Introduction
for Jerome Rothenberg
1931 – 2024
I have a digger’s temperament—I go for the roots.
As a young poet starting out I had a method. After reading an author who excited me, I’d go digging into their roots, their influences. With the moderns that’s fairly easy. Ginsberg leads to Whitman, Burroughs to Céline, Céline to Villon, Snyder to the old Chinese, Lorca to the old poets of Arab-Andalusia. This wasn’t so much a conscious game plan as a natural impulse, a desire to know & experience first-hand where it all came from. By it all I mean poetry, & poetry not so much the way we define it today in the west, as mere form & sub-category of written literature, wedged into the domain of what we call “literate”–but rather poetry as word & breath, as primal utterance, as the way people have always shaped the visible & invisible world around & within them by use of sound & language. I wouldn’t have been able to articulate this back then, but I felt a hunger for it nonetheless. Mix youth & hunger with stubbornness & you’re launching yourself onto a quest for something you cannot yet define.
The gatekeepers of “the western canon” have always barred the way to such investigations. For many years after the discovery (or rather recovery) of Gilgamesh, the ivory tower has been reluctant to allow it entry. It was “too fragmentary” for those who’d acknowledge it at all, while the majority treated it as an archeological discovery, not a work of poetry. The ancient Vedic hymns from India were deemed “too remote” for our understanding, & thus shelved as historic curiosities. Egyptian, Chinese & Mayan poems got the same treatment. The Euro-American cultural “elite” had a mightily bloated conception of itself back then, & anything that rocked that foundation was pushed aside. In today’s uncannily similar climate, we know the reasons behind this only too well–racism, ignorance, whole armies of fragile egos dominating the narrative–so let’s not bore ourselves with them any further.
So what is ethnopoetics? Simply put, it’s where ethnology & poetics meet. Jerome Rothenberg coined the term in the 1960s & devoted a good deal of the rest of his life to it. The first edition of his groundbreaking anthology Technicians of the Sacred came out in 1968, presenting a wide range of oral/tribal poetics from traditional cultures all over the world. What distinguished Rothenberg from many ethnologists was that he took the material seriously as poetry & presented it as such. He put the poetics in ethnopoetics. In this he had a few key predecessors.
The U.S. Bureau of American Ethnology for instance functioned mainly as a data-gathering operation. The goal–noble enough for the times–was to collect the songs, myths & narratives of Native American cultures & archive them. Most of its field-workers went about their task with great diligence but little feel for what makes poetry poetry. The worst among them treated their findings as the simple folk songs of primitive peoples. Some handled the material with respect, but translated it into dry prosaic lines patterned after then-fashionable English syntax & style. But even the exceptions–translators of great skill & cross-cultural sensitivity like James Mooney, Frances Densmore & Washington Matthews (whose sonorous rendering of the Navajo Night Chant has never been bettered)–were published in Academic journals & specialized studies, far from the eyes of a wider reading public. The same is true of the work of many major ethnologists working with traditional cultures on every continent. Many of these now almost impossible-to-find texts ended up as sources for Technicians. Rothenberg, like the earth-diver of many a creation myth, went deep into the bowels of archives & research libraries, & came back up with a chestful of gems that have proved foundational to the world of poetry ever since. What he gave us showed both an impeccable taste reflective of his own roots in the counterculture (“I haven’t gone for “pretty” or “innocent” or “noble” poems so much as strong ones”, he writes, emphasizing poems with the complexity & tough-mindedness he so admired), & a keen poet’s ear in selecting the right sources. By doing the research, he–in the words of Allen Ginsberg–“saved us all twenty years.” His attention to translation–selecting the right ones or making them himself (from French, German or Spanish)–paid off. Speaking of the remarkably faithful Bleek-Lloyd renderings of the Saan (Bushman) story-poem The Girl of the Early Race Who Made the Stars: “This makes their very modern sound all the more astonishing—as close to the language, say, of Gertrude Stein as the form of an African mask is to the paintings of Picasso or Modigliani.”
