Fond du Lac Four - "Excuse, me, ma'am." A blur of daisies dangling a shoe box, she sways, rubs past. I screw my neck to compass her, then loosen it. A knotted backbone gobbing tobacco onto the curb/ gags me. I shop the neat display of oxfords, boots and varia in Fondy's Big Shoe Store. Diamond, spade, heart, club: brightly placed in a white parallelogram of leather whose length dimension cuts across the ankle of a black Cuban style shoe. ["Who is set?" "Gambler?" "Yes." "Step in: I'm leaving. Your bluffs are just as good as mine." "Italian style?" "No! What do you think we're playing? This game's poker! Now place your bet or get on out." "Yah man, gotta have wild feet for this one. Gotta know each man's bare blood, light and dark. Experience that, and this land of other rooms is yours. Ain't no sour daydreams here."] That shining, off-set laced, pointed oxford makes me wince; want wrangling corpuscles, guys wise and sluffy to be my dangerous friends, horns in shoes. ["Raise four."] Fingertips press my collarbone. In the pane below my neck a silver buckle, a pin-stripped shirt--that face behind my face-- "Ray! How you been?!" Twisting to shake his hand, my lungs relax. "Well, what's the matter, Art, am I a ghost or something?" "No, you just surprised me." "What you looking at? Those things are for kids! You couldn't be wanting them!?" "Why not, I'm still teen-agey enough." "You what?!" "No, really! If I had the money--." "Well, here, take some of mine. Sure'd hate to see you/ melt through this glass." "Don't worry." "You think I am! It's your kick, Art. Don't lose your nose." Nice guy. Five - Torn bags; the sidewalk again, with its shells, weeds, memories pinched, tinted red, or rolling perhaps, or else / cracks in the stone, the--hornet of my brain. Meters. What is it with faces, licorice to buttermilk; rainbows slung around bodies of air? Places to park, to tease a fender. Lampposts. Banners. Cans to/ keep our city. Hydrants. Boxed-in phones. Meeters. What is it about blood that swirls, squeezes/ industrial legs/arms, crowds a mouth, a thousand mouths; whistles that swing, explode, to blind an eye? Today is Friday. Here doors/ will beat till nine: Buehler's, Sears, Ford's--. I think I'll get a little bag of logs to chew on. No, no, not tobacco, candy. (I would have to phrase it that way.) Let's see. "Candy is dandy" of course, but a good liquor tilting the arches would be a real sweet limbo/ to warm a Friday night. But then, vagrant sea, ripples, no. Let others think another naked son's no special thing, raise their mugs; chug their white wetnesses into their earths, rich, poor. You know, I like her smile. "A quater pound of these log cabins, please." "Anything else?" "No." "That's twenty-one cents." "I have the penny." "Thank you." Magazines. McCall's. Here's a Sports Illustrated! Na. Why should I piddle around messing up mags I won't buy anyhow. That looks--Thesz! The old man's quite a tendril. I wonder. No! "So long, Duffy." Ought to applaud myself for that one. Bet I usually spend ten full minutes here, at least, listing at pipes, paperbacks, whatnot. Wait! Orange flames? Negro. "Arson and street war--most destructive riot in U. S. history 11 pages in color" City of the angels. Life. Through weeds between two tires: a T-shirt stretched on a dark brown body--capable and young, a pair of black pants, and eyes straight ahead that see and do not see, walk. Behind him the world burns, splits and splits. The saucer men are coming. And I eat toothaches for kicks. Things couldn't be better. Fond du Lac: page 5 - Brian A. J. Salchert
Thinking Lizard
About Me
- brian (baj) salchert
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Sunday, April 22, 2007
sw00342fdl-entry4of9
sw00341fdl-entry3of9
Fond du Lac Three - Main Street: old battleground of needs and wants; watery eyes; of neon bullets, fingers; sales, investments; leases: our meeting place of years. Who swimming here, though well, can hook each piece to each, reveal the puzzle's order fashioned from parts so much alike, unlike: eshausts from trucks and buses, cinder dust, sirens, hearts, children, air-conditioned stores, broken mouths smearing an alley stair, smiles, the dance of/ indecision? All I see goes down and up, out and in, round and round, until summer, it seems, is/ because things exist, persist, at all. Looking through such knots of motion, a man might spit, prefer some woods to be hunted/ and bows of rain, though he's among those who also desire human touch. Main Street: at that down hour of two/ when more than half its lights are pulsing yellow, the fever in tourists' eyes, the drought in truckers' arms, a vacuum at the heart. Buildings appear a nerveless ligature then, as if without their cellular crowds, they were an asteroid's mountain range; or each a scab. The sun has tumbled into roofs and moved the minds of shoppers toward their homes and moved the Earth another hour toward death, warming the dusty stones to ninety-six at the First Fond du Lac National Bank. A quiet mother shades her babies deep in their dark green, nudges a turtle toy; then releasing the brake, rocks them, and ripples the way I came, like a word. Two older women toddle in front of Penny's shoe department, uneasy in their pillowed skins. The sign reads "walk". I taste their bobbing breasts, their sweat, as I meet them. Kids dash saltily by. Three bodies' lengths before me/ pigtails squeal; a pink girl whirls, slaps the arm and cheek of a tan brown-eyed boy, shrinking in his Bermuda blue-jeans. "Why don't you go back to California?" she snaps. A friend of his: (ochre sleeping across his eyes and clumping down his neck) in Greekish sandals, a spotted T-shirt, yellow madras shorts: resting his right hand on the ruffled boy's left shoulder, coolly says, "This town's tighter than vacuum seal--ay Whit?" Whit turns. "Man, I wish I had the wrist." "Hey you, what you so interestedin?" Man questions me. I shake my head and, as if in a daze, edge away; then, "He's just a bubble of air. Forget him." City, city: grand, expansive, seminal, macabre: the floor of a sea ridged with coral, speckled with/ wisps of fish, and gardened with anemone, how I would swim through you, would mix my heart and head in you, hold you entire; devour your parts, late summer city, gold chrysanthemum! Elbow to shoulder, smile to frown, a pound of Whitman's squished by a tire: how many bones scrape themselves against your rusting tin, town of shifting depths? how many reach to cleanse, to spray the plastic bandage on? ". . . get drunk. That'll keep your tubes warm. Better 'an jumpin' off a ledge or hangin' yourself." "Yah? Better than humpin' a broad?" Desire, Mexican fire bush, salvia, beet: none, I have none here, but One. Buildings, machines, people. If these are what we must explore, contend with--"Damn it, I tell ya, there is no God!" / "First niggers, now fags! Who the hell wants 'em?"--Main Street, Main Street, how can I not pray, not rebel? Fond du Lac: page 4 - Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00340fdl-entry2of9
Fond du Lac One - Ring the bridge rail! Open wide, blood, bones, will! Your concerns are with the now--what is; its meaning; not with what you want it to seem! If rivers scrub low through arrowhead/ mud, nudging twigs at their minnows, soaking butts, chugging sludge/ chemical refuse, flashing white bass/ swallows/ skies, submit, tampering heart: Look: here a hurtling bag, a sliding box, becomes at times a pigeon, or a dog; but today the air swings hammock-like, does not deceive, while pigeons wrinkle down from riding over Fond du Lac, and scuffle to their nests under the storage bins' roof, black from the dust of anthracite; today mongrels mix, tumble their beige and umber coats into the garden of oily weeds by the Milwaukee Road industrial track, somersault yelps to the river's edge, stop, ruggedly scurry, chase up the bank, shiver, and hurrying off for the bridge at Forest, run my sight. Those several boys arguing there--beyond them beads of cars jerk, slip their ways--wonder if I know any of those guys? The puniest kid seems--ya! Split. Split! Look at him come, whipping around the guard rail (kick at the mutts), pegged tan pants, brown curly hair, an aqua shirt-- faded--its sleeves cut off & its tails popping, black Cuban heels quivering, pointing back! No, I guess I don't know them. The two who started out after him, out on the bridge again with their leader, rough-up the kid they have held. Swallows skitter, people pass; and the three toughs, like a giant ant, drag their prey down somewhere, unbothered. This one, bewildered, turns, races up to the walk and slows, glaring at me as if I were an evasive punching bag; then skirts on by. What I fantasize he schemes intrigues me almost enough to follow him. I might enjoy--however, my thoughts--Lakeside Park is greener, riper. Two - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hailstones, cobblestones-- in that swayback third of a block from Macy to this Mayville spur, I remember both, lodging a score of tires in ice; uneven and bowled, forcing the newsboys' bikes through slush, skating their wheels, hammering papers loose. Hail again? Perhaps. But the street's smooth now; slowly, erratically, ruddy bricks descend from the Reporter Building's frame, scabiosa turning chrysanthemum, while across First the Post Office sorts, feels the thoughts of thousands. In several years, what it will be, I do not know. Bright cars, dented cars, young girls skipping, men with canes, horns, yells, a lady reaching--kneeling down-- for a dropped dime, three businessmen converging, two six-foot boys with a mail cart; a friend I won't hello because I can't remember her name--the courthouse clock is wrong again. Fond du Lac: page 3 - Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00339fdl-entry1of9
[ The poem being introduced here is a lyric narrative centered around a persona walking through a part of his hometown at the time of the 1960's Los Angeles riots. Originally written in 1966/67 while I was attending the Writers' Workshop in Iowa City, it owes its existence to an intuitive challenge from my mentor. ] - [ insert from May 10, 2003 ] During my first year at Iowa, I had written a number of short poems; but had been devoting myself to fashioning a fantasy epic in stanzas of nine lines rhyming aababcbcc, a nasty scheme I then thought I had invented; and even to this day I have not done the research I would need to do to be sure. So, if I want, I can go on thinking of it as the "Salchertian Stanza"; but it will only be more proof of the foolishness in my ego. Blessedly, my mentor, George Starbuck, seeing what was in me and what was not, said I should write from something I was more familiar with; and so by the prongs of his pitchfork/ enabled me to make the primal leaps of a literary/mind-cracking journey I am yet on, and expect to persist on, no matter the opinions of others [thank you, Pushkin] who happen to encounter--here & there--a sentence or more I have written, or a simple sketch. Fond du Lac The only wisdom we can hope to acquire Is the wisdom of humility: from East Coker by T. S. Eliot Prologue Believing/ as might wings/ Earth ferries deaths my essence should not tolerate, I've tried to lose its factories, its predators under the shadows of my flight; to drift among hills in ages gentler than mine. Rebellion: over beauty, over truth; Idea: over the badinaged smile in the empty bottle. Rather than attempt to find and crush one berry for those mouths hidden in the small caves of tunnels, cans, I have hid my own. There were summer days I moved, a neurotic rook, turning left, right,left at each new corner, entranced toward a Circle, to see this planet dim; to dream. And there was a night, cooled with mist, when shoes were mostly home, I hung near a pool in Taylor Park to--"Only the Lonely"--hum, wanting, off from the square pavilion there (shelter for the custodians of cards, the cutthroat Sheepshead house), to harmonize me/you/and that: October-loaded world. But having to choose, ignorant of . . . sullens; my eyes itch, ache; their eyelids give to sleep. Fond du Lac: page 2 - Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00338jt-b1.e1
