The blog of author Dennis Cooper

Author: DC (Page 182 of 1086)

Shirley Clarke Day

 

‘A major figure of the American avant garde, Shirley Brimberg Clarke (1919-1997) was born into privilege as the daughter of Polish-Jewish immigrants who made their fortune in manufacturing. Rebelling against a repressive bourgeois upbringing, Clarke turned first to dance, and later film and video, to express her distinctive vision of the world.

‘Moving freely across genres and media throughout her career (and often within a single work), Clarke’s cinema explores the porous boundaries between narrative and documentary filmmaking, and film and other media, such as painting, dance, performance and video. Her 1960s features The Connection (1961), The Cool World (1963) and Portrait of Jason (1967), for which she is arguably best remembered, address issues of urban alienation, poverty, addiction and racism, focusing on lives lived at the margins of American society. Fearless in both her personal and creative life, Clarke produced a body of work that is as formally innovative as it is rooted in social protest.

‘Clarke initially trained as a dancer, immersing herself in New York’s vibrant post-war avant-garde dance scene. Although her dance career never quite earned her the critical acclaim she’d hoped for, it had a lasting impact on her subsequent filmmaking and video work, informing an interest in how movement is recorded formally, while introducing her to key avant-garde dancers and choreographers.
Dance in the Sun (1953), Clarke’s first short film, captures the sinuous choreography of professional dancer Daniel Nagrin. Bounding off the stage and out of the cinematic frame, it quickly cuts to him dancing on the sand. By fluidly switching between the two locations, Clarke extends Nagrin’s choreography into a new – potentially fantasy – space. Much like her then more established contemporary, dancer and filmmaker Maya Deren, Clarke uses editing to conjure up an individual’s interior life: a memory, perhaps, of a long-ago dance under the sun.

Bullfight (1955) similarly cuts between different environments, editing on shared gestures to create a sense of continual motion and high drama. Flitting back and forth between Anna Sokolow’s bullfight-inspired choreography and actual footage of a fight in an arena, Clarke’s montage mirrors the elegant and precise movements of the dancer with those of the matador, creating a dramatic stand-off.
Other short films evoke a dance without dancers, using the rhythms of the edit and movement within the frame to capture the dynamism of urban life. Bridges-Go-Round (1958), a colourful experimental short on New York’s suspension bridges, uses overlapping footage (often moving in opposing directions) and pulsing zooms to animate otherwise static structures, creating moments of cinematic abstraction and a visual affinity with jazz.

‘Jazz is the pulsing vein snaking through much of Clarke’s work, right up to her final feature Ornette: Made in America (1985), a portrait of free jazz pioneer Ornette Coleman. Her first feature, The Connection, includes a group of real jazz musicians among the cast, adding a sense of spontaneous authenticity to the subterranean underworld being depicted.

‘Jazz in this context connotes a mood and a milieu, a hip stance by then inscribed into the Beat Generation mythos that Clarke’s film was consciously tapping into. Beyond using jazz for either soundtrack or subject matter, Clarke’s overall approach to making films shares certain qualities with the musical genre, emphasising improvised performance, changes in dramatic intensity, syncopated editing and – often in appearance only – an absence of script.

‘By the late 1950s, Clarke became increasingly occupied with documentary filmmaking. She worked with Willard Van Dyke, Richard Leacock and D.A. Pennebaker, among others, on a series of three-and-a-half-minute film loops for the 1958 Brussels World’s Fair. With Van Dyke, she also co-directed Skyscraper (1959), a documentary on the construction of the Tishman building on Fifth Avenue, and a young Frederick Wiseman produced The Cool World.

‘Critical of the premise that cinema could objectively document events, Clarke didn’t always see eye to eye with these filmmakers. As the film scholar Lauren Rabinovitz argues: “Clarke denied the possibility of any such intuitive objectivity by emphasising the inherent subjectivity in the cinematic process itself.”

The Connection employs cinéma vérité techniques within a narrative framework to expose their limitations as a means of accessing ‘truth’. Based on Jack Gelber’s contentious off-Broadway play, it follows a director making a film about a group of junkies waiting for their ‘connection’ to deliver a heroin fix. Intertitles claim the film has been constructed from found footage shot in an addict’s apartment by documentary filmmaker Jim Dunn, and handed over to cameraman J.J. Burden, who pieced together the film as “honestly” as possible.

‘Even during its moments of seeming spontaneity, it’s clear we’re watching a drama; Clarke would later complain that the cinematography was “too slick”. Nevertheless, The Connection’s over-stylised performances and theatrical approach to blocking actors contribute to undoing the illusion of realism. The desperate attempts of a white bourgeois filmmaker to capture ‘authentic’ Beat life while manipulating the action are also sent up. “I’m just trying to make an honest human document,” Dunn whines as he intently refocuses his camera. Clarke’s digs at the earnestness and duplicity of the male documentary filmmaker are delicious.

‘For her next feature, The Cool World, a docudrama about black street gangs, the cinematography was to be far less slick. The film follows teenage boy Duke as he struggles to escape his difficult situation by climbing the ranks of the Royal Pythons, a Harlem gang. The Cool World cleverly merges techniques drawn from narrative, documentary and experimental filmmaking: on-location shooting, mobile camerawork and non-professional actors emphasise cinematic realism, while the film’s kinetic montages of Harlem street life recall her formalist early films. Fêted for producing the first commercial film shot on location in Harlem, the crew largely avoided tripods, choosing to keep the cameras close to their characters as they chase the limited opportunities available to them.

‘Clarke adapted Warren Miller’s 1959 novel with her creative and romantic partner Carl Lee, who played Cowboy in The Connection. A Harlem native, Lee recruited young performers from the neighbourhood, and made sure the film’s portrayal of life on the streets was accurate. With its largely empathetic depiction of the contexts leading to urban crime, The Cool World has become a landmark of African-American cinema.

‘The dramatic tension in Portrait of Jason, Clarke’s study of black gay hustler Jason Holliday, rests on the shifting and imbalanced power relations between filmmaker and subject. Much like Andy Warhol with his film portraiture, particularly Chelsea Girls (1966), Clarke turns the camera on to the performance of personality. Shot in her Chelsea Hotel apartment in one boozy 12-hour session, the film records Jason’s extended monologue of outré anecdotes and musical skits.

‘Cracks soon start to emerge in the well-honed routine: he cries, falls exhausted on a bed and interacts wildly with an increasingly confrontational film crew. By the end of the film, the veracity of his story is put into question: “Be honest, motherfucker, stop that acting will you?” barks Lee off screen. Unable to pierce the mask of his personality, or to access the ‘truth’ of what happened between him and the crew, Portrait of Jason leaves several questions unanswered.

‘Jason’s moments of vulnerability also implicate us as viewers, unsure if we are complicit in the spectacle of his torment. Jason tells the camera that “people love to see you suffer”, and he might just be talking about us.

‘As a female director in a largely male-dominated industry, Clarke frequently spoke of how her identification with outcasts was informed by a feeling of not belonging in a man’s world. In Noël Burch and André S. Labarthe’s documentary portrait of the filmmaker for French television, Rome Is Burning (1970), Clarke observes: “The woman and the black American male have in common a psyche, and a problem, and a reality, and are the closest at being able to understand each other.” By this logic, then, the black woman experiences a double oppression, but the point is never raised, and the conversation moves on.

