Oakland, CA
ph:
jack
There are, I know, many people who have “trouble” with multivoiced pieces. They don’t like to hear two people talking at the same time! Instead of feeling exhilarated by the freedom of such a technique—which I think is one of the things that many people feel—they feel threatened, annoyed: they want us to stop, separate, say things that aren’t constantly being interrupted. Jake Berry suggested that these pieces “seduce the listener into the willing participation in chaos.” There are people who vehemently dislike participating in such “chaos”—dislike being “disoriented.” They are welcome to their point of view, but they are not the ones for whom I write these poems.
PROSE FOR TWO VOICES
--Though I sleep as much as anyone else,
I am an advocate of being awake.
It had, he thought, a totemic resonance, that image of the woman suf-
It had, he thought, a totemic resonance, that image
fering. (This happened later, before I could.) In the dark I thought of
of the woman suffering. (This happened later, before I could.)
her. How can you say that she asked. How can you say that. Undulate,
In the dark I thought of her. How can you say that she asked.
fish. I spoke to her for about fifteen minutes. This is the guarded situ-
How can you say that. Undulate, fish. I spoke to her for about
ation. I am in my thoughts. This is a recollection of last night when we
fifteen minutes. This is the guarded situation. I am in my
all saw a film. I wanted. Children sound and resound. The image of a
thoughts. This is a recollection of last night when we all saw
house, filled with happy children. What more than that. We’ll all be in
a film. I wanted. Children sound and resound. The image of a
that house he promised. We’ll all be happy. Night darkens. Stains. I am
house, filled with happy children. What more than that. We’ll all
in the dream of the happy woman. Terrific! she said. As she crossed her
be in that house he promised. We’ll all be happy. Night darkens.
legs I thought: The Renaissance. Her lipstick turned her mouth into a
Stains. I am in the dream of the happy woman. Terrific! she said.
scar. I adored him I adored him. Come. Now. I want to play ball. I
As she crossed her legs I thought: The Renaissance. Her lipstick
want you to tell me how I can do it. I don’t know. Whenever he opens his
turns her mouth into a scar. I adored him I adored him. Come. Now.
mouth something happens. She was alone so she took off her dress. Now I
I want to play ball. I want you to tell me how I can do it. I don’t
am closing the door. I am opening the transit. Folie de doute. What a
know. Whenever he opens his mouth something happens. She was alone
word! I saw you, don’t deny it. She had (or so I thought) a totemic reso-
so she took off her dress. Now I am closing the door. I am opening
nance, that image of the tall woman suffering.
the transit. Folie de doute. What a word! I saw you, don’t deny it.
She had (or so I thought) a totemic resonance, that image
of the tall woman
suffering.
______________________________________________
OVERTURE: CHORUS
for two voices
that the hummingbird’s wings are of a remarkable rapidity he had noted often
nothing could be done the shift of his breathing had to begin
12 o’clock and he still hadn’t had a dermal sensation
the block of the governor is therefore revealing
the muck of the plains living blues a means of reversing
whereof is so manifest
such crooked crooked pathes, such ways this palace hides
wit and power, to study the travail
new adventures list he undertake
the way and its power leading to the outside
in the eyes of the law a long time, & ideas rise up
toward toward gratification inhaling exhaling rise & fall
I name that audacity with him a hundred fold intellect does, & the soul
I name that audacity whose courage unmanned
in the form that is
with the heavenly heart excitations unbounded
INDOLENCE indolence and distraction
directly the roots of towards punishment, towards
THE ORIGINS
AND HISTORIES simultaneous with: who can tell in such matters?
OF CONSCIOUSNESS he blackened his face, his bowels
DISPATCHED FROM THE EARTH BY HIS BROTHERS
HE BEGAN TO star of the magi: regeneration
BREATHE AGAIN temperance: self-control
FOR A LONG TIME NOW I HAVE FELT THE VOID a peculiar token
LIKE THE PLAGUE
a power
creating in the soul a craving of the greatest force wild animals
size of the altar indispensable for those who are to apprehend his meaning aright
our most logical form the syllogism like consternation spread
has the greatest force and the big hat with the turquoise-inlaid eye
at the bottom of her soul “Look! Ni a! It is the general!” on the vermin of
the house holding back the lymphatic milk of fishes made in silence
through the way more literary than music though so-called “music”
the swarming “population” lo for this little while sugar curse Eve fish-hook!
from the freshness of my eyes little boat and a smell of
the revolver
ready
come oh bird settle a moment
EXPERIENCE ANYTHING a bullock wagon
the tramp of feathers the thunder drop the white snake
for a long time now I have felt the void like the
plague it is the
revelation a formidable call to the forces that impel the mind
we do not see it as it is but as it has been fashioned
moving heads on rollers
animated hieroglyphs
a disinclination or resistance
rolling eyes, pouting lips, muscular spasms
mirrors, shoots, sources, (limbs!)
in a pier is burning (east, east is burning!)
