company into at the end of the 90s when the tech bubble was in full expansion. “Maxis incurred pressure from investors to … earn big money. … [A]rrogant idiots were brought in as bosses. They knew nothing about games. …[B]ean counters forced Wright and his crew to release … generally unfinished, unpolished, sometimes untested games.” One of the bits of coding that slipped through was this instance of guerrilla gay activism:

While working on SimCopter, a programmer who was secretly annoyed that there were no gays in Maxis products surreptitiously added two guys who kissed each other – often. That did not sit well with Wright and Braun, who had made certain that Maxis did not discriminate and had health care benefits for gay partners. The employee was shown the door, but the damage was done. SimCopter had to be recalled, which hit the company’s stock hard, not to mention the harm it did to its reputation.

Goldberg does not make clear whether the blow to Maxis’ reputation had more to do with the poor quality of the game(s) or the gayness of the kissing. I’ve never played any of the Sim series. So I was curious about how they treat gay folks.

According to this post by Lyle Masaki at AfterElton, The Sims “was a breath of fresh air … The Sims' idea of love included same-sex romances. It was a welcoming touch of the real world.” As in the real world, Masaki says, gays could move in together but not marry. As of The Sims 3, however, “after a week of game time, I was able to get a male couple to plan a wedding party and tie the knot.”

And if you want to see some Sims-style gay canoodling, there’s a youtube video you can watch. (It’s kind of cute.)

source: All Your Base Are Belong To Us: how fifty years of videogames conquered pop culture by Harold Goldberg

dolphins swimming badly

Since the mid 80s Denise Herzing has been studying the spotted dolphins who live in the clear waters off the Bahamas. To help fund the project the research boat makes room for a handful of non-scientist observers, or “passengers,” as Herzing calls them in this discussion about mimicry in the new book Dolphin Diaries:

Humans in the water often try to ‘dolphin’ swim, which means keeping your legs together and undulating from the waist. For the most part we are pretty bad at it, jerkily swimming while barely moving through the water. As a well-meaning passenger followed a spotted dolphin trying to get his dolphin kick right, a second dolphin followed the human, but the dolphin used jerky and awkward movements mimicking the struggling human – a dolphin mimicking a human mimicking a dolphin!

source: Dolphin Diaries: My 25 Years with Spotted Dolphins in the Bahamas by Dr Denise L. Herzing

You can also check in on Herzing and the dolphins at the website for The Wild Dolphin Project.

Is Uncle Henry a Gale?

Before the house was swept away by cyclone little Dorothy “lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer's wife.” That’s the way L. Frank Baum puts it in the opening sentence of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The order in which they’re introduced suggests that Uncle Henry is Dorothy’s blood relation, with his wife Dorothy’s aunt by marriage. In a sequel to Wizard Baum gives Dorothy’s last name as Gale. He never (so far as I recall) explicitly says whether Henry’s last name is Gale, too.

At the Oz convention this summer I asked a couple friends and Oz scholars if they knew of any post-Baum Oz historian who had given Dorothy parents. Eric Gjovaag remembered an author who had written about Dorothy as though she were a real person and this author had suggested Dorothy was not biologically related either to her “Uncle” or to her “Aunt” but had been shipped West on an orphan train. I thought that an interesting take. I didn’t write any of this down so I’ve forgotten the author and title. I’ll write Eric and see if he remembers.

Anyway, I am reading volume one of The Complete Annotated Oz Squad by Steve Ahlquist and see that he has given Uncle Henry a last name different from Dorothy’s. A panel of the comic shows a mailbox. Explains Ahlquist, “The name on the mailbox is Snow, Dorothy’s mother’s maiden name. Uncle Henry is Dorothy’s mother’s brother.”

In volume two we learn that Henry’s sister is a prominent person in Oz who has been of much help to her daughter.

Yoyontzin

Nezahualcoyotl is a rare pre-Columbian American Indian* poet who is remembered by name. What caught my attention in the small print where editor William Brandon includes biographical material was the second of the two “popular names” by which Nezahualcoyotl was known. One of the names “was Acolmixtli (‘Lion Arm’), another was Yoyontzin (‘Beautiful Fucker’).”