‘If Clarke’s identification with the black ‘Other’ feels like a difficult pill to swallow, we can see at least how the space she opens up for Jason to speak is a markedly political gesture. Jason’s chameleonic performance – at turns amusing and tragic, often in the same breath – unveils how mainstream American society has repeatedly marginalised him: for his blackness, for his queerness, for a lifestyle incompatible with its so-called values. Clarke saw Jason’s life as symbolic of the horrors white society had inflicted on African Americans, noting: “You can’t leave that film and not be aware of what has been done to him.”

‘Clarke’s characters may be the products of an unjust society that conspires to subject them, but they are rarely portrayed as pathetic victims or morally punished for their transgressions. Her concerted exploration of oppression – as it emerges from the intersections of class, race, sexuality and gender – feels more relevant than ever.’ — Sophia Satchell Baeza

 

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Stills





































 

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Further

Project Shirley
Shirley Clarke @ IMDb
Shirley Clarke Saw the Future of Cinema
SC @ MUBI
SC @ The Film-makers Cooperative
A profile of Shirley Clarke
Celebrating Shirley Clarke
SC @ Letterboxd
DVD: ‘The Magic Box: The Films of Shirley Clarke, 1929–1987 ‘
Great Directors: Shirley Clarke
SHIRLEY CLARKE’S FILMS COLLECTED AND RESTORED
The Complicated Camera of Filmmaker Shirley Clarke
SHIRLEY CLARKE’S INDEFINITE TRUTHS
TO THE BEAT OF SHIRLEY CLARKE
AN INTERVIEW WITH SHIRLEY CLARKE
AN AVANT-GARDE’S AVANT GARDE: THE WORK OF SHIRLEY CLARKE
Experimental director Shirley Clarke on her film about drug addiction

 

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Extras


A Portrait of Shirley Clarke (1968)


Shirley Clarke: A Retrospective


Shirley Clarke on women in film and men in money


BRUSSELS LOOPS [1958] ► SHIRLEY CLARKE ► LIVE SCORE by MTS

 

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Interview (1964)

 

How did you get your start in filmmaking?

My first film was a short dance film called Dance in the Sun. When I saw the first rushes I was horrified: it was just terrible. I debated on whether to finish it or not, but I finally decided to go ahead, because if I didn’t I would never learn anything. Still, most dance films are so terrible that mine was among the best, and it won a prize. This made me an authority on dance films. I then made two more dance films and a number of other short features: seven all together before I made The Connection. One of the shorts, Skyscraper, won a prize in Venice and also in the U.S. and gave me a name, making it possible for me to go into features. The first film I really felt strongly about, though, was Scary Time, a film I made for UNICEF. It is a kind of stream-of-consciousness film juxtaposing shots of kids dressed for Halloween as skeletons, and other kids who really are skeletons. The film ends with a long, long shot of a Moroccan baby whose face is all covered with flies; all through the shot, the baby never moves to brush the flies away, as if to say, isn’t everybody covered with flies? UNICEF hated this and wanted me to cut it from the picture, but I refused. The film is hardly ever shown. It was made to be used in Western countries, to influence people to get their governments to give money to UNICEF. But so far as I know, it has never played in the U.S. and probably not in any of the Eastern countries either.

How did you come to make The Connection?

It was easy. I went to see the play and decided I wanted to make a film of it. The author, Jack Gelber, sold me the rights to it. He had refused a number of other filmmakers before me.

Do you intend to go on making features or do you plan more shorts?

Economically, it’s impossible to stay with shorts. You have to find a sponsor, and then you might as well be working for Hollywood.

How do you feel about Hollywood? Do you have any intention of making a film there?

Never. Hollywood has preconceived ideas about what audiences want. The Hollywood idea is that films about Negroes or films about young boys don’t make money. I would never have got money in Hollywood to make The Cool World.

Where did you get the money to make your films?

I raised it from many people, like the people who give money to put on plays and are interested in the glamor of being an “angel.” Of course, you have to keep costs down and only plan films that can be made on a low budget. The Cool World cost $250,000, which is about a fourth of what it would have cost to make in Hollywood. But the ease with which one can get money for a film depends very much on the success of the last film.

There is much talk of a “New York School.” Do you consider yourself a part of this?

I’m not sure there is such a thing. Both in New York and on the Coast there is a renaissance of films being made by individuals. These individuals come in two varieties: the young men who are trying to get to Hollywood, and the kind who want to remain personal and keep costs down. This is the only common ground.

Mrs. Clarke, how does it feel to be a woman film director?

It’s fun. I find it an advantage being a woman, but perhaps that’s because I am used to being one. I find that I can get away with things that a man wouldn’t. At first I was worried about having problems with male crews, but then I found that those who don’t like working with a woman simply don’t join up. Pretty soon we begin functioning as people, not as members of different sexes. I do have some trouble working with actresses. I didn’t get along at all with Yolanda Rodriguez, the girl who played Luanne in The Cool World.

How did you become interested in the “Negro” problem?

For the past four or five years I have felt that this is America’s key problem. Without a solution to it, we will never have a free country. After all, we whites are in the minority—two thirds of the world is colored.

Can you tell us something of how The Cool World was made?

The exteriors were all shot on location in Harlem. For the interiors, the New York Housing Authority gave us the use of a whole tenement building which was about to be demolished. For each set, we used a different floor of the building. We didn’t have to buy a stick of furniture—we just used what was there. Our interiors were all pre-lit, so we could move the camera freely. Throughout the film, the camera was hand-held. For sound, we used radiomicrophones, so we didn’t need a boom. The film took almost a year to make, plus four months of casting.

How did you do your casting?

Carl Lee (who plays the part of “Priest” in the film) did most of the casting. He went around to all sorts of youth organizations—settlement houses, social clubs, and so forth. Everywhere he went, the directors would bring out their star pupils. But these kids were completely unable to act. Then Carl would see some kid slinking around the school yard and would ask for him. “You don ‘t want him!” the director would say. But we took these kids to a big loft that we had, and we began improvising from the story. This got them acting, and also made the whole thing possible, because, although they are very bright, many of these kids can’t read. We used this technique throughout the film—a mixture of memorizing lines and improvising. You can’t get quiet, tender moments by improvising, so those we had to write out. But many of the others we improvised, using a straight Stanislavsky technique either before or during the shooting. We never did a scene without checking with the kids first to see if the action seemed believable to them.

How do you like working with non-professional actors?

Well, I worked with a combination of professionals and non-professionals which is confusing. You have to try to make the non-professionals be what they are, and at the same time you have to break the professionals of their bad habits. The kids had no bad acting habits or preconceptions. They were just wonderful to work with—working 18 hours a day, seven days a week, for 12 weeks without a complaint. And shooting a film can sometimes become pretty dull for the actors.

What has become of these kids since The Cool World?

These were all kids who had police records. The life they played in the film was pretty much the life they had lived. Now they’ve changed. Hampton Clanton, who plays the lead, is finishing his last year of high school and goes to a neighborhood playhouse. The boy who plays the leader of the enemy gang is working as a messenger for a playhouse. Some of the boys are acting in an off-Broadway play that our set-builder has written. I don’t know what Yolanda Rodriguez is doing—she didn’t want to be an actress at all. We had to beg her to come all the time. She was working after school for a bra manufacturer, which interested her much more than the film.

How do you explain the change in the lives of these boys?

Their main problem is a lack of self-identity, of dignity. The film gave them a sense of pride: the idea that they are important enough to make a film about what we’re curious about is how these kinds of kids will react when they see the film. We would like them to come out a little straighter and prouder than when they went in.

What are your plans for future productions?