- [ Information about, the "Proem" to, and the first 5 stanzas of Book 1 of what was Onefor when I composed the 900 lines in that Book in 1965-66/ comprise this entry. I saw it as a fantasy epic which would express how I felt about planet Earth and its human passengers. I was in The University of Iowa's Writers' Workshop Program, and that long poem was to be my MFA thesis. I was due to graduate in June of 1967, and 1967 was not far off. Thankfully my mentor, the late George Starbuck, realizing my effort would not suffice, had a wiser intuition. - This, then, is a failed work. On 9-28/29-82 my alter ego, Alden St. Cloud, penned its "Proem" stanza. Note the difficult aababcbcc rhyme scheme I chose. I doubt I am its originator, but I might be. Perhaps I should have burned this poem, but that would have been contrary to how I am. ] Justan Tamarind Proem That we prevail through many fields proclaims From ancient Cairo's to Brasilia's aims The wisdom in the folly of our dreams. Or does it? Still, for us to dream, for names To be remembered, is good. Human schemes Will be: both ways of worth, and ways which rust And end/ so that whenever living seems Too smooth / too rough, we will be taught how trust Can wither, or seed wonder, in our dust. Book 1 White lifts the sun; the moon falls cold, seared. Great stars flare out, known to none; and the weird Concoctions of ruined alchemy fade In the memory; but the yet more weird, More mortal, vital minglings found and made By new creators, here, on Moiland's soil, Or any else, appear, and do not fade; But concentrate, more surely cleanse, and soil-- As water rinses clothes, or rusts a coil. And I, being as one present to each warm act I sing, where, thought through words, fiction weds fact, Move delighted, howsoever I stir In time or heaven, for such is my pact With nature and with art, and this the spur My daemon of creation leads me to: The sacred Eribon, where kings confer; Where, on this cloudless noon,like changless dew, Ten thousand kings will sparkle into view. Thus, Spirit wholly of that Being Who orders all from rocks to/ deepest seeing, Eternal Teacher, Comforter: firm, Lift my voice, Ipray/ that, like a guide skiing Down an Alpine run, my every turn Shall own a happy grace of limbs and mind So unified in doing, I will discern/ All things before me; recall/ all things behind; And reinforming art, praise mankind. Yet feelings most You must invade/ if one Whose kingdom is this day to be undone Would move us with those words his airs are veined. "Look well at Justan: king, Tamarind's son, Who mutilates with knowledge he has gained Yet heals with kind dexterity; who runs As swiftly as that Pheidippides who trained His unremitting legs toward helpless ones And piston-peppered from opposing sons-- As Darius/ coughed in the sea--until The words of victory were rung from hill To hill, and he, excited most, had burst before The city's gates, shaking, gasping them still, Then whispering; then, because he could no more, Fell; and in their arms received his death: One breathless, breathless death. Who knows the sore He raises/ with his hot, invective breath; But lets it blaze and blister// none/the/less." Book I: e2 Justan Tamarind Book I links - Brian A. J. Salchert
Saturday, April 21, 2007
sw00337v-10.poem8
Venturings [ Prenote: I do not hide the fact my sensibility is Gay-oriented, but my physically-active Gay days were short-lived. My first encounter occurred on my 32nd birthday. It was not planned, but I did// allow it to be. Less than five years later/ my last such encounter occurred. I do not know the exact date, but a syphilis scare was the reason. I turned 32 in January of 1973. The poem below was written in 1985. ] = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = A Look In 1 Because I'm a writer, I am marginal. Were I not marginal and not a writer, human life would be less full. So I confess, and speak for you. So I rejoice, and speak for you. Out of my oddness, an ordinate balance. Do not the maimed often heal us? 2 A 44th year absorbs my body; a 30th year words arouse me; a 20th year a woman shades me: well, and ill; a 14th year admitting keeps my heart embracing chests of men; a 40th year Catholicism spikes my spirit; one more year, over & over torn apart by the horses of my intransigent cares, I disrupt me. And yet my left eye giggles at my right eye. Across the Gulf of Mexico, from the Yucatan to Louisiana, ruby-throated hummingbirds buoy dreams; still, just the other afternoon I watched a dead tupelo leaf held by a yard-long filament to the leaf-end of a bur oak twig turn, spin, wind & unwind in the mischievous air. 3 The winds are every shape and color, stopped as they are by every shape more dense than they are so that even when they most rave, and blast and bear in fearsome and contorted howling frail humans and sundry of their artifacts and facts of nature not themselves, they are molded by/ what they rive and pass in their transparencies (however blurred) the hues of white and (into black) all the grand diminishments of white. I am the winds, countering the obstacles, sometimes as a feather might, sometimes as wrecking balls, unsure of my approaching moods orhow the winds others are will change my force and clarity, and temperature, or how the non-wind obstacles/ will kink my moves. 4 Eclectic, stubborn, yet likely to change, because I'd imagine the breadth and depth of all that is human, light words as well as dark (and all the colors and intensities) flash from me. I do, however, admit I whiff undertones of teasing, irony, sarcasm which othen enough-- perhaps mistakenly and so unfortunately-- are aimed at the wrong "object"; and which perhaps, too much at times, obtrude. Still, it sometimes seems the only way I can cut the sweetness of the sentimental and the sourness of the didactic in me; for--however momently the requisite fruit of the green dreams of a fertile heart-- I do often mean to be sentimental and I do often mean to be didactic, though I know how unpalatable they are to many. 5 Let them mingle: the mind's eye & the termagant. Let the corkscrew the heart is open the bottles our spirits wait in. For thirty years I have typed & scribbled, erased. erased. trying somehow to put together my scattered life trying to root the universe. Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00336a-was.is
Autobio Then and Now When I was in high school (1955-59) I was among the elite intellectually, but I was also among the physically small; and while--as in elementary school--I did participate in school and non-school activities, often in my "free" time I created link-by-link chains of fantasies. Though I did not know then I had an INFP personality, I did know I had a melancholic temperament. I did know I had a good memory, but not a superb memory. Though I was quite fast over short distances, I did know I had an oxygen-intake disability and that/ my body was allergy-prone, and that/ my appendix was weak-- a fact I so consistently forgot it almost cost me my life in the spring of my 22nd year. [ Note: One does not become 1 until one's first year is done. ] Had I not been able at times to stand back and laugh at myself, I might very well have/ committed suicide. As it was I almost did so accidentally several times. Especially about sexual matters, I was rock naive. Puberty pulsed into my consciousness when I was twelve, about the same time I first attempted to write a poem and paint on a canvas. Along with that physical change came psychological changes I was not able to properly address. On occasion I/ became aggressive/ toward other boys, but most of the time my lack of physical strength (blessedly) prevented me from being a danger. I do not know how my epileptic brain (which was not a known back then) relates to how I was, but I do know I had a habit of seemingly spacing out when a thought-process block stymied me--a habit/ condition/disability I still have. Almost always/ I've been the last one to finish an exam. While I sometimes have a lightning wit, when it comes to matters of consequence, my mind at times is years slow. I easily misunderstand or simply do not get/ jokes; and (to me) practical jokes are definitely not prac- tical, nor are they jokes. I "think" a well-designed sufficiently- tested humor course would benefit the human community on this planet immeasurably. --from the hermit who lives in the fantasy realm known as Sprintedon Hollow-- As to the VA Tech rupture, I extend my gratitude/ to Josh Corey, Ron Silliman, Nikki Giovanni, and all others of like mind, both those who are yet amongst us and those who are not. Now I am going to proffer something many may not agree with: One never knows when, or how; but God does, and knows why. - Brian A. J. Salchert
Friday, April 20, 2007
sw00335a-poems14and15
Autobio In 1982--under my Alden St. Cloud pen name--two poems from a failed set of poems were published through Midwestern Writers' Publishing House in Wisconsin Poets' Calendar: 1982, edited by Tom & Mary Montag. I am placing them in this entry. * 14 "February" Well I'm back the short one the one Sadie Hawkins lengthens a day every four years but not this Did you toss out January or hide it It's amazing how much we lose retain how much forgotten suddenly returns brightening shadowing calming maddening how a loaf of bread a snowman move as my being short balanced yet blessed with something human * 15 "September" Nothing stays not even a hurricane's madness maddening us Even this universe billions of years hence may collapse into a black hole unimaginable For now though here in Wisconsin the rains wrinkling on the windows encourage dreams & memories it seems will stay * Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00334ut-06.2poems
The Undulant Trees
The Dance
Watching the lights
spin through minds--
red, yellow,
I think of fires and traffic signals.
