"A page of Hejinian is..."

"A page of Hejinian is..."

well, knotted at each end (but never for praying in) 'cause it's tongue-
 shot, a pure eye muff, lip

The start of it comes like the  blond wig gone aslant after a nap
 --oh wilful sleep!-- & the neglected
                                                        books lying near

and reads blotched, primarily from smears when it means to sing,
                                                        sincerely,

She's not just lost between "things" (like the catamaran & sea
                                                       a dead star
                                                                fell into).

  Sea or not is just how it feels

Like the amateur trowel too it chips  and chips, a line at a time
 half-feel,  half-real,  meaning to be
                                                                 but ...

"reading Conrad's poetry on the shaman shack deck (Bridget bird review)" by Chris Faiers (reprinted with permission)

 Thank you, Chris!

__________________________

I received Conrad DiDiodato's book a few days ago, and took it with me for a couple of afternoon readings on the shaman shack deck at my ZenRiver Gardens retreat. This is a test of sorts - the poetry had to compete for attention with the Moira River's spring run-off, newly arriving songbirds, Chase begging biscuits, cold Zywiec beer, and a nagging kidney stone.

Bridget Bird, Conrad's first collection, passed this literary gauntlet with flying colours. It's hard to believe this is his first book, at age 55. The poetry is masterful, engaging and relaxing. Instead of competing with the constant peaceful distractions, Conrad's poetry flowed as naturally through my afternoons as the river's gurglings and the birdsong serenades. A lesser book wouldn't have lasted 5 minutes, and a bad book risked being flung into the not-so-mighty Moira's flow to the Bay of Quinte.

The familiarity of the circumstances of the first poem grabbed me. Sixteen Mile Creek is the story of an autistic boy who drowns. Two locals died in similar tragic circumstances in the Marmora area last spring. One man took a shortcut home across a too-thawed beaver pond, and never returned alive. His widow and I chatted several night ago in the Mac's Milk parking lot. This introductory poem's synchronicity made me immediately receptive to the book.


Sixteen Mile Creek

At mid-stream, adrift in reedy sand, face down,
he likely caused rifts in this creek.

(for raw hands slap down last,
careless how they land)

Hard like spites in the ear
is the last splash (as only the leaden do, at dawn)
of faith, hearts & poor Ron

Same to god if autistic boys sleep or drown

Cleaving to leaves is futile
unless lights can tell hair from starfish, shoes from shorts
Suns scratch them out, like this,
and discount
clothing clotted & sent to port

Poor discounted Ron! I'd say I was the first to see him
and seer enough to shake a few lines loose
out of miles of leaves & sands : &

reedy waters slapped
hard in the autistic ear

This is humane evocative "people's poetry" in the tradition of Canada's greatest poets, Milton Acorn and Al Purdy.

I read on, and began dogearing favourite poems and passages for repeat reading and for writing this reflective review. I should have stopped this task after vandalizing the first few pages - in less than a week the book has that ratty, well-thumbed look of other favourites on my poetry bookshelf : )

from the poem Zebras & Things

But it's an old spidery autumn moon
deep in the night,
prickly, wild-eyed & bright

can poke the water
so full of holes that the stars fall through
& glisten in sandbar


Almost haiku, and maybe even more so!


More sandbars in the poem Lake (no pun intended):


Sandbars, not too far out, a shale-brown foot
below the water
(not a lot down there, in just
a foot of water)
But tides here ripple with the minnow & serve as
fish- or eel-comfort


Kell Verses is a beautiful homage to poet Katherine L. Gordon

it begins:

She sits on her stone seat,
beside two tractor wheels,
musing, the jug beneath her feet,
earth of clay round her heels -
dear Kate, prophetess of rivers,
who sends me lone breezes.
When day dies, giving pale slivers
of light, and night freezes.