Right now I feel I am still working on The Cool World. The film was barely finished when we brought it to Venice, and it still needs some cutting. After that, I want to take a couple of months to plan for the next two productions. I would like to keep the same producer and the same technical people. Eventually, I would like to form a co-op with other directors and produce for each other. We have various enough backgrounds in film that we have an overall knowledge of how to make a film. That wary, too, we could covet each other’s losses. So, if one director’s film loses money, another will gain, and the co-op will still break even. I’m not the only person who wants to do this sort of films I’m doing, or the only person with talent. But talent isn’t enough for a modern artist. He has to be a salesman too. And he has to be willing to plunge in, as I did with that awful dance film. Other people are too cautious. As for me, I don’t care. If the film doesn’t succeed, it’s only money, or a few years of your life.

Do you expect to have any trouble with censorship, as you did with The Connection?

We won the court case in New York with The Connection so we shouldn’t have any trouble. Some cities, for example Chicago, still won’t play The Connection. Burt most cities that have a censorship board will follow New York’s lead. Of course, it did take a year to get that case through the court.

If it’s not being too personal, how did you eat during that year, or at other slack times?

Most filmmakers have to accept commissions or films, or do other little jobs. I’m lucky—I have a husband who has a regular job.

 

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15 of Shirley Clarke’s 32 films

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Ornette: Made in America (1985)
‘This freewheeling documentary captures Ornette Coleman’s evolution over three decades. Documentary footage, dramatic scenes, and some of the first music-video-style segments ever made chronicle his boyhood in segregated Texas and his subsequent emergence as an American cultural pioneer and world-class composer and performer. Among those who contribute to the film are William S. Burroughs, Brion Gysin, Buckminster Fuller, Don Cherry, Yoko Ono, Charlie Haden, Robert Palmer, Jayne Cortez, and John Rockwell.’ — The Criterion Collection


Trailer


Excerpt


Excerpt

 

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Tongues (1982)
‘A tour-de-force synthesis of theater and video, Tongues is the collective title of a two-part collaboration by Shirley Clarke, distinguished actor/director Joseph Chaikin, and Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Sam Shepard. Both one-act monologues integrate the distinctive styles of these three artists: Shepard’s innovative, stream-of-consciousness language; Chaikin’s kinetic and exacting performance, which unifies the pieces; and Clarke’s dynamic, expressive choreography of image, sound and text. The cadences and inflections of Shepard’s jazz-related narrative voice and Chaikin’s dramatic expression of a multitude of personalities are heightened by Clarke’s syncopated use of digital effects, slow motion, and editing techniques to distort and manipulate the image.’ — EAI

Watch an excerpt here

 

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Initiation (1978)
‘Part of Shirley Clarke’s cycle FOUR JOURNEYS INTO MYSTIC TIME, this short film observes a dance that represents a spiritual or religious initiation.’ — The Criterion Channel


Excerpt

 

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24 Frames per Second (1977)
‘A rapidly edited video study of ancient Persian tapestries.’ — Film Affinity


Excerpt


Excerpt

 

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Portrait of Jason (1967)
‘From today’s perspective, as the movie begins, Portrait of Jason seems less like a vacation from American reality than a rocket ship into the future of gay liberation. Dapper, blazered Jason Holliday—he’s on camera, drink(s) and cigarette(s) in hand, for the entire film—is unlike any gay man who had ever been seen in a movie before. He’s amusing, profane, explicit, and—most startlingly for the time—seemingly without shame, reservation, or embarrassment.’ — Film Comment


Trailer


Excerpt

 

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Robert Frost: A Lover’s Quarrel with the World (1963)
‘Shirley Clarke’s Academy Award–winning documentary profiles the renowned poet Robert Frost as he reflects on his life, career, and philosophy of the world. Interspersing intimate moments with Frost at his Vermont home with footage of him delivering lectures at Amherst and Sarah Lawrence Colleges, this contemplative portrait eloquently captures the humor, humanity, and complexity of a remarkable artist and thinker.’ — The Criterion Channel


the entire film

 

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The Cool World (1963)
‘Based on the novel by Warren Miller about a teenager navigating the violent turf wars and internal hierarchies of Harlem gangs, and set to an unforgettable jazz score composed by Mal Waldron and performed by Dizzy Gillespie, Shirley Clarke’s The Cool World is a landmark of early American independent cinema. The film was produced by a young Frederick Wiseman, and it possesses something of a documentary quality as a result of its uptown location shooting, cast of local non-actors, and partially improvised performances. “Everything I’ve done,” Clarke declared late in her career, “is based on the duality of fantasy and reality,” and The Cool World, like so many of the works in this series, is constantly pivoting between the two.’ — filmlinc.org


Excerpt


Excerpt

Watch the film here

 

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The Connection (1961)
‘Shirley Clarke made a splash—and ignited a landmark censorship case—with her controversial feature debut, an innovative adaptation of Jack Gelber’s off-Broadway play in which the line between documentary and narrative breaks down as a group of junkie jazz musicians crawl the walls while waiting for their next fix. With its restlessly kinetic camerawork, flavorful Beat dialogue, and cool jazz score by pianist Freddie Redd, THE CONNECTION is a groundbreaking depiction of drug addiction and one of the most vital and influential works of the American independent film movement.’ — Milestone Films


Trailer

 

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A Scary Time (1960)
A Scary Time might well rank as one of the oddest pairings on record between a mainstream NGO and filmmaker. It’s a Shirley Clarke film through and through; anyone familiar with her body of work will recognize an unforced intimacy with her subjects, the musicality of her editing choices and camera movements, the overall improvisational feel masking design and intent.’ — Reverse Shot


the entire film

 

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Skyscraper (1959)
‘Characterized by Shirley Clarke as “A musical comedy about the building of a skyscraper.”’ — MUBI


the entire film

 

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Bridges-Go-Round (1958)
Bridges-Go-Round was crafted by Clarke from leftover project footage. In her hands, the monumental bridges spanning New York Harbor dissolve into flattened abstractions that seem to sway with the music. The dream-like quality is intensified by the vivid color, which was achieved by “bi-packing,” a process in which certain colors of the film original are altered by running the strip through the printer with a second piece of film. When rights issues threatened the use of the initial music track by Louis and Bebe Barron, who had composed the groundbreaking electronic score for Forbidden Planet (1956), Clarke asked jazz producer Teo Macero to develop a replacement. She liked them both and often screened the two versions back-to-back.’ — Film Preservation


the entire film

 

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A Moment in Love (1956)
‘The recurring theme of dance once again works its way into a Shirley Clarke project, as this short film features a performance that takes place across a multitude of environments. As a primary couple intimately interacts, Clarke tests herself as a filmmaker by enhancing the performance with camera movements and visual additions. Altering the setting and the atmosphere with the use of back-projection, this intriguing piece illustrates Clarke’s willingness to experiment on many levels.’ — The Criterion Channel


Excerpt

 

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Bullfight (1955)
‘Clarke, long fascinated with the art of dance, here documents a bravura performance by Anna Sokolow—a choreographed interpretation of the dance between matador and bull, intercut here with footage from inside an actual bullring.’ — Metrograph


the entire film

 

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In Paris Parks (1954)
‘An early work by director Shirley Clarke, this short film displays the dynamic movement of people (including Wendy Clarke, the director’s daughter) as they enter and exit parks in Paris. Observing how crowds flow through an urban setting, the film also features Clarke’ eloquent editing, as the rhythmic cuts develop a tempo that compliments the footage.’ — The Criterion Channel


Excerpt

 

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Dance in the Sun (1953)
‘A man dancing in a studio is inter-cut with the same dance in a setting on a beach and in the dunes.’ — IMDb


the entire film

 