Not a
baby
cries
but spins through minds--
red, yellow.
- - - -
Fishing at Dawn
Uh!
spuf spuf
swuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
uh!
spuf
swup
swuuuhp
swap
shivers
of rainbows
spouts
of water
slapped
into drops
the cave of a mouth
fins
writhing
3 feet high
shuddering the wind
glancing the fire
- Brian A. J. Salchert
Thursday, April 19, 2007
sw00333a-poem13apr07
Autobio "Each and Every" it isn't what one of us is doing it is what we are all doing and the end hangs like a broken star waiting for us - Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00332olp-9poets
Some IWW Classmates: (1965-67) Late last night into this morning I did "name poet" searches of nine former IWW classmates: - - Michael Dennis Browne - Steve Orlen - Jon Anderson - Peter Klappert - Julia Vinograd - Peter Cooley - Eric Nightingale (?) --uncertain about-- - Harold Bond --died in March of 2000-- - Richard Geller - - Brian A. J. Salchert
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
sw00331a-poem12apr07
Autobio "Malaise" There is a deadness round about I know not how to ferret out that I might nab it by its nape and stick it where it shan't escape. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00330a-poem11
Autobio - What will be shown is a something I found in one of my Ledge Walks gatherings, a stash of old poems. It might be a Mutt Object. It was written in red ink on a white napkin on 12-1-71, and under that date is Brian Salchert.
To This Napkin 1. I am not using you as you were meant to be used, porous rough rectangle; my s t a i n s are orderly and red. Your whiteness sharpens them. 2. Beyond the above fold, this-- more territory to mark; so, harvesting, as the time is right, each moment that I come to now, caring only to follow here the sound, sense, space of you.
- Brian A. J. Salchert
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
sw00329s-aw9.4poems
- Accompaniments: Where There Is Room 4 poems for W. S. Merwin written in my copy of his 1973 book: Writings to an Unfinished Accompaniment 1 "Summer Tales" A rock swallows berries of rain Sunlight paints your hand A mouse climbs darknesses spinned Friends / acquaintances chip / stain each thought we shape stand lengthened shortened fattened thinned Leaves buzz like the saw's chain Waves suck rocks to sand In the answering grass the questioning wind (newly rewritten on page 42 under "Spring") 2 "Faith" In the midst of Hell the robin's egg (written on page 49 under "Nomad Songs") 3 "Possessed" We wait upon the edicts of our things and bow to them religiously (written on page 51 under "Ash") 4 "Valleys" Sparrows grapple with crows of wind but crouch in their houses when hail pelts or the fear of hail from enemy eyes catches me slinking from the air (written on page 65 under "Summits") Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00328s-aw8.4poems
- Accompaniments: Where There Is Room 4 poems for W. S. Merwin written in my copy of his 1973 book: Writings to an Unfinished Accompaniment 1 "And tomorrow" will you be saying what you say now with any less brilliance rainbow because someone has seen you entered you and understood and given to others each drop of you (written on page 37 under "At the Same Time") 2 "Graves" are what we are born with what we make them the pains in dreams (written on page 38 under "The Wharf") 3 "Despair" Heaven is a snapping turtle with lilies in its mouth (written on page 39 under "Beggars and Kings") 4 "Just enough light" to see to write by here in my Nova this ten p.m. looking out over Lake Winnebago near the white lighthouse in Lakeside Park the floating lights of two boats carrying me the land lights around making me still faint stars headlights turning behind me to my right my eyes recording the play of them (written on page 41 under the conclusion to "The Unwritten") Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00327s-aw7.4poems
- Accompaniments: Where There Is Room 4 poems for W. S. Merwin written in my copy of his 1973 book: Writings to an Unfinished Accompaniment 1 "Windows" come & go in your hair in your skin in the leaf of a oak in the air Open to them (written on page 30 under the conclusion to "A Door") 2 "A Wall" A row of sunflowers A voice An odor of daylight textured like the faces of a leaf-- a carpenter's hand (written on page 32 under the conclusion to "A Door") [ "A Wall" was published in Wisconsin Review volume 12 no. 4 1978 ] 3 "A Floor" Ordered space the top of a bottom in the soil in the sky in a dream able to be a wall or a ceiling to slant an inhabiter of times of memories the erratic edge of the universe beneath which nothing (written on page 33 under"A Door") 4 "Ceilings" The summits of our emotions Beings we look up to with axes in our hearts Desires finally ripe The most we are willing to pay walking on our knees for the chance to die The last day of Earth on a high place of ritual where costumed dancers chant their fate / on low-wall floors of stone while the Divinity of White rises in the north the appearance of her feet signalling the end Our awakenings our births (written on page 35 under the conclusion to "A Door") Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00326s-aw6.5poems
- Accompaniment: Where There Is Room 5 poems for W. S. Merwin written in my copy of his 1973 book: Writings to an Unfinished Accompaniment 1 "Poetry" is full of ashes full of bees is a desert drowns (written on page 24 under "The Current") 2 "Habit" I would have tasted her message inhaled her love touched her songs in my toes (written on page 25 under "Something I've Not Done") 3 "Owl to Owl" There are enjoyments and enjoyments One enters where one can When age and wealth and preferences bless me with their light I enter my dark eyes I enter here (written on page 26 under "Tool") 4 "In a Pool Somewhere" the wrinkling face of a lily (written on page 27 under "Bread") 5 "Me" Wind disturber of rest / of contemplation designer of rags / composer chameleon wastrel / saviour invisible (written on page 28 under "Habits") Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00325s-aw5.4poems
- Accompaniments: Where There Is Room 4 poems for W. S. Merwin written in my copy of his 1973 book: Writings to an Unfinished Accompaniment 1 "Prayer: Looking at a Mirror" Out of Mystery I am and what I can do Out of boiling space and sea and land the comings together of particular people at particular times Out of accidents in the dances of dust and wind water fire I honor them (written on page 20 under "On Each Journey") 2 "Lover" whichever one you are leaf of light voice of black black green tongue of wind your enterings of me are deep your embracings full mine of you pale (written on page 21 under "Beyond You") 3 "Stars" Porcupines Waves (written on page 22 under "Their Week") 4 "Death" is a cauldron of peonies My head and torse blister dissolve Blackbirds fly through sparows through the walls of a dream Insects slither down (written on page 23 under "Old Flag") Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00324s-aw4.4poems
- Accompaniments: Where There Is Room 4 poems for W. S. Merwin written in my copy of his 1973 book: Writings to an Unfinished Accompaniment 1 "The Sands Between My Toes" What matters is not so much where I am as where I am not airs cresting behind my wanding fingers bruises of flowers beneath my soles (written on page 15 under "The Clear Skies") 2 "Questions" Do you really want to bartend Really want sex Are the sunlights in your past that hard to look at And what about seclusion in the rattling caves and pines Could you really get into nakedness all day long Are there splinters in your brain waves Are there sparrows' nests in your ears (written on page 17 under the conclusion of "To Be Sung While Still Looking") 3 "Against the light of a season" there is little space to be the suck and whine of fire (written on page 18 under "Under the Migrants") 4 "The Head That Won't Stay Put" --from Janice sprouting legs and arms and at every crossroads not knowing which way to go-- the elm leaf limping through parched grass the unicyclist astonishing Golden Gate Park the ripe moon on a plate of water the earthy shirtless boys making hay the body spurting blood that won't stay put (written on page 19 under "On the Silent Anniversary of a Reunion") Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00323s-aw3.4poems
- Accompaniments: Where There Is Room 4 poems for W. S. Merwin written in my copy of his 1973 book: Writings for an Unfinished Accompaniment 1 "In This Last Hour of Sun" by towering grays grayed around gray me and the gray rock I rest on and the quilted brown-gray lake white sails stroll a bright-green fly jewels my finger a dull rainbow of cars looks out and later/ when the acquaintance leaves near a soft-magenta margin of sky where the blackish horizon ruffles flashes of ragged cracks glowing fans of electrons periods of water of light (written on page 11 under "Letter to the Heart") 2 "Does it fit" to talk of Eden after the snake has wound back under the roots and the Son has somehow magicked Himself beyond our clouds though this is where I am? (written on page 12 under "Memory of the Loss of Wings") 3 "Gide" coming to terms-- that 1 + 1 = 2 not 3-- is hard so one poem's sour another sweet another this me in my car near the lighthouse again boy/girl lovers on either side my finger's shadow darkening where I write and the waves snap-- a few as far as my windows closing in on midnight sinking away while someone perhaps awakened wonders whose I am: his or hers (written on page 13 under "The Old Boast") 4 "Mt. Tamalpais" I was not the first there the day I went up I was not the last but where I walked climbed only I did and how I prayed that Sunday morning I did alone yet resting talking I know others and the birds rocks shrubs grasses trees and the windy light that warmed me and the amoeba fog below moved worshipped more sacredly than I (written on page 14 under "The Day") Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00322s-aw2.4poems