And here’s where it gets exciting. In the opening words of Rothenberg’s Pre-Face to Technicians’ first edition: “Primitive Means Complex”. He writes further: “There are no half-formed languages, no underdeveloped or inferior languages. Everywhere a development has taken place into structures of great complexity.” He set out “to make a fresh start, to begin at the beginning”, & like his Dada predecessors chanting translations of African & Oceanic poems in Zurich’s Cabaret Voltaire in the 1910s, was after what Tristan Tzara called “the exalted source of the poetic function.”
Primal poetry, once uncovered, suddenly revealed an astonishing modernity. It turned out that, more often than not, what sounds avant-garde to us has been traditional to them for ages. Rilke’s angel & Lorca’s duende were but new names for old god-forces that had been speaking through the mouths of praise-singers & spell-chanters the world over; Rimbaud’s voyant had an established ancestor in the poet-shaman. Rothenberg again: “Our ideas of poetry—including, significantly, our idea of the poet—began to look back consciously to the early & late shamans of those other worlds: not as a title to be seized but as a model for the shaping of meanings & intensities through language. As the reflection of our yearning to create a meaningful ritual life—a life lived at the level of poetry—that looking-back related to the emergence of a new poetry & art rooted in performance & in the oldest, most universal of human traditions.”
What you discover is that “People who have failed to achieve the wheel will not have failed to invent & develop a highly wrought grammar. Hunters & gatherers innocent of all agriculture will have vocabularies that distinguish the things of their world down to the finest details. The language of snow among the Eskimos is awesome. The aspect system of Hopi verbs can, by a flick of the tongue, make the most subtle kinds of distinction between different types of motion.”
The Yoruba have praise-names for each community member, which read like sharp-lined diamonds that cut straight to the core of that person’s being. For to praise is one of poetry’s original purposes, & means not to flatter, but to light up in a flash of clarity that which has made a deep impression. The praises of their gods are handed down from generation to generation & are, like much primal poetry, practically undateable. When a number of such lines are strung together in performance, they come at you with a boldness & vividness you have no words for. You reach for “surrealist”, or “stream of consciousness”, before realizing the inadequacy of such terms in the face of something that is both deeper & older.
And you feel too that the words have a real weight to them. Kenneth Rexroth put it like this: “Poetry or song does not only play a vatic role in the society, but is itself a numinous thing. The work of art is holy, in Rudolph Otto’s sense—an object of supernatural awe, & as such, an important instrument in the control of reality on the highest plane.” Poetry in its oldest guise: as language that shapes reality, brings forth reality. The words of spells & charms can heal or kill & are handled & weighed like sacred objects. To the Yoruba, Ogun is not the god of iron in the abstract, symbolic sense. Ogun is iron. Any time you hold a knife you hold Ogun.
Poetry as invocation. When the devotee sings his god’s praises, he’s not singing about Ogun. His god isn’t a distant relic who lived then, but a live force operating now, in every moment. The words carry the charge of the god & when these words are sung, the god is brought forth.
Performance as release, where the word spoken acts like a lid being lifted off a magic jar, where pent-up forces are let out, where visible & invisible worlds suddenly connect, out in the open. This applies to god-poems everywhere. The ancient Aztec singing of Quetzalcoatl on his long trek toward self-sacrifice isn’t narrating a past event, he’s mapping the progress of the god-as-soul-stuff toward transformation (the common key to so much pagan thought), all the while revealing the land as touched by the sacred every step of the way. In the Goulburn Island Cycle of the Gumatj of Australia, the human sex act below is echoed by the oncoming thunder & rain above, as human play harmonizes with the play of the gods, in the form of the Lightning Snake’s flickering tongue. The interrelation is felt & needs no explaining, like all true things.
