sw00667a-08.fv1957

First Verses



I Could Be a Poet


Ah, 'tis true, but who am I?
I am no Pope, no Whitman, no Longfellow;
But rather an amateur
          searching for light,
                    for room to breathe.
And yet, do I truly wish
To breathe the sweet air of poetry,
Or do I but fool myself with such grand thoughts?
Am I just a bard for fame,
Or do I possess a true talent
That might flourish if I am patient,
          humble,
And willing to work toward such a goal?




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00666a-07.fv1957

First Verses



Too Young


Experience is that which I have not
                             leave in,
  As surely you must see.
My poetry is that of the saddest lot
                            even
  With weaker company.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00665a-06.fv1957

First Verses



Treasure


As lays
In beauty bound
By melodies so light,
Is all the wonder man has found
In life.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00664a-05.fv1956

First Verses



Light of Love


The "star of love" shone bright on high,
A guiding light up in the sky.
It led the Maji to the child;
Upon their gifts the God-Man smiled.
The angels sang their songs of praise;
As yet the star threw golden rays.
The shepherds on the hill did see,
Adoring the Christ on bended knee.
Should not hearts wonder at these things
About which still an angel sings?

God's love for man was resting there
In this manger, lowly and bare.
How radiant was His young face,
For from His heart flowed love and grace.
He gave Himself to save mankind
So that those lost He might then find,
Pointing the way to happiness;
Bringing all to Him to caress.
Eternal heaven is the home
Where we who love shall rest, shall roam.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00663a-04.fv1956

First Verses



Mother


I think of thee when traveling down life's road
My back is burdened with some heavy load.

I think of all the times you soothed my sores
With quicker speed than oil in Grecian wars.

Of all the words we spoke when left alone
That painted phrases only we have known.

You are a luminary of the night
Revealing paths that lead to love and right.

Each word and act I saw expressed by thee
Did bring you all the closer, Mom, to me.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00662a-03.fv1956

First Verses


[ Okay, I had an inordinate attachment to my mother who/
  was too gentle, and a troubled attachment to my father/
  who seemed to me to be too firm; but I learned a lot 
  from each of them, which says nothing about what I did
  with what I learned. ]




My Mother


She is short.  Just
    Five feet is her height.
Her eyes are soft brown;
    Her hair black as night.

A look that is kind;
    A smile on her face,
Which tears of sorrow
    Will never efface.

She's mine forever,
    Oh how much I love her.
May the Lord bless her.
    My dear, loving mother.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                  

sw00661a-02.fv1956

First Verses



I Dream of Life


Closing my eyes to see afar
   the magnificent brightness of a star,
I dream of life; the things therein,
   to think the way, my heaven to win.
My conscience remains my lasting guide;
   a guardian angel is at my side.
Like the swirling nebulae,
   in this realm I wish to stay.
My world is a dream; my life uncertain,
   and with my eyes I see the curtain
Of eternal life wherein I may go
   as I will.  Oh,  . . .




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00660a-00.first.verses.links

First Verses section of Autobio Poems

verse #1 - "The God-Created Milky Way"
-
verse #2 - "I Dream of Life"
-
verse #3 - "My Mother"
-
verse #4 - "Mother"
-
verse #5 - "Light of Love"
-
verse #6 - "Treasure"
-
verse #7 - "Too Young"
-
verse #8 - "I Could Be a Poet"
-
verse #9 - "The Mystic Dove"
-
verse #10 - "Winter Winds"
-
verse #11 - "Nature and the Goal"
-
verse #12 - "Woodland Shades"  (version one)
-
verse #13 - "Woodland Shades"  (version two)
-
verse #14 - "Each Man"
-
verse #15 - "Profound Depths"
-
verse #16 - "Indian Sue"
-
verse #17 - "His Goal Was Peace"
-
verse #18 - "The Red-Breasted Messenger"
-
verse #19 - "Tom of the Woods"
-
verse #20 - "Triton"
-
verse #21 - "Into the Marsh"
-
verse #22 - "The Song of Southern Africa for Freedom"
-
verse #23 - "Solitudo III"
-
verse #24 - "The Gush of Spring"
-
-
-------------------------
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00659a-01.fv1953

First Verses


[ When I was twelve I was attending a Roman Catholic elementary school,
  and I thought I might one day be an astrophysicist.  During that year I did
  two quite unrelated things: an oil painting of a young evergreen rooted at
  the base of an incline in the north section of the yard around our house,
  and a poem about God and the Milky Way.  The painting is hanging/ on
  a wall/ in this apartment.  The verse is/ hanging below/ a virtual um. ]




The God-Created Milky Way


A group of stars the heavens wide
  That seem to be side by side.

    A heavenly group with stars aglow,
      That Milky Way, which we all know.

A bit of the universe created by God
  That containeth the earth on which we trod.

    A sight to remember your whole life through;
      For it told of God's greatness,
                                       personally,
                                               to you.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00658st29-first.verses

Today and tomorrow are the final two days of my first year
of spinning this Thinking Lizard Sprintedon Hollow webbed 
log.  In my Autobio(a) section I will be placing First Verses.
Although I have lost some of them, it has been my habit to
keep what I've written.  Given the variety of my writings,
especially during 2007,  my early attempts are revelatory.
Therefore, my opinion of them is marginal (not to the point).




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00657st28-two.essays

Completed post of my 1963 essay on Edwin Arlington Robinson's
The Man Against the Sky poem at 1:11 PM today in my Rho-- blog.
-



-------------------------
2008-10-28:
Essay: Pluromics, Virtuality and the Gnostic Pharmakon Pt. 1   2007-10-30
by Lanny Quarles is no longer available where I first found it.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00656st27-lanny.quarles

PM 3:29 
-
PM 5:00 - Guess the shopping today wore me out.  Am not in the mood
to proceed with my June update, but--.  At least found a light text color
that seems more pleasing to me, and it's a safe color too: ccffff.  
-
PM 11:00 - Saying I was not in the mood to proceed with my June
update must have given me the energy to proceed.  June is updated.
-


-------------------------
Alois Riegl's Kunstwollen
Thank you again, Lanny Quarles.



Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00655st26-chicano.poet

Read R C's poem "Don't Mess With Texas".
-
Planet Earth has changed so/ since I was born, and continues to/ ever more rapidly:
I feel the root of who I am is antediluvian.  Is was.  The danger zones humanity/ in
these times passes through/ will test it intensively.  I want to be optimistic.  My soul
awaits// the New Eden.
-
Spent part of this evening learning about Republican Ron Paul.  My background is
heavily Democratic, but I am seriously considering supporting Dr. Ron Paul for the
office of President of the United States.
- 



Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00654st25-names4st

st = Sprintedon Tracker     and with this entry I am changing st's design.
Am doing this mostly for reasons of economy, but also because I do not
like seeing a bold Sprintedon Tracker on each entry.  Besides, without it
st then can also stand for Salchert's Trivia, not that all of what is in each
st entry will be (in my mind) trivia.
-
Shortly before shutting down last night I visited Greg Rappleye's blog.
Immediately saw I had made a good choice.  In my Other Journals is
a link to his site, and to 49 other sites.  The majority are/ maintained 
by poets.
-
Keep a stiff in your closet.
-
It is likely I will be adding my extant first poems to Autobio.
If I do, I will then cease using Autobio (a), allowing st to be
where I place autobio information.  There's a chance the rtj
(Regarding This Journal) series will also become part of st.
Opinions (o), too, will end.  There have been few, and they
can easily be covered in st.  Maybe st simply means Several
Topics or Some Things.  Could give it a DNA twist, and think
of it as Sentient Twinings.  Okay, okay: I'll just call it Stupid
Talk.  Satisfied?
-
"You're hired.  I like a guy who can work while he's sleeping."
-
February's updated.  Only June left.
-
Stan Apps has posted two of his 16-line sonnets.
Am unable to respond to them tonight.  They are
intriguingly strange.  They are not similar.  Ideas
have gelled; so I am responding tonight.



-------------------------
see famous painting housed in Milan


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00653st24-me.and.others

Good morning.  This is a man who has made many wrong choices,
however unintentionally.  Can those choices be blamed on person-
ality flaws, mental disabilities, unfounded fears, and so on?  Perhaps.
Good morning again.  This is a man, being imperfect, who can't say 
 he will not continue to make wrong choices, however many right 
choices he also makes.  Quite often/ choices are made, not because
one desires to injure oneself or some other, but because of a need 
to explore, to learn, to better understand oneself.  But it is possible 
to do the latter in relatively safe ways.  Good morning.
-
I am not going to go into the implications of what I have written,
nor am I going to give examples.  They are simply thoughts worth
pondering.
-
Alas, risk is a penchant of mine which/ has been obsessive at times.
That is one of the "reasons" I am drawn to the making of poems.
"Madman" is one of the numerous nicknames I've had.  That was in 
the last decade of the last century.  I did not attempt to discover
why I was so labeled.



§



Due to the updating I'm enmeshed in, an essay on E. A. Robinson
has been sitting in draft for days over at my Rodingeedaddee blog.
Had I been able to avoid visiting blogs where intriguing discussions
of literature occur, I would have finished the updating days ago;
but I do not want to avoid those blogs.  Earlier I read "Classical
Music Between Adorno and Bourdieu" at Robert Archambeau's
samizdatblog, a post which is also about poetry and history.  There
are approximately a dozen blogs I visit regularly.  Until this year I
had kept myself deleteriously isolated.  Even if I am always merely
tolerated by those whose blogs I visit, I need the knowledge they
share.



§



PM 12:04 - For the next five days (including today) the weather
will essentially be non-weather.



§



Entered a fill-in-the-blanks Spicer/Lorca poem try-it// 
on Jonathan Mayhew's blog.  I doubt/ any word I used/ 
is right.