- Accompaniments: Where There Is Room 4 poems for W. S. Merwin written in my copy of his 1973 book: Writings to an Unfinished Accompaniment 1 "As I Just Said" one must but then there are times oh you know don't you leaf in my hand (written on page 7 under "Looking Back") 2 "The Poem (v3)" Most of that day he worked on it auditioning words selecting their places from before the glare till nearly midnight wanting to stage a perfect show though he understood well the wanderings of clouds and Earth's inability to hold still (written on page 8 under "Song of a Man Chipping an Arrowhead") 3 "Chuck It" No silence no nothing cymbal clangs cars trucks skreeeee krawuge bledding steel bleeding asphalt stained windows roaded I am a harsh wind in tan cornstalks shivering cracking a fist and claw raking pummeling I cannot stay (written on page 9 under "The Silence Before Harvest") 4 "Child" Praise the leaf as it turns the ages in your eyes (written on page 10 under "Cat Ghosts") [ "Child" was published in Wisconsin Review volume 12 no. 4 1978 ] Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00321s-aw1.4poems
- Accompaniments: Where There Is Room 4 poems for W. S. Merwin written in my copy of his 1973 book: Writings to an Unfinished Accompaniment 1 "And June, Listen," whenever a hidden piece of light curses or screams it is tortured with dirt and bits of grass which it can only surround but cannot pearl or fester out and if it continues the entire cell it shines in is filled and if it continues still it is catapulted into the sun (written on page 3 under "Early One Summer") 2 "Equation" If it is in darkness that we see it is in silence that we hear in emptiness that we feel in fasting that we taste in an ocean's wave knots from even a rock that the fragrances of lilies kiss us (written on page 4 under "Eyes of Summer") 3 "San Francisco" Like a clean electron sure of itself yet jittery I sped to the mountainous coast imagining burial in quaking stone or blossoming into a star or transformed to a bee headed down under or bandying from cove to mountain to cove or abruptly burning home (written on page 5 under "End of Summer") 4 "Anxiety" One must keep it intact pampered like a knickknack its colors though dull are essential and its delicate shape Should you sleep with your wife or stay up to write Without it you can be certain (written on page 6 under "The Distances") Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00320sc-set4.aw.links
Set 4 links to Accompaniments: Where There Is Room --for W. S. Merwin-- 4 poems - aw 1 - 4 poems - aw 2 - 4 poems - aw 3 - 4 poems - aw 4 - 4 poems - aw 5 - 5 poems - aw 6 - 4 poems - aw 7 - 4 poems - aw 8 - 4 poems - aw 9 - - Brian A. J. Salchert
Monday, April 16, 2007
sw00319a-signal.links
Autobio [ First this search recommendation: John Barr American Poetry New Century ] This is a links/information entry to works of mine which are significant to me personally. It is not complete because some of those works are not back online yet. = - If you wish to read my Homer-centered sonnet, my "Sonnet to Shakespeare" or my "To John Keats" sonnet, scroll to Year-day 281, Year-day 284, Year-day 285 - - "When You Are Young" homily - - poem: "Snow" - - snowman poem - - Birthday Ribbons poems - - poem: "Tonight" - - "The Mind Has Seasons Out of Time" villanelle - - poem: "Symphony" - - Letter (May, 1970) - - poem: "The Forty-One Days of Kim" - - poem: "After the Apple" - - manifesto poem: "At First to Poets" - - Brian A. J. Salchert
Sunday, April 15, 2007
sw00318v-9.poem7
Venturnings After the Apple If no one cares to know my name, I cannot say I blame them. Yet, nonetheless, I will trudge on, and crunch the leaves and use the air, inventing for myself, I guess, a strand of pleasure in the night. If words are what one cares about: the ways they crash, and lift, and cry, one's turns with them, then, will occur, though only reach that magnitude of power and beauty and sharp surprise that at those times// one's self/ possesses. So, be it Sirius or asteroid ash or sparkling rainbows or tufts of dust, if no one cares to know my name, I cannot say; I cannot/ name them.
[ from 10-25-00 ]
Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00317v-8.poem6
Venturings I'm tired of life, bless it! I'm just gonna live it, simply live it. Fill the thimble, if thimble I am. Fill the bucket, if bucket I am. Fill the reservoir, if that I am. And if only ephemera come of it, then only ephemera, shimmering. I'll at least have tried, Thomas Aquinas contemplating angels, Alphonsus smiling at the monastery door. And if while I'm imagining sailboat, satellite, butterfly, rackets of blue jays break in, then rackets of blue jays do. I also clamor, shake my colors in the dilettante sun; sweep down over parking lots for scattering seeds. I also vanish in the leaves & twigs. I also survive.
[ from 8-23-85 ]
Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00316ac-links.entry4
Autobio [ last modified: 2008-10-16 ] Autobio Poems is a double chapbook of 19 and 24 poems
( * ) indicates loose e-chap entry - ( fv ) indicates First Verses e-chap entry November 2006 (9 entries) - 3 blog notes - of my personal self and my poet self - noosphere - 2 about where - busy day - busy day 2 - 11-19-06 about me - University of Iowa Alumni Survey note and "Snow" poem - busy day 3 - - 2007 January (7 entries) - prayers - new residence - ice storms - settling in - two notes - settling in two - old info - - February (17 entries) - hermit poet - colors: the IE binot that was - West Bend News "Spice of Life" interview - four notes - on being human - about this journal - blessings: on 02-14-07 - hmmm - summary - outage - tags - two notes - sexuality - weather - calm before storm - an old poem ( * ) poem 1 - autobio - - March (2 entries) - how the GRE altered my life - aphorisms - - April (19 entries) - greeting ( * ) poem 2 - star poem ( * ) poem 3 - bird poem ( * ) poem 4 - Holy Thursday thoughts |tomb poem ( * ) poem 5 - Good Friday thoughts | Jesus in "hell" poem ( * ) poem 6 - Holy Saturday thoughts | God as "Rune" poem ( * ) poem 7 - Easter Sunday thoughts | two disciples poem ( * ) poem 8 - poem: "To Those I Am One With" ( * ) poem 9 - curious lucid dream - weird poem ( * ) poem 10 - links to personally-significant works of mine - experimental poem written in red on a white napkin ( * ) poem 11 - poem: "Malaise" ( * ) poem 12 - poem: "Each and Every" ( * ) poem 13 - 2 poems: "February" ( * ) and "September" ( * ) poems 14 and 15 - Then and Now - some poetic influences - Sayings - count of poem, ditty, muttobs in journal - - May (9 entries) - Important Notes - Hermit Stance - Interim - natura naturans - ego - tribs - in the far beyond (galaxies and avant-garde poetry) - Internet poets - A Special Thank You (for my life) - The Yeats-Auden-Saenz-Mackey Connections - - July (8 entries) - 6 Lines ( * ) poem 16 - My First AOL Journal - Another View of Myself - Creativity - On Not Fitting In - Recess ( * ) poem 17 - Okay ( * ) poem 18 - pdm count - tally 2 w/ 4 Lines ( * ) poem 19 - - August (3 entries) - Timely Thoughts - An Email to Anyone - meeting/lines/Pessoa - - September (3 entries) - facing it - email (eml) 5 poems - All About Me #2 - - October (2 entries) - US states I've resided in - some quick insights - - November (3 entries) - 24 First Verses titles/links ( fv ) - The Realm of Ibnar - confusion dream - - December (1 entry) - pdm count - tally 3 - - May 2008 (1 entry) - photo math project note poetics link - - June 2008 (1 entry) - Note about the 13 books of poems in this journal - - July 2008 (1 entry) - five Autobio links about me - - Brian A. J. Salchert
Saturday, April 14, 2007
sw00315o-the10questions