For primal poetry has always been tied to the sacred in ways that cut far beyond the confines of organized religion. Anyone who has felt the charge of the world around him with enough force knows, deep down, that it is sacred. No great journey is needed to experience it; it is there in the lethal power of A Poison Arrow & the healing power of herbs (Nine Herbs Charm), there in the “the murmur of the billows” (A Song of Amergin) & “the flight of mosquitoes which dance in the evening” (Death Rites), in “hips a hand could span the measure of” (Speaking the World) & a “horse whose tail is like a trailing black cloud” (War God’s Horse Song), in a sage’s cotton cloth (The Quest of Milarepa) & in “the anger of a hungry man” (Bantu Combinations), in “the broom swept into a wisp” (Ika Meji) & “out there in the flower world” (Four Poems from the Yaqui Deer Dance), in a goddess whose “knees slosh through the soldiers’ blood” (The Battle Between Anat & the Forces of Mot) & one who “feeds on the lungs of the Wise” (Cannibal Hymn), in wood ashes which “must altogether become the Milky Way” (The Girl of the Early Race Who Made the Stars) & in wood that “must absorb down-dripping blood” (Gassire’s Lute), in the “unploughed desert vulva” (The Vulva Song of Inanna) & in “your fruit-dark penis” (Twelve Kura Songs from Tikopia), in a man “watching his sins pass by” (The Praises of the Falls) & in a god “so drunk he falls down fainting on the road” (The Flight of Quetzalcoatl), in an “old man with visored hat” (Setchin the Singer) & in “girls twisting their breast girdles” (Goulburn Island Cycle), in a “dream that all one’s teeth are falling out” (A List of Bad Dreams Chanted as a Cause & Cure for Missing Souls) & a god “sitting down at last on his dreamed earth” (Uitoto Genesis), in times when “fear falls upon me on the mountain top” (Kumulipo) & when “death rattles keep the sick man from sleeping” (Praises of Ogun). Endless variations on deep experience that all hit home–for “all cords are corridors leading to embrace of origin” (The Voice of the Karaw)–unique & diverse strands all tied together by the common thrust of something modern man seems to have lost the vocabulary for.
The poet takes the meanings & intensities so encountered &, to paraphrase Rothenberg, shapes them through language. Poetry then “as a means, both public & private, for experiencing & comprehending the world, by which the visions of the individual (along with their translation into language) were at the same time what Mallarmé had called “the words of the tribe” (& Ezra Pound “the tale of the tribe”), words whose purification Mallarmé saw as the poet’s principal task.”
And so then “the realization that poetry, like language itself, existed everywhere: as powerful, even complex, in its presumed beginnings as in many of its later works. In the light of that approach, poetry appeared not as a luxury but as a true necessity: not a small corner of the world for those who lived it but equal to the world itself.”
Editorial note: the poems below (& the quotes above) are all from Technicians of the Sacred, Third Edition. I’ve tried to keep this sampling lean yet comprehensive, & I’ve made no attempt to hide a personal slant, which is why what follows is bookended by my two patron gods, Ogun & Quetzalcoatl, who between them seem to contain the world to me.
Rothenberg hoped the book would be used “as a resource book of possibilities that were often new for us but that had already been realized somewhere in the world.” It has been that & so much more for me.
In the sacred words of the Bamana:
“Come, what we are learning now existed already;
let us accomplish the rhythm”
Carsten Czarnecki
carstenczarnecki.blogspot.com
Munich, Germany
2025
Some Poems
Praises of Ogun
. . . who smashes someone into pieces that are more or less big
his town’s got stuff in it most people couldn’t guess at
Ogun is called a thief by definition
Ogun is master of the crown Big-Ogun props up on his head
Ogun is orisha number three
he’s master of his town no he won’t leave anyone alone who
badmouths Ogun like a thief
he’s very high & mighty
he hires an elephant to say prayers to his head
he kills the husband in a fire
he kills the wife in her foyer
he kills the babies when they try to run outside
he takes somebody’s head off if he feels like
he covets his neighbor’s prick
even if there’s water in his house Ogun washes up with blood
Ogun makes the child kill himself with the sword he plays around with
a man starts trembling like someone opening a door
he kills on the right & destroys on the right
he kills on the left & destroys on the left
