OCTOBER 31, 2007: Letter to W. Whitman

I consider I am lucky, being American,
for I needn’t cross the ocean
(or else consider the passage of too much time)
to talk to you, which I am glad for
lest I shouldn’t make the journey.

So I suppose I am lucky.

I know a young man who lost his comrades
fighting in Iraq, all killed except for him
and he took for himself the name Lucky
And ‘Lucky’ he will always correct you
if you call him by his Christian name,
which is Edward, or Mike.

And here I lie, sick and trembling with a fever,
sick and trembling, lying in bed. 'Tis Halloween.
I am alone in bed, because my people
are trooping through the jungle, through the night
in crazy clothes that are the rags of time.
They are happy.
And I suppose that I am happy.

Now I am alone,
shall I assume I am writing a poem,
that I am writing this poem,
and that this is the poem I am writing?
If I am writing like you is your voice my voice,
is my voice yours, or was it ever not?
Could I ever choose but to take you at your word.

Insert shipbuilding metaphor!

My people are dressed as monsters
while I am sick in bed
My people are dressed as monsters
and I, here, with hellish head
today have begun to write inside your book
with my own stubby pencil to underline
inscribe in margins thoughts and unthoughts.
For years I have kept your book pristine and virginal
but now upon its many leaves
I write my clumsy messages.

I study your book. I am looking there for anger.
Will I find it?
Is there not anger in your book of everything and everyone?
And is it yours as well, or only mine who look for it?

My people return from pilgrimage,
they shout and bring me chocolate,
offer to me and cover me with sweets,
changing their minds at the last minute,
‘You can have that one—NO!—this one.’
And I am writing my poem to you,
prophesied, of not completely covered, by yours to me.

Ista terra, non est

There’s no such place as Outremer.
Though there I fought, and pillaged and burned,
and long been heart-sick for it,
I since have learned
there’s no such place as Outremer.

Extraordinary Rendition

Once you have been translated into Dutch, things begin to move very quickly.

Last night I staggered home from prodigious celebration to find that Dr. Matthew Hussey, Secretary of Translation and Rendition for commoncrofts, had overseen the translation of 'Chainsaw Friend' back into English.

I was right: it was much better. Here, beginning with the quotation of Terence, is KETTINGZAAGVRIEND, extraordinarily repatriated. T


"I are people: I proclaim nothing to make to have with people strange for me"
--Terence, "Zelf-Pijniger"

"The one moment is you a squirrel beetje
sauce gnawing to a nipple
and a thinking none angry is possible
and the other moment lies spread your brain
concerning very the bunch."

I remind themselves that you said hunt
that then we squirrels were.
That was nevertheless terrible.
That was we entirely.

It is as if you sit now once on the top of the world,
and it are fulfilled then of vague uncertainties.

For the squirrel it is difficult
explain how such things happen:
mechanical error
a vertekening a whim of nature
never is possible you finding.

And that does not make you pisnijdig?

In any case, me regrets that I had you dead saw
but I had really that guard, guns, oar loops,
bayonets, muntstukken and what
already no longer from the civil war necessary.
(If people my disorder irritates stalks,
me that immoderate, and I realised
that this the same impact at you,
for this reason I have done what I thought must do.)

These objects are simply fabulous,
man, you had nothing vandoen with the Confederale army
(yes! your head is appropriate exactly in the bucket.)
As I said already, I weet that we always
best maatjes were our life long,
but the way you let me touch never
to your guns, oar loops and bayonets, however,
which annoyed me enormously,
and I realised myself that you
very inadequate there life approach on kept.

Consequently zaagde you
by my best old friend
already seem I that now, however,
strangely looking at to this treasure
and the mixture with cement
meantime thinking of our involvement with the squirrels
in Kenosha
and the strange things which rose then in your head...
You were right then with that gezegde of you:
"life is the ultimate sacrifice"
friend, who is truth.

But stopper with that gelul now,
I must hurry myself I but not my car
keys have left behind in Missouri!

KETTINGZAAGVRIEND

That's right, Leatherface. I have been translated into Dutch.
You can find "Chainsaw Friend" in Dutch on Het Oog Vaan de Roos Internationaal Poezine, with a click: KETTINGZAAGVRIEND.

I can't read Dutch but I expect it rather gains in translation.

Thank you, Henri Thijs!

Whoever you are!

Your servant's poem 'Chainsaw Friend' featured

as part of Dissident Editions' page of the month for April. Check it out via link below, and do explore the rest of this genius website devoted to outlaw poetry, naked philosophy and megaliths.

BEYOND THE PALE

My thanks to Anthony Weir!

commoncrofts: for the coterie

nec dignitas nec superbia neque aut rubor coram vobis--neither dignity nor pride, nor shame either, before you--my motto to the coterie. If you are reading this, you're in the coterie.

Fantastic. Thanks for being here.

THC III

Let us begin and carry up this corpse,

Singing together.

Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes

Each in its tether

Sleeping safe

on the bosom of the plain

Robert Browning: 'The Grammarian's funeral'

De dementia belli: from the Latin of Lucan: Pharsalia I.1-16

We sing of war that is worse than civil 

waged on the plains of Emathia,

and of legality conferred on crime; 

of a mighty people who began to turn, 

with all dexterity, to gutting itself; 

of blood hatred between citizens; and how, 

in the sequel of tyranny’s broken contract, 

the shocked powers of the world then stood

guilty and exposed; and standards concussed 

standards, and eagles crashed into eagles,

and javelins everywhere just going berserk... 

What febrile turpitude, O citizens! 

O countrymen! what vicious lapping and plunging! 

To the people of nations hateful to us 

you made a spectacle of Roman gore: 

our deaths to entertain the enemy! 

And all the while proud Babylon stood ripe 

for spoliation (but no you couldn't be bothered),

and all the while the ghost of Crassus skulked 

lonely and unavenged. I know not why, 

but it pleased you better to wage unwinnable wars. 

 And now look: so much blood on Roman hands… 

How much sea and land might that have bought! 

Zones where the Titan comes, where Night sifts 

recondite stars, where the midday is full 

of fragrant burning air… 

 line 3: the translator is not ashamed to say he could not improve on J. D. Duff's translation of iusque datum sceleri (Harvard UP, 1928).

[ November 3, 2004 ]