Considering the variety of connotations “fucker” has acquired, from worst insult to admiring praise, and the fact that “fuck” doesn’t always (or even usually) mean the act of sexual intercourse, I find myself blinking at the moniker. Beautiful Fucker. A legendary name!

*Nezahualcoyotl was an Aztec king

source: The Magic World: American Indian Songs and Poems edited by William Brandon

A Malecite Tale

there was once a woman who admired a dog
the dog was handsome
she liked his face

that night the dog turned into a man
he became her husband

never tell anyone I used to be a dog
never mention it at all
he said to his wife

for a long time they lived together
she never thought of him as a dog
she never spoke of it

but one day she saw some dogs in the village
they were all chasing a bitch
everywhere here and there

so she asked her husband if he would like to be one of them
and instantly he said yes and turned back into a dog
and away he ran with the others

source: The Magic World: American Indian Songs and Poems edited by William Brandon

I found The Magic World on the library book sale shelves at Berkeley Public Library’s North Branch. For many years the library has hosted these mini-sales for the Friends of the Library. People pay on the honor system, twenty-five cents a book. I think the Friends have finally decided not to support this arrangement. Or maybe it was the library administration. The shelves do take up space that could be used for something else. And I imagine the money they bring in is not great.

Still, it’s been a nice resource. Over the years I’ve found quite a few books of interest. Mostly yellowed classics. When I looked it over I didn’t remember The Magic World, though I went through several Native American poetry anthologies some years ago. The copy is in good shape, a lightly-read 40 year-old book. For twenty-five cents I figured it wasn’t a loss even had I read it before.

And I have. Enough time has passed, it seems, that I remember almost nothing specific, except for (curiously?) the typography. I find the cover ugly, a line drawing of a big-chinned American Indian man with his long hair parted in the middle and restrained by bands at the sides. A silhouette of a man on horseback seems to be riding out of the Indian’s left eye socket. Maybe I read an edition that had a different cover or a rebound copy. The pieces in the book are from a variety of sources, many not originally recorded as poetry – speeches, explanations, contracts. On the whole I wasn’t much impressed, but toward the back I came upon some pretty brilliant dream-like stories, the “Malecite Tale” being one. (A few pages later the Natchez tale, “The Cannibal’s Seven Sons,” confirmed for me that I’d read the anthology before. The poem is one I copied out by hand and have read over many times.)

The “Malecite Tale” above was first published in The Journal of American Folk Lore in 1917. According to Wikipedia, “The Wolastoqiyik, or Maliseet [Malecite], are an Algonquian-speaking Native American/First Nations/Aboriginal people of the Wabanaki Confederacy. They are the Indigenous people of the Saint John River valley and its tributaries, between New Brunswick, Quebec, and Maine.”

hat tip to VintageVida for the cover scan

Orcas in grief

[A]n adult male and female [were] swimming side by side in the weak November light. One had a baby draped over its head. Van Ginneken had seen this activity before as a form of play, with the mother lifting the infant from below or the baby swimming onto her head as if to hitch a ride. But there were only two spouts rising from this group of three. The baby, she realized, was dead.

Next, van Ginneken saw the male rise with its head high above the water as in a spy-hop. It was carrying the baby on its pectoral fins, held forward the way we would carry a child in our arms.

The observer, Astrid van Ginneken, is a scientist studying whales. She loses track of the infant and the male/female pair as they come upon a larger group of orcas. The orcas formed a stationary circle, “heads partly raised and facing inward …”

There in the middle floated the baby’s corpse. Time and again, the whales broke off, reformed their line at a distance, approached the infant, and spread out to face it in a circle. A storm gathered, sucking what little brightness remained from the sky. As van Ginneken’s boat left for shore, the ceremony was still being repeated.

source: The Grandest of Lives: eye to eye with whales by Douglas H. Chadwick