the day Ogun got the husband & wife was the day I was afraid
he’d touch me that day we drank the palmwine of terror
quicker than lightning he scares off the loafer
the sword doesn’t know the neck of the swordsmith
the place Ogun lives in town is blacker than nightfall
the day they laid his cornerstone he told his children he’d stay homeless
master of iron, man & warrior
big old mountain on the outskirts of town
a pillar of earth falls & starts it trembling
someone who looks at him stumbles he knocks into a baobab tree
he throws his iron tools down under a coco tree
he shoves it deep in he touches base of cock with his hand maybe
he’s gone soft
he makes sure his cock is in no it isn’t soft except his balls
except his balls are drained
never clumsy on the battlefield
the yam neglected by the sick man sends shoots into the bushes
he plows the field its owner doesn’t plow
he tells the sick man if he dies people will take his field away
death rattles keep the sick man from sleeping
a large-headed leaf
big swampy water seeps into the river
a dead man balances his head on shoulder of someone who supports him
Ogun kills the long tits’ owner on the water
battle of the crab & fish
he finds water in his house & on the road but washes up with blood
Ogun sticks a bloodcovered hat on his head
& the bushes & the forest crying “sizzle sizzle”
if someone says Ogun won’t fight a minute later you see him like a
dice-cup under an elephant’s foot
Ogun makes a baby’s skull hum like a pumpkin he makes a grown
man’s clink like a plate
Ogun I don’t want my balls cut off for no one’s ceremonies
Big-Ogun battles in blood
Big-Ogun who eats of the ram
who hangs a snake around his neck & struts up & down with it
Ogun-of-the-barbers eats other men’s beards
Ogun-of-the-tattoo-artists sucks up their blood
Ogun has four hundred wives & one thousand four hundred children
Ogun won’t help anyone that doesn’t bring him offerings of kola
Big-Ogun my husband my big boss of iron
Ogun sweet river grass abundant Ogun good to eat good to sell
good to go around with
If someone says “I’m going to die on the road” bad luck dogs him
he dies like a wild deer he drops dead like an ekiri he goes to his
death like a dying deer
he has arrows over his body as bad as any wild deer
(unless it wasn’t Akisale that gave birth to an oka snake)
(unless it wasn’t Akisale that gave birth to a boa)
Ogun killed Big-Ogun he captured his town & set up shop there
boss of the world who walks ahead of the orishas
big man who captures the boss of all the other big men
who eats the head of the man who was headstrong
a blacksmith does better in the market than someone working in the fields
Ogun kills Big-Ogun he kills him completely he makes his house into a residence
Ogun seven parts of the houses for Ogun
he is very high & very mighty
he smashes someone into pieces that are more or less big
Yoruba
The Killer
Careful:——–my knife drills your soul
listen, whatever-your-name-is
One of the wolf people
listen——– I’ll grind your saliva into the earth
listen——– I’ll cover your bones with black flint
listen——– “—– “—– “—– “—– “—– “—– feathers
listen——– “—– “—– “—– “—– “—– “—– rocks
Because you’re going where it’s empty
—————-Black coffin out on the hill
listen———the black earth will hide you, will
—————-find you a black hut
—————-Out where it’s dark, in that country
listen———I’m bringing a box for your bones
—————-A black box
—————-A grave with black pebbles
listen———your soul’s spilling out
listen———it’s blue
Cherokee
A Poison Arrow
Enough poison to make
your head spin, & chains
to pin you down, & once
they’ve shot the arrow
& once it lands, well
it’s just like the fly & the horse:
I mean a fly that’s bitten one horse
will damn sure go after another
& I mean too that this arrow’s
like a pregnant woman
——–hungry for some meat
& even if it doesn’t break your skin
——–you die
& if it gets in & does its stuff
——–you die
& if it sort of touches you & drops right out
——–you die
——& as long as you stay out of my blood
——what do I care whose blood you get in
——–kill him
——I won’t stand in the way
This is a fire that I’m setting off
& this is a fire that I’m lifting up
& this is a shadow that’s burning
& this is the sun that’s burning
Because the poison I’ve got is stronger than bullets
——& it’s louder than thunder
——& it’s hotter than fire
& what do I care who it gets, kill him!
I won’t stand in the way
As long as you stay out of my blood
Hausa (Africa)
Death Song
In the great night my heart will go out
Toward me the darkness comes rattling
In the great night my heart will go out
Tohono O’odham [Papago] (Arizona)
Bantu Combinations
1
I am still carving an ironwood stick.
