Yuckelbel's Canon

FIRST PUBLISHED VS. POPULAR ALREADY

2009-05-26T00:21:00.000-07:00

The 'previously unpublished' versus the 'piece that is becoming popular' question is a big issue for me. This is something poets and publishers need to actively discuss because I believe that a wrong choice here can diminish the chance that a poem which has attracted some public interest will ever achieve the distribution and therefore exposure it would have experienced under the older print media system (which had its own flaws, let me hasten to add).

Much of the current electronic publication activity is, at best, counter-productive for the success of poetry in general (we need readers who are recreational and not just other poets). The small presses are struggling with minimal interest on the part of the consuming public and therefore are in perpetual financial difficulties. Many of them react to this situation so conservatively and narrowly that, believing they are serving their own best interests, they further limit the possible interest of the larger consuming public that poets and publishers used to enjoy in the past.

People (poets and non-poets) like to have their current favorite works available to read multiple times. Furthermore, they like the reassurance that others are just as excited about those works as they are. The more places in which their favorite poems show up, the more they feel as if their personal preference is justified. They like the critical interest generated by popular poems because they better learn how to understand them by reading what scholars are saying about their favorites. These issues are key ones to those who do not already possess educated specific background in poetry and poetry writing. The perilous inaccessibility of some modern poetry which demands deep technical understanding and considerable intellectual aesthetic attention is an understandable putt-off to people who already have no clue as to why MFA poets write the way they do.

I can’t think of a process more alien to this than our current small press activity. Are the current trends for publication in them actually endangering the growth of a real group of public readership (which would really be in the best interest of them specifically and modern poetry in general)?

On writing for NaPoMo

2009-04-13T21:32:00.000-07:00

I'm not much of a 'write for contests' kind of guy, preferring to commit to art rather than things which would produce some kind of personal recognition but I have participated, for the first time, in National Poetry Month because it is, in part, about something in which I believe. For any of you who are unfamiliar with it, this is an American event created to specifically promote poetry and increase public awareness of poetry and poets, in general. What is asked of us during the month of April is to write a poem each day of the month. I begin to be a little uncertain here, wondering if some quantitative value is going to do anything worthwhile for poetry but, what the heck; it’s for a good cause so I can tolerate a portion of sloppy logic to go with the good intentions.

I’m used to external discipline as it is applied to learning. I’m a teacher and I try to do this for my students all the time as I also help them with the process of learning how to do that for and by themselves (called learner autonomy). In my life as a poet, I frequently find I need to learn more about my art. How does W. C. Williams bring that larger context along with that object, The Red Wheelbarrow, with such a simple, short poem? How does Basho find the soul of something physical and familiar to us? How does a sonnet or sestina work? I must learn from these external things so I can do what the art of poetry demands of me.

When I seek to gain knowledge from external sources I am practicing learner autonomy in my own life. If a poet acquaintance like Robert Lee Brewer takes upon himself to post a daily prompt for each day of National Poetry Month for use by hundreds of poets on the internet, this is another form of external discipline because now I must write not only daily (which I already do) but on a specific theme. Sometimes a thousand or more poets respond and post their themed results on an internet location where they can be collected and judged. I am the kind of poet that likes to revise and this regime gives no time for that activity to take place. In essence, we are being asked to produce the best work we can with rather short notice and with very little opportunity to revise before submission. This is so far away from the writing regime I have been using for years but I find I am learning some unplanned lessons in areas I usually don’t even think about by participating in this experience.

We are nearly half way through and it is not too late to pick up your pen and join in the fun. If, like me, you would never consider doing such a silly (although well motivated) thing like this, I invite you to give it a try. After all, being a holy person in the isolation of living on a high mountain is one thing but coming down and trying to be pure in the city with its myriad temptations is a whole ‘nother. Join the crowd!

Another trip to Luciole Press

2009-03-30T17:40:00.000-07:00

The Spring/Summer Issue is out! This is a big issue just packed with all sorts great art by some wonderfully talented people. It is an honor to be included in their company. Enjoy this!