§



Before 10 PM I visited Detainees, and while there I
took a link to another post on that blog.  As I was reading,
my security system lost it.  Got it to working again, but when
I tried to get back to my blog via the backspace arrow, the
screen froze.  Had to turn my computer off using the toggle
on the surge protector.  Not sure what caused the problem.
- 



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00652st23-cesar.moro

The chameleon speaks:~   ~ ~   ~   ~ ~ ~

-
PM 4:46 - May is updated.
-



-------------------------
Do a search for 
"The Sole Surrealist Poet: Cesar Moro (1903-1956)"
     by Jason Wilson (University College London)



Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00651st22-poet.views

So much for yesterday's 7:55 record: woke last today at 8:02; but
was up till nearly midnight trying to read the 56 comments beneath
one of Stan Apps's recent posts.  Quite interesting, all of it centered
around Stan's gardist categorizations.  At some point, a voice in me,
'minding me of Shakespeare, said: "Avaunt, gourd."  This morning,
when that thought returned, this thought followed:  It could be said
every new poetic voice (no matter how weak or imitative) is a kind
of avant-garde/ in that each maker is unique// and each made thing
is perforce unique due to the unfathomable set of concurrences which
fostered, nurtured, imbued, and birthed it.  Perhaps such poets as
Rimbaud and Stein are obvious exemplars of newness, but right now
all of us virtuals are engaged in the construction of a communal new.
If you really want an avant, wait until Robert Jastrow's prediction of
a fourth physical fold of the human brain encasing the present cortex
appears.
-
Best rain chance this evening.  At the moment, AM 11:24, it is windy 
clear.  PM 1:22 - Clouds have taken over.
-
Though the English language is--in some ways--drear, lacking nuances
present in certain other languages  [ here Nicholas Manning's thought
about other languages makes me feel we need to strive to prevent
languages from disappearing and to (if we can) resurrect those which
have disappeared ], English is a word-accretion / form-changing
language.  Witness "s/he": a form someone first used which is slowly
garnering general acceptance.  The Internet has spawned/ English-
language changes, but English has some inherent flaws a radical re-
visioning of it would eliminate.  That, however, is a book some AI
being may one day write.  For now, this:  I do believe, if one is open
to it, thoughts can enter one's consciousness directly from the Universe
(meaning God or some other higher intelligence).  Dreams have been/
sources.  Still, nothing that comes from an imperfect being is sourceless.
Most of what comes is a reconfiguration / reconceptualization of what
is already known.  I could point to myself for examples of all of this,
but why should I.  Each person has his or her  [ the existence of "his"
and "her" stand as proofs of what is inherently askew in the English
language ]  own examples.  Irony is "big" these days, but irony has a
negative aspect: it tends to negate honest humor and thusly to promote
taking oneself too seriously, which is the door to insanity.  Let us have
our arguments; but let us loosen up, which (hopefully) allows me to say:
I enjoy J B's "Vallejo says hi!"
-


-------------------------
regarding Hugo Ball and dada phonetic poetry, first scroll down to NOTES



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00650st21-human-brain

Went to bed early last night but woke twice during the night.  Each time the
wind was into its end-times yeowling.  Shortly before my third sleep period
ended I had a weird dream in which in placing my left foot on a step I hurt
it.  Then I actually did hurt my left foot, which harshly woke me at AM 7:55.
I haven't slept so late since who-knows-when.  The wind had abated and
as I pushed open the drapes I noted the sky was cloudless and the bush at
the southeast corner of the apartment building north of this one/ still.  Had
to change my morning routine since it was nearing time for me to take my
ep med.  Moments later when I peeked out the west edge of the drapes in
the living area, the bush was quivering.  Windy is part of the description of
today's forecast.  
-
Yesterday it occurred to me INFP 
could be an acronym for 
Internationally Nefarious Fugitive Person.
How that relates to its M-B meaning is an unknown.
Games/// brains// play.
-
For the last few months my electricity bill has been under $25.
Not anymore.  Looks like my monthly budget's going to be
so tight/ I'm going to have to eat my shoestrings.
-
A note on ego:  My conception of ego is such that a person who
was either born with a severely depressed ego or who had found 
a way to radically supress his or her ego/ would cease to commu-
nicate in more than a minimally conscious manner.  Therefore, all
the pronouncements about excising ego from the creative arts are
ruses.
-


-------------------------
brain of Homo sapiens: from a book by Robert Jastrow -- see credit beneath text


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00649st20-menagerie

00   11   22   33   44   55   66   77   88   99   aa   bb   cc   dd   ee   ff
For clarity's sake, I am going to let "a" = 10, "b" = 11, "c"  = 12, 
"d" = 13, "e" = 14, and "f" = 15.  ff = 255 and f0 = 255 - 15 = 240.
ee = 238 and e0 = 238 - 14 = 224  |  dd = 221 and d0 = 221 - 13.
17 is the difference between each adjacent set.  17 x 15 = 255.  So,
cc = 204 and c0 = 204 - 12 = 192.  This page's background color is
8080c0 in HEX, or 128 128 192 in RGB.
-
Did get rain yesterday amid the gusts.  Slept only 3 hours during the
night: from near midnight to near three.  The winds were quiet, but I
had a physical problem that made me afraid to get back in bed.  As
it has been chilly, about every 50 minutes the heat flowed 9 minutes,
going from near 70 to near 75.  Before dawn/ the gusts returned and
stayed, though they seem weaker and less prevalent than they were
yesterday.  It is AM 9:40.  PM 5:22 - Sky is clear.  PM 7:33 - 53.1°
-
Added some information to S H's site map and Autobio links entries
so visitors will know Autobio contains an e-chap and where the 16
poems in it are.  Am next going to the homepage about this.  Well, I
went, I saw, and I went away/ because I could possibly add other
poems to Autobio.
-
PM 4:41 - If I didn't miss an entry, January is updated.
-
S T is becoming such a catchall/ it might also replace Regarding
This Journal. 
-
Tony Tost on being poetically out/in -- "Monday Evening Ideogram" 2007-10-22


-------------------------
teAchnology - about us


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00648st19-war.religions

Overcast day with winds whooing and sometimes wheweeing.
The storminess that was hanging out to the west of us appears
at this PM 12:37 to be edging closer, partly because the storm
band has widened.  I'll know soon.
-
Continued updating.  Made several homepage changes.  Have
begun working on January.  Having changed the page background
from 808080 to 8080c0 forced me make color changes on some
entries.  Shades of red have been problematical from the first.
808080's luminosity is 120.  8080c0's luminosity is 151.  It seems
kickin' crazy that I'm using colors I've been avoiding, but this page
color, this purpled gray, is both soft and more luminous, and so it
does not blare at my eyes and it contrasts well with black text.
Even the link color I've been using seems more solid on this shade.  
-


-------------------------
Ken Wilber's "Why Do Religions Teach Love and Yet Cause So Much War?"


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00647st18-li.young.lee

Forecast change:  expected high today is 83, but the overnight low
47, with overnight lows for Monday / Tuesday / Wednesday below
40.  70% rain chance Monday with high in the upper 50's will make
Monday the coldest and most unpleasant upcoming day.
-
Had to put off taking my early-morning Sunday med until tomorrow
bacause I awoke too late.  Also discovered, due to being in a hurry
at that time, that I recently purshased a wrong supplement.  Figure
I'll contact the company from whence.  It's worth a try.
-
A while ago I visited Brian Campbell's blog, and there made my
initial acquaintance with the poet Li-Young Lee.  Brian's post has
taken me to both poeticinspire.blogspot.com and poets.org, both
of which I went to directly.  From this poet's page at the latter, I
read several of his poems, and then the interview Brian posted
about.  Everyone knows our (humanity's) existence is shrouded
in mystery; and many, including myself, have variously written of
this.  Here is one of Lee's statements from the interview:  "There's
no way to account for any thing or any event."  I am providing a
link to this interview beneath the 25 en dash line.
-
PM 10:24 - finished updating April entries.
- 


-------------------------
The Totality of Causes: Li-Young Lee and Tina Chang in Conversation


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                    

sw00646st17-blogcolors.and

Although I'm not an investor, I was in AOL's finance area earlier, 
reading about and taking notes on 15 stocks and 1 fund featured
courtesy of Kiplinger.
-
Since the history of my writing life has lately become for me more
important than the value of it, I may place my first poems (those
I still have) up in this journal.  The contrast between what I wrote
then and much of what I have written this year is, I think, extreme
and bewildering. 
-
Just changed sidebar color.  See homepage for code.
-
PM 2:23 - Today and tomorrow it might make it to 80, but the
following three days it won't make it to 60: vuva-vuva-vuva-vuva.
-
Can't stop dickering with/ this blog's colors.
-
Florida beat Kentucky, and are now 5-and-2.
- 


-------------------------
teach peace


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                     

sw00645st16-laborings

Hovering around 70 today.  The sky's clear.  The air's mild.
-

October changes are holding sway, leading me to do things
one might not expect I would do.
-
Anyone know what a robin's egg tastes like?
-
Let's see: Have updated November, December, March, July,
September, October.  February is going to be the last month
updated.  It has the most entries.
-
Because I spent the earlier hours of this day laboring in here*,
I haven't felt well since.  Still have plenty to do; nonetheless,
what I've accomplished I needed to, and am satisfied with.
.
* my apartment
-


-------------------------
teach tolerance


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00644st15-experiments

Much of what passes for and of/ life on this planet, passes because
of what we (as individuals and as a community) do not know/ those
moments/ when possessing the requisite knowledge or possessing it
with sufficient confidence would have prevented a life from passing.
-
Via the Welcome screen/ I did some body .  aol . com searches this
morning, and will be entering yet another experimental health period.
I have some lifelong afflictions I have been for years trying to cure or
at least ameliorate, but most of what I have tried--much of which is
still being recommended--did not work for me.  Often those remedies
made matters worse.  There are numerous drugs, however helpful, I
am at a point of refusing to use/ because of their side effects.  I want
those ingredients known to work.  Therefore, though I find it difficult
to eat nuts, I am going to try// eating walnuts.  (One of my searches 
encountered a study which reveals the value of a walnut ingredient 
for warding off pancreatic cancer.)  If I didn't have to eat walnuts to
get that ingredient, but could get it in some liquid form, I would.  Will
post about my various food consumption and other experiments as I
reach conclusions about them.  Chocolate is one.  Healthful as it is,
what if one is allergic to it/ as I was when I was a child?  The only
without-a-test way I can find out is by eliminating it from my diet for
several weeks.
-
Am diddling with my IE background colors this clear, cool, breezy day.
-
PM 2:44  Now, as small scattered puffy clouds ease east, I'm diddling
with my blog colors.  See new codes near bottom of homepage. 