 

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p.s. Hey. ** Dominik, Hi!!! Cool, thank you on behalf of the poets mostly. I used to try not to use ‘haha’ but LOL is just too horrible to consider using (for me), and even though I like the idea that the words themselves should convey all the tonalities you put into them, there are those moments when the humor does need to be telegraphed a little. I hope if you played the GbV tune it added a little pizazz. How was your Xmas by the way? Anything worth ‘writing home’ about it? My Xmas did go as I thought it would, i.e, very casually with no big ups or downs, so thank you, love. Love keeping me from telling a friend of mine that I came across his boyfriend’s slave profile the other day, G. ** Misanthrope, I don’t know how to chill. I don’t think I’d chill even if I knew how to chill. Unless what I’m doing is chilling and I just don’t realise it. How old is that rapscallion David going to be this year? ** _Black_Acrylic, Thank you kindly, Ben. Okay, what in the world is going on in that karaoke scene? Heavy evil vibes, but then … ? ** tomk,  Hi, Tom. Thanks, pal, and belated best ever day to you, or I guess may today be the bestest day. I didn’t write the best ever sentence as far as I remember, but I bet you did. Love, me. ** Sarah, Merry Xmas a day late to you, Sarah! Was it a goodie? I’m thinking that as soon as Carti’s album drops, the new date will pop up. And I hope his tour will take him close to you too. ** Charalampos, That bûche would have won the Nobel Bûche Prize. Happy New Year is next vibes from up here and me. ** Darby 🎅, Hi! Same to you! I did hang out with a similarly Xmas-orphaned friend and ate falafel, so it was alright. The main thing is you got gifts, deservedly. Oh, ‘The Marbled Swarm’ is my favorite of my books, so I’m happy it was The One. ‘TMS’ was the hardest one to write, and hard is good, so maybe that one’s hardness made it was most pleasurable? (If you’d asked me while I was writing it, I probably wouldn’t have said that). If my memory is correct, George’s university was a kind of hippie-ish type where you didn’t have to declare a major. He was a musician/composer. I say in the book he played guitar, but that was because there was a ‘guitar’ motif that needed to run through the book, but he didn’t actually play guitar, he played piano/ organ/ keyboards. I think he just used university as a thing to do as opposed to having a job and made music there, and probably studied music somewhat. I’ll go find a dancing Snoopy and pretend you uploaded it. Second best option. Enjoy your gifts, and enjoy Xmas fading away too. ** Right. I happened to watch the great Shirley Clarke’s ‘The Cool World’ recently, and, as is often the case, that nudged me into giving her and her work a post. I hope you enjoy it, naturally. And see you tomorrow.

dc’s 6th annual xmas poetry scroll: ashbery, notley, britton, green, tate, koestenbaum, denby, christie, gallup, berrigan, armantrout, crawford, spicer, padgett, mirov, boyle, creeley, merrill, gluck, wieners, killian, partrik, salier, schuyler, koertge, zephaniah, lin, myles, o’hara, eknoian, madsen, trinidad, young, berkson, brainard, coolidge, bukowski, gerstler

vintagexmas03-gifc200

 

 

 

Redeemed Area
by John Ashbery

Do you know where you live? Probably.

Abner is getting too old to drive but won’t admit it.

The other day he got in his car to go buy some cough drops

of a kind they don’t make anymore. And the drugstore

has been incorporated into a mall about seven miles away

with only about half the stores rented. There are three

other malls within a four-mile area. All the houses

are owned by the same guy, who’s been renting

them out to college students for years, so they are virtually uninhabitable.

A smell of vitriol and socks pervades the area

like an open sewer in a souk. Anyway the cough drops

(a new brand) tasted pretty good-like catnip

or an orange slice that has lain on a girl’s behind.

That’s the electrician calling now

nobody else would call before 7 A.M. Now we’ll have some

electricity in the place. I’ll start by plugging in

the Christmas tree lights. They were what made the whole thing

go up in sparks the last time. Next, the light

by the dictionary stand, so I can look some words up.

Then probably the toaster. A nice slice

of toast would really hit the spot now. I’m afraid it’s all over

between us, though. Make nice, like you really cared,

I’ll change my chemise, and we can dance around the room

like demented dogs, eager for a handout or they don’t

know what. Gradually, everything will return to normal, I

promise you that. There’ll be things for you to write about

in your diary, a fur coat for me, a lavish shoe tree for that other.

Make that two slices. I can see you only through a vegetal murk

not unlike coral, if it were semi-liquid, or a transparent milkshake.

I have adjusted the lamp;

morning’s at seven,

the tarnish has fallen from the metallic embroidery, the walls have fallen,

the country’s pulse is racing. Parents are weeping,

the schools have closed.

All the fuss has put me in a good mood,

O great sun.

 

It Is Like a Christmas Card
by Alice Notley

It is like a Christmas card,
except it is real and I
am seeng it, and it is far
more beautiful than any pic-
ture, if it is real.

 

Santa
by Donald Britton

Santa is the incomplete
Embodiment of our charity. Poor Santa,
His many bodies minted
Of human waste, his voice the choir
Of his own need. I feel so empty,
By myself, whispering my lists
In Santa’s spiral ear, while he lists
Slightly to one side like skeet
Propelled into the air by a device
No human hand has touched, so obsolete
Is effort when a dime skims ice.
Emit a cry for every useless thing:
Abundant padding so contrived
No one of us shall feel deprived.

 

Ranting
by Megan Green

ranting, pathetic insecurities, overwhelm the Christmas tree, and you promise
me a utopia, a sort of subsequential America,
where we’ll fuck & eat & play the craps, Las
Vegas is the only place it’ll happen, &
yet the nameless, intrude like a swarm of fucking locusts
feasting upon the Satin drape of my finest
face, I believe your chest most of all, that’s where
the dragon begins, & the sigh
spills from my eyes. Dead petals favour the corners. Gathering
like they have plans.

 

Making the Best of the Holidays
by James Tate

Justine called on Christmas day to say she
was thinking of killing herself. I said, “We’re
in the middle of opening presents, Justine. Could
you possibly call back later, that is, if you’re
still alive.” She was furious with me and called
me all sorts of names which I refuse to dignify
by repeating them. I hung up on her and returned
to the joyful task of opening presents. Everyone
seemed delighted with what they got, and that
definitely included me. I placed a few more logs
on the fire, and then the phone rang again. This
time it was Hugh and he had just taken all of his
pills and washed them down with a quart of gin.
“Sleep it off, Hugh,” I said, “I can barely under-
stand you, you’re slurring so badly. Call me
tomorrow, Hugh, and Merry Christmas.” The roast
in the oven smelled delicious. The kids were playing
with their new toys. Loni was giving me a big
Christmas kiss when the phone rang again. It was
Debbie. “I hate you,” she said. “You’re the most
disgusting human being on the planet.” “You’re
absolutely right,” I said, “and I’ve always been
aware of this. Nonetheless, Merry Christmas, Debbie.”
Halfway through dinner the phone rang again, but
this time Loni answered it. When she came back
to the table she looked pale. “Who was it?” I
asked. “It was my mother,” she said. “And what
did she say?” I asked. “She said she wasn’t my
mother,” she said.

 

[older I get]
by Wayne Koestenbaum

older I get, more serious I become
—-about wearing
—-makeup and wig.
caftan, too. always interested in a rub, kind sir:
—-love yr eyebrows.
—-admittedly, my pix
—-disguise age.
mix turquoise, king’s blue, bluish purple: impose mix
—-on passive quinacridone
—-violet’s impersonality.
try to figure out how clearly delineated
—-“subject positions” find
—-angles of mutual
—-pleasurable engagement without
—-destroying each other.