(The previous post about the fall'\/Winter Issue will take you there also. I don't know if they have archives or not but will try to find out)

Fragment

2009-03-12T17:56:00.000-07:00

what’s old is the ancient quest of restless dreams
chugging through the night
what’s new is that in the gathering pre-dawn
birds sing eagerly
bells urging me to find that empty pew in
the church of my heart

Undeclared Love

2009-02-24T22:18:00.000-08:00

He smells her hair,
He holds his place.
It's so unfair,
This lovely face.

There's no broken heart
For him to mend.
This is the part
That doesn't end.

A languid limb
Of hers reclines;
For beauty’s hymn
Sorrow defines.

Of all the ways pain can name,
This is the one he would not claim.

The first two stanzas of this poem were written as a group effort at English club at K.I.M.E.P. recently and are the combined efforts of several people, including Nurmerey Shakhanova and Akerke Almanova. The last stanza and the couplet I wrote subsequently and the poem you have just read is the result. I want to say thank you to those who participated in the creation of this sonnet.

Go read Luciole Press

2009-01-13T21:49:00.000-08:00

You will find two of my poems in the winter issue. Just click on the title and it will take you to them. There is some wonderful poetry in this issue so please take some time to enjoy a few of the many fine works while you are there.

Go read the Blue Fifth Review!

2009-01-12T04:35:00.000-08:00

Blue Fifth Review has graciously published one of my recent poems. It is called dream and you can find it in the first section of their Fall 2008 edition. There is so much wonderful poetry in that issue you couldn't go wrong even if you got lost reading and it took you a long time to find my poem. Enjoy!

Journey

2008-08-15T03:09:00.000-07:00

I do not know how it calls

but I bounce off what I'm doing

and float on the words

the world is changed and gone away

the time that ticks so viciously

means exactly the next moment

and all those things that mean

there is nothing else and yet

gratefully it gathers in a grey ball

of thread and does not unravel

hangs there more motionless

than any illusion and the word

is the only motion I know

moving but carrying no twigs or branches

no leaves no gum wrappers

and there are no markers

that time could count

it was his special journey

everything had become indistinct

the war was it won or lost

his home his children

the house the cities with

order and direction roads to travel

these were thoughts that

tumbled endlessly

a washing machine in orbit

weightless cleaning nothing

everything tumbling

meaninglessly forever

maybe this is Circe

for whom he had searched unknowingly

but there were so many of them

each with their own

special enchantments

the magic of an oriental bazaar

the song of many temptresses

locked on land

trapped in offering trivial dangers

wasted songs tempting the

shipwrecked already of departed souls

pirates confused by bureaucracy

seeking plunder from empty ships

this and nights in the heat

and cold made dreamlike

with passion and slow lilting music

that stretches endlessly

without ever growing thin and dangerous

there is so much of it

and it is as if he was happy

thinking nothing of deep thoughts

dark swift dangerous

not watching running aground

on bars which you can't miss

with neon lights like beacons

head for the lighthouse

to save you with

night on the rocks

actually looking for it to end

but finding you must do it

over and over

this is the long of it

when time has gone away

and Odysseus lounges

on the endless sand

of an oceanless beach

drinking fragrant tea in bowls

and wondering

if he will ever

stop eternity grown to sameness

(First published in Autumn Leaves, volume 12(15), August 1, 2008

This poem is copyright © 2008, Russell Ragsdale, all rights reserved.

Tagged by Pris Campbell

2008-07-28T22:50:00.000-07:00

Okay, I was tagged by Pris Campbell who was tagged by Sam Rasnake in his second meme (go to his blog to read his):

Here is mine:

As an adult, the following selections have influenced or impacted me the most...

[These works may or may not be your favorites, and you may have first encountered them when you were much younger.]

the book:
Savage Beauty, Nancy Milford, Ransom House

the film / network series:
Matrix, 1999, Directed by the Wachowski Brothers

the music / spoken word recording:
The Magic Flute, by Mozart (in German)

What are your choices?

I tag Ozy, S. L. Corsua, Katy and anyone else who would like to put theirs up.