-------------------------
Nemerov's "The Blue Swallows" poem with commentary and swallow photo


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                     

sw00643st14-updating

Since the inclusion of a slant homepage for Sprintedon Hollow, 
I have been (when I am in the mood for it) busy updating this
journal once again.  Today is such a day.  The major benefit
of this has been the finding of internal link errors.  I use HTML,
and AOL Journals has a built-in link-error detector.  I have an
MS operating system, and presently my 5 IE general-use rgb's
are: 000 000 000 for text, 170 170 153 for page background,
000 255 255 for hover, 153 000 000 for visited link, and 
000 000 153 for unvisited link.  When I click on Edit Entry,
the entry goes to TEXT mode, and the entry's colors become
the IE general-use colors.  If a link to another entry exists on
the accessed entry, and that link's color comes up blue instead
of red, something is wrong with that link's code.  Conversely,
if after a link has been inserted, and the entry's scroll bar has
not been moved when the journal's scroll bar is moved down
so that the page can be saved, and the inserted link comes up
red when Save is clicked, that link's code is right.  Therefore,
I am trying to train myself to check the internal link colors 
when I click Edit Entry.


-------------------------
Magic Smoke


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                        

sw00642st13-bits.n.2luminous.essays

weather: cool and hazy cloudy, but rainless
-
The renter in the apt adjacent to mine owns a small dog.
The renter in the apt above mine may own a cat, but does
own some kind of pet recently acquired.  I have heard it
scampering around, and for several days I thought that
maybe a squirrel had gotten beneath his floor and above
my ceiling, but then I heard him roll a ball and the pet
chasing it.
.
Aside from my being allergic to dogs and cats, I have had
one dog and (while I was married) three cats, with each 
of those four experiences ending disastrously.  I could not,
and would not, have a pet of any kind ever again.
-
PM 3:47 - Was out doing some groceries-mostly shopping.
-
I no longer own a TV, nor do I want to.  I do own 3 radios
I rarely turn on.  Am not as interested as I once was in what
those mediums have to offer.  I never was much of a movie-
goer.  Don't even remember what movie I saw last.  It may
have been 2001.  Stumbling around inside my head interests
me more.  Some would say I'm an online junkie.
-
Have spider problems every now and then in this apartment.
Most recent invaders are quite small and are reddish-brown.
Found a spider photos site on which is a picture of more than
a dozen spiders which look exactly what I have encountered.
The picture was taken by a person residing in SW Missouri.
The site owner said they might be Hobo spiders (er, actually,
Hobo spiderlings).  They're members of the Tegenaria family
of spiders.  This member, unfortunately, is venomous.  See
www . spiderz rule . com / photos . htm - read site intro info.
Anyway, even though I'd rather not, I should contact a pest
control company.   [ PM 7:11 - the heat came on ]   Will be
buying some sticky strips, looks like.
-
-
Below are links to two luminous essays:
  Reginald Shepherd's "Why I Write revised"
and
  Tony Hoagland's "Fragments, Juxtaposition, And Completeness:
                                     Some Notes And Preferences"


-------------------------
Reginald Shepherd's Blog
-
Cortland Review  issue 33


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00641a-squints

Autobio           some quick insights                                        

2007-10-15

I am a somewhat reclusive poet of mixed poetics.
-
Some of my works are stylistically of a piece.
-
Though I cannot curtail it, I prefer I/ not be
 compared to/ any other writer.
-
Some of my works/ may seem/ antediluvian.
 Some are arcane.
-
Is there a constant in my writings?
 I do use signs.
-
There are (as of yet) defining parameters.
 Example: I am not able to value either
             Elizabeth Bishop or Gertrude Stein.
 Example: I have never used a Chinese sign.
 Example: I believe in an active Triune God.
 Example: I am a 66 y o Caucasoid male.  Dang.
 Example: I have a quirky/ sense of humor.


-------------------------
  Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00640a-resided

Autobio       US States I've Resided In                                     

This morning while looking at a weather map, I got into tracing
where I have resided.  So: I arrived on this planet in Wisconsin.
In 1960 I moved to Minnesota.  In 1962 I returned to Wisconsin.
[ Since I got married in 1965, the following I's are really we's. ] 
In 1965 I moved to Iowa.  In 1967 I was briefly back in Wisconsin.
In 1967 I moved to Illinois.  In 1970 I was again back in Wisconsin.
In 1970 I moved to California, but I was shortly back in Wisconsin.

(In the summer of 1974 I "escaped" to New York City, residing
there among the Gays for less than three weeks, drove on to visit
some aunts in Swampscott, and down into Boston to see 2001 and
visit two partnered guys.  Early in August I drove home.  However,
due to some accidents I'd had, I had to have our Sunbug repaired.)

In 1976 I moved to Maryland, but shortly was back in Wisconsin.
[ At this point I am at the moment not certain about some year dates. ]
In 1978 I moved to Idaho, but pollution sent me back to Wisconsin.
In 1981 I moved to Texas for good reasons with quickly bad results.
In 1982 I moved to Florida, where I lived in Gainesville from June
[ in which city of trees and UF/ in July of 2002 the we became I again ]
of that year until December 2, 2006, when two of my nephews who
had driven down from Missouri/ hauled me out of Florida.  Since
December 3, 2006 I've been residing in Missouri; but I'm supposed to be/
buried in Wisconsin.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00639o-earths.environment

homepage

Opinion Earth's Environment PM 10:30 Springfield, MO 
- 
Thanks to a notice on Collin Kelley's blog, earlier this evening 
I registered at Blog Action Day to participate
 in a special environment day.
That day-- from their location on this planet--will arrive 
15 hours before it does here. It is Monday, October 15, 2007. 
Even if you cannot register in time, post something on your blog 
about the environment. About 14,000 blogs have registered so far.
 ~ 
AM 10:24 2007-10-14 Over 14,000 and/ it appears they have 
closed registration, but there are codes for banners available. 
There is also other participatory information. 
Wyland Foundation and its Clean Water Challenge

------------------------- 

Brian A J Salchert 

sw00638sem-3.manuol

Seminary           3                                                           


     Written in 1961, this is the third of three elegies on spiritual life.



 Manuol


(A fetid congeries of dung,
 Of rotted flesh and ashèd bones;
 A desert waste of shifting sand,
 Of unrelenting storms and poison pools--
 This was the final lot of Manuol
 When loneliness and devil-deep despair
 Invaded full upon my pavid state.)

O Manuol, O Manuol,
Thou unified totality of man,
Unparalleled descent your person saw.

                                 What grief have I.
Who can allay a turbulent Aenean sea
Or turn aside a hurricane of hate?
No man can lift himself from endless depths.
In fiery hells I ponder reasons why;
From conflagrations uncontrolled I wail:
Release me from this adamantine pit.
Extend to me the ladder of Thy light;
The darkness of confusion roams about
And blist'ring whips of eerie hues accost
My dying heart with punishments supreme.

O Saviour humble crucified,
With tear-filled eyes I gaze
Upon the image of Thy wondrous death:--
I gaze upon the crucifix
And ponder reasons why
No man can lift himself.
But He Who is Himself the Light,
The Life of every man;
Who calls Himself the Son of Man,
Alone can lift Himself, and has.
All reason fails to grasp the meaning of Your way--
It fails to gather fruit,
For what of good is found upon a dying Vine;
In vain it comes to reap,
For what of value stays in blighted Wheat;
In fear it nears the holy tree,
For what of worth remains in bloodied wood?
Unaided reason mystery evades
For fathomless are truths of Love Divine,
And yet, a greater part may mankind see;
May mankind now believe what wisdom hides:
In all illumined verities of Thee,
Where reason falters, faith undaunted strides.
My faith:--in gratitude I cherish it.
Unchallenged spheres of mystic light
This ever-present gift can penetrate.
But oh this wonder men do marvel at
And saints in union unified employ,
What qualities of peace engenders this
When dark reality deprives a man of joy?
(My faith is yet within me.
 Allow it always to remain,
 In blessed peace or purging pain.)
In purging pain?
Excruciating whips of pain,
Volcanic gurgitations borne in solitude,
Disgusting dregs of nauseating person-love.
(So senseless is this martyring of self.)
My eyes reveal Thy purity of love.
Why idle then am I?
Why do I harbor sordid ships
Along the waterways of thought
And seek in shame within their holds to hide?
Return to me the life Redemption bought;
Reteach Thy laws, O Saviour humble crucified.

That evil pedagogue of thrice
Deceiving, caustic fefellations!
Begone, Satan!  Begone!
Do not so torment one desirous to be free.
Incarcerate your wretched wrath
In crimson ebullitions roiling wild.
I shall not plead with thee.

O misery, begotten friend,
Yet ever churlish foe,
Beget yourself another reed to bend.

                                       A lonely waste
Where wicked bowls of desert sand
Engaged by cataclysmic airs
Attack the dunes and masticate themselves.
As dismal night in silence wanders by,
Its presence strengthening the realms of gloom,
It spreads a morbid, purple shadow-shade
Upon the pools of deadly consequence.
To this degree of decadence, O Manuol,
To this extent you plummeted the doom.
Alone I must accept the blame
For causing you such disrespect.

O Manuol, O Manuol,
If ever I might mold thee new.

Impurity upon impurity,
And all is self-abusing pride.
A million months of melancholy morns
Could never equal this degrading fault.
In measurements unmeasurable to men
This active God-escaping escapade
In utter senselessness deprives
The total man of that totality itself,
Without which oneness, life no meaning has.

No longer do I poetize,
But speak with straight and forward fact;
The poetry existence is relieves
The need of weak, artistic act.

