Cid Corman

http://www.longhousepoetry.com/cormananthology.html

tumblr works as vispo

My tumblr sets are working as vispo and maybe slopo if I was to take more time. Only post Creative Commons licensed. I will start writing short Joseph Stroud like 6 line bits on them. Right now it is just Word Made Flesh.

Confessions of Fortune Neglected V2

Confessions of Fortune Neglected

When teaching, body minds me to breathe in: breathe out.
Eyes do not see shimmers and bold shades wandering wicked
and kind within and around the slick and vascular dense
spacelessness of low brain; a locus for haunting by former lovers
as if Chiari priviledged their campground and ancestral grounding

with a name. When walked and wandered and worked of needs,
what's done is done, body is mostly alone and suprated in front of ugly
cookbooks and bogus textbooks and skanky dictionaries of butchered
saints. Body deigns why are there so few succulent spirits to recall?
The taint is only and again so many mistakes and counted as cost.

Mistakes must be paid for, to pray for, and burn. Body will say today that I
am made of mistakes. Mistakes that many lovers of my teachers have
paid as gravedirt price. Forgive us all hasty and arrogant performances
of cannot do this: cannot do this, and cannot do this again: and finish
with a valued and jettisoned version of the consecrated strain.

So it goes. As if these doe breasted and rutted morphes of students need
help emptying their bodies of meaning. They are feeding me kenosis as
apophatic masters inhabit each of them. Pools of "since feeling is first" battle
dance within their slippery and graceless irregular verbs and rattle the locks of
their spore into particular sleek and styleless notions of defeat.

As if a god's persective never could change. The soul of body
moves and shinnys along the chainbrakes and cracked bric-a-brac of
desire. Nowhere schooled and elsewhere courted are holy sparks present
and counted as faith unto righteousness. Maybe the quickening
lust of flesh made heir is more to the point of their working rest.

new poem

Chesid Through Seal

One should wait with eagerness, hungry and endangered.
His wells I can hold underneath; a Jacob, rubbed dry--
When I have tapered his lands; I could-- relaxed-- drop
and red his purposes. My mouth and stirring perfected.
Selah. I have another purpose; I have another mouth-- his hope,
his palms, the transparent if. I become boy-nipped at the go
and go. Lord, clearly I can finish his hope mounted stalk,
his Galilee; his teachings hidden in thick curtained stroke.

The living curse remembered, a shimmering faced ghost
underneath. To glean saltiness amidst his disciple.
He's upward stroked into many dead children. But they own
their gloom. Never hungry is our chirped land, and his sign.

I admit pleasure

I admit pleasure in jealous perversity
Similar to unforced, yet reluctant trysts,

In Schumpterian avid destructions
of the smartest plans, the beloved

institution destroyed. Insiders weeping.
The two-fold universe Eliade-perennial

interpenetrates like overlapped parenthesis
of need-want nee want-love. Open to

The Goldbarthian war, the Ichabod slouched beast
and boyhood whore. Welcome all saints as

scarlet as bad girls wearing Saint Lucy white
so to avoid the slap fall of hard whippings

whipped with spoons, with hair brushes,
with plastered lath. Help me, the beatings bought

me lust creative. The new and the old sins be
washed away. Every beating I received so

richly deserved and hard fought. Dread and fearsome
captives like sand, like small slippered fish in seine.

Become Like Nets 2009 Horoscope

Become Like Nets... 2009 Horoscope

We each must be and come to be like fallow nets
a middlishly tryst amidst the darkling below.
Habit formed, we'll lead a roped luck down to a tuition,
bounded as self-directed line repeals its fidelity of time.

Nor are we what we can see by looking inside the chinks
in us two-folded fisher-folk; nor entertain the sentinal links
of our shoreboats. Have you read the sign revealed at Candlemass?
as if certain imbolc-stemmed consciousness knew how to wrestle.

What we foresee, and what some finger will connect,
will shore us and our little thread into revealation--
though we're alliance-bound and relation-shipped.
Grappling skeins become taken aback partly as apparition.

Nor is what we look for an elucidation of bonded abyss,
that can-- and will through our habits-- bind and inspire.
You ever notice that this little stuff is exactly Your nostrum?
You are behemoth, and we envision a binding clutch of holy days.

Cedar Point Snow

Cedar Point Snow

Ready to change my line
from consolation to desire.
Behind modern imagination
and attention to detail I'll
find snow hiding in notches
of prairie grass.

Not pleading swish,
sweeping into steppes
past Cedar Point kept
out from Clement and
moved by the rail front
gusting into the flint.

What is art for

Dissanayake: Art has its roots in human nature

I can't do a better job of summarizing the book's thesis than Publishers Weekly did: "Dissanayake argues that art was central to human evolutionary adaptation and that the aesthetic faculty is a basic psychological component of every human being. In her view, art is intimately linked to the origins of religious practices and to ceremonies of birth, death, transition and transcendence."

Sample passage from Dissanayake:

In society after society we find practices that indicate the esteem given to the opposite of spontaneous and "natural" behavior or appearance. Aristocracies all over the world distinguish themselves by public signs of self-control, complex systems of etiquette, and other unnatural elaborations of behavior and speech...
Even in traditional societies without strict social hierarchies or classes, the distinction between human control and natural disorder is nevertheless made. The African Basongye distinguish between "music," which consists of sounds that are human, organized, and patterned, and "noise," which is nonhuman sound.

Carnivalesque from Wikipedia What is not dada/flarf/langpo/avant-po or slow-po about this?

Carnivalesque is a term coined by the Russian critic Mikhail Bakhtin, which refers to a literary mode that subverts and liberates the assumptions of the dominant style or atmosphere through humor and chaos.

Bakhtin traces the origins of the carnivalesque to the concept of carnival, itself related to the Feast of Fools, a medieval festival originally of the sub-deacons of the cathedral, held about the time of the Feast of the Circumcision (1 January), in which the humbler cathedral officials burlesqued the sacred ceremonies, releasing "the natural lout beneath the cassock."[1]

In the carnival, as we have seen, social hierarchies of everyday life—their solemnities and pieties and etiquettes, as well as all ready-made truths—are profaned and overturned by normally suppressed voices and energies. Thus, fools become wise, kings become beggars; opposites are mingled (fact and fantasy, heaven and hell).

Through the carnival and carnivalesque literature the world is turned-upside-down (W.U.D.), ideas and truths are endlessly tested and contested, and all demand equal dialogic status.

For Bakhtin, carnivalization has a long and rich historical foundation in the genre of the ancient Menippean satire. In Menippean satire, the three planes of Heaven (Olympus), the Underworld, and Earth are all treated to the logic and activity of Carnival. For example, in the underworld earthly inequalites are dissolved; emperors lose their crowns and meet on equal terms with beggars. This intentional ambiguity allows for the seeds of the "polyphonic" novel, in which narratologic and character voices are set free to speak subversively or shockingly, but without the writer of the text stepping between character and reader.