Four Haiku:

2008-07-15T22:09:00.000-07:00

(for Alan Summers)

Night (Senyru/Senyru):

1
end of a long, hard day
breath held in
suddenly let out

2
journal of a dream
hand writing on pillow
cat wants to play

Morning (Senyru/Haiku):

3
toast soaks up butter
egg in skillet
morning sunrise

4
prayer towers subdue
the rusty hinge
of cloudless dawn

origin

2008-06-27T00:43:00.000-07:00

I have found a church in your smile
a faith in your eyes
I’m lost in every other context
hard vacuous thought
wandering confused in the night
this is not that
this is vigorous
uncountable
no choice

loss is inexplicable
je suis fou
that makes sense

I am at last matrixed
to everything about you

prayer

2008-06-24T22:13:00.000-07:00

air conditioner words
cool comforting
wanting nothing in return

a kind of silence
with words waiting
patiently inside

dust on Mars
having no breeze
to help realize
what it is

patina
of hope
covering everything

saved

2008-06-13T00:15:00.000-07:00

day with its broken phrases
of brick and cement
tired and stuttering

a problem called cohesion
sunlight stretched too much
long late afternoon shadow
a lingering patient
thick with sage heavy breath

verb quick surgeons
waiting to open
patient flesh
that houses everything
too much possibility
need to do
something

suddenly
we knew it
flat line of
horizon at sunset
thick liquid dark
transfusion has started

a new life
darkness follows light
word metronome measuring
the breath necessary
for a few
tercets into night

doctor scar

2008-06-10T05:48:00.000-07:00

I fell on some lips
ripe with despondent promise
just as
he was going to pretend he didn’t exist
she saved him by pretending he did
and ordered the execution
it took place the following night
as a small and forgotten
suicide
but we hope
he’ll be better soon

could she laugh
damn right she could
did I
did I do da
all night long
with strong upturns
the following afternoon
like a day of sun
the night has been
praying for
a laconic laceration
in a flotsam jacket

at the fountain I
exchange coins with hope

In response to a visit by S. L. Corsua

2008-06-01T11:09:00.000-07:00

I am everywhere
the puppy is me

I am lost and I pray
you will look for me
(I am at home)

thank you for saving me
on a cloudless
night of sturm und drang
endless misery

suddenly concludes in your eyes
change of season
is a metaphor

I am the subject laid prostrate
by the object

camera

2008-05-14T21:53:00.000-07:00

everything’s slowing down
I have lit the candle
cat sniffing this page
camera freezing life
into little splashes
of light and color
painting hanging patiently
slow metallic drag
of the shutter
ancient shuffle of my feet
punctuation when the shutter closes

light like a haze
pale with slowing down
black cat asleep
white cat
rubbing her pink nose
on this pen
it falls
from my hand
slowly

camera finally clicks closed
last picture inside
but not understood
it let a little light in
each time
I know that now

tt works so slowly
taking so much time
when that was all that’s left
when people have gone
when always only
same places
pictures empty now
images in a mirror
with no one looking

I have become
the book I write in
between black and white
cat bookends
looking up to see
if there are angels
falling from the skies

arf

2008-05-07T22:43:00.000-07:00

the dog of summer
hanging around
scratching fleas
wagging his tail

articulate hesitations
sitting there
with a slipper
in his mouth

airport calls
planes answer
sit there
good boy

sun like butter
smooth yellow warm

Judy

2008-04-14T01:02:00.000-07:00

your name stays with me
I am a suitcase of dreams

night is for hunting sleepers
it depends on dreams
as a day is a long dream

eyes see what they are thinking about
nightmares rise with the sun

your name has no words in it
is a sigh uttered in sleep
where arms flinch empty

I am insubstantial
I float through you

an unanswered question
I have dreamed myself
and you dreamed me

those lost forms float
through each other

never meeting
hands have no meaning

I can touch myself
only when the dream
becomes bright and wistful

intense and strangely sad
I can feel us

me having a body and a life
and then it goes pale
like a thief

prisoner of the future
and the past

a ghost that still knows
forty yeas of gray
cannot take one satin night away

Spring haikus (2)

