80 poems @ at a rate of 4 ppm
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80 Poems@ at a rate of 4 ppm
Geof Huth “Reading” at the Unaliated Reading Series
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80 Poems@ at a rate of 4 ppm
Geof Huth
“Reading”
(with NF Huth)
Unaliated Reading Series
Outpost 186Cambridge
Massachusetts
10 April 2010
3 pm
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80 Poems@ a rate of 4 ppm
Geof Huth “Reading”
Front cover illustration: “Waxwords 01” Title page illustrations: “Waxwords 02, 03, and 04” Back cover illustration: “Waxwords 05”
pdqb
875 Central Parkway Schenectady, NY 12309 USA geofhuth@gmail.com
dbqp: visualizing poeticshttp://dbqp.blogspot.com
pdqb # 145
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4 Pwoermds
tournicoquettish
absentaneity
demption
inuous
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5 from Buckets of Riversfrom Tom Beckett
it isthehole thing
(hear)
(I see)
*
consciencenessof desireas praxis
praxismakesprefect
a ring of starlings
aroundthe memory
*
the profounddierence
betweena prayer anda prayer
the root of meis nd
from the Indo-European[fen(t)]meaning ght bog boundary
endand ending
*
the subject
is the articleupon which weattend
sometimesreferred to as
(t)he
what do you hear in a swallowedsyllable of her?
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10 from Being and Beckett for Tom Beckett, poet
1
Changeless was the music he nally found.
2 Without knowing either language, he could recognize the subtledierences between Finnish and Estonian.
3Dying just before the text announced his death.
4 This compost, this life.
5
To understand a language is to understand how we think, how welive, how we judge, how we feel.
6From arbitrary signs, abstract representations of perceivable andunveriable fact.
7 The archival impulse to (merely) remain.
8 We are not the people who the people who stole us from ourselvesthought we were.
9 The word was “restorative,” not restorative.
10 This is note for your.
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2 from beckettt 3 (working title)to Tom Beckett
When else could you have expected to’ve done What you imagined you had, except in the evening As the swallows came home, pouring down the funnel of Themselves into that gaping chimney, an abandonedMouth to the dead brown earth; except in the morning
When a sliver of sun rst slipped through your open window,First light then a gasp like waking or the wrench of apnea,
How you wake each night fty times, once for each year you’llDie in your life, and then the sheet curled tightly around Your neck to keep out your eye’s breath; except In the afternoon when the river slid away, a caravan of water Pushing everything down and everything out, and a singleHawk glided on an upswing current until its eyes told it
To drop onto the bloody body of a rabbit nibbling; except
Whenever you were asleep, dropping down a shaft and The grip you couldn’t make, pursued down a corridor to a Corridor to a way not out, and the rope around your neck,Or a tightening hand, as you almost made it around the corner,
And away into a marsh unnaturally warm with everything Rotting within it and falling away, until you almost remembered
You didn’t live in a dream; except when you were awake?
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Where had it been that it was that it had happened, The last time you remember, I mean, when the water rose,
a bubbling Flower, from the oor, or from the drain wedged among
A quartet of tiles, and the light growing within the bubbles until The basement lled with water and sunlight, so much so that you
thought Yourself swimming in glass, the world melting merely placidly,
And everything, and even you, unaware that something had gone Wrong, because you were lled with the joy of oating, A lightness like a windborne seed, disengaged from direction,
an armada Of hat boxes bobbing with your head and opening
To reveal, emptiness, hatlessness, soggy crepe paper,One stued rhinoceros, orange, and all these little black oceans
Round as a plate?
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1 from beckettt 4 (working title)towards Tom Beckett
It
To wonder the it
Still spreading out
Denotations
At a rapidly expanding speed
To wonder about it And what it is
It rains
It seemsIt feels likeIt’s
The wonder of it And ing
Parcel and passel A mass and amast Plunder and wonder
It waits
As we wait for it As we must also wait
For it to mean And make And make a meaning of Or out of
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It is an expansionOf our thought
About it itself
It is not thereIt is always here
(Taps a nger Against his head)