Opinion My Answers to The Ten Questions at Very Like a Whale because I have decided to accept the indirect invitation from the master of that blog to "have a go at" his questions. 1. In his response to Shelley, W. H. Auden said that if poets were allowed to be acknowledged legislators they would create a society no one could live in. I find this challenging, but I sense he is right. I do have a stance though, not that I always adhere to it, either in my poem-making or in my life. I believe we ought to strive to spiritually love each other, including those we place among our enemies. It is a belief which comes directly from Jesus, and is implicit in the prayer to the Father He taught his disciples. Flowing from this belief are the last ten lines of one of my poems: And yet, and yet, not wealth nor fame nor power-- you know: Uncounted simple ones of us have grown & given, and more and more made radiance their progeny, and selflessness, and courage. 2. I have never participated in an online workshop; but I was in a workshop as an undergraduate, then as a graduate, and then approximately twenty years later as a post-graduate. Each of those benefitted me, especially the graduate workshop. 3. As to Donald Hall's statement, there are too many variables. Another position I learned through Auden is Valéry's astute conclusion: "a poem is never finished, it is only abandoned"; further, I, like Yeats, am willing to revise so long as I am enough alive to be able to do so. Still, some poems arrive from one's secret brain in pristine condition, while others gestate for years, and others are so messy there seems no way to salvage them. 4. Wrong, but I will say this: I have self-published all my books except the first one. That first one came out in November of 1972 just as my academic life was about to end. I asked six or so of my colleagues to pick a poem from that book which s/he liked best, and no poem received more than one vote. I am too eclectic, and the Universe knows it. Its Muse, there- fore, is likely to charge in with any thing; and if to me that any thing has enough going for it, I am likely to record it and pass it on. The other day at a site devoted to S. T. Coleridge, I encountered and read a mathematical poem he had written. Did it amaze me he had done such? Yes it did, but I was pleased to have become acquainted with it. 5. Yes I have an Internet presence, but the search engine robots know more about it than humans do. Over the last seven years (the age of my online life) I have had to abort several of my online projects. The one I now maintain began its life 11-03-06 in AOL's journals space. My name for it is: Sprintedon Hollow. It is majorly poems I have written. I am 66. - The state of online poetry is beyond comprehension. That it is there is enough for me. I am constantly learning through it, and finding variant joys through it. 6. I have been published minorly, and that because I am not aggressive in that manner. I am an INFP. My development as a poet is ongoing, and other than through the workshops I mentioned, most of that development proceeds through the reading I do and through deepening my understanding of my wacky self. Recently I wrote that all my poems ought to be read by an English butler. I am three parts German and one part English, but the English part hath my wit. 7. They are there, and now and again I visit one, but I do not submit to any. There was, however, last time I checked, a sonnet of mine at Sonnet Central. 8. I favor it. I prefer being the sole arbiter of what I create. Just before 1980 I began Thinking Lizard (my still viable publishing company) and in 1980 I published several of my books in the cassette medium and registered them through the LOC. 9. The biggest opportunity? Communion with an other Earth-alive human through a made object which enables that other to live with more hope and more faith and more love. Communion with myself to the same end. 10. The biggest challenge? Not letting my life wend on, nowhere going, nowhere gone. It is easy to give up, but to paraphrase loosely what President Coolidge once said: Persistence is/ more valuable than is talent or genius. I opt to persist until I can persist no longer. Thank you. Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00314math-60n.and.66n
Math: 10 and the 60n and 11 and the 66n - This entry is a supplement to my 6n Elimination Table entry. # tpo1 = 60n where n = 1 | tpo2 = 60n where n = 2 therefore, the value of the "tpo" = the value of the "n" therefore, the resulting pewn's are: 60, 120, 180, 240, 300, 360, 420, 480, 540, 600, 60n and, therefore, the (60n - 10) numbers are: 50, 110, 170, 230, 290, 350, 410, 470, 530, 590, (60n - 10) and the (60n + 10) numbers are: 70, 130, 190, 250, 310, 370, 430, 490, 550, 610, (60n + 10) and, therefore, this is one method for generating the times ten values of the 5 _ 7, 11 _ 13, 17 _ 19, 23 _ 25, (6n - 1) _ (6n + 1) pairs. If "n" were "49" (60 x 49), the product would be: 2940, making "2930" the minus 10 value and "2950" the plus 10 value So, 293 _ 295 is the pair at n = 49 in the 6n E T (6nET). - If you add 5 to 50 (55) and also add 7 to 70 (77), another "n" series of interest emerges: 66n (6 x 11) wherein 66 x 1 = 66, 66 x 2 = 132, 66 x 3 = 198, . . . from which these pairs can be generated: 55 _ 77 (66 - 11) and (66 + 11) for (5 x 11) and (7 x 11) 121 _ 143 (132 - 11) and (132 + 11) for (11 x 11) and (13 x 11) 187 _ 209 (198 - 11) and (198 + 11) for (17 x 11) and (19 x 11) = Weather note at 9:11 AM - It is snowing here in Springfield, Missouri. The wind is at 14, but is gusting. The thick green grasses are slick white. Winter is whooo-whooo owling at my bedroom window. The nesting birds are snuggled in their cups; but, wait: what was that? Parting the drapes, I see the smeared answer. # Brian A. J. Salchert
Friday, April 13, 2007
sw00313a-poem10apr07
Autobio "Weird" The Centaurs waxed and waned in the pools of heat Miss Quito buzzed for a whole year in and out of Ecuador You couldn't catch a fly with a button if you ate 'hoppers We sat about five feet from each other so we could breathe A myriad galaxies bounced out of time - Brian A. J. Salchert
Thursday, April 12, 2007
sw00312math-6n.elimination.table
The 6n Elimination Table - [ last modified: 2007-04-13 | see below ] In 2006, before I was forced by IE to move all I had there offline, I had a major site at ThirdAge, a significant portion of which was dedication to what I named: Number Theory Investigations. That IE made me remove that site/ may have been good. I did discover this year (2007) that at least one person copied my NTI pages there without my knowledge. I hope that person and whoever else became aware of my investigations/ learned some things of value from my endeavors. Being the heuristic mathematician I am, I often present my thoughts as they are occurring, and consequently am liable to change and/or discard those thoughts. - Due to what I began to see this morning, I am next going to place here part of page 12 from my Number Theory Investigations, but first some explanations. # pown = positive odd whole number pewn = positive even whole number E T = Elimination Table tpo = termposition fd = final digit # # 2006-04-19 Wednesday - A pown can be doubled to begin the creation of an Elimination Table which will effectively eliminate every multiple of that pown/ except that pown x 1. Thusly: If c = 6, 6 then can be the pewn constant for an Elimination Table in which neither a (6n - 1) term nor a (6n + 1) term could ever be a multiple of "3". # # 2007-04-12 comment: The "except that pown x 1" is wrong. Onward. Here is the beginning of a 6n Elimination Table: (note: the first "n" = "1")
Column 1 Column 2 Column 3 - (6n - 1) 6n (6n + 1) tpo1 5 6 7 - tpo2 11 12 13 - tpo3 17 18 19 - tpo4 23 24 25 - tpo5 29 30 31 - end of cycle 1 - tpo6 35 36_____________37 - tpo7 41 42_____________43 - tpo8 47 48_____________49 - tpo9 53 54_____________55 - tpo10 59 60_____________61 - end of cycle 2 - -
This is a what-I-started-to-see pause. Knowing that a number whose fd = 5 is a number divisible by 5 is easy, but knowing that a number (whatever its fd is) is divisible by 7 is not easy unless a way can be found which will make it easy. I think I may have found such a way. Important primary point: The power inherent in a pown (let 7 be our example) regarding those numbers it divides into equally/ does not begin until the square of that pown has been reached. In other words, while a given pown does divide equally into a number or numbers which are less than the value of that pown's square, it is the lesser number it is partnered with which rules. Two divides equally into every greater pewn. Important secondary point: In the table being used here, no (6n - 1) or (6n + 1) pown is divisible by 3. Okay, what about 7? 1 x 7 = 7. 3 x 7 = 21. 5 x 7 = 35. 7 x 7 = 49. 21 is not in this table. 35 is, but 5 rules it. 7 is, but 1 rules. As to 49, this: 48/6 = 8. 48 + 1 = 49. 6 + 8 = 14. 7 + 7 = 14. We are forced to skip 63 because it is divisible by 3, and neither 62 nor 64 is divisible by 6. Let's go to 77. 78/6 = 13. 78 - 1 = 77. 6 + 13 = 19. 7 + 11 = 18. What's with this? Let's go to 91. 90/6 = 15. 90 + 1 = 01. 91/7 = 13. 6 + 15 = 21. 7 + 13 = 20. What's with this? Let's go to 119. 120/6 = 20. 119/7 = 17. 6 + 20 = 26. 7 + 17 = 24. Now what's up? Would you like to venture a guess about the next divisible by 7 pown? Let's try 35. 36/6 = 6. 6 + 6 = 12. 5 + 7 = 12. I think there is a pairs thing going on here, wherein 36 and 48 are pair one; 78 and 90 are pair two; 120 and 132 are pair three. Also, 35 and 49 are pair one; 77 and 91 are pair two; 119 and 133 are pair three. I'll be back later. (It is 5:05 PM.) - 6:36 PM Among other things while I was away, I've been doing some calculating. Two worthy results came of it. The first is that the (6n - 1) and (6n + 1) numbers are multiplicands as well as being multipliers. This is simple enough. The other is: If you stay with the 6n E T so as to avoid multiples of "3", 6 times any (6n - 1) number or 6 times any (6n+ 1) number will give you tpo1 of a simple arithmetic sequence based on that tpo/ from which multiples of the pown you have chosen can bedetermined. 6 x 7 = 42. 42 -7 = 35. 42 + 7 = 49. 7's number withinthe parameters of the 6n E T is 42. 42 is tpo1. 84 is tpo2. 126 is tpo3. 168 is tpo4. This means/ 42 times any positive whole number = a product from which two numbers divisible by "7" can be derived. 41 x 42 = 1722. 1722 - 7 = 1715. 1715/7 = 245. 1722 + 7 = 1729. 1729/7 = 247. | 66 is the number for "11"; 78 is the number for "13". - Normally that pown which is two less than the square of a pown is a prime number. There are exceptions. "119" is an exception. 11 x 11 = 121, but 7 x 17 = 119. We already know 6 x 20 = 120. Point of possible interest. 