2008-04-03T17:32:00.000-07:00

1.
a lost pleasure is
tucked in the folds of darkness
birds sing to sunrise

2.
the apricot tree
long bare suddenly flowers
at which spring smiles back

Ion

2008-03-23T23:23:00.000-07:00

undershirt overcoat in the vale little not big glade cut from the town with a blade run through by the train not on the vale but in it or under is better for worse far worse is than eyeless is the dirt like the worms making new friends at the funeral . that , is enough they welcome him in friends make a fence with their bodies won’t let him out ! this is your hole , forever like a door open like I’m sorry like I miss you like the lid closing with the smack of a kiss that sounds underground a subway somewhere simpers )

Let me add a few words about this strange new prose poem thing I have been playing with lately. This is a poem for Ion (pronounced yawn) Drimba, my friend and coach. He died in Brazil in 2006 and is much missed. I have attempted to (with the exception of internal punctuation such as contractions) use punctuation only as a verbalized part of the poem. So when you encounter one sitting strangely separated off from the phrases, please say what it is (for instance ! exclamation point , comma and the like). They have no other function in this poem, in reality. There are some natural rhythms here and some caesura that is unavoidable and I’m confident you will find them as you read this out loud. That, unfortunately is the only way this strange poem will make any sense at all. It might seem a little confusing (strange rhymes lost without the perspective that lines and stanzas provide, alliterative phrases that are inherently awkward) at first but let the parsimony principle be your guiding light and all will be delightfully murky. Enjoy!

These are the Friday Five words used:

kiss
train
fence
vale
simper

place

2008-03-17T23:59:00.000-07:00

town of my dreams
streets slick with night
green spring sunny days
time
to sit
and write

breakfast
and lunch on the terrace
sparkling sea water
peaceful
walks along the beach

talks with friends
colleagues students
artists

sunny day
convertible drives
top down
along a coastal highway

trips to mountains
picnics in meadows
music at the symphony hall
ballet and opera
at the theater

cocktails on the boat
in evening

cathedrals
cool large and hushed
outdoor cafes in the afternoon
people walking by
us sitting talking laughing

snorkeling
in quiet coves
of afternoon sun

barbeques
with friends
kids and grandkids

and time
precious time

lovelight

2008-03-11T11:40:00.000-07:00

leave the light on
we will see you

Beethoven is home
the madman

is this your game
who is winning

conquest Mozart

coming home from
miles away

undertone
to radio

key in a lock
understand

pastisse is a
midnight game

you didn’t win
it isn’t finished

femme

2008-03-07T04:37:00.000-08:00

she felt happiness
in her mouth eyes

chocolate endures
it tastes long deep

burning her mind
an itch

daylight hides her thoughts

a feeling inside
what she should do

doing without finding words
my sense of completion context

feet feel floor
as dancing

TO ALL WOMEN: HAPPY WOMAN'S DAY!!!!!
8 MARCH 2008

string

2008-03-01T19:09:00.000-08:00

from the bureau of words
in the drawer of my mind
looking through the mess
for order

looking at morning’s mural
painted on energetic flesh
in my eye my yard
my neighbors

migration dilated
made larger in parking places
to morning movement
seen and heard

and understood
without speech words
which aren’t even kempt
in dictionaries

found but confused
contemptuous
under alphabetical tyranny

never understanding silent order
of string to fingers
and vinegar to nose

migration

2008-02-24T06:41:00.000-08:00

with the sun’s infliction
watching gathering lines
searching for the
words of waiting
as well as music
from the margins
of afternoon
which were agitated
and in that agitation
crows called to their hue
the colorlessness creeping
up from the roots
of Soviet style apartment buildings
down from Lenin
all the way up
to the language
darkness speaks with
black mitigating wings
scudding on the
ebb tide of sunset
to the land of closed eyes
that dance with black
that bleeds from every
corner crack
taking away all
but the sunny frosty afternoon
I still carry inside