Yet still the dreary truth prevails:
The fort is but a desert dune,
The fountain but a venomed pool,
And she, the happy maid, in sorrow fled.

O silent Virgin, Mary pure,
On humbled knee I pray to thee:
With malice I have turned my face from God,
From God, the spring of all my happiness.
In gladness full I drank the waters new
That course in endless rivers from the throne,
Rejoicing like the harbingers of growth
Or bounding as the spritely antelopes;
In innocence I lived and loved my King.
But now my thirst is quenched on filth and slime,
on acrid draughts of worm-infested self.
Within this state I kneel before your feet,
Revealing here my dastard murderings.
Accept my plea for simple chastity;
My prayer for grief-expelling grace,
Betaking them to Christ, my one desire,
That hell may never torture me with fire.
Do thou thus intercede for me, your son,
Your lonely, wayward prodigal,
O silent Virgin, Mary pure.

The setting sun a bloody picture paints,
A beauty-bound creation, speaking well:
In me, the end of day, is Jesus crucified.

How then on night, a canvass made for death,
Are stroked the horrid nimbus clouds of fear,
Concealing all the splatterings of stars.

These treasures have I hung upon a crumbled wall,
Artistic labours wrought by God and man--
The one, by sorrow deep, is framed;
The other, emptiness has claimed.
Yet, neither is devoid of timeless worth,
Though both disclose the blackest void on earth.

                                             And thus, from death
And desolation's depths I cry:
Where can I go?  What can I do?--
So great despairs my path belie.

But life from One shall rise anew. 



Seminary book intro / links to poems
-------------------------
Humanity


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                    

sw00637sem-2.spiriel

Seminary           2                                                         


     Written in 1961, this is the second of three elegies on spiritual life.



 Spiriel


To dusty depths declined,
A desert dune, a transient creature formed
And blown away by midnight winds,
My fort of flesh was last reduced.

But Spiriel, immortal soul,
Deprived of ivory-orbing grace,
Dwelled in damp and fog;
In mossy muck and mires
Of mortal-wounding death.

Here stood my soul:
A fountain in the rampart's court.
Then Spiriel fell:
A weedy, muddied desert hole.

(Imagination quickly tires
 When ponderous thoughts
 Impose an equal sorrow
 Upon the inner man.)

So dark became the pool           
Of Spiriel, the calm
And clear reflection
Of Almighty God,
When that transparent, unseen grace,
The life of life from Life,
Returned to Him Who makes;
Who gives and justly takes.

O Spiriel, O Spiriel,
I've sentenced thee to deepest hell.

And now objective musing
Does recall
The hidden truth within
Those once insurgent entities
Which long subjective musing
Would forestall:

The turbid nimbus
Of deep, unchecked desires
A fatal poison pours.

Exciting thus emotions
Causing melancholy moods,
Recharged imagination
Excogitates this mighty,
Interrogative reproach:

Insane instant,
What thought of gain
Aroused your blind approach?
What happiness abides
Within infernal fires?
Do thou answer me or not?

Oh, how my heart evaporates
Beneath the torrid streams of gloom,
Desperation and despair,
As dew beneath the summer sun.

I am weak, so weak.
O my soul, how black you are!
How coal-like are your waters;
The pool of life,
How putrid and defiled it is!
My life is but a nigrous stench.

Would that my skin were night
And my soul were white.

Return, return, I cry aloud.
Return, O purest grace.
From mirky dungeons
I petition your attention.
Bend your ear
To the yearnings of my voice.
My suffering heart entreats
You:  Come, my soul's sweet life.

Dear Faith, at least you still
Remain to keep me near
To that Forsaken One
Of Whom my mouth did form
This phrase:  Tolle!  Tolle!
Crucifige eum.
Through you I wish to pray
To Him, beseeching Him
With mercy-seeking tears.
Be thou my messenger,
My wingèd Mercury.
Confusion conquers Spiriel.
Hurry, Faith!
Hurry to theSon of Man
Whom I have crucified.
Beseech Him.  Beseech Him
E're I lose thee.
Beseech Him:  Have mercy.

So pusillanimous am I.
My soul, why did I let you die?

O wondrous, fruitful man-growth,
Exceeding beauty have you,
But he who understands this not
Has labored to enslave you.

Impelled by need for happiness
This juvenile misused a good
And hurled that holy thing
Back into God's all-loving face.

I am that youth.

                        O Spiriel,
Where is the radiant light of grace;
Where is your vivifying friend,
The creature God extends
To fill the souls of reborn men?

A natural gift was wrongly used;
A supernatural gift diffused,
No, more than this--
It was expelled, cast out
Before/ a laughing viper's hiss.

Timidity, you weakling.
Unchanneled curiosity,
You devil in disguise.
Begone, double fault!

Attempt, attempt--
Attempt what?
So depressed is my spirit,
I can not free myself;
I cannot escape the hands of filth
Nor tear the heavy shades of night.

My soul, O my soul,
Unceasing are my tears--
Dewdrops of despair
Condensed by inner emptiness:--
And yet my course remains
Unchanged, remains unchanged.

O desolation unsurpassed! 



Seminary book intro / links to poems
-------------------------
Spirit


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00636sem-1.aerual

Seminary           1                                                       

     Written in 1961, this is the first of three elegies on spiritual life
     for which revisions exist into November of 1965.  One day perhaps.
     I was a novice in a Jesuit Seminary in Minnesota at that time.
     These elegies are passing strange.  I know not how to premise them.
     - - -


 Aerual


Three years my life in essence lost
When mortal hate my senses took,
And darkness hid a once pure soul
That slipped and fell--the bridge not crossed.
As pages from a sacred book
      Were ripped,
These raven powers, April grasses, stole.

Thus Aerual my spirit left;
My angel wept new unborn tears.

What Hates loomed above the shell
As Pluto stole the happy maid.
A markèd black so quickly spread
Throughout the fort where she did dwell
It fell corrupt, all life bereft.
The added thrust to twisted thought
Which fed upon Satanic bread
Entangled spring, though barren dead.

O Aerual, O Aerual,
I've cast thee from thy only home,
I've battered down your humble wall;
I've sent you sand on which to roam.
What deed more dark?  What deed more dark?
No longer can my pencil move.
(The heavy cloud that hides me now
 Will not a further thought allow,
 Till quiet rest the zephyr prove.)

How lost, awaited zephyr, was my life:
A soul in death, the fort of flesh
Sand-slaved by sand-enslaving airs.
(How sad: how sad the very thought
 Of loss, the loss of Aerual,
 The thought of loss, the loss of Aerual.)

Such repetitious sorrow;
And yet, such sorrow does repeat.

Harken then, thou joyous zephyr, rest;
To you I elegize my life,
My Aerual, the donum dat.

I lived, a man, a child in Christ;
My ways were children's ways--
Abundant tears, imagined fears,
Excited smiles, and happy whiles.
My play was children's play--
Mud pies, and castles formed from sand.
My joys were children's joys--
A festive time, the trees, the wind.
In dreams; in acts, I was a boy.

A member, one, but lastly, none:
From living town,
Love-freed by free and loving grace,
To desert fort,
Sand-slaved by sand-enslaving airs,
My being clothed in night did fall
Away, a nomad all alone.

O Aerual, O Aerual,
I've castthee from thy only home.

To rest among the April grass,
To move with men of life and light,
To work beneath the vernal sun;
To live where spring eternal grew
Were all alone an innocent's delight.
But now delight by newer path
Has satisfaction found--
A path of death and burning ground.

But first, before this path it took,
"Twas Aerual that led the way--
The way of free and loving grace,
The narrow path, the open way.

How quickly life did fall away!

A soul; a body maketh man.
The first by grace, his being, vivifies;
The last by dust, his being, fortifies.
This last was then the home, the fort
Wherein my Aerual within
The first did find abode and made
Alive the whole, the total man.

From this abode the maiden Aerual,
While leading me across the bridge,
Was forced to flee, and I to drown withal.
In Pluto's arms was she, and I in desert-sea.

An innocent, a child of God,
Impeded self in growth to grow.
A child of God, when spring was full,
Impeded self, his growth to know.

Emblazoned now upon his heart
Were Pluto's glossy, raven words.
And thus he trudged the Stygian trail
Enfolding night around his home;
Expelling light from its abode.

An empty shell, the home of flesh,
A fort corrupt, on sand appeared.
No mere mirage, this fort bereft
Of all released by spring.
Reality besmeared with grime--
A monument of dust to time,
To time ephemeral.
A passing night enjoins the whole
And empty is the dawning's role.
But yesterday a splendid fort;
Today a dune protects the site--
A monument of sand to night,
To night unchangeable.

Within the body reigns a soul,
Abode of Aerual, but/
The soul is dead; the body dust,
For Aerual from home was thrust.

O Aerual, O Aerual,
I've battered down your humble wall.

The fort, a stronghold physical,
A stronghold true, and yet a fort
Surmountable, was overcome,
Because its life interred
Exposed a vapid, empty 'hold
To desert's bold, relentless dust.

The mystery of midnight airs
Across the barren wastes insued;
Its weird and wild cacophonies,
Charged perplexities of demented joy,
Caught sands and dashed the wall
With Vandalic force, levelling all.

Unmeasured miles the eerie storm
Expressed a power ominous.
With morbid moans and strident screams
Implanting fears within my heart,
It raged and razed the ramparts strong,
Unleashed wrath of Satan's art.

Amid the primal blooms of spring:
Anemone and daffodils,
My Aerual, that maiden pure,
Was wont to live; to be with God.

Upon the ivied garden wall
She rested still, unrestinggrace.
In her repose/ the action/ did abound;
Her quietude is one/ of love/ unbound;
'Though still, is ne'er inactive found.
Within this tranquil state of act,
I also sat with Aerual.
Together we enjoyed the view
Which spoke of God's exceeding love:
The flowers fair, the gentle wafts
Of balmy spring's Aeolian air,
The olive meads bedecked with dew,
Each nascent blade in beauty born
And silver-spanned by spider webs;
The faithful trees that burgeon new
In wooded vales, on wind-swept wolds.