I am still thinking about it.
2
The lake dries up at the edges.
The elephant is killed by a small arrow.
3
The little hut falls down.
Tomorrow, debts.
4
The sound of a cracked elephant tusk.
The anger of a hungry man.
5
Is there someone on the shore?
The crab has caught me by one finger.
6
We are the fire that burns the country.
The Calf of the Elephant is exposed on the plain.
Bantu (Africa)
Genesis IV
1
From the conception the increase.
From the increase the swelling.
From the swelling the thought.
From the thought the remembrance.
From the remembrance the desire.
2
The word became fruitful:
It dwelt with the feeble glimmering:
It brought forth night:
The great night, the long night,
The lowest night, the highest night,
The thick night to be felt,
The night to be touched, the night unseen.
The night following on,
The night ending in death.
3
From the nothing the begetting:
From the nothing the increase:
From the nothing the abundance:
The power of increasing, the living breath
It dwelt with the empty space,
It produced the firmament which is above us.
4
The atmosphere which floats above the earth.
The great firmament above us, the spread-out space dwelt with the early dawn.
Then the moon sprang forth.
The atmosphere above dwelt with the glowing sky.
Then the sun sprang forth.
They were thrown up above as the chief eyes of heaven.
Then the sky became light.
The early dawn, the early day.
The midday. The blaze of day from the sky.
Maori (New Zealand)
The Stars
For we are the stars. For we sing.
For we sing with our light.
For we are birds made of fire.
For we spread our wings over the sky.
Our light is a voice.
We cut a road for the soul
for its journey through death.
For three of our number are hunters.
For these three hunt a bear.
For there never yet was a time
when these three didn’t hunt.
For we face the hills with disdain.
This is the song of the stars.
Passamaquoddy (Maine)
The Girl of the Early Race Who Made the Stars
My mother was the one who told me that the girl arose; she put her hands
into the wood ashes; she threw up the wood ashes into the sky. She said to
the wood ashes: “The wood ashes which are here, they must altogether
become the Milky Way. They must white lie along in the sky, that the Stars
may stand outside of the Milky Way, while the Milky Way is the Milky
Way, while it used to be wood ashes.” They the ashes altogether become
the Milky Way. The Milky Way must go round with the stars; while the
Milky Way feels that, the Milky Way lies going around; while the stars sail
along; therefore, the Milky Way, lying, goes along with the Stars. The
Milky Way, when the Milky Way stands upon the earth, the Milky Way
turns across in front, while the Milky Way means to wait, while the Milky
Way feels that the Stars are turning back; while the Stars feel that the Sun
is the one who has turned back; he is upon his path; the Stars turn back;
while they go to fetch the daybreak; that they may lie nicely, while the
Milky Way lies nicely. The Stars shall also stand nicely around. They shall
sail along upon their footprints, which they, always sailing along, are following.
While they feel that, they are the Stars which descend.
The Milky Way lying comes to its place, to which the girl threw up the
wood ashes, that it may descend nicely; it had lying gone along, while it
felt that it lay upon the sky. It had lying gone round, while it felt that the
Stars also turned round. They turning round passed over the sky. The sky
lies still; the Stars are those which go along; while they feel that they sail.
They had been setting; they had, again, been coming out; they had, sailing
along, been following their footprints. They become white, when the
Sun comes out. The Sun sets, they stand around above; while they feel
that they did turning follow the Sun.
The darkness comes out; they the Stars wax red, while they had at first
been white. They feel that they stand brightly around; that they may sail
along; while they feel that it is night. Then, the people go by night; while
they feel that the ground is made light. While they feel that the Stars shine
a little. Darkness is upon the ground. The Milky Way gently glows; while
it feels that it is wood ashes. Therefore, it gently glows. While it feels that
the girl was the one who said that the Milky Way should give a little light
for the people, that they might return home by night, in the middle of the
night. For, the earth would not have been a little light, had not the Milky Way
been there. It and the Stars.