Joan Rivers baking Xmas cookies seen sideways
—-through tunnel window’s
—-mirror lake Simi-
—-lac® simulacrum.
“this administration is the worst thing to happen
—-to orange since
—-Agent Orange,” quips pundit.
every novel I love is fragile. red stars
—-on black duffel bag
—-triangulate with
—-Lynn Redgrave’s in-
—-dependent sources of self-
—-esteem, not harvested from Lear.
wrongly seeking sublimity in barn-roof gutter crevice.

lucent ceiling corrugations a dauphinois
—-potato when his Pompeii
—-gaze claims me, then disappears.
kouros-carved lips, stone lingerie, scandal
—-pudding: congregated
—-shames comprise a menu.
hives on my calves, awaiting Purim-Benadryl’s
—-alleviation: sob-collapse
—-throws ash on coffin
—-lowered: crowded town
—-car back from cemetery
—-to capers, cream cheese.

abstract expressionism is what happened at the hospital:
—-fools disputing climate
—-change, Tiffany
—-blue establishing shot’s
—-concentrated inattention.
“I’m glad you gave up the figure,” she said:
—-but I haven’t
—-stopped pursuing nudes.
to be the dread golem, aloof in Prague, boning
—-up on feuilletonisme,
—-Eton pea-coat toggles
—-unclasping gelt-Jocasta.

 

Sonnet 8
by Edwin Denby

Three old sheepherders so filthy in their ways
Whores wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole
Saw once the Christmas star which in a blaze
Pierced like delight into the secret soul.

They later also stood with their same faces
Around a baby male and there were shown
The heart caressing with millennial graces
A beauty which in love is all its own.

These three were the first according to the story
But unbaptized they never will reach heaven
In an eternal hell tortured and gory
They can recall the joy that they were given,

This savage torture by the law of love
Of Christmas shepherds I like thinking of.

 

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I’ll Be Me and You Be Goethe
by Heather Christie

I want it to be winter and I want to change
the color of this room This room should be
a blue room and it should be freezing
but ventilated and I in my medium snowsuit
irresistible I know because everything I do
I do to get more beautiful so you will want
to love me in the cold and indoor morning

 

Christmas Poem
by Dick Gallup

Your eyes give a little bit
—————-You know
Though your hands
Take you away
Into a distance filling with blue fir trees
Cool and fragrant as the sea
Vacationing in an upland meadow
You have a magical green necklace
When You put it on you are like a tree

Today I call you Lady Santa
From your firm green breasts
Spring Christmas Tree nipples!
Lady Santa!
I call your name wildly in the night
You are the one who brings Fortune to poets
You fill the kids’ stockings
You are the ink in my pen
The yeast in my bread
The best in my bed
You have a giant living room
And you don’t even have a house
I’m going to call you on the telephone
I’m going to call you on a real telephone

When you go away
—–It’s time for the horror show
Time to hang around weird scenes
Time to fuck up the machinery
—–Like big hairy factories
I end up making smoke
And finally going out
—–On strike
And you are the most beautiful of the scabs
And put me back to just walking down the street

There is a blue fire in the wheels of your eyes
Deep blue flaming night lights
You hold comfort and easy dreams
No leaky faucets in your kitchen
You give me screaming fits of sheer adulation
You come toward me on the winter streets
—–Ringing your bell
And you are all the bells ringing
Christmas and New Years in a clean shirt
You make me think of padded cells on the moon
And going to the Excelsior Hotel
—–In Venice
————–In a balloon
You are a goddess on a god’s birthday
Your voice is on the radio when I turn it off
You are your own electricity
And you turn me on

 

What I’d Like For Christmas, 1970
by Ted Berrigan

Black brothers to get happy
The Puerto Ricans to say hello
The old folks to take it easy &
as it comes
The United States to get straight
Power to butt out
Money to fuck off
Business with honor
Religion
& Art
Love
A home
A typewriter
A GUN.

 

Advent
by Rae Armantrout

In front of the craft shop,
a small nativity,
mother, baby, sheep
made of white
and blue balloons.

*

Sky
god
girl.

Pick out the one
that doesn’t belong.

*

Some thing

close to nothing
flat
from which,

fatherless,
everything has come.

 

Look at My Head, It’s a Pumpkin with a Candle in It
by Keegan Crawford

What is on your bed right now?
I laid there for fifteen minutes with my face down into the pillow.
I imagined how I looked from another person’s point of view
and I looked dead, in a humorous way.
What is your favorite holiday?
The tree was fake and everyone was acting like the tree.
If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?
The drop was five stories, so I didn’t look down. I just looked forward.
Have you ever been camping?
I don’t know why people are scared of wolves. ‘Blood thirsty killing machine’ is a false phrase. They are not robots and they drink water.
What was the last thing you ate?
I am not a blood thirsty killing machine. I just wanted to clarify that.
Do you have any regrets?
Flowers die 100% percent of the time. I still like flowers, though.

 

Psychoanalysis: An Elegy (Excerpt)
by Jack Spicer

I think that I would like to write a poem that is slow as a summer
As slow getting started
As 4th of July somewhere around the middle of the second stanza
After a lot of unusual rain
California seems long in the summer.
I would like to write a poem as long as California
And as slow as a summer.
Do you get me, Doctor? It would have to be as slow
As the very tip of summer.
As slow as the summer seems
On a hot day drinking beer outside Riverside
Or standing in the middle of a white-hot road
Between Bakersfield and Hell
Waiting for Santa Claus.

 

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Season’s Greetings
by Ron Padgett

The holidays are said
to give one a chance
to get in touch with others
but what held back that chance
the rest of the year?
What it means is
that the holidays are a time
when we should behave
like other people, as if
in junior high school,
jury duty, or the Army,
whereas what Philip Whalen
wanted was to take a holiday
from holidays, and then
he wavered, beautifully.

 

Kage’s First Xmas
by Ben Mirov

I am thinking of him and her having sex. I am thinking of them having really great sex, probably in front of a mirror. I am alone in the house. The TV is on, but everyone is asleep. I am about to turn twenty-one. When I turn twenty-one I am going to put on snowshoes. I am going to put on snowshoes and walk as far as I can into the snow. Once I am out in the snow I am going to sit down. I will probably sit in the snow for a long time. I’ll bring a sandwich and some juice. When I return to the house it will be Xmas morning. I will take off my snowshoes and I will tell my family my new name. I will say, On advent of my twenty-first birthday I have taken a new name. Henceforth I shall be called Kage. Kage with a K and not a C. From now on I will only answer to the name Kage. Thank you very much, and then I will walk out of the room. Then I will probably take a shower because I will be cold from sitting in the snow. I will walk into the bathroom and take off all my clothes and look at my body in the mirror. I will probably flex a little. Kage likes his new body. Then I will take a long shower. I will wash every part of my body, including my asshole and my ears and toes. Every part of my body will be clean. Then I will get out of the shower and go have Xmas. I will open my presents and say, Kage does not want this. Kage has no use for a Playstation. Kage does wear sweaters.

 

untitled
by Megan Boyle

everything i touch is going to be a fossil some day my dad still hasn’t taken down his christmas decorations

i walked to his refrigerator and immediately unwrapped and ate a square of american cheese

if i drop a toothpick i’m pretty sure it will remain where it fell for three days

not sure what happens after that.