It is not there
For there is no it That rainsOr snowsOr comes downOtherwiseOut of the sky
We are surroundedBy nothing Except everything
Which extends outwardFrom usIn waves of wavering
From each of us
In overlapping waves
And we are The point at which
It starts
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20 from atwhich
300. If in it it is it, it is.
301. dreamt (DreamMountain)
302. nest or nets
303. conceal, congeal
304. harbor (to keep, safe) and “or” [as opposed to, thumbing (sp)] ‘harbour’ (ours, belonging to, in keeping with, protector of): silence, water
305. a/grainst (the)
306. litself
307. upset, the(e) throe pillow
308. tepid fringes of the water
309. aeioulian hrps
310. the dimming room tableand the candle guttering out
311. the narrow sparrow holes inthe bluestone wall encompass worlds
312. whether to clamor or
clamber, the “for” overcoming the “over”
313. the car, the ear
314. car-shattering, ear-shatter-ing
315. d’mm’d
316. to hurtle and the hurdle
317. the queueue to the Q
318. precision enginerring
319. c-l-r-l-ss
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25 from all Klimt with violets
[Heare beginneth “all Klimt with violets,” a book of tiny electronic poems w/ a title given by Ronald Johnson to Guy Davenport one
ne day]
@annahendrick shade and what frightens us within it, a tiny pieceof ourselves
@amycsc wrung and wrong, and the lighter sound of ringing in our heads
@OliviaDresher prying the word out of the cracks in the oor, but it slips away
@alienated vaguely wavy
@NickKristof the evidence of dierence in the sweep of a hair o a
face
@nokturnoorg this is the beginning of night, this is the opening of memory, this is the beauty of seeing
@drunken_boat O, loss and emptiness from loss, the grave view from the hillside damp from afternoon rain
[joncone] my window is open and the train comes in, my window isopen and the rain comes in, my window is open and the pain comesin
[joncone] it winds o the lake, shing line, cloud trails, the sinuousair itself
[joncone] one neon eon ago
[oed] Reection of light, the light reected, or supposed to bereected, the act of bending or turning the mind (back) upon a subject
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[other poets] the rules against want, the rules against now, the rulesagainst words, the rules against sound, the rules against this
[spontaneous song] I can’t see tomorrow, where is me
[ftbd] You are naturally egregious and self-important; you will exert all your energies toward making them real.
@MargaretAtwood madly gardening, stu and coming, thick coldmud of spring, the barely yawn of warmth
[jon cone] these are your words and your joy, don’t bury them for growing, spread them like weed
[spontaneous] just an oracle, truthsayer, naysayer, the briar and thebrayer
[spontaneous] I work in a factory of ction, every day we create a
new world and sail away from our families towards it
[jon cone] cobble exists not for the benet of stone, an improvisedlife, the rough inconsistencies over time
[jon cone] marginalia: a panamanaman hat, an ararat cat, a hazard’ssat
[jon cone] lust, the heart, and last but not lasting, nal, and theshape around which you might shape and hammer a life
[spintaneous] You are fat, yet tend towards bulimia, you have vengers in your left hand and you don’t know why.
[spontaneous] what mess of children lies ahead? what kind of placeis this?
@OliviaDresher the vale of shards where every word was born
@paulodtoledo unsteady, we writhe through it, leaving a trail
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5 from This, Thine Earth: Selections from a Year
March 27
spection, nor putable, andhere, now; today; not this, thine earth
March 28
ceive yourselves!able thema wilderness of graves
wave wide
March 29
over the seemingly immeasurablenicance
March 30
tain gladness
our forlorn hoursunto us desolate,and lo!brings out their fragrancy
March 31
—it may be the—aye, even in that —it may be the—no—even the comfort man against every agony
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5 from Waxwords
- 1 -
- 5 -
- 2 -
- 4 -
- 3 - - 3 -
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2 from They are as You First Saw Them
Soliloquacious
At least I didn’t have the gall to becomea major poet | or to write those wordsor to leave oerings to those | godlike
who came before me | or to wipetheir nacreous semen from the lipsticked
mouths | of those who did | or wouldI accept | instead and only | thesefew tiny kernels of pomegranate | unperfect unread | the grantors of velleitiesa timorous sweetness | ticklike remindersthat we are meat that sees | regurgitatedinstances of insignicance | yet we still
speak and | in speaking | make our signsin dwindling mothlight | as solemn oeringsto the idea of a silence we cannot shake
This embarrassment of wishes | the falselthiness of emotions | all these faltering disturbances of thought | keep me focusedon something besides nothing | which would be
the poet singing his verses | enthralled | & encased
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Sunday Evening
The slightest shiver in the air from woodsmokeleafsmoke | the oolongphaeic scent of burning
and lingering | what stays with us | on clothesin hair | we keep | Remembering is the quaver of the palest of blues | those colors that turnobsidian at night | (a beautiful thing | call it black) | Forgetting the end of dreaming | how upon waking | that entire world fades into rain
This table before me seems stable | so, this oor beneath my feet | and laid out in repeating para-llels | We don’t exist as solids | or with them
We live in the mist of things | a braided systemof forgottens | decibel days leading to decimal nightsEverything whole reduces to fractions of itself and the succumbing quiet | that spreads and stopslike ink | the page can hold only so many wordsbefore it becomes another blank | black | the entirety of nothing | We nd our way at the end of each day toward a vast evening sky | at the outskirts of an icy innity | well aware that there | there is becoming
+1 Poemsong
the shape of which will not be known until it becomes
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