Saan [Bushman] (Southern Africa)
War God’s Horse Song I
I am the Turquoise Woman’s son.
On top of Belted Mountain
beautiful horses—slim like a weasel!
My horse with a hoof like a striped agate,
with his fetlock like a fine eagle plume:
my horse whose legs are like quick lightning
whose body is an eagle-plumed arrow:
my horse whose tail is like a trailing black cloud.
The Little Holy Wind blows thru his hair.
My horse with a mane made of short rainbows.
My horse with ears made of round corn.
My horse with eyes made of big stars.
My horse with a head made of mixed waters.
My horse with teeth made of white shell.
The long rainbow is in his mouth for a bridle
——& with it I guide him.
When my horse neighs, different-colored horses follow.
When my horse neighs, different-colored sheep follow.
——I am wealthy because of him.
——Before me peaceful
——Behind me peaceful
——Under me peaceful
——Over me peaceful—
——Peaceful voice when he neighs.
——I am everlasting & peaceful.
I stand for my horse.
Navajo
To the God of Fire as a Horse
Your eyes do not make mistakes.
Your eyes have the sun’s seeing.
Your thought marches terribly in the night
blazing with light & the fire
breaks from your throat as you whinny in battle.
This fire was born in a pleasant forest
This fire lives in ecstasy somewhere in the night.
His march is a dagger of fire
His body is enormous
His mouth opens & closes as he champs on the world
He swings the axe-edge of his tongue
smelting & refining the raw wood he chops down.
He gets ready to shoot & fits arrow to bowstring
He hones his light to a fine edge on the steel
He travels through night with rapid & various movements
His thighs are rich with movement.
He is a bird that settles on a tree.
Sanskrit (India)
The Annunciation
*
a man born from a flower in space a man
riding a colt foaled from a sterile mare
his reins are formed from the hair of a tortoise
——a rabbit’s horn for a dagger he
——strikes down his enemies
a man without lips who is speaking who
sees without eyes a man without ears
who listens who runs without legs
the sun & the moon dance
& blow trumpets
a young child touches
the wheel-of-the-law
——which turns over
*
: secret of the body
——: of the word
———: of the heart of the gods
the inner breath is the horse of the bodhisattvas
whipped by compassion it
rears it drives the old yak
from the path of madness
Tibetan
The Cannibal Hymn
The sky is heavy, it is raining stars.
The arches of the sky are cracking; the bones of the earthgod tremble;
The Pleiads are struck dumb by the sight of Unas
Who rises towards the sky, transfigured like a god,
Who lives off his father and eats his mother.
He is the bull of the sky; his heart lives off the divine beings;
He devours their intestines, when their bodies are charged with magic.
It is he who passes judgment, when the elders are slaughtered.
He is Lord over all meals.
He ties the sling with which he catches his prey,
He prepares the meal himself.
It is he who eats men and lives off the gods.
He has servants who execute his orders.
Skullgrabber catches them for him, like bulls with a lasso.
Headerect watches them for him and brings them to him;
Willow-croucher binds them
And tears their intestines from their bodies,
Winepresser slaughters them
And cooks a meal for him in his evening pots.
Unas swallows their magic powers
He relishes their glory.
The large ones among them are his morning meal,
the medium sized are his lunch,
The small ones among them he eats for supper.
Their senile men and women he burns as incense.
The great ones in the North sky lay the fire for him
With the bones of the elders,
Who simmer in the cauldrons themselves;
Look, those in the sky work and labor for Unas.
They polish the cookingpots for him with thighs of their wives.
O Unas has reappeared in the sky,
He is crowned as Lord of the Horizon,
Those he meets in his path he swallows raw.
He has broken the joints of the gods,
Their spines and their vertebrae.
He has taken away their hearts,
He has swallowed the red crown,
He has eaten the green crown,
He feeds on the lungs of the Wise,
He feasts, as he now lives on hearts,
And on the power they contain.
He thrives luxuriously, for all their power is in his belly,
His nobility can no longer be taken away.
He has consumed the brain of every god,
His life time is eternity,
His limit is infinity.