In just 63 pages of Bridget bird Conrad manages to share his clear-eyed and yet mystic vision. Again, hard to comprehend this is his first collection. And I know he has already written new poems which prove his creative arc is growing. Conrad kindly let me blog post his poem on the recent 'honour killings' of three sisters and their aunt. His heartfelt, yet almost simplistically styled poem, For Zainab,Sahar, Geeti, and Rona, sits among the highest ranking pages of my 300+ postings. To my chagrin, it is the most-read poem on my blog, far ahead of any of my creations. Congratulations and thank you, Conrad, for sharing this fine collection. 55 years is far too long to wait for your next collection ; )

Bridget bird by Conrad DiDiodato
Serengeti Press, 2012
63 pages

Serengeti Press
Box 146, RR #3
Puslinch, ON
N0B 2J0

Edited by Jeff Seffinga (no wonder the poetry is so damn good!)


reflective review by Chris Faiers
For several years I was a regular poetry reviewer for Canadian Book Review Annual.
I've also reviewed for the haiku mag Inkstone as well as other poetry mags.
Recently I was a national judge for both the Acorn/Plantos People's Poetry Medal
and the annual Canadian Poetry Association contest.

Tonino Guerra, with poem in translation

Tonino Guerra  (1920 – 2012)

Italian poet Tonino Guerra has recently died. He was a poet, writer, screenwriter and a concentration camp survivor. Corriere Della Sera blogger Ottavio Rossano honours him as a lyrical poet of 'place' and 'dialect' who's left a abundant legacy of work that's yet to be explored and appreciated: "un sottile poeta, soprattutto dialettale, in quel suo dialetto romagnolo da cui ha tratto verve e ironia, oltre che abbandono lirico."

I'd like to post and offer a translation of the following Guerra poem (from i bu. Poesie romagnole).

I buoi

Andate a dire ai buoi che vadano via
che il loro lavoro non ci serve più
che oggi si fa prima ad arare col trattore.
E poi commoviamoci pure a pensare
alla fatica che hanno fatto per migliaia d'anni
mentre eccoli lì che se ne vanno a testa bassa
dietro la corda lunga del macello
_______________

Oxen

Go and tell the oxen wandering away 
that their labour is no longer needed,
   ploughing annulled by the tractor
And let's try sympathizing with work
centuries old, even as they press on,
heads lowered, led to the slaughter

Translated by C. DiDiodato

For Claudia, too

Can you keep a sad light just by
  holding (in a black&white),

as Frank held you and Dolores in
  a Japanese yard, long ago?

And the last rose, amidst the sun
                                     & arms,
  his final, his inseparable--

dear Claudia, this rather now wraps
  around you

A vindication of the rights of Lorine Niedecker ('bout bloody time!)

"I used to feel I was goofing off unless I held only to the hard, clear image, the thing you could put your hand on but now I dare do this reflection" ( Lorine Niedecker, Correspondence)


Say, Zuks! the upper limit of what--
  pine's third limb down
  (banking right & lithe)
or wing's phish?

Every vowel bit (with the nerve to
  to do it!) won't empty
  into You. That's that

Again, if she only saw better, you'd
  see oval-eyed & fair
  were not for thee


And "better shine"  than this, plumper
  she'd made already since
  it's all heart & all likeable
and you're

not. And a fracturing you'll always go,
  without wing. But, Zuks
  ever find why she's pine
to your "swamp"?

"Bridget bird" is out!

"Bridget bird" held proudly by me

I am pleased to announce that my first book of poetry, titled Bridget bird, is out! If you would like to purchase a copy of my book (18$), please contact me for the mailing address at cdidiodato@gmail.com.

An appetizing excerpt from poem "Bridget bird" on page 8 :

A leaf pressed into the red thirsting beak

    of a bird!

The harder the catch, leaf, slug, the harder you spin

    like a Bridget bird!

You a hipster and the Sun commingle wherever

    bugs are, glossing

over fields and looking bird-deep into a fresh face of

    sunny sunny things

_____________

Details of the book launch will be posted in a week or so.

I'd like to thank you (in advance) for your kind support.

"Earth": the gnostic in me, perforce

"

"You were always right, and your holiest inspiration/is Death"(Rilke)


Without the sighing and crying, the spirits do mean to go, (better
  approximately than never)

  Dawn is not some one-inch cheek--
                                           I mean dead

This wan morn (pharisaical-wise) really does go either on its own
  or through dawn dust which raining down
  only settles into one good eye
  
                                          (as so much raining light!)

The challenge of it is to wait dry-eyed,  a peaceful calf-wait
 with sandy thigh,   til something, well something like the Tree,

    says the pine can out-spirit the real, hedges bend at the knee, &
    geese peck for meal (for god's sake!)

But look! the raised pink beribboned word of the supplicant, there
  between the spires (head over lectern)
  grows a meaty tongue
                                        & eats his own shit:
         
                   dead at dawn