Above this peace serene,
Apollo's flaming chariot
Made hot the wall which she did grace.

As Aerual's companion true,
I also/ sat upon the ivied stone
Enthralled by spring; engrossed in spring,
The wonderment that filled the earth
With multitudes of living things.

The heat of day intense became
Upon the humble wall,
So Aerual, and I for shame,
Were forced to leap.

                               Forsaken rock,
A rampart built of flesh for man,
In solitude you wait for death.

Prevailing westerlies arise
And all the air, a turbulence, foretells.
The reigning sun, a common pact
With Vulcan, now decrees;
Incarcerates the hapless realm
By sending rays of whitened heat.
Portentous calm engenders fear,
While darkness, the horizon, hides.

Then massive clouds of whirling dust
Appear above the western plain.
They muster force from angered winds,
They roll and toss in frenzied ire,
They ebonize the occident
In every part that strikes the eyes;
They tumble towards the noon-day fire.
Tempestuous groans from distant dark
Obtrude upon my fearful ears
And louder, louder, louder grow,
Resounding kettledrums
Of monstrous clouds in thunderous roll.

A whipping wind invades the place
Where Aerual and I remain.
It snaps the limbs of stately elms
And twists the willows' tender boughs.
Beneath the/ burning heat and drying wind,
The vernal season's verdant vigour wans.
Behold, the umbered ivy dies!

Ironic laughs of dirging dust's
Blackened bowls inurn my soul
And lacerate the garden wall,
The fort of flesh, the desert dune.

Apollo's oft triumphant car
Is lost behind Satanic clouds
Of hellish rage.

Enslaving all the rites of spring,
The savage tempest roars and whines;
It claws and gnaws; it reigns as king,
A tyrant wrought in dire designs.
He rules the depths of mortal death,
"Tis Pluto; and the ebon bowls, his robes.

To dust the garden wall descends
Beneath the/ grinding sand,
The jewels on the robes of Dis.
A worthless dune the wall becomes
Beneath the black abyss of hate,
The rising storm of lethal fate.

Unearthly cries transpierce the night
When witches mouth theirwailings weird
As oracles of 'pending blight--

A moment's madness, eternal loss.

In trembling and timidity
I shuddered; torn between myself,
Retreated from the crumbled wall.
And running far from Aerual,
To her disclosed my pavid state.
I hid my face, abashèd thing;
In shame I veiled my countenance.
Within my veins a heated hate
Arose against the Source/ of Aerual,
And as the roiling haze,
The color and the aspect of despair,
Whipped and wheeled 'round about,
My life, my Aerual, in sorrow fled.

So battered is the humble wall.

O Aerual, O Aerual,
I've sent you sand on which to roam.

Depravèd wretch was I, my bowels wrung
By bitter gall.  My only food
Was rank, Satanic bread, the storm
Of boiling ire and all the waste
Abounding in its sordid wake.
An adamantine land of stark aridity
Deposing vital spring's enrobed viridity
Alone remains, a masticated realm
New-ground by teeth imbibed with hate.

Thus Aerual, the highest grace,
By thieving cast from soul, the fort
In wasting storms became a/ desert dune;
I/ fell, and falling, died.    



Seminary book intro / links to poems
-------------------------
Elegy


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00635tlsh-homepage

PEACE           LOVE           COMMUNITY
                                                    
old AOL Sprintedon Hollow Homepage                                       

There's a site map link at the bottom of this page, 
but if you haven't read this page, please read it first.  
Thank you.          [ last modified: 2008-02-10 ]

[ 2007-11-07 Note: 
Major color changes made again.  See near  
bottom of this page new hex colors, but I am back to a 
gray page.  This gray's rgb is  192 192 192. ]

[ 2007-10-11 Note:  This page is an explanatory adjunct 
entry, and  therefore is not a homepage in the traditional 
sense.  The core page  (entry) for this site is p00260jlctr 
(Journal Links Center or site map),  and will always be so.  
However, this page is important, and should  be read by each 
visitor to Sprintedon Hollow.  Thank you. ]


[ 2007-10-13 Note:  
Sprintedon Hollow is a nonchronological record  of my life 
as a writer.  Despite being 66, if I live long enough to find  
out, I may be in the early stages of my writer life.  Although 
I engage  reality at every turn, many works of mine are 
dreamscapes: that is,  they are dream-like escapes from 
reality.  

In some ways I am like  
W. S. Landor / John Clare / E. A. Robinson; 
but perhaps my disclosing this is not wise, so whispers the 
chameleon in me. ]

[ 2007-10-21 Note:  You cannot count on my always using the same  
colors.  It is PM 7:28.  The present color codes are near the bottom  
of this page. ]

[ 2007-10-22 Note:  
So, the gray background I wrote about earlier  
this month has been replaced by 8080c0, which is a purpled gray. ]
10-09-2007
With one thing leading to another, to another, to another, to another,
to another with an intermingling of personal troubles, this has been a
valuable but difficult day.  Long have I considered October to be the
month of changes, and with this page/ this day becomes a preeminent
day of change for this blog.  It is PM 8:05, so "Good evening."  I am
Brian A J Salchert.  Why I am is an absolute mystery to me, but why
the background of this page is rgb 128 128 128 gray--a shade that
is exactly midway between black and white--is not; but more about
that later.  To the left of this blog is an "All About Me" sidebar.  
I've not been happy with it for some while, but I am not going to 
remove it.  However, much of what is there will be transferred to 
here, and a link to here will be placed on it.  The link color for 
this blog is aqua (or cyan, if you prefer).  Several links relating 
to me or to this blog will be inserted into this page.  You will know 
by the information I present in each/ where it will whip you to.  If 
you have not/ figured it out, I am an INFP: uncertainty is my milieu, 
creativity my passion, and persistence my compass.  Nonetheless, I am 
such a failed being I recently began calling myself:
the ghost in the dumpster
.
See the green period.  That is my sense of humor, which comes from
the 1/4 English in me.  The other 3/4's are German, with a who-won-the-war 
wisp of French.  I pronounce my surname as if it were two first names: 
Saul'kurt.  Completing this page is going to take a while.  Where that 
while is going to be taken is anyone's guess.  Unless theyhave changed 
them, w3c has a palette of 16 acceptable colors.  I donot like some of 
their choices.  The color this text is in is not one of them.  The palette 
AOL uses is (as I have mentioned elsewhere) IE's basic colors palette.  
The other day I discovered two errors I need toget to MS tech about.  
The color this text is in is not available on thatpalette either, but 
the color this text is in is one of the 216 safe colors.

10-10-2007
Of the 16 w3c colors, 8 are among the so-called safe colors.  There
is, however, a logical reason for this.  255 0 0 is red and 0 0 255 is
blue, but 0 255 0 is not green.  It is a light green.  Equidistant from 
red and blue is 0 128 0, the rgb code for true green, which is not a
"safe" color.  Of the supposedly 48 IE colors, one color is repeated,
being both at R5 C7 and R6 C7.  I have no idea why.  Also, in the
javascript environment of AOL Journals, the color at R3 C5 is not
coded correctly, showing 040080 instead of the correct 004080.
All this is really no big deal, but it is curious.  Not too surprisingly,
there are 8 safe colors in IE's basic colors, the same 8 w3c has.  For 
more about colors, including w3c's colors, see my math links.  Though I 
did not expect it, I recently saw that because I use colors in some of 
my poems and elsewhere// this gray background best serves my needs.  


I am a writer.  Some background facts about me are in the directory
at Poets & Writers.  
Over the years I have tended to be reclusive, a result of which is the 
presence of 9 completed books of my poems and 4 others in progress  
in this journal (weblog / blog / webbed log), with more expected. 
 
Math, autobio, and other entries are also here.  On June 22,  
2007, in another galaxy in the Internet universe, I began my 
Rhodingeedaddee blog.  Its focus is: thoughts on poetry and 
other  wonders.  I will not be moving any entry in Sprintedon Hollow to 
there, nor will I be placing any of my poems or math delvings there.

Regarding extra-sites linked to:  Personal education is my reason for
linking to them.  I am not promoting any product which might be found
thereon.  If a site I provide a link to contains an ad or ads for a product
or products of interest to you, exit from Sprintedon Hollow/ and go
directly to that site.    
-  
Thank you-Copyright Information: No matter what your opinion of it is, if 
you wish to link to or otherwise use part or all of a post of mine, reveal 
both the post (e.g. sw00635tlsh) and sufficient copyright information 
(e.g. © 2007 Brian A J Salchert) AND, if your projected use involves more 
than a hyperlink or a fair usequoting of me, let me know in advance.
-  
Thank you   


email: thinkinglizard at AOL . com-------------------------


scroll down / look on the left for Most Popular / click on 
What Do You Do When Someone Steals Your Content
Lorelle VanFossen maintains this valuable site   
which has   a   some rights reserved   
Creative Commons license.               
Read her site's   About   page.

S H's AOL Journal colors: 
-   
Page Background   c0c0c0             
Body Text   000000   
Heading Background   00ffff           
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Sidebar Background   c0c0c0         
Link Text   0000ff     sw00635tlsh
                                                                             
Site map is at 2007/03/12/sw-p00260jlctr

Copyright © 2006, 2007, 2008  
by Brian A. J. Salchert             
Thinking Lizard   All rights reserved.

sw00634st12-activities

A narrow band of stormy weather extending into Oklahoma 
where it forks into two bands is rising toward Springfield.  The
forecast, nonetheless, calls for 100% precip.  It does feel muggy
in here, and that with the temp at 71F.  For now, though, the
skies are fairly clear with a high-cloud haze.  Temperatures are
not expected to get into the eighties the next 5 days, and night-
time temps will be falling into the forties.  Yesterday I did note
a few leaves turning as I watched a brown one waffle into the
parking lot, but green remains 99% dominant.  In this complex
most of the trees are evergreens.  It is AM 9:41.  The whip
from the west is about to lash us/ alive in the ah before the ~.
PM 2:03 - The storm band has drifted east.