 

Xmas Poem: Bolinas
by Robert Creeley

All around
the snow
don’t fall.

Come Christmas
we’ll get high
and go find it.

 

Christmas Tree
by James Merrill

To be
Brought down at last
From the cold sighing mountain
Where I and the others
Had been fed, looked after, kept still,
Meant, I knew—of course I knew—
That it would be only a matter of weeks,
That there was nothing more to do.
Warmly they took me in, made much of me,
The point from the start was to keep my spirits up.
I could assent to that. For honestly,
It did help to be wound in jewels, to send
Their colors flashing forth from vents in the deep
Fragrant sables that cloaked me head to foot.
Over me then they wove a spell of shining—
Purple and silver chains, eavesdropping tinsel,
Amulets, milagros: software of silver,
A heart, a little girl, a Model T,
Two staring eyes. Then angles, trumpets, BUD and BEA
(The children’s names) in clownlike capitals,
Somewhere a music box whose tiny song
Played and replayed I ended before long
By loving. And in shadow behind me, a primitive IV
To keep the show going. Yes, yes, what lay ahead
Was clear: the stripping, the cold street, my chemicals
Plowed back into the Earth for lives to come—
No doubt a blessing, a harvest, but one that doesn’t bear,
Now or ever, dwelling upon. To have grown so thin.
Needles and bone. The little boy’s hands meeting
About my spine. The mother’s voice: Holding up wonderfully!
No dread. No bitterness. The end beginning. Today’s
Dusk room aglow
For the last time
With candlelight.
Faces love-lit
Gifts underfoot.
Still to be so poised, so
Receptive. Still to recall, praise.

 

Love Poem
by Louise Glück

There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
while she married over and over, taking you
along. How could it work,
when all those years she stored her widowed heart
as though the dead come back.
No wonder you are the way you are,
afraid of blood, your women
like one brick wall after another.

 

THE BLIND SEE ONLY THIS WORLD (A Christmas Card)
by John Wieners

Today the Lamb of God arrives in the mail
above the Cross, beside the Handsome Sailor
from Russia
in his turtleneck sweater. Today we make love
in our minds.
And women come to fore, winning the field.

It is Christmas, Hanukkah,–heritages we leave
behind
in israel.

There is a new cross in the wind, and it is our

minds, imagination, will

where the discovery is made

of how to pass the night, how to share the gift

of love, our bodies, which is true
illumination
of the present instant.

There is no other journey to make. We receive all
we need.

Without insight, we remain blind.
Without vision, we see only this world.

 

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All the Lovers
by Kevin Killian

Outside the Disney Concert Hall,
Kylie has summoned a clutch of cold models in white underwear,

They clamber on white boxes pitching for the sky

Somehow she appears in a dream sequence,

Boys and girls kiss and poke and struggle for love

In California, where the major candidates for governor and senator
live the lavish lives of Roman emperors,

Carly Fiorina, like Nero, bought a violin
for everyone on her Christmas list, from Cremona,

her wood golden and thin as hair,

81 per cent of voters don’t care how wealthy a
candidate is

You have to be rich to flourish

What came first, the wifebeater or the social system
that allowed ever and ever more flourish

In the face of a liverish social despair
all the lovers who have gone before

they don’t compare to you

 

i am a big dumbass bear on christmas morning
by partrik

holy shit a house

im gonna look inside the fucking window

who the fuck is this dumbass family in this house

if i wanted to i could bust in there and eat every one of these fuckers

look at this little fucker opening a present

oh look its a fire truck big deal ass monkey

when are these shit hats gonna fucking notice the bear at their window

hey bitch you forgot to look in your stocking

there you go

lol bubba wubba and chocolate give her a fucking toothbrush mom and dad

when are they gonna see me and chase me away

damn thats a lot of wrapping paper

lol that kitten is playing in it what a retard

oh shit they see me

“im not gonna hurt you or eat you”

but it sounds like “roar roar roar” to them cause im a big dumbass fucking bear

dad thats a big ass gun

dont shoot me think of all the fun times

like when watched your lovely family open presents on christmas

oh shit he took a warning shot im gonna run away

there is no presents under any of the trees of the woods of the world for me

why arent i hibernating

 

in a string of christmas lights that is blinking all year long
by Diana Salier

for christmas i get a new magic set and a big plastic stealth bomber that opens up and holds fifty little metal stealth bombers. i wear footie pajamas that zip all the way to my neck. the big plastic stealth bomber has a runway to practice takeoffs and landings. i sit on the carpet in my onesie and make the grey and green stealth bombers crash into each other so that all the pilots inside will die. i can’t finish card tricks or make the red balls disappear so i wear my black felt magician’s hat and walk around pulling rabbits out of things. i drive to my first girlfriend’s house. we drink wine and leave the bottles in the door of her parents’ car. on the way back to my house i text her all i want for christmas is you. at home a string of christmas lights blinks erratically. i fall asleep clearing the rubble off the runway.

 

December
by James Schuyler

The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound,
this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center.
I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs
the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments
recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey.
Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event”
and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance
to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all
the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops
and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation
of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids,
Vanillin, artificial rum flavoring; a milky impulse to kiss and be friends
It’s like what George and I were talking about, the East West
Coast divide: Californians need to do a thing to enjoy it.
A smile in the street may be loads! you don’t have to undress everybody.
“You didn’t visit the Alps?”
“No, but I saw from the train they were black
and streaked with snow.”
Having and giving but also catching glimpses
hints that are revelations: to have been so happy is a promise
and if it isn’t kept that doesn’t matter. It may snow
falling softly on lashes of eyes you love and a cold cheek
grow warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.

 

Molly Is Asked
by Ron Koertge

to be in the Christmas pageant. She tells
me this standing in the door of what we
laughingly call my study.

“But I don’t want to be Mary,” she says.
“I want to be the guy.”

That makes me look up from my bills.
“Joseph?”

“The innkeeper. I want to slam the door
in Joseph’s face.”

She’s eight. I wonder if we’ll look back
on this next year and laugh. Or will she
want to be Herod and we’ll have to take
her little brother and flee.

 

Talking Turkeys
by Benjamin Zephaniah

Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas
Cos’ turkeys just wanna hav fun
Turkeys are cool, turkeys are wicked
An every turkey has a Mum.
Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas,
Don’t eat it, keep it alive,
It could be yu mate, an not on your plate
Say, Yo! Turkey I’m on your side.
I got lots of friends who are turkeys
An all of dem fear christmas time,
Dey wanna enjoy it, dey say humans destroyed it
An humans are out of dere mind,
Yeah, I got lots of friends who are turkeys
Dey all hav a right to a life,
Not to be caged up an genetically made up
By any farmer an his wife.

Turkeys just wanna play reggae
Turkeys just wanna hip-hop
Can yu imagine a nice young turkey saying,
‘I cannot wait for de chop’,
Turkeys like getting presents, dey wanna watch christmas TV,
Turkeys hav brains an turkeys feel pain
In many ways like yu an me.

I once knew a turkey called…Turkey
He said “Benji explain to me please,
Who put de turkey in christmas
An what happens to christmas trees?”,
I said “I am not too sure turkey
But itÕs nothing to do wid Christ Mass
Humans get greedy an waste more dan need be
An business men mek loadsa cash’.

Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas
Invite dem indoors fe sum greens
Let dem eat cake an let dem partake
In a plate of organic grown beans,
Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas
An spare dem de cut of de knife,
Join Turkeys United an dey’ll be delighted
An yu will mek new friends ‘FOR LIFE’.