6 + 20 = 26; 7 + 17 = 24; 11 + 11 = 22. In just looking at "119" it does not seem there is any clue pertaining to its divisibility by "7". Yes, 42 x 3 = 126, and 126 - 7 = 119; but what would lead one to even try that? Regarding "3": Any pwn that digit sums to 3, 6, or 9 is divisible by "3". Just a something you likely know. "119" digit sums to 11, or 2. 17's 6n E T parameter number is "102", and 102 + 17 = 119. Isn't this just sweet petunias. 126 - 102 = 24, and 24 x 5 = 120--for whatever that's worth. I wonder where the next 7n = a number which is two less than the square of a pown? - 9:14 PM Something I had forgotten about which solves the "119" question quicker than a blink. It involves "10". 10 times any pwn or any multiple of any pwn will encounter a greater pwn that is divisible by the base pwn. 7 x 7 = 49. 7 x 10 = 70. 49 + 70 = 119. This also proves why "17" has to be the multiplicand: 7 + 10 = 17. I know this isn't entirely satisfactory, but it is a light. # 2007-04-13 8:13 AM - One could call it the "times ten rule". Here is run-through using "7": 1 x 7 = 7; 7 x 10 = 70; 7 + 70 = 77; 1 + 10 = 11. 2 x 7 = 14; 14 + 70 = 84; 2 + 10 = 12; 7 x 12 = 84. 3 x 7 = 21; 21 + 70 = 91; 3 + 10 = 13; 7 x 13 = 91. 4 x 7 = 28; 28 + 70 = 98; 4 + 10 = 14; 7 x 14 = 98. 5 x 7 = 35; 35 + 70 = 105; 5 + 10 =15; 7 x 15 = 105. 6 x 7 = 42; 42 + 70 = 112; 6 + 10 = 16; 7 x 16 = 112. 7 x 7 = 49; 49 + 70 = 119; 7 + 10 = 17; 7 x 17 = 119. 8 x 7 = 56; 56 + 70 = 126; 8 + 10 = 18; 7 x 18 = 126. 9 x 7 = 63; 63 + 70 = 133; 9 + 10 = 19; 7 x 19 = 133. I ignored "0" but I ought to have begun with it. 0 x 7 = 0; 0 + 70 = 70; 0 + 10 = 10; 7x 10 = 70. The finaldigit (fd) cycle for "7" is: 0, 7, 4, 1, 8, 5, 2, 9, 6, 3 This fd cycle is a retrograde cycle because "7" is > "5". Without the leading zero, the fd following the "3" fd would be"0", but that "0" would be the zero in "10". I opted for the leading "0" in part because I did not want to enter what I call "the one set", that set which comprises the teens. I wanted to stay within what I call "the zero set", that set which comprises the single-digit positive whole numbers (pwn's). # Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00311ut-05.2poems
The Undulant Trees The Poem (v2) Most of that day he worked on it from shortly after the sun began until nearly midnight auditioning words and their places wanting to stage a perfect show though he understood well the wanderings of clouds and the earth's inability to stand still ~ Form & Style Twelve twelve inches equal one foot Four four cups equal one quart Outside the inn's dining room a delicate bush is all fired up Cornbread divided by apple sauce equals delightful pie Jirac In the back of my dream you are rocking again The dining room's windows shatter The chair drifting off measures by dry groans the deaths in the hardwood floor - Brian A. J. Salchert
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
sw00310v-7.poem5
Venturings [ "Humankind" is the final poem in my unpublished 1985 Teasings chapbook, and it was written in 1985 specifically for that chapbook. ]
"Humankind" I am the future of poetry; the present, the past. In a bronze box I rattle the souls of your eyes. Seas bow before my approach. Even the stars, laughing so hard they shake tears of fire down the face of time, wait on me. And the gods? Be it they, or none, or a mighty One, beckon me-- my dreams-- while the soots of death swirl & grind. So long as I am I am limitless, though I reach no end, though the grandest of my computations crumbles at the screak of a bird, though the right front tire of my Subaru squirts the guts of a hapless cat at the heart of a child.
- Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00309v-6.poem4
Venturings [ In 1975 I was working at the West Bend, Wisconsin, Holiday Inn. At that time Holiday Inns had a program called "HOLIDEX: TEST 2" which printed in upper-case only. Its existence moved me to write a long poem in upper-case, a poem I would give the same name as that program's name. Some years later it was to be the feature poem in my never-published Teasings chapbook. ] = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = HOLIDEX: TEST 2 1 THIS IS A ROPE COILED IN THE GRASS 2 THE DOG-EARED LEAVES HOUND THE WIND THE TOMCAT SKIES ARCH & SPIT MY ARTERIES WITH MY HAIR HAVE THINNED MY TOUGH DARK THOUGHTS DULLED MY WIT AT THE FLICK OF YOUR WRIST YOUR SNAKE EYES SHOW AND THE HEATED AIR SPOILS & EATS THE APPLE SNOW 3 WEST / EAST STEP OUT: THE HOUSES OF YOUR OFFICIAL THINKERS ARE STILL TOO NARROW TOO STARK SIT BY ME IN THIS WARM GRASS AND IF YOU WISH TALK WITH ME TOUCH ME KISS ME 4 NO ELEMENT KNOWS THE RAIN AS DOES THE EARTH NEITHER THE AIRS THROUGH WHICH IT PASSES NOR THE FIRES IT KILLS NOR THE WATERS WITH WHICH IT BECOMES ONE FOR THE EARTH ABSORBS & DIGESTS IT AND GIVES IT BACK IN TRICKLES OF ITSELF TO FLASH FLOODS AND FLOODS OF SOBRIETY & FLASH 5 IN THE FOG ROBIN SONGS TODAY IS THE LAST DAY OF APRIL SOON MY WORDS WILL OPEN FOR YOU 6 IN THE COOL DAWN I LISTEN FOR THE RUSSIAN COMMUNISTS PARADE OF POWER FOR THE ROMAN CATHOLICS HYMN-FILLED CROWNING OF THEIR BLESSED VIRGIN IF MY WORDS SOON WILL OPEN FOR YOU YOUR WORDS SOON WILL OPEN FOR ME LET US WELCOME THEM 7 THE STATUES OF THE VIRGIN SHATTER HER CROWNS OF FLOWERS BURN THE ROCKETS OF POWER TUMBLE THE PROUD BULLETS MELT WE WILL SIT AND WAIT FOR THE DANDELIONS TO BLOOM AND EACH PICK A BOUQUET FOR EACH OTHER 8 WE ARE WALKING THROUGH GRASSES ABOVE OUR EYES AND SEE EDGES VARIANT GREEN & A KNIFED SKY WITH OCCASIONAL CLOUDS & HERE & THERE A BIRD & A LEAFY END OF A FAR-REACHINGTREE & THE WAYS OUR BODIES FORCE THE GRASSES ASIDE & THE GRASSES COVER OUR FEET 9 CHOOSE THE DARKEST OF SPACES AND IT IS SAILS, & WALTZES, ROSES, LIEBFRAUMILCH, & SAND. 10 WHAT I SAY HERE, WHETHER POORLY OR WELL, WHETHER WHOLLY OR PARTIALLY, IS SAID, AND CANNOT BE UNSAID. A DREAM IN SAND, A DREAM IN WOOD, A DREAM IN STEEL: AS I GIVE YOU MY WORDS, I GIVE YOU ME. 11 SMALL, RADIANT, TEEMING PLANET IN ITS WHIRLING SLIDING CARRYING ON ROUND, ROUND ITS AVERAGE STAR ASTONISHES THE UNIVERSE / MAKES THE UNIVERSE SIGH 12 MESSENGER TO MAGNATE: THOUGH ROCKS CRUSH ROCKS & FLOWERS STRANGLE FLOWERS, NEVER WILL I DO BATTLE FOR YOU AGAINST ANOTHER WORKER. 13 MAGNATE TO MESSENGER: IN POWER THERE IS DEATH. IN POWER, LIFE. THE THIRD MESSAGE YOU CARRIED THIS MORNING COULD DESTROY HALF OF THE WORLD. 14 WHY YOU-- YOU-- GOD--RUCK--I-- I--QUIT. I-- CHALLENGE YOU TO A GAME OF CHESS. I-- CHALLENGE YOU-- BY THE PEACEFUL BEINGS OF THE SEVENTH PLANET OF SIRIUS TO--MEDITATE-- TO--LET LIVE-- I--. 15 MESSENGER, THERE IS A WALL BETWEEN US I DO NOT THINK YOU CAN CLIMB OR HAMMER THE TINIEST HOLE IN. AND, MESSENGER, YOUR MESSAGE CAN NEITHER TUNNEL NOR FLY. 16 SIR--SLAVE--CONGLOMERATE, SOMEWHERE, BEYOND THIS CITY, IS A FOREST ENTERING SHINING SKIES, A PEBBLED BEACH DANCING WITH GULLS, A TRANQUIL MOMENT BRAGGING RAINBOWS--. 17 MESSENGER, IT WILL DO NO GOOD, BUT AS YOU WISH. WE CAN EVEN WALK TOGETHER / WE CAN EVEN SMILE. 18 BUTCHERER, DO NOT CHIDE ME. WHAT I DREAM, SO, IS DREAMT. ON THE SERENGETI A MILLION WILDEBEEST--AH 19 FOR ALL THE QUESTIONS THAT SPLASH IN THIS RAPIDS THERE ARE NO ANSWERS GREATER THAN THE ANSWER THAT IS THE SPLASHING ITSELF AS WE WHO WATCH WHO LISTEN WHO FEEL PLAYING WITH THE WINDS & OVER THE ROCKS & AROUND THE WEEDS & INTO & OUT OF OUR SELVES 20 WHICH OF THE TWO IS RIGHT: THE MESSENGER, OR THE MAGNATE? THE DESIGNS OF OUR BARTERINGS RE-CREATE THE WORLD. NEITHER. FOR EACH NEW POWER A NEW COUNTER-POWER. THE AQUARIAN AGE IS THE CHAMELEON AGE. 21 OUR VISIONS CHANGE OUR BARTERINGS. IF THIS MORNING WE ARE RAPIDS, TONIGHT WE MAY BE STARS. THIS LEAF I GIVE YOU IS PREGNANT 22 I HAD A DREAM OF TOURNIQUETS ON THE ARTERIES OF NATIONS AND AN EARTH OF BLOSSOMS OF JOY AND I HAD A DREAM OF NATIONS WHEELED INTO AMBULANCES & SPED OFF TO BE RESTED, TRANFUSED, CURED, THE DOCTORS OF LOVE COME TO PATCH THEIR ARTERIES, LOOSE THEIR TOURNIQUETS, TURN THEIR BLOOD-&-ASHES MINDS. AND I HAD A DREAM OF ANGERS SPEWING OUT OF BEDS, THE DOCTORS OF LOVE STABBED IN THEIR HEARTS, AND AN EARTH OF CRUMBLED BONES. 23 WATCH THIS LEAF, HOW IT RIDES THE CURRENTS 24 THE NIGHT IS SO WARM AND THE WIND SO EASY I WANT TO WALK NAKED UNDER THE MOON - Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00308o-english.language