-

Have been doing some sorting and rearranging.  Found I had lined
the bottom of a box I was emptying/ with the Green Sheet from 
 The Milwaukee Journal   Monday, April 26, 1976.  Obviously
in order to save the UPI photo on it, which is captioned:
          A man of many titles, strong man Arnold
               Schwarzenegger goes Hollywood.

-

On Archambeau's Samizdat blog is an informative post about the
history of poetry in Chicago.  Go to the October 2007 archive.  


-------------------------
the photo I kept shows a biceps pose,
 but it is otherwise similar to this one
of The Austrian Oak when you click on his name
  at the History of Mr. Olympia: Photo Gallery
[ NB: This has nothing to do with politics. ]


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00633v-17.poem15

Venturings



 Split Nine


words words         meaningless words
swords clink         passion gone
he lived in a temple         of undersong
was it the shade?         the sinewy grey?

we have no record         of his demise         
or even that         he ever became          
some say he wandered         high and low   
we cannot prove         those happenings

why then do we bother?         maybe the toads



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00632st11-economics

Sunday Warning:  U S Economy:
-
recent Alan Greenspan comments
"Greenspan predicts double-digit rates in coming years"
by Barbara Hagenbaugh   USA TODAY
.
Read these posts:
Whatever; 
Richard Heinberg's MuseLetter #186, "As the World Burns"; 
and Maxed Out
on Linh Dinh's Detainees blog.
.
The United States of America needs to institute laws against usury.
USA citizens need to live within their means.
Planet Earth needs to find ways to eliminate
 human-against-human aggression.
One way to do that is: 
          Make passenger pigeons of the lot of us.

-

AM 9:05 - Springfield, MO skies are clear again.  The air is calm.
AM 11:32 - A few wisps of clouds and zephyr gusts.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00631st10-wslandor.and

Lately (every so often) I have been telling myself:  "You are not
a perfect being."  Why?  Because not being perfect constantly
disturbs my spirit; and I know I cannot be perfect, not nearly 
as perfect/ as/ some others can be.  When and where I have
come close, I have done so only because of my persistence.
My life is/ replete with failures, and what remains of it may be
also.
       I am seriously considering no longer making comments
beneath posts on the blogs of others.  Do not ask me why.
Suffice it to say, I have my reasons.  I will continue to read
posts and comments on other blogs, but when I feel a need
to comment/ I will post that comment on one of my blogs,
and probably create a link to the post which inspired it.
       There is much I yet want to put in my own spaces/
whether or not anyone reads/ what I place there.  I may
attempt to get some of my writings published elsewhere,
but that is not likely.  I see myself as one who is too odd
to comfortably fit in, and I have long said no to wasting
my time trying to.  For as long as God allows, I will blog.
All who visit are welcome, even the scavenger types.  Any
who wish to comment, may, though I cannot promise how
I will respond, if I respond.  There once was a counter on
this journal, but I deleted it/ as it was counting each visit I
made as a visit, and I make numerous visits to any one post.
Besides, I was (and still am) essentially the only one making
visits.  Beyond that, the prevalence of RSS readers and the
like/ make direct visits unnecessary.  Should you happen to
see and decide to use one or more of my posts--no matter
what your opinion is, I request only that you credit me.

-

My computer glasses have been fixed.

-

Today's weather is less breezy, slightly more cloudy, and generally
more pleasant.  Tomorrow rain is supposed to return, but may not.
Monday, the forecasters say, there's a 70%/ rain chance.





-------------------------
Walter Savage Landor

Walter Savage Landor


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00630st9-greg.rappleye

Today the skies are clear to partly cloudy.  A warm breeze persists.

-

Greg Rappleye has an excellent post about the "poet-self"
from Wordsworth's, Eliot's, and his view.

-

I have a special pair of glasses for computer use.  Today the thin band
holding the right lens in its frame/ snapped, and the lens popped out to
the right across the rug, stopping on a large sheet of semi-soft plastic.
My sister said she'd take me to the eyeglass store tomorrow morning.
I've called the store.  They may be able to fix them there.  Not sure.

-

Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00629ut-21.3poems

The Undulant Trees       Twenty-One



  Indoctrination


the militancy of
    mandated
    mustaches
  masquerades
  mellifluously
    mourning
 after morning



    §



   Farmed Out

   the jonquils'
     joyance
   jeopardizes
the genteelness
   of jackdaw
   journeyings



    §



   Implicated

once the/ word
    is heard
      herds
    of words
 like murd'rous
      birds
       stir
  the nerds



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00628st8-7poets

We're back to partly cloudy in Springfield, MO.
At PM 2:45 the sky is mostly clear.

-

See my "Other Journals" for links to the following:
*
John Latta continues to intrigue with his Furlani / Davenport posts.
-
Ironic "Poetry Needs To Be More Academic" post at Mark Wallace's site.
-
Linh Dinh
-
Reyes Cardenas (R C)
-
Until I work out a definition of my own, I favor
Jonathan Mayhew's definition of logopoeia.
There's a link to his blog in my Other Journals list.
See his 9-10-2007 and 9-12-2007 posts.
-
Some minutes ago I perused 20 non-linear poems at 
Jukka-Pekka Kervinen's nlpoetry.livejournal.com site.
The 5th one down (the 1st of the sep 4 photos) is the
nlp of the 20 on that page which most appeals to me.

-

AAP's American Poet, a journal I have never seen, was in my
mailbox today.  I've paged through it &/ read one short poem by 
Judson Evans.  Unless s/he uses words in a singular unwavering 
way, a reader cannot learn much from one poem.  Will get back
to this journal later.


-------------------------
English Verse


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00627st7-errands.storm

Didn't turn computer on until after PM 2.  My sister and I, from 
about AM 9, were out running errands for me.  I don't drive.

-

The weather today is warmer and iffier.  There's a line of storms
heading northeast out of Kansas.  It may flow to the north of us.
PM 5:15 - The storm flow out of Oklahoma is not friendly.  Here
I have had to turn the desk lamp on.  It sits at the left back
corner of the deep 2-drawer filing cabinet to my right.  I have it
pointed toward the wall corner behind the deep 2-drawer filing
cabinet straight ahead of me.  My system monitor sits at this
cabinet's right front corner.  I sit 3 feet back from the monitor.
PM 9:19 - Storminess did arrive but now is passing east.  I had
to unplug for a while.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00626st6-logopoeia

Some unlikely sites have found S H. 
-
PM 3:04 - cool, clear, 31% humidity.
-
Because of what is on one of the 3 blogs I added links to yesterday,
I have been spending most of today researching logopoeia.  Haven't
put together my thoughts on it sufficiently, but I know my thinking
diverges from (attempts to encompass more than) the thinking about
it, it seems, others are sharing.  I do, however, agree with most of
what the author of that one blog has said about it.  Welcome to the
Hollow of obscurities.


------------------------- 
"Arid clarity": Ezra Pound, Mina Loy, and Jules Laforgue -- by Peter Nicholls



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00625st5-basil.bunting

PM 12:02 - Completed my lastest post at Rho-- at AM 10:50 this morning.
Found it to be someways hilarious.  However, it does show my willingness
to take risks, and my creative nature.

-

Today is another fairly clear, high-cloud day.

-

Have added 3 sites to my Other Journals section in the Sidebar.

-  

-------------------------
Tony Baker "on Basil Bunting"


Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00624st4-situations

Before AM 8 the furnace heat.  On the high wire 1 silent blue jay.
Strands of medium to flimsy clouds far above.

-

Had problems this morning with this system while ZA was scanning.
It is AM 10:11.  Had to fix T tags spaces in the last 2 posts.
Will be changing when ZA scan runs.

-

Spent most of this day posting over at Rhodingeedaddee.  Had to 
leave it in draft form as I need to list the sources yet.  It is PM 10:10.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00623st3-poetics

Another clear morning.  At 8:07 the thermostat temp had descended
to nearly 70.  At 8:26 the furnace came on.  It is now 9:10 and is still
warmer in here than it needs to be.

-

In 1959 I entered Marquette University, and became a Schroeder Hall
resident.  One day I took a walk toward downtown along the north side
of Wisconsin Avenue.  When I came to a bookstore I went in to browse.
A large reddish-brown hardbound stopped me.  Near its jacket's top in
bold black print was D A N T E.  Beneath this name was an upright oval
containing a sideview of the poet's head.  I glanced through the book,
attending especially to the photos of engravings accompanying the text.
I read some passages.  On the jacket's front flap the original price had
been crossed through and a sale price listed.  I bought the book.  It is
presently sitting to the left of me on my dictionary.  I brought it into my
bedroom about a week ago, but I did not start reading it until late last
night.  So far I've read the first five cantos.  The chosen 69 engravings 
are by Gustave Doré and the blank verse translation by Lawrence
Grant White.  The book was published and copyrighted by Pantheon 
Books Inc., New York in 1948.  How much of this book I read during
my year at Marquette/ I can't say.  I thought I'd used it for the paper
I wrote--which I also still have--for an Enlgish course I took in 1960,
but when I went through that paper today I saw I had used Laurence
Binyon's 1947 translation: The Portable Dante.  I may have gotten
that book from the university's library.  I'm not absolutely sure what the
proper title of the book I have is, but my best guess is: Dante Alighieri 
The Divine Comedy  The Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso.

-

My paper: "The Fourfold Chariot": has a 9-line Prologue stanza I wrote.
This stanza has a rhyme scheme: aababcbcc: the same rhyme scheme I
used when five years later in the upstairs apartment in the Brumwell's
house in Solon, Iowa, I began writing Onefor (Justan Tamarind).  It
staggered me as I read it and began to think it might be, a fact I proved
moments ago via a "Justan Tamarind" search from Googleland.  It still 
does not prove I invented it, but I did first use it in 1960.  Here it is:

I rode the fourfold chariot through lands
Of liquid fire and ice where hope on sands
Did die, where endless sorrows strolled;
Where blackness killed the dancing golden strands
Of beatific light.  While thunder rolled
In bowls of coldest dew; the lively steeds
Increased their speed past Purga's prayerful fold,
My spirit skipped across the rolling meads
And stood in awe where paradise proceeds.

