Showing posts with label pleasure boat studio. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pleasure boat studio. Show all posts

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Headwaters, Poems & Field Notes - Saul Weisberg (Pleasure Boat Studio)

Today's book of poetry:
Headwaters, Poems & Field Notes.  Saul Weisberg.  Pleasure Boat Studio.  New York, New York.  2015.


Saul Weisberg's Headwaters, Poems & Field Notes is a master class in exploring the natural world with a tuned and sympathetic ear.  These poems bear a close resemblance to meditations or even prayers.  Weisberg is able to report with such an empathetic voice that you begin to expect that he was the Earth's own lungs given sound.

There is nothing pastoral about these brief accounts although that sentiment is in there, no, Weisberg is closer to Basho with his clipped ease.  These poems are cut to the bone but never terse and never lacking the underlying warmth Weisberg maintains.

What this poetry most certainly is - is celebratory and there is precious little of that these days.  Saul W's Headwaters is marvelously optimistic.

Spring Music

All you need to know
     about my day:

winter wren
     in the morning.

canyon wren
     at dusk.

...

These poems are calming.  When you read these poems the possibility of a kinder world is obvious. There is nothing naive about Weisberg's wisdom or the world he portrays, it is the authentic thing.

Again and again, in the simplest possible terms, these poems announce genuine consideration of the natural world and create wonder.

Paddles

The yellow canoe
tied on top of the red car
next to the frozen lake.

Drifting -
it's all right in a canoe,
in life, another story.

Sometimes
when my wind wanders
only the canoe goes straight.

I point my paddles
where I want to go,
the wind has other ideas.

At the edge of the ice
the canoe hovers,
tasting winter.

...

Weisberg's poems read and sound like things we already know.  At the morning read today everyone had the same reaction to this sublime poetry.  Reverence.

Even Milo was enthusiastic.  He also shaved for the first time since August.  And is wearing a clean shirt.  And is now sitting in the corner with Kathryn, again, and reading Weisberg poems to her.  Her Goth demeanour would seem to be in partial swoon.

Milo isn't just reading to Kathryn, he's giving voice to the Weisberg poems in a quiet but authoritative tone.  He has us all in a short swoon but we know it will lift us up.  Isn't poetry marvelous.

Home Ground

It's good to have a lake close to home,
also rivers, mountains too.
Familiar terrain and the comfort
of well-traveled trails.
In my pocket,
on the torn corner of a map -
directions to a place called home.

...

Headwaters, Poems & Field Notes takes us to a home that is in our better nature, Weisberg reminds us in every poem of who we are and of who we could be.

Splendid.

Saul Weisberg

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Saul Weisberg is the co-founder and Executive Director of North Cascades Institute, a conservation nonprofit with the mission of conserving and restoring Northwest environments founded in 1986. He serves on the board of directors of the Association of Nature Center Administrators, the Natural History Network and the Environmental Education Association of Washington, and is adjunct faculty at Huxley College of the Environment at Western Washington University. In 2013, Weisberg was given the Environmental Heroes Award by ReSources in Bellingham. He has authored From the Mountains to the Sea, North Cascades: The Story behind the Scenery, Teaching for Wilderness, and Living with Mountains. Saul and his family live near the shores of the Salish Sea in Bellingham, Washington.

BLURBS
Headwaters is a peaceful, joyous book. Its poems open my heart. Yes, every moment is a gift. Every bird, a blessing.
     —Kathleen Dean Moore

Saul Weisberg’s crisp, lyric poems are grounded deeply in his lifelong engagement with the plants and wildlife, rocks and weather of his home ground, Washington’s rugged North Cascades and the Salish Sea. Buoyant, passionate, playful, and precise, these poems echo Basho in capturing mystery within an image and Rexroth in artfully blending themes of nature and love. But the poet’s joyful celebration of family, friendship, community, and place are all his own. This is a clear and welcome poetic voice from one of the West’s most inspiring locales. 
     — Tim McNulty

Headwaters drips with the waters of the wild, sings with the voices of thrush, wren, and owl, dances with the butterflies. How wonderful to have Saul Weisberg’s long-awaited poems together in this handsome book – poems that are worshipful and wry, funny and askance, often sexy, and always perceptive. I am thrilled to have Headwaters at loose in the world at last.
     — Robert Michael Pyle