- Opinion When it comes to using the English Language, I am not a purist. In a currently offline short old essay I somewhat detail why, but this morning I wish to progress beyond that. Behind me a copy of The Iowa Anthology of New American Poetries, a book published in 2004 by The University of Iowa Press, and edited by Reginald Shepherd, waits on my bed. It is on loan to me through Springfield's Library Station. Shepherd's "Introduction" pleased me deeply/ as it espouses positions I have long held/ and have written of. My "At First to Poets" is a core example. - From late 1959 until mid 1965 I was an undergraduate. During one semester I took a History of the English Language course. Two opinions the professor shared seemed to me quite startling: that the ( ' ) apostrophe would fall into disuse, and that eventually grunts and groans would be the fate of the English language. If I write "its its" instead of "it's its"/ will you not under- stand, even so, what I mean? What about qs or qz instead of q's; or 4s or 4z instead of 4's? At least, it is something to ponder. As to the grunts/groans foretelling, "though" has--via journalists mainly-- become "tho". More extensively, however, is the ongoing shorthand fueled by Internet chat rooms/ with "laugh out loud" becoming "lol" being the most widely known. One day, I, perturbed by an error I made, created "dau" for "dumb as usual". This language I use every day has risen to an emperialistic status because it subsumes new words with relative ease. English, in some ways, especially American English, is like a landfill. Yes, there are those who monitor said landfill, but that duhznt change it into a manicured garden. - Beyond all this are the poetics/linguistics stances of poets/critics wherein endless arguments both liven and deaden our insights. No matter what, every word denotes and connotes; and the ways words are used in relation to other words denote and connote/ dissimilarly. "Red White" is not the same as "Red Yellow", nor is it the same as "red white". As an inveterate eclectic, I peruse varieties ofencompassing. In the end, one's stance/stances are centered in one's personality; and how one expesses oneself reveals aspects of one's personality. Each poet, each critic, however good/indifferent/bad relates the story of who s/he is. Like a school of fish, each school of poetics/linguistics has its beauties, its truths. Thank the Lord (the Universe) each person is a royal (a universe), for it is in our differences that the human race zestfully continues. I am a dump of differences, a sky of differences. My preferences today may not be my preferences tomorrow, or even a minute from now. Does my telling you this mean I have a disintegrated/disintegrating personality? No. I simply am constantly sure: the Muse lives. Be the best who-you-are you can be. Brian A. J. Salchert
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
sw00307a-lucid.dream
- Autobio Early this morning, inconveniently, I woke up twice. Before the third time I awoke--at 6:51--I was in a place where a heavyset man who seemed 6'5" said to me: "Just imagine it! losing two football games in a row/ by less than seven points." My immediate thought was: As if that is so unusual. Anyway, he was a coach, and either he alone, or with the help of another, had written a book about his career: The History of Donuts Milwaukee; and that was the second/ I awoke. Crazy, huh. - Where do such dreams come from? My sister here in Springfield, MO, did recently suggest, when we encountered some boxed donut holes where we were shopping that day, I shoud buy some; and maybe the huge man in my dream was the manifestation of a desire, being that I am an osteo itsy-bitsy. Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00306a-poem09apr07
Autobio "To Those I Am One With" I am a thing of wish and wing very few know, and fewer care to; yet I am here in trees and seas very few know, and fewer care to. It does not matter what I say, or which way, very few know, and fewer care to. And so I abide in a light of night very few know, and fewer care to; and ever I shall: still, from house and hill, where very few know, and fewer care to. ------- Brian A. J. Salchert
Sunday, April 8, 2007
sw00305rtj-patterns.changes
Regarding This Journal - E12 [ last modified: 2007 04 14 ] See 5:32 PM note below. 04 08 07 - The former entry code had this general pattern: sw-p#####lllll-et.cetera The new entry code has this general pattern: sw#####lllll-et.cetera Two entries will retain the former: sw-p00001aqi and sw-p00260jlctr - Each of the other 303 entries now has the new general pattern code, an example of which is displayed at the top of this entry. ~ Do not expect changes/ to my journal's colors/ in any major way anymore. Given the colors one is allowed to use here, the colors I am presently using/ best fit my needs. I do wish the sidebar color were a tad lighter, but only a tad. I am most pleased by the contrast between the two lightest colors, and that the pure blue can be easily seen against the pure green-blue, and that the dark green-blue stands out well against the pure green-blue. - - 04 09 07 4:12 PM - I've already trashed what I wrote in the above paragraph, and all because of the violet, white, red, yellow, blue, and orange ribbons in my Birthday Ribbons. So, I tried (and am currently using) a page color I do not like: dark grey. Am keeping the black text, but I have returned to using the pure green-blue link. My heading background is yellow, my heading text is medium green-blue. For the sidebar I have chosen a dull light blue. - 04 09 07 7:56 PM - Have chnaged both my link and sidebar colors slightly. The new link has more green in it, and the sidebar is 2 parts green, 2 parts blue, and 1 part red. - - 04 10 07 8:01 AM - Am still making color changes, and may yet make more. Headbar background is the lighter of the two yellows. Sidebar is, for the first time, white. - 04 10 07 5:32 PM - This is the lastest/ from the complainist--or something like that. I gave up and went back to the light grey for my page color, but not until I had tested inserting the background color I wanted for a text. Alas, I was not pleased with the resulting look. Did some more dickering with my problem ribbons, and/ they seem okay. Black remains the page text color. Am using blue for links. The sidebar is the lightest green-blue. The medium green-blue is still the heading text. The background color for the headings is/ the lightest yellow. - Before my firstnote today, I did manage to appropriately alter the as yet unaltered entries in this journal so that this journal's new name appears on each entry. Brian A. J. Salchert
sw00304a-easter.sunday
Autobio Last night I went to bed early because I normally get up early on Sunday/ to take my osteoporosis medicine. My going to bed early means I settled in after 11 PM instead of an hour later. Oddly, I awoke at about 2:30 AM, and at that time I felt nothing physically or psychically I could point to as being the cause. Even so, I went to my bathroom. After returning to my bed, I was not able to return to sleeping. Verses were/ entering my brain, and they had a certain sense and sound structure. As I was doubtful I would remember them, I got back out of bed, walked over to where my goose-neck desk lamp sits, and turned it on. I then picked up the notepad I've been using, and also one of my pens; and sat down on my blanket-covered stool. Eventually, after some revisions, I had scribbled out a twenty-line piece divided into 5 stanzas. I then returned to my bed, but did not fall back to sleep. I think it was about 4:20 AM when I at last did. I awoke at 7:51, too late for taking my medicine, besides which I did not feel well in those places where it mattered. Hopefully, I will not feel so tomorrow morning, as I determined it would be wiser to take that medicine then. Similar to the poems I placed in my Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday entries, the one I am about to place in this Easter Sunday entry/ is apocryphal; but this one, on its surface, seems less obviously so. Therefore, I suggest you read Chapter 24--the final chapter--of St. Luke's Gospel. - - "Arisen from His Tomb," somewhere abroad in the light of day Jesus walks, numinous; for He knows a place He wants to be/ to quietly converse with two of us; but why should He choose to so appear; and if yet to others: whom of us? Do we not sense where there might crowd in fearful secret a room of us? Let us then go to tell those of this before we proceed to Ephesus. - - I suspect the above is a kind of code to me which I must further decipher. Like Francis Thompson, I see "The Hound of Heaven" in it. Pentecost Sunday in 1962, the day I left the then Wisconsin Province Jesuit Novitiate in St. Bonifacius, Minnesota, was in my life a seminal day. In many ways I have since failed to attend to the calling inherent in the events of that day. I am, however, not without hope, nor without faith, nor without love, though I may be sadly without. - Brian A. J. Salchert
Saturday, April 7, 2007
sw00303a-holy.saturday
Autobio OT = Old Testament NT = New Testament - Today is Holy Saturday, or Absent Day, or Tomb Day, or Mourning Day, which together oddly, yet perhaps appropriately, acronym to ATM, which in turn makes me think: atonement. An old poem of mine--I do not recall when I first penned it--reveals an OT/NT God I speak of as "Rune". Its style is neo-Romantic. Given the temper of these times on planet Earth, I feel today is a good day for it to reappear. I was a church-going Roman Catholic then, but now, as I say in my recently revised "January: Year-day 2" sonnet : I am a roamin' Cath'lic. - Depending upon circumstances, this status may change. - -
"Words from the Rune" I have it yet upon the stinking marigold, The glory of an angered eye; And where the flesh-path brushes past a naked thorn, The straightened will of Zion cold; And in my spear-infested waters Which tear at trunks of towered sky, The power of a thousand slaughters, The pleasure of eternal scorn. I send this still among man's dying villages, The chalice filled with living Blood; And through his fields of darkened wheat, The Bread that harries pillages; And under concrete mountains formed with rods Where shadows stab each other in the flood, The words which massacre his brazen gods; The collared-man to wash his feet. I take them yet out from the human slime, Those worthy figs I had no need to curse; And, oh, those star-surpassing objects devils burn, Holied tools to cross the spread of time; And all above their dry and chaffy earth Which are the hopes both good and bad disperse, I crush on streets the thistle's mirth; I build a chapel for the fern.