I'm shameless.  I know.  And that I was only nineteen then is no excuse,
which is not to say I've improved since.  I may have devolved.  My paper
is dated May 2, 1960.  That same semester a poem of four lines and two
sonnets I had written were accepted by the Marquette Journal, but a far
superior poem to any of mine, a longer and less encumbered poem, was
also accepted.  I have not yet been able to track down that poem's author,
but I have kept the Journals mine were in, and so have kept his.  Sharing it
would be a pleasure, dark as it in someways is, but I have no right to.  Its
title is: "Pride's Offering to the Gods": you will just have to imagine the rest.
Conjunctions of that nature always make me think, make me wonder, make
me want to say: I"ll bet there are more great poems written by unknowns
than there are by knowns.

-

Speaking of mysterious conjunctions, I am in the midst of one right now
as the result of a "beyond language poetry" search.  It is an essay by a
poet new to me: Richard Jackson, an essay published in the Cortland
Review.  He focuses on the sounds of words, and how poets can get
carried away by sounds, and how sounds carry meanings beyond those
meanings words normally have; so that while a poet needs to maintain a
kind of control, the words with which a poem is made depend on those
sounds inherent in them for the sake of that poem's vitality.  One example
Jackson points to is/ canto 5 of Dante's Inferno.  How is it this kind of !
occurs?  In my life they do so over and over and over and over and over.
Free will?  Yes, but--.  I am providing a link below and then returning to
read the second part.  It is PM 10:55, and amidst needs, I have finished
attending Jackson's essay.  The first poem he explores in index2.html is
"The Writer" by Richard Wilbur, a poem I recently read.  In reflecting on
his concluding remarks, I at this moment realize how all poets (no matter
their differences) are united: as users of language in ways which expose
the cultural prisons attempting to enclose and silence us / as users of
words in ways which seek to express the inexpressible / as explorers 
and preservers of freedom/ however we are able to do so.  If the forces
of deception prevail, all will die; for all such forces are bearers of death.
Upon the reigns of imagination and empathy inside each human/ so much
depends.


-------------------------
Richard Jackson on Language-Driven Poetry


Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00622st2-writing.upenn.edu

Just before noon today I finished reading Albert Gelpi's essay
"The Genealogy of Postmodernism: Contemporary American Poetry"
which is at writing.upenn.edu but was originally published in
The Southern Review  Summer 1990  pp. 517-541.  For one
seeking a brief, incisive overview of Romanticism, Modernism, 
Postmodernism, and Neoromanticism, this is an essay to read.
Near this essay's conclusion, the author of it takes a stance.  Your
opinion of that stance lies outside the value of the essay.  I have
been convinced by it, however, to learn more about Fanny Howe.

-

Today the sky is clear, the air a bit breezier and/ cooler.  My heater
is set at 70, and has heated this place to 75 several times, the last
at around 3pm.

-

Yesterday evening I went to Ted Berrigan's EPC page.  I've been 
there before, but--anyway, when I read section 3 of his "Sunday
Morning" I fell into a laughing jag so hard I had to stand up.  That
wigged-out guy comes straight at his reader.  Part of what made
his depiction there so humorous to me had to with the connection
I made between it and an old Catholic incense ceremony I often
witnessed during my elementary school years.  For some reason 
I was never quite able to identify, I didn't like the smell of incense.

-

Douglas Messerli also has a page at EPC, and late this afternoon
I read two of his essays there, the second of which Albert Gelpi
mentioned.  The first one reveals how Messerli's life was saved
by the ROTC.  It reminded me of my boy scout camping days
and the night I happened to be near the main cabin while a not so
pleasant act was being forced upon resident there/ and I asked to
be let in, but was told they could not allow that.  
Messerli's 1987 thoughts on "Language" poetries is the other. 

-

"The Poetics of Stillness" an interview with Fanny Howe by Patricia Vigderman



Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00621st1-other.poets

Sprintedon Tracker (st)       

              This is replacing As It Happens.  Wodan speaks, but not here yet.
He is riding in from the west/southwest.  The day is overcast.  The full moon
hides.  The dgd means dumpster ghost day.  Recent events have been a bit
odd.  Due to an Archambeau post about copyright and intellectual property
and poetic sensibility, and to a lengthy Jacket interview: Jerome Rothenberg
responding to questions from Nina Zivancevic, it was about midnight before
I raised myself into bed, and shortly thereafter the resident in the apartment
above came home.  I awoke a little after 2 AM, and as I was hungry, I ate
a cup of blueberry yogurt.  I awoke again at what I thought was 4:41 but
when I got back to bed my cellphone clock said 6:58.  I was certain (?) I
had not had a seizure.  The medication I have been taking for nearly three
years has kept me seizure-free.  I doubt I was abducted since even aliens
chortle when they hear my name.  I guess I just read the time wrong.  At 
AM 9:20, Wodan spoke once; and since I had other things to do, I shut this
virtual-access system down.  It is now AM 10:31.  The wan sunlight is no
longer wan, but the layer of clouds persists.  There is a football-like green
patch over Joplin headed this way.

[ Note: Robert Archambeau's post is dated: tuesday, september 25, 2007
          and its title is: Intellectual Property and the Invention of the Poet ]

-

Three nights ago, not wanting to read from any of the books at hand, I went
to my meager library and pulled out Sylvia Plath's Ariel.  I had last read it
years ago.  "Lady Lazarus" and "Daddy" remain my favorites.  I found myself
afterwards internally imitating her often curt sentences and insistent rhythms 
and hard-biting rhymes.

-

The English language is messed up.  Therefore, I've recently been tooling with
the problems inherent in the she-he-they sector.  I have fixed those problems
(annoyances), but my fix is not likely to appeal to many, if to any.  A she-he 
fix I support has existed for a number of years.  I do not know who first used 
it.  It is: s/he.  Two reasons I like this are rooted in biology.  Another
reason is its compactness. 

-

If I counted correctly, there are 18 poems in my Autobio group.
I'm not sure what to do about them, but I'm against adding more.
What's there could be considered a small e-chap.  So a
links page to them may be the best solution. 



-------------------------

Death of a Student, Chapter 2         by Wick Sloane
I first became aware of above when I visited Silliman's Blog today.
I do not want to say what Sloane wrote, but everyone should read it.


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00620ut-20.poem

The Undulant Trees



 Capitalism's Sweet Prize


Once we'd eaten the whole world,
once we'd souled fat and ugly,
the world rankled in our gullets
so hard
we threw it back up
so hard
we died from it,
face down
in our garbage.




------------------------------
esthetics


Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00619v-16.poem14

Venturings                                 respect deformed



My Country, Whither Thee?


You said she 
laughed
at him.

You said she
did
not care.

You said she
yearned
to kill.

-

You said he
laughed
at her.

You said he
did
not care.

You said he
yearned
to kill.

-

You said they
laughed
at them.

You said they
did
not care.

You said they
yearned
to kill.


You said they
killed
for wealth.

You said they
killed
for fame.

You said they
killed
for power.

You said they 
killed
just to kill.

-

How dare you
say
she loved.

How dare you
say
he loved.

How dare you
say
they loved.




--------------------------------

"Wind from all Compass Points"


Brian A. J. Salchert                    

sw00618ut-19.poem

The Undulant Trees



In Form at Ion


Talk, talk,           talk talk talk.
That's all you ever do is           talk talk talk.

Divert, divert, divert, divert.
All you ever do is           Gert Gert Gert.
I offer you/ a glass of wine.
You toss at me           a stein of Stein.
Yippity yuppity ruppity rup.
If it rattles it must be           a cup in a cup.
Maybe you'd maybe.  Maybe you wouldnt.
Maybe you'd only           if you could could could.
A sign is a sign is a sign is a sign.
A ticket's a ticket a ticket a ticket.
If I had a rosary, I'd beat you with beads,
whatever the piece   a gameboard needs.
Now don't get me wrong, and don't get me right.
Halve a good day.       Halve a good night.

                                         [  A  M2  579  2007  ]




-----------------------------------
Laurence Sterne


Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00617a-bio.me2

Autobio       All About Me #2


   In front of me is a third-person self-bio I am reluctant to use.
In its stead/ I suggest you do "Brian Salchert" searches.  I am
not famous, which is good.  Actually, I have a sense that I am
considered despicable by certain humans.  There is no doubt
I was both nourished and malnourished by Roman Catholicism
during my youth.  There is no doubt that at sundry times I have
lacked integrity and/or have been hurtfully proud.  Nonetheless,
I am rooted in forgiveness and gratitude.  Religions, to me, are
only as good as their most humane tenets.  Though I sometimes
see the necessity of it, I more and more detest war.  If you--if
only from time-to-time--read what I place in my Saulkurt's log,
you will see manifested more than enough of who I am.  Know
though/ I am highly eclectic & ever creative; that my physical 
Earth-alive state, while capable of being daringly energetic, is
minimally sound.  I'm a minor polymath headed toward becoming
a major polymath, not that I will venture forth.  I'm a wee hermit
whose bedroom is his cave.  Later, maybe, Brian A J Salchert. 




June 2007 photo
-----------------------------------
Geoffrey Chaucer


Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00616p-poem23s1

Postures 2007:  #23 Side One



Aunt Martha


Your eldest and most brilliant son
born with one of his legs
comically crooked behind his head
squeezing from his forming brain
the holy gift of abstract thought
did not silence your solo hymning
in the High Mass choir at St. Mary's
or desiccate your quiet will.

So, terminal some years after your
husband's death and the beginnings of your
second son's computer and familial success,
drugged by cancer from the daily tusslings
with those movie-bent notions of your eldest,
your smiling when my brother told you
it would be Christmas in two days
and your dying in the 2nd hour of Christmas Day

seemed right.  I venture angels choired near
as your spirit sang through midnight Mass.