The sensual poems of Saul Weisberg are powerful connections to the essential elements in nature that enrich and fashion our lives. With economy he fashions an invitation for us to join in the moment and become appreciative witnesses and his companion in nature. With lines such as “The river gathers friends on its way to the sea” and questions likes “What does it mean to become extinct?” we are challenged to expand how we embrace and steward our natural heritage. 
     — Tony Angell

Make room in your backpack for the marvelously condensed wisdom of Headwaters: poems that are intricate as a snowflake, as simple as stone, and the very soul of an educational visionary who has spent his life in the high Cascades. Each of these mountain morsels smiles with gentle truth, and lingers on the mind with honest beauty. 
     — William Dietrich

From the “ecstasy of conifers” and the “infinite ache of wood becoming wood” to rivers that “tremble in their sleep,” Saul Weisberg sees into the heart of the world, revealing all the ways we’re connected to this landscape and to each other. In spare, lyric poems and haiku-like field notes—each one a shining gem—he reminds us how to pay attention, giving us, in poem after poem, “directions to a place called home.”
       – Holly J. Hughes

"Not many people know the spirit of the mountains, rivers, lakes and inland sea of Cascadia like Weisberg does. His reverent attentiveness, subtle humor and deep ecological knowledge are apparent in Headwaters, a volume collecting more than 25 years of his poems and journal entries." 
     — Cascadia Weekly

"Inspired by the landscape around him...Weisberg's work captures the expanse of awe-inspiring wilderness in perfect, distinct moments. Exploring the connection between man and nature, Weisberg's work is is both contemplative and celebratory." 
     — North Sound Life


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Wednesday, December 3, 2014

The Whiskey Epiphanies: Selected Poems 1963-2013 - Dick Bakken (Pleasure Boat Studio: A Literary Press)

Today's book of poetry:
The Whiskey Epiphanies: Selected Poems 1963-2013.  Dick Bakken.  Pleasure Boat Studio: A Literary Press.  New York, New York.  2014.


These are big messy, full of life, kick in the ass, scream at the moon, poems.

Let's start with "What Is Sleep", because here at Today's book of poetry "list" poems go over big.

What Is Sleep
transcribed from taped live improvisation

sleep is the brain of a flower
sleep is your last chance to open like a parachute
sleep is a train with gold windows coming over a waterfall
sleep is that long sled ride down a snowy hill
sleep is the star at the bottom of my beer
sleep is an elephant kneeling to a child with a sparkler
sleep is the castle you were born in
sleep is in love with the butterfly of my lips
sleep is a horse nobody else can ride
sleep is the desert at night on a lunchbox pressed to our heart
sleep is the journal of God
yes
that's what sleep is

sleep is a nun driving a tractor in a snowstorm
sleep is a stop sign in flames
sleep is a semi rolling wide open through a cathedral
sleep is the highway away from my head
sleep is glowing like any tailpipe in the stars
sleep is a loose ribbon falling from the sky
sleep is a balcony full of soldiers tossing rose petals and panties
sleep is the lost dress that floats
sleep is a blind sailor who kisses like a woman
sleep is that milk you thought you'd never get again
sleep is not ours to keep
sleep is where the wind went

sleep
what is sleep

fog in a cat's mouth

                                  popcorn on a lamb's back

                                                                                   a cloud in an elevator

sleep is a Cadillac with a hood full of doves
sleep is a watermelon kissed by a priest

                                               sleep is a hot
                                          flashlight to my heart
                                        as I swim to the cellar with
                                             my red eye glowing

...

Dick Bakken poems read as though Charles Bukowski and Woody Gutherie had a mad poet child who was never properly civilized.  Perhaps they left him in the woods and he was raised by articulate wolves.

Whatever the cause, his poems read like they were ripped from the typer with both blood and wine stains on the page.

Blues For Wildman Willie

Walked in the Spokane
foothills where Willie used to shack.
Someone had smeared a boulder
I hate you,
young lovers. Beware
lest you are damned
in this life and the next.
Heard an owl.
Back down on the avenue
met an old juiced wino who cried
homemade blues at me
all night.
Had my pen, jogged it all down.
Said way back in '38 he jammed
with Hank Williams.
Now no guitar, but jerked up
his sleeve and fingered the chords
on his wrist pretty
as could be.

...

Rollicking doesn't quite cover it.  Bakken barks, bites and his pagan pages boil.  This poetry is unique.

Bakken is always playing tough against tender.

"The whole of what I am wants to wake people up to word/sound/lyricism -- and you just can't do that by putting them to sleep, i.e. making them drift comfortable with so-damn-common pre-American pretense to classiness."  - Dick Bakken

Customer Objects To Neck
See the front page lead,  The Dillon Herald,
Dillon, South Carolina, November 18, 1976.