 

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That night with the green sky
by Tao Lin

It was snowing and you were kind of beautiful
We were in the city and every time I looked up
Someone was leaning out a window, staring at me

I could tell you liked me a lot or maybe even loved me
But you kept walking at this strange speed
You kept going in angles and it was confusing me

I think maybe you were thinking that you’d make me disappear
By walking at strange speeds and in a strange, curvy way
But how would that cause me to vanish from the planet Earth?

And that hurts
Why did you want me gone?
That hurts
Why?
Why?
I don’t know
Some things can’t be explained, I guess
The sky, for example, was green that night

 

“Shhh”
by Eileen Myles

I don’t think
I can’t afford the time to not sit right down &
write a poem about the heavy lidded
white rose I hold in my hand
I think of snow
a winter night in Boston, drunken waitress
stumble on a bus that careens through
Somerville the end of the line
where I was born, an old man
shaking me. He could’ve been my dad
You need a ride? Wait, he said.
This flower is so heavy in my hand.
He drove me home in his old blue
Dodge, a thermos next to me
cigarette packs on the dash
so quiet like Boston is quiet
Boston in the snow. It’s New York
plates are clattering on St. Mark’s
Place. Should I call you?
Can I go home now
& work with this undelivered
message in my fingertips
It’s Summer.
I love you.
I’m surrounded by snow.

 

Music
by Frank O’Hara

If I rest for a moment near The Equestrian
pausing for a liver sausage sandwich in the Mayflower Shoppe,
that angel seems to be leading the horse into Bergdorf’s
and I am naked as a table cloth, my nerves humming.
Close to the fear of war and the stars which have disappeared.
I have in my hands only 35¢, it’s so meaningless to eat!
and gusts of water spray over the basins of leaves
like the hammers of a glass pianoforte. If I seem to you
to have lavender lips under the leaves of the world,
I must tighten my belt.
It’s like a locomotive on the march, the season
of distress and clarity
and my door is open to the evenings of midwinter’s
lightly falling snow over the newspapers.
Clasp me in your handkerchief like a tear, trumpet
of early afternoon! in the foggy autumn.
As they’re putting, up the Christmas trees on Park Avenue
I shall see my daydreams walking by with dogs in blankets,
put to some use before all those coloured lights come on!
But no more fountains and no more rain,
and the stores stay open terribly late.

 

At Christmas
by Barbara Eknoian

 

on sunday we took the train to the city and we each went home for one night and i saw my parents and my bedroom and my cat and you saw your ex boyfriend and his parents and his bedroom and his dog and when i called you i heard you ask me to go back to sleep and i said is everything okay and you told me to please go back to sleep
by Spencer Madsen

not sure if you
ever told me how
you felt about
christmas lights

i said i’d wrap them around our room
and put popcorn in your mouth

a few weeks ago i
walked onto a street
and sat prepared

lets
sleep like two hands
caught
in each other’s fingers

lets be demonstrative
of that image
in an earnest way
lets forget i wrote it down
or else it won’t feel genuine

yesterday i googled:
homemade fleshlight

 

Hand Over Heart
by David Trinidad

I look up at the clock.
It’s time to go, so
I cover the typewriter
and calculator, lock my radio
in the file cabinet
and straighten my desk.
On the way out, I unplug
the Christmas tree lights.
I am rarely the last one
to leave the office.

Alone in the elevator,
I listen to a lilting
rendition of “Frosty
The Snowman.” The door
slides open. Outside,
it’s already dark. I say
good night to the guard
in the parking lot, wait
for my car to warm up.
It does and I drive off.

Halfway home
I turn on the radio
Madonna sings
her new hit, “Open
Your Heart.” At
the same time, on
another station,
Cyndi Lauper sings
her latest song, “Change
Of Heart”. Not that long
ago, it might have
been Brenda Lee
singing “Heart In Hand”
and Connie Francis
Belting out any number
of her most popular
tunes: “My Heart
Has A Mind Of Its
Own,” “Breakin’ In
A Brand New Broken
Heart,” “When
The Boy In Your Arms
(Is The Boy In Your
Heart)” or “Don’t
Break The Heart
That Loves You.”
I Don’t know why
I think about
such things.

 

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Is This a Poem For the Year 2219?
by Mike Young

Yes, this is a poem for the year 2219
about the fact my bathroom is above
my neighbors’ bedroom, and I sing
Roy Orbison songs at immaculate volumes
during my routines, which is partly my love
of song and partly my obsession with the idea
of audience. Dear 2219, a bathroom is a private
chlorinated water repository filled with hair gel
and other methods of impression insurance,
like sleeping pills. Neighbors are people who
lock the downstairs door just because some
random bro started fingerpainting their door-
bell Sunday night. Oops, he said. You’re not my
parents. Neighbors leave notes asking you to park
considerately and curbside boxes of giveaway bins
to judge them by. In bedrooms, 2219, what you do is
sniff a cowboy shirt you’ve plucked off the floor to see
if it’s okay to wear for teaching the kids I guess you call
First Moroccan Restauranteer in Space and Single Season
Small Needle Home Run Record Holder. You leave the mandarin
peels on your bed after having awesome sex with your girlfriend
but throw them away when she leaves for work. In 2219, you may
instead want to rub the peels all over your chest. If so, history
repeats itself. Golly. Singing is a method of generating inside
you a logging road, dawn-ish, swards of sugar beets, after driving
all night, knowing it’s about to rain but it’s not raining yet, thanks
sky! Singing may also be catalogued as Christmas underwater
and hiking slowly along the railroad ties with the best candy bar
but no home. For the sub-category of song known as Roy Orbison,
ditch your footnotes, 2219! 1936-1988, popular for soaring R&B;
and indoor sunglasses: that’s not Roy Orbison! Roy Orbison is a
naked knee so lovely you’d cry if you weren’t afraid of the knee
getting wet. Other things you need to know, 2219: I am afraid of
everything. We would rake the stars into piles to say what’s after
us. Happiness without certain phone calls is impossible. Your father
will die. Last Christmas, I ran into my friend Reggie at the cineplex.
His kid was cute. Me and my other friend were making fun of the movie
Reggie wanted to see. Reggie and I cussed together for the first time I can
remember, but I think we’re made of different smoke. 2219, I might be
above you or something. But I’m probably just below you. I take so many
multivitamins. Sometimes I try to make sure the best songs in my iTunes
have the most plays, but I don’t know why. Carolyn’s a better singer than
I am, and Dorothy told me that when I sing Bridge Over Troubled Water
it sounds like I’m falling apart. Is that a good thing? Wouldn’t it be more
considerate to just spend my time recycling cartons of apple cider for
you, 2219? Instead I carry a pillowcase full of laundry to the laundromat
and try to memorize my life enough to remember my life. I walk streets
named after people too dead to meet and try to sing loud enough to get
stuck in strangers’ heads. Carolyn and I go down on each other to hear the
other make their sounds. One time I saw my downstairs neighbor in a
line, and she smiled, waved at me. I couldn’t remember who she was.
She left her place to come talk. Then I remembered. 2219, they just
found water on the moon. Your love will only count before it’s gone.

 

Christmas Eve
by Bill Berkson

for Vincent Warren

Behind the black water tower

under the grey
of the sky that feeds it
smoke speeds to where a pigeon
spreads its wings

This is no great feat
Cold pushes out its lust
We walk we drink we cast
our giggling insults

Would you please
leave the $2.50 you owe me
I would rather not talk about it
just now           Money bores me I would like
to visit someone who will stay
in bed all day           A forest is rising
imperceptibly in my head
not a civilized park

I think it would be nice this “new
moral odor” no it would not mean
“everything marching to its tomb”
The water tower
watches over us           Is there someone
you would like to invite           no one.