Egyptian
A Shaman Climbs Up the Sky
°
The Shaman mounts a scarecrow in the shape of a goose
above the white sky
beyond the white clouds
above the blue sky
beyond the blue clouds
this bird climbs the sky
°°
The Shaman offers horse meat to the chief drummer
the master of the six-knob
drum he takes a small piece
then he draws closer he
brings it to me in his hand
when I say “go” he bends
first at the knees when I
say “scat” he takes it all
whatever I give him
°°°
The Shaman fumigates nine robes
gifts no horse can carry
that no man can lift &
robes with triple necks
to look at & to touch
three times: to use this
as a horse blanket
————–sweet
prince ulgan
you are my prince
my treasure
you are my joy
°°°°
Invocation to Markut, the bird of heaven
this bird of heaven who keeps
——five shapes & powerful
——brass claws (the moon
has copper claws the moon’s
beak is made of ice) whose
——wings are powerful &
——strike the air whose tail
is power & a heavy wind
markut whose left wing
——hides the moon whose
——–right wing hides the sun
——–who never gets lost who flies
——past that-place nothing tires her
who comes toward this-place
in my house I listen
for her singing I wait
the game begins
falling past my right eye landing
here
on my right shoulder
markut is the mother of five eagles
°
The Shaman reaches the 1st sky
my shadow on the landing
I have climbed to (have reached
this place called sky
& struggled with its summit)
I who stand here
higher than the moon
full moon my shadow
°°
The Shaman pierces the 2d sky
to reach the second landing
this further level
look!
the floor below us
lies in ruins
°°°
At the end of the climb: Praise to Prince Ulgan
three stairways lead
to him three flocks
sustain him PRINCE ULGAN!
blue hill where no hill
was before: blue sky
everywhere: a blue cloud
turning swiftly
that no one can reach:
a blue sky that no one
can reach (to reach it
to journey a year by water
then to bow before him
three times to exalt him)
for whom the moon’s edge
shines forever PRINCE ULGAN!
you have found use for the hoofs
of our horses you who give us
flocks who keep pain from us
——sweet
prince ulgan
for whom the stars & the sky
are turning a thousand times
turning a thousand times over
Altaic
Mantra for Binding a Witch
1
I bind the sharp end of a knife
I bind the glow-worm in the forehead
I bind the magic of nine hundred gurus
I bind the familiars of nine hundred witches
I bind the fairies of the sky
Let the sky turn upside down, let the earth be overturned, let horns grow
on horse and ass, let moustaches sprout on a young girl, let the dry cow-dung
sink and the stones float, but let this charm not fail
2
I bind the glow-worm of a virgin
I bind every kind of Massan
The nail of bone
The lamp of flesh
Who binds the spirits?
The guru binds and I the guru’s pupil
May the waters of the river flow uphill
May the dry cow-dung sink and stones float
But let my words not fail.
Baiga (India)
To Find Our Life
A few hundred yards down the trail the peyote pilgrims halted once
more. Facing the mountains and the sun, they shouted their pleasure at
having found their life and their pain at having to depart so soon. “Do
not leave,” they implored the supernaturals, “do not abandon your
places, for we will come again another year.” And they sang, song after
song—their parting gift to the kakauyarixi:
What pretty hills, what pretty hills,
So very green where we are.
Now I don’t even feel,
Now I don’t even feel,
Now I don’t even feel like going to my rancho.
For there at my rancho it is so ugly,
So terribly ugly there at my rancho,
And here in Wirikuta so green, so green.
And eating in comfort as one likes,
Amid the flowers, so pretty.
Nothing but flowers here,
Pretty flowers, with brilliant colors,
So pretty, so pretty.
And eating one’s fill of everything,
Everyone so full here, so full with food.
The hills very pretty for walking,
For shouting and laughing,
So comfortable, as one desires,
And being together with all one’s companions.
Do not weep, brothers, do not weep.
For we came to enjoy it,
We came on this trek,
To find our life.
For we are all,
We are all,
We are all the children of,
We are all the sons of,
A brilliantly colored flower,
A flaming flower.
And there is no one,
There is no one,
Who regrets what we are.