- - - - -
09-18-07:  About a week ago I came upon this poem
in one of many manila folders containing writings of mine.
As I had forgotten about it, its existence surprised me;
and (for whatever reason) I didn't date it.  My guess is
I wrote in 1989.    
- - - - -


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                  

sw00615a-eml.5poems

Autobio


 How does someone choose 5 poems to send somewhere,
especially this someone, who has written so variously, if not
voluminously?  I would prefer to share the variety, but fear
doing such would be too risky.  Picking out 5 reflective or
5 imagistic or 5 directed-away-from-me or 5 humorous or
5 cause-engaged ones would be okay, maybe.  And what
about length?  And why am I even thinking about sending
anything anywhere?  I know which poem of mine has been
to date the most liked, not that that's worth an owl's hoot.
Besides, "a rose is a rose is a rose" and I am not the teeter
nor the totter nor the fulcrum.  What the withering columbine!
Here are 5 e-whips, but first this note:
   Rooted Sky was originally published in 1972.
   1976 was originally published in 1980.
   Postures was originally published in 1980.
   Prayers in December was originally written in 1974 and 1975.

See 2007/01/08/sw00093rs for 
     "Snow" from Rooted Sky 2007

See 2007/08/13/sw00565usabys for 
     "February: Year-day 47" from 1976: in 2006

See 2007/02/07/sw00150p for 
     "Modernity Having a Poet by the Collar" from Postures 2007

See 2007/02/19/sw00219s for 
     "In a Favored Place" from Tillie: set 1 of Sets

See 2007/06/18/sw00494june for "Rant" from June 2007

§

 Because I chose the above 5 does not mean I have chosen
the 5 I think are my best.  Only readers of what I've written
will be the final arbiters.  It may be that nothing of what I 
have written is worthy of attention and praise.  So here are 
whips to 5 others:

See 2007/01/07/sw00067rs for 
     "Starting Over" from Rooted Sky 2007

See 2007/08/30/sw00593usabys for 
     "September: Year-day 246" from 1976: in 2006

See 2007/02/04/sw00164p for "Tonight" from Postures 2007

See 2007/02/25/sw00236s for 
     "1-14-77     teal" from Birthday Ribbons: set 2 of Sets

See 2007/06/10/sw00647june for "Raison d'etre" from June 2007

§

5 more:

See 2007/01/08/sw00077rs for 
     "The Mind Has Seasons Out of Time" from Rooted Sky 2007

See 2007/08/18/sw00585usabys for 
     "May: Year-day 131" from 1976: in 2006

See 2007/05/16/sw00409pind for
     "December 16: for Emily Dickinson" from Prayers in December

See 2007/04/10/sw00306a for 
     "To Those I Am One With" from Autobio

See 2007/06/06/sw00455june for 
     "Therefore," from June 2007



-----------------------------------
at Jared Carter's site/ go to site map  archives  interviews  
         (read at least interview by George Fish)

~
Brian A. J. Salchert                   
                      =

sw00614piks-ghost

                                                                         tissue ghost 0004
                                                                         photograph of a
                                                                         found object
                                                                         click to enlarge

=====================================================
The original of this happened on the restroom floor off the den
(small bedroom) of a mo-ho I used to own and was residing in.
I had been doing some cleanup work.  It was not enjoyable.
I crumpled up the last of the tissue I was using, and threw it
on the floor.  I was so startled by the result, I decided to keep
it.  That was when I was in Gainesville, Florida.  I took some
pictures of it, none of which turned out as well as I had hoped.
As can be seen, I found a way to slip a thin sheet of cardboard
under it.  I put it in a safe place.  I brought it with me in 2006
when I moved to southwest Missouri.  I plan to photograph it
again.  I have cared for it as though it were an angelic horribly
disfigured child, its head wrapped in gauze bandages.  One of 
my impressions of it is/ that it represents aspects of my spirit.
=====================================================



                                                           
     Brian A. J. Salchert 

sw00613ut-18.7poems

The Undulant Trees



. . . . 11


lubrication
intonation:
'tis the nation's
aberration


    §


. . . . 12


You've lost
your mind.

What mind?
-
You think
I've lost
my mind.
-
Oh boy.


    §


Implant


the lateral exigencies
of graphical concurrences:
belly wraps and toe tinklers:
reductive, seductive,
and yah yah yah!


    §


Counter Fit


'Tis the age of rage/ and disengage.
Stand up now, and rip the page.


    §


Ouvreeahd


estulairiuh ahbohvricahn
ahreepideein insummacahn


    §


What the?


Now some hatchet's in my brain!
I know I threw the hat away.
Come on you guise,
there's a dizzard at the doorknob.
I can hear its fingerings.
1 2 3 4    1 2 3 4    6 7 8


    §


8 from 1


"Maybe just a new kind of emptiness"
Rotates & rotates/ on this blue-white pearl
Fetid with brown from a bajs
Who can't find his nuts/ because he's a squirrel.

"To the attic, I say."  "No! no! not there!
He'll ruin the flavor, the quaff du jour."
"Where then shall we put him?"  "Oh, I don't care:
Maybe a dumpster; a faraway tour."


   [ The first line was once a KSM Lime Tree subtitle. ]



------------------------------------
2007-02-19  Picture This: On the Concept of Poetic Imagery


Brian A. J. Salchert                           

sw00612a-facing.it

Autobio



   Too many of the qualities of my personality, however wondrous
otherwise, are sadly inadequate in the realm of the out-&-about.
The trail behind me of wrong decisions is rutted and briared, and I
cannot say the trail I am presently making is any different.  Eenuff.

§

   This ia a voice out of Springfield, Missouri:  As the "a" in bat:
Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

§

   Plan Q:  I am a highly visible hermit, but looking at me may require
binoculars or a telescopic lens or special glasses.  I am reading these
days, besides all I read online daily, Clayton Eshleman's Companion
Spider.  I recommend it.

 -

   The noosphere web is constructing itself ex-po-nential-ly.  The end
of time seems near at hand.  Concurrently, the end of humanity as a
biological entity also seems near at hand.  See this 1976 sonnet.

-

   I knew I wanted to say something more, but I did not know what
until I read the post I have linked to below.  I have known a number
of humans younger than I who due to an accident or illness died; yet
I, who could have died numerous times, am still alive; and--however
difficult--know I must strive moment through moment to be a human
worthy of each successive moment given me.  Seconds of silence:
for the grace each needs.  Seconds of: gratitude silence.



------------------------------------
Joshua Corey's "Letter to a Friend"



Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00611aih-9and

As It Happens       13


 Had to turn on the heat this morning.  69 is a bit chilly for me.
Welcome to September.

   §

Finally finished posting 49 selected sonnets from my 1976: in 2006.
Did the last six between 10 and 11 PM Aug31.  Two of those were
written in 1962.  If you chance to read some, experience them
however your aesthetic allows.  Further information and links here.
My aesthetic is chameleon-like, kaleidoscopic, cornucopian,
uncertainty-driven.  I am a hermit, a mystery munchkin, a ponderer.
I'm a creature of contraries: emotionally edgy, yet rationally
embedded with aspie characteristics.   

   §

I still have six months of first line and topic work to complete, and
I am not in a get-it-done mood.

   §

For the past week or so there's been a cicada or some such critter
whining ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee most of the night.  It usually starts 
its concert around 9 PM.  Luckily I'm able to sleep through it.



----------------------------------- 
History of Labor Day


Brian A. J. Salchert                    

sw00610usabys-selectedsonnets.yd229

=


August: Year-day 229


Mr. and Mrs. Goldfinch dine on a thistle,
a Canadian Bull, just west of our
apartment, now and then notes of their whistles
lightly passing in to chase out the dour.

Janice and I chuckle watching them, him
in particular, as they flick down, poking 
for seeds, and the whisked down graphs a wind's whim
and the seeds crack as if/ on fire & smoking.

Olive-green yellow, charcoal black and white,
Mrs. appropriately harder to see;
Mr. (for courting) white, black, yellow bright,
roller-coastering in neat reverie.
Some things are especially to delight:
Mr. and Mrs. Goldfinch and, sometimes, we. 

(1976 and 2007-08-31)





------------------------------------
about American Goldfinch


Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00609usabys-selectedsonnets.yd250

 =


September: Year-day 250


If what I write strengthens your spirit, peaches!
Each of us leans on his inner resources.
So if what I write/ by enchantments reaches
and fortifies your life against remorses
conspiriing to end it, sunlight and breezes
you let down your hair or take off your shirt
to enjoy.  Pain dissolved by touch that pleases,
sound and sense right, is anyone's desert.

Sure, we would all like to be more aware,
not miss the need in the tone of a word
or a laugh or the movement of/ a finger,
walk with a friend through cresting white warm air
saving each other's life; but truth's deferred
often from us/ though we thoughtfully linger.

(4-11-77; but the virgules and italics were
                         added in September of 2003)



 ------------------------------------
Wyoming Uplift Organization



Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00608usabys-selectedsonnets.yd289

=


October: Year-day 289


Mysteries of the mind:  Entire designs,
nuances, descriptions are sometimes dropped
unconsciously when a work's set out, stopped
for a while, its time, colors and flexed lines
considered complete: defined and defined.
"A poem is really a kind of machine
for producing the poetic state of mind
by means of words," Valéry has said.  Keen.

The mind is a desert challenging rain.
Joint by joint the syllables race and brake,
turn upon each other, hum in the brain;
yet I'm often a shelf for its own sake.
Put on me what you will.  Empty, unfinished,
I'm nonetheless here: rough, but undiminished.

(septet: April, 1978)




------------------------------------
on Valéry



Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00607usabys-selectedsonnets.yd285

=

October: Year-day 285

   "To John Keats"

Brave spellstar, child of magic beauty, arc
Eternal of triumphant truth, soft-send
Those lyrical effusions we attend--
Owls who pursue the melacholic lark.
Wand our sweat into dew.  With suns embark,
Renewed Olympian; from night unbend
Men's hearts.  You are th' explorer of his end;
The shepherd's flute that stedfast casements mark.

Far wing souls' satellites, commuters bright;
But yours among the farthest glows, like Ruth,
Desiring only that it loves.  Unstilled,
Majestic; more than mortal, you are light,
O ageless youth with aged wisdom filled:
In all things Beauty is; in all is Truth.

   (1962)




------------------------------------
on Keats



Brian A. J. Salchert