 

from I Remember
by Joe Brainard

I remember Christmas tree lights reflected on the ceiling.

I remember Christmas cards arriving from people my parents forgot to send cards to.

I remember mistletoe.

I remember Christmas carols. And car lots.

I remember Aunt Cleora who lived in Hollywood. Every year for Christmas she sent my brother and me a joint present of one book.

 

Connie’s Scared
by Clark Coolidge

The wind came up, the radishes died and
the peelings continued. No one could be
more hostile than a species enclosed in
a chimney for a century or so they told me.
The lighter fluid on the other hand might warm
your nails. We deserve overtime
for dealing daily with these mistreated burdens.
The milkweed pods for no reason in the world
we could see ignited and the frog is loose.
The mail at last arrived but you had better
proceed to lick your envelopes more heartily
as they all came empty. No one exactly states
but everybody thinks the whole world level
has been lowered and continues. If the flame
goes out the food will spoil, remember?

Then there is the problem of the stray moose
to be seen from the road or better not, bring
apples, take pictures, but the village idiot
had his son throw rocks. The later thunder
around the sleeping household was a mere
five minutes herd of cows. And Rip Rowan thought that
thunder was produced by two crickets banging
garbage cans together. Tomorrow the snow will
be higher and the school fail to attract. I pay
for entrance to this life by my exit, can’t wait
each morning to treat of impossible questions and
have never been depressed. Makes you wonder,
all these seacows spitting on their tails,
flashing lights on the spaceride and even in my dreams.
Claimed I awoke from the fight I couldn’t win.
Chained my warts to a snowcone.

Across the street are many stray dogs but whose
fault are the cats. Something terrible’s going on
in the woods the rabbit is screaming, the cat
distinctly calling your name, nothing that can’t
be solved with golf club and pistol empty. Lock
your house when you leave for the auto. The company
that brought you pasteboard frowns on too many
fallen trees. Check your son’s teeth when he eats
or he’ll end a blimp. A crib death when a baby’s
network lapses mid-breath. The television not collapse
but slowly burn out. And that cooking by radar might cost
you a few meals. There goes another roast beast.

The adult book human gunned down as he left. Seems
the nature of crime to go unsolved, covered up,
never caught. Sal Mineo, for one. If so, wouldn’t
you want your kids to stop it. A gay couple hated
for their foul language not their sex. But the fat weather
woman terminated as a lesbian. Stamp out discomfort
and lift a heel for bliss. Heaven more attractive
now that harps are out of style. One arm in a sling
and the other in a bear. At the loss of life and
limb remain cool. Their son last seen chewed by
croc in pool of steam.

There is no longer any Florida and Christmas nowhere.
The men removed our home sometime lastnite while
we shook. Asked me how I felt and what he could do
with his mike. All my girlfriends have been raped,
some in basements, some by families. Even in the movies
they don’t know they can complain. Reels mixed, eyesight
tearing. Heard they’ve even left the lights on in space.
The dawning hastes and subsequent vagueries.
Never a morning wake but I congeal.

 

Some kind of nut
by Charles Bukowski

the best Christmas I can remember
I was in a tiny room in
Philadelphia
and I pulled down all the
shades
and went to bed
and pulled up the
covers.

there was no telephone.
there were no Christmas cards.
there was no family.
there were no gifts

and I believe that I felt better
than anybody in that
city
and almost anybody
in any of the
cities.

and I celebrated New Year’s
Eve in the same
manner.

 

A Severe Lack of Holiday Spirit
by Amy Gerstler

I dread the icy white concussion
of winter. Each snowfall demands
panic, like a kidnapper’s hand
clapped over my chapped mouth.
Ice noms everywhere, a plague
of glass. Christmas ornaments’
sickly tinkle makes my molars ache.
One pities the anemic sun
come January. Trees go skeletal.
Children born in the chilly months
are apt to stammer. People hit
the sauce in a big way all winter.
Amidst blizzards they wrestle
unsuccessfully with the dark comedy
of their lives, laughter trapped
in their frigid gizzards. Meanwhile,
the mercury just plummets,
like a migrating duck blasted
out of the sky by some hunter
in a cap with fur earflaps.

 

On his reluctance to take down the Christmas ornaments
by John Ashbery

A nice, normal morning:
feet setting out as though in a trance,
doubling the yesterdays, a doubled man
under the stairs, and strange surrealist fish
from so much disappearance, damaged in the mail.

Or the spry cutting edge of another day.
Here, we have these in
sizes and colors —
day goes fluttering by.

Like ivy behind a chimney
it grows and grows in ropes.
Mouse teams unsay it,
yeoman can’t hear yet.

A shadow purling,
up into the sky.
Silence in the vandalised vomitorium.

It’s great that you can be here too.
Passivity rests its case.

 

giphy

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. I’m going to be something of a traditionalist and take Xmas Day off from doing the blog this year, albeit for no real reason other maybe making the day seem otherly or something. So you’ll have an extra day to read all of the festive poems up there, and I’ll see you again come Tuesday once Xmas itself is a defunct attraction. ** Misanthrope, Nothing like it, yep. We’ve been brrring here for, oh, a week and a half. Eat lots of appropriate whatever and open packages that make you happy and all that good stuff. ** _Black_Acrylic, You can be sure I did a real scour looking for current day UK Xmas attraction disasters, and, very sadly, I think you’re right. The days of the UK owning the dark side of Xmas seem to have passed, not that any other country has stepped up to wear the crown. Tragic stuff. I hope your Monday and prior are full of the most wonderful everything, my friend. ** Dominik, Hi!!! The Xmas romcom has to be the worst genre in history, not that I’ve actually watched any of them. Yes, the buche was retrieved, gawked at, subdivided with a knife and devoured. And it lived up to all hopes. Zac and I agreed it was the most delicious Xmas buche ever, and we’ve even a lot of them. And here it is just prior to its destruction. Ha ha, I’m guessing the words ‘and’ or ‘the’ wouldn’t count as answers to that statistics question. Wow, who knows, right? I think if it were a question of what words I’ve most used in the p.s. ‘Oh’ or ‘Wow’ would win. Love allowing me to pop by your place on Xmas just long enough to play my favorite Xmas song for you and your family which, no surprise, is by Guided by Voices, and which is titled ‘Father Sgt’ Xmas Card’, and which is 2 minutes and 5 seconds long, and which goes exactly like this. ** Steve Erickson, Thanks, Steve. I really liked ‘Godzilla Minus One’. I almost put it on my faves of the year list. I’ll check Damon Packard’s Youtube channel. It’s been too long since I’ve caught up with that fella. Congrats the album’s nearness. Bated breath, obviously. ** Corey Heiferman, Hi. It’s definitely quieting by the second. I believe the building I live in has now emptied down to just me and the disabled grandmother who never leaves her apartment. Yeah, the city empties way out. Of Parisians, I should say. Tourists take up the slack. Of course I adore that video you linked to, and, thus, do offer you my passionate encouragement to make said guest-post should the impetus to do so stick around, and thank you for the mere idea and offer. Merry not Xmas to you, sir, well, unless by some fluke you do mark the occasion in some fashion, in which case merry without the not. ** Okay. I hope everyone who’s reading this has precisely the kind Xmas you wish to have, and please let my selection of hopefully appropriate poems enhance the situation, and I’ll see you back here on Tuesday.

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