Huichol
From The Goulburn Island Cycle
SONG 11
They saw the young girls twisting their strings, Goulburn Island men
—-and men from the Woolen River:
Young girls of the western clans, twisting their breast girdles among the
—-cabbage palm foliage . . .
Stealthily creeping, the men grasp the cabbage tree leaves to search for
—-their sweethearts.
Stealthily moving, they bend down to hide with their lovers among the foliage . . .
With penis erect, those Goulburn Island men, from the young girls’ swaying buttocks . . .
They are always there, at the wide expanse of water . . .
Always there, at the billabong edged with bamboo.
Feeling the urge for play, as they saw the young girls of the western clans,
Saw the young girls hiding themselves, twisting the strings . . .
Girls twisting their breast girdles, making string figures: and men with erect penes,
Goulburn Island men, as the young girls sway their buttocks.
SONG 12
They seize the young girls of the western tribes, with their swaying
—-buttocks—those Goulburn Island men . . .
Young girls squealing in pain, from the long penis . . .
Girls of the western clans, desiring pleasure, pushed onto their backs
—-among the cabbage palm foliage . . .
Lying down, copulating—always there, moving their buttocks . . .
Men of Goulburn Islands, with long penes . . .
Seizing the beautiful young girls, of the western tribes . . .
They are always there at that billabong edged with bamboo . . .
Hear the sound of their buttocks, the men from Goulburn Islands
—-moving their penes . . .
For these are beautiful girls, of the western tribes . . .
And the penis becomes erect, as their buttocks move . . .
They are always there at the place of Standing Clouds, of the rising
—-western clouds,
Pushed onto their backs, lying down among the cabbage palm foliage . . .
SONG 21
The tongues of the Lightning Snake flicker and twist, one to the other . . .
They flash among the foliage of the cabbage palms . . .
Lightning flashes through the clouds, with the flickering tongues of the Snake . . .
It is always there, at the wide expanse of water, at the place of the Sacred Tree . . .
Flashing above those people of the western clans . . .
All over the sky their tongues flicker: above the place of the Rising
—-Clouds, the place of Standing Clouds . . .
All over the sky, tongues flickering and twisting . . .
They are always there, at the camp by the wide expanse of water . . .
All over the sky their tongues flicker: at the place of the Two Sisters, the
—-place of the Wawalag . . .
Lightning flashes through the clouds, flash of the Lightning Snake . . .
Its blinding flash lights up the cabbage palm foliage . . .
Gleams on the cabbage palms, and on the shining semen among the leaves . . .
Gumatj (Arnhem Land, Australia)
Death Rites I
Leader:——- The gates of Dan are shut.
Company:—-Shut are the gates of Dan.
Leader:——- The spirits of the dead flit hurrying there.
Their crowd is like the flight of mosquitoes.
The flight of mosquitoes which dance in the evening.
Company:—–Which dance in the evening.
Leader:——- The flight of mosquitoes which dance in the evening.
When the night has turned completely black.
When the sun has vanished.
When the sun has turned completely black.
The dance of the mosquitoes.
The whirlwind of dead leaves.
When the storm has growled.
Company:—— When the storm has growled.
Leader:——- They await him who will come.
Company:—— Him who will come.
Leader:——- Him who will say: You, come, you, go away!
Company:—— Him who will say: Come, go!
Leader:——- And Khvum will be with his children.
Company:—— With his children.
All:———- And this is the end.
Baka [Gabon Pygmy]
A Song of Amergin
I am the wind which breathes upon the sea,
I am the wave of the ocean,
I am the murmur of the billows,
I am the bull of seven battles,
I am the vulture upon the rocks,
I am a tear shed by the sun,
I am the fairest of plants,
I am a wild boar for courage,
I am a salmon in the water,
I am a lake in the plain,
I am a word of science,
I am the point of the lance in battle,
I am the god who created fire in the head.
Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain?
Who announces the ages of the moon?
Who teaches the place where the sun rests?
Old Irish
The Voice of the Karaw
(2)
Be at peace, old tearers-to-shreds, here am I, Yori,