--------- [ "Words from the Rune" first appeared in First Pick, a rare out-of-print book, Copyright 1982 by Alden St. Cloud Thinking Lizard Austin, Texas 78741 ]
- Brian A. J. Salchert
Friday, April 6, 2007
sw00302a-redemption.friday
Autobio Today is Good Friday. Today I heard a crow's caws; or: today is a crow's cause day. For myself, I expect today will be a reflection day and a day of two meals of pink salmon. ~ It is quite chilly here this morning in Springfield, MO, and it is forecasted to be freezing chilly during the night tonight, tomorrow night, the next night, and Monday night: down to 18 Sunday night. We are under a high. I'm tempted to call it Sprintedon Winter with the hope that once it has sprinted on it will not return. Yet, cold as it is, I must say: Thank you, high, for your sunny dry eye, though it has not come by/ yet. Today, so far, is a blustery overcast day, but not a dark overcast day. It is more like the color of this page, a color I have had to settle on due to my need to use white as a text color in a few special places. ~ In 1982, while Janice and I were temporarily in Austin, TX, I published an Alden St. Cloud (my major pen name which I no longer use) selection of my poems. In that rare book's "Other" section is a poem which is actually a Holy Saturday poem but because of the title I chose for it/ I am placing it in this entry. In that same section is a much older religion- oriented poem I plan to post in tomorrow's autobio entry. The angle of vision in each of the poems is unusual. - - "Good Friday Evening, 1979" Today is Friday the 13th and the moon is full and the Son of Man is dead, alive in the shades of Hell; from the tombs of those dead He selects those long-patient who shall rise from those dead as He-- opening the gates of the promised but dead those years until His sojourn on Earth and His becoming dead--rises into the New Garden clothed with Light.
------- [ from page 77 of First Pick, a rare out-of-print book, Copyright 1982 by Alden St. Cloud Thinking Lizard Austin, Texas ]
Redemption Friday - Brian A. J. Salchert
Thursday, April 5, 2007
sw00301a-holy.thursday
Autobio Did a Holy Thursday search at Google, and chose to visit the first site on the list. According to what is said there, my personal calendar should not be constructed as it is; but I want Sunday to be day 7/ in part because for centuries the day we call Sunday has been held by many to be the day of rest. For me this does not prevent "Sunday" (my day 7) from being a day of renewal. I wrote a short 3-part poem on Easter Sunday in 2000 (?) entitled: "From Brian in the Empty Tomb", a poem I plan to place here once I locate it. Nothing in that poem relates to my current view because it pre-dates my current view. Besides, my personal calendar is more an imaginary construct than it is a dogmatic one. - About the poem: According to what I moments ago found, it was April 23, 2000, and its original title was Three Upon Easter. From Brian in the Empty Tomb "Where Goeth He?" Who walked on water; Who said that on the third day; Who grants and ungrants wisdom. I had a picture of Him once; Nay, I felt His fingers on my shoulder; But now He seems less than a shimmer. I want to scurry from those wrappings So neatly in that corner placed. I want to kneel there; I . . ; I . . . Oh, Jesus, Master, You always were The Slippery One: disappearing Mid-wink, in the mist of a word. ~ ~ ~ "When Will I See Him?" Once again: What path; What room. I cannot Stay here. Who knows Who else Might enter. Funny so! Here I Inside a tomb (Albeit Where He Had lain), Find it Is not--. Away! Away! ~ ~ ~ "Where Shall I Search?" For Him, my solace In the churning storm, My sweet Essene. Search? They who Pressed the--, who Drove the--. Run! Behind locked doors Entomb thyself. There shake/ and wait. - Brian A. J. Salchert
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
sw00300rtj-introverted
Regarding This Journal - E11 Along with my changing this journal's name from Salchert's Weblog to Sprintedon Hollow, the tone of this journal will become more introverted--its readers, however few, will be eavesdroppers on the ongoing conversations in my mind--and it will also be more serious. As much as I enjoy non-frivolous lightness, and know that a sense of humor helps to preserve spiritual, mental, and physical health, I am going to curtail displaying my odd, too-British wit. That is one reason why I have ended my This Day's Poem project. I will continue to write and rewrite poems. Even my math investigations will not be more than an equal with my need to make poems. I am at base an INFP: a thinker, a dreamer, an imaginer. It seems, therefore, peculiar to me copyright law does not protect one's ideas or the facts those ideas may uncover. Sprintedon Hollow is the day-to-day record of who I am--at least of that "I am" I care to reveal--and whether this "I am" is worth dropping in on does not matter. What matters is--for all my desire to communicate-- its value to me. It is not easy to do what I am doing here, but without it I would either wilt or be doing something other which would not sustain me (other than possibly materially) as this does. - This Internet/WWW noosphere we humans more and more inhabit and participate in our evolution toward transcendence through/ could one day crash, or be taken over by evil robots, or become the sole property of profiteering tyrants. Envision an/ otherwise prayer. - Among my favorite poems is John Clare's "I Am". If you have read it/ you know why. - - 3:51 PM In E7 my colors are - - - - - - - - - - - - b cccccc i 770000 n 000088 o 0000ff t 000000 Brian A. J. Salchert
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
sw00299aih-journal.name
12 As It Happens When I earlier decided to change this weblog's name, the first new name which came to mind was Sprintedon Hollow, but I changed it to Sprintedon Hermit. It seems the Universe wants it to be named the name it revealed; so Sprintedon Hollow it is. This small valley is not a real place, at least not one/ I know of. It is, however, the mythical home of the tiny mythical sprintedon dinosaur, and I am the hermit of Sprintedon Hollow. ~ Back to reality, that piece of cake one can eat forever. For the second straight year the UF Gator men's basketball team won the National Championship. Having lived in Gatortown 24+ years, this wee Wisconsin-born American congratulates them. Gee/ it's great/ to be a Gator! ~ April 2nd was a strange day for me. I am not sure why. It is after midnight, but I am not Cinderella, though I may become a cinder fella if I don't get some rest. I did not get much/ last night, and I did not eat much yesterday; yet I feel fine, just oddly adrift. - Stop! I think I/ figured out why. My companion wife, who passed in July of 2002, was born on April 2nd. Serenity to all. - Brian A. J. Salchert
Monday, April 2, 2007
sw00298a-poem04apr07
Autobio About a Certain Bird Mr. Robin tries his best, but all he can do is feather his breast with a dull smokey orange hue; but when it comes to his singing he cares not whether you are willing: before 5 AM he's about with his cheerrip cheerrip, cheerrip cheerrip, cheerrip cheerrip, cheerrip cheerrip, cheerrip cheerrip, cheerrip cheerrip, cheerrip cheerrip, cheerrip cheerrip, cheerrip cheerrip, cheerrip cheerrip high-tone trilling. [ Note: - Put a male cardinal next to a male robin and you will see immediately what is red and what isn't. ] - for copyright information see homepage Brian A. J. Salchert
Sunday, April 1, 2007
sw00297a-poem03apr07
Autobio Hermit Habit Somewhere there is a star deeply alone a star spun off a wanderer a white dwarf no galaxy no nebula compasses it a thought apart its distance is its defense and yet it shines however weakly because it must - Brian A. J. Salchert