the old man drew, in a black spirit, hugely, against,
in the flickering light, again, against,
in the earliest march, courageous,
far more astounding astounding —
the days in which
sweetbriar,
nebraskabegan to rivet, it
shared persuasion
at the spring at sunset simultaneous with: no sight of the highway
for a long long time
the knight in disguise your sweet dividing
informs the statement
endlessly there
who knows its effect to force
since pleasure’s divided
the would-be merman remove our ideas
offspring of a union
the foolish queen amphibians reptiles
forced to rise
at a height above
adventures while singing hot winter’s weathers
the book of breath
when Peter Jackson preached in old church opes his eyes
a break of Yoga
factory windows are always broken that old old man
he draws, in a
“this is the price I pay black spirit,
for the light I shall someday see” hugely
_________________
and what if my body die
of this small inland town
BUT
draunk in tears no bird great beds of poppy only asleep dissolved
in thunder jars no guardian nine times battered to wear & weaving
oh keep him safe reveal him whose he was and who he was with the peak
of the mountain & his bones were boulders the Egyptian asp ship onward she
bore a child (clop-clop of horses) stored assembled and disassembled
the
startling impact of their loud bursts of noise as they arrive
at unpredictable intervals of the stream—
the lines which spread the theater’s alchemy
at night, anyway
in a tight
net
the huge
when I saw that the light appeared I was astonished
& again fell down, fell dead away
this is indeed the spirit of wisdom, the Eastern source
preserving their antiquity
for none of the pleasures I have is equal to what is given me
the lines which spread the theater’s alchemy
some of these seem much older than was thought
God’s “immanence” or “indwelling” in the world
a particularly searching theory of the Shekinah
the King on his throne
followers developed in great detail
most shameful sinners, burned
the process of creation burns, there are 2 versions of it, in Genesis,
in short, before all else, entirely practical
works of the Chariot
my hopes for the theater are, strictly speaking, “idealized”
logos in vacuum
innermost joy bound by love
these are the manifestations
the next morning I communicated to my teacher
lines that spread
the struggle with the angel (where would a word) despite the fact that one does not believe in (like fortitude) angels the force of the blow (go) to the head delivered to the spirit (if not here) the struggle with the angel (where would I) is (not) the struggle with some (be able) person who (to cry unto) is superior in (thee) strength of body strength of mind but not (to cry unto to cry unto) of will (thee)
CHORUS: CANCER
for two voices
The beautiful young woman has contracted cancer.
The young man will die of it soon.
This child has cancer.
This middle-aged man has cancer.
Cancer is fully democratic in its destructive impulses.
It is willing to kill anyone.
You or I can get it
Even if we do not smoke cigarettes.
Even if we try to take care of ourselves with exercise and good diet
Some cancers can
Be cured others can
Not.
In the past few weeks I have heard
Of two people—two friends—who
Have pancreatic cancer—
In
Curable.
The friends are of different ages.
Cancer kills
Anyone
Cancer is willing to consider
Death at any time in any circumstance
The brilliant poet
Can die of cancer
The great musician
Can die of cancer
The dull uncle who bores everyone at wedding receptions
Can die of cancer.
You can die of it.
I can die of it.
Timor mortis
Conturbat me
Cancer is furious if you try to ignore it
Cancer insists on your full and respectful attention
Cancer is a magazine to which everyone submits
Cancer is a tune you can’t get rid of
Cancer is full of the love
Of everyone it touches
(Loves you to death)
Some cancers can
Be cured others can
Not.
Can
Not.
NOTE ON "CHORUS: CANCER":
Timormortis conturbat me(“the fear of death disturbs me”) is a Latin phrase commonly found in late medieval English poetry. The phrase comes from a responsory of the Catholic Office of the Dead, in the third Nocturn of Matins:Peccantem me quotidie, et non poenitentem, timor mortis conturbat me. Quia in inferno nulla est redemptio, miserere mei, Deus, et salva me.
“Sinning daily, and not repenting, the fear of death disturbs me. Because there is no redemption in hell, have mercy on me, O God, and save me.”
The phrase was used most famously in the 15th-century Scottish poet William Dunbar’s “Lament for the Makers”:
He hes done petuously devour,
The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,
The Monk of Bery, and Gower, all thre;
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Kenneth Rexroth also uses the phrase in “Thou Shalt Not Kill,” his elegy for Dylan Thomas.
As I wrote "Chorus: Cancer," I had the sense that every time I wrote or spoke the word "can" it could become the word "cancer."
Foley's poetry teems with multifarious voices, none of which take precedence. The poet doesn't privilege one particular voice or so much as hint at one specific meaning. There are multiple possibilities of meaning . . . The jumble of voices that inhabit "Chorus: Gershwin" speaks of night, sleep, frost, death, fire, sexual desire, and the creation of poetry, among other things . . . The possi-bilities and resonances are endless . . . .
-- Pamela Grieman
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Oakland, CA
ph:
jack