Sheriff Roy J. Lee
and fourteen deputies with dogs
surrounded a motel early this morning
to trap Willie Rogers, 43,
wanted for a crime spree last week here in Dillon.
They surprised
a man with the same name
inside frying green tomatoes and chilies, the wrong Willie
Rogers.

The spree started late Wednesday
in Pete Wallace's store when a Willie Rogers
in bib overalls
ordered Mexican beers, then a sandwich.
Wallace, as his custom, split a chicken breast,
left the neck on one side
and served the side with the neck.
The man became incensed, jerked a .22 pistol
out of his overalls
and shot Wallace, Mrs. Wallace, and Stella Mae Dunquist,
who was in the store trying on
a sun visor.

He ran away into a nearby gulch
as customers carried the victims to safety...
but under storm clouds
crept back
after sundown, broke in through a side window, stole a case
of beer and strings of sausages,
smashed cans of stove oil against the lunch counter
and lit it on fire.

With everyone scrambling
to save the store, this enraged Willie Rogers
carried flames
across to Wallace's home and hurled them in--and then their
old tomcat. As curtains flashed
Sheriff Lee, two deputies, and Jamie Wallace screaming
"Dynamite in the tool shed!" charged
to the smoking house
and in the darkness wrestled down a man
who turned out to be a bystander. Then all saw
through billows a
flamelit figure draped in sausages escape under black clouds
into the gulch with the case of beer,
yelling back an obscenity about
chicken necks.

Sheriff Lee radioed for bloodhounds
and state agents tore out headquarters, headlights
bouncing.
When they finally came sliding
into Wallace's yard, Roy Lee pulled open a door
and all those hounds
knocked him down howling after
the poor old tom. Cat and hounds and then deputies
chased through the smoldering embers of home and store
before leashes
could be snapped on. By then
falling midnight rain
had obliterated the scent of Willie Rogers.

After the two-day downpour
Sheriff Lee was told a man in overalls
had been spotted
leaving a barn near the gulch. Lee and his deputies
found beer cans, sausage skins, obscenities and
threats on the wall,
and three sticks of dynamite.
Bloodhounds dragging leashes yowled through the gulch
but each trail brought them back around to
the barn strewn with sausage skins.
In the meantime,
two squad cars and chicken coop were
blown up.

Then this morning Lee
and his deputies and dogs surrounded a motel
on the outskirts of Dillon and jumped
and clubbed an innocent Willie R. Rogers, a tire salesman
just frying up some breakfast.

Says Sheriff Roy J. Lee,
"The Willie
we want, he's somewhere in the gulch with dynamite
all right, and run out of sausages. I'm gonna round up
that nut and stick him
where he'll wish
he had nothing but a chicken neck to
chew on."

...

This is not my usual cup of tea, these sledgehammer poems require a seat belt.  With Dick Bakken's best poems you not only feel the charismatic energy of the poet -- you feel energized yourself.

These poems were forged on some hard anvil, put down on paper by a demonpoet in love with angels.

 
 Dick Bakken

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Arizona poet Dick Bakken is one of the most dynamic performers of poetry in America. His readings are intense and mesmerizing. His poetry has appeared in a variety of journals and has been recorded on radio and tape. He is a poet in the true oral tradition. At the same time, his poems hold up as well on the page as they do on the stage. But you need to gulp them with energy. These are not sweet, relaxing poems; not poems for bedtime or for lazing away an afternoon. As Bakken puts it, "The whole of what I am wants to wake people up to word/sound/lyricism and you just can't do that by putting them to sleep, i.e. making them drift comfortable with so-damn-common pre-American pretense to classiness.

BLURBS
"Among so many almost good enough poets, Dick Bakken's voice in unique. In The Whiskey Epiphanies he gives us fifty years of perfect harmony between the tough and tender, with plenty of surprises thrown in. This book is a long time coming, and well worth the wait."
     --Margaret Randall, author of The Rhizome as a Field of Broken Bones

"Imagine a medieval summer reincarnated as the male lead in a 1940's Hollywood musical done in the vocal rhythms of 1950's beat poetry and you may have an inkling of the character of Dick Bakken's poetry performances. His work combines an innocent optimism with the frank style of street theater, a combination which seems not at all unlikely once you have seen his polished presentation."
     --Barbara Drake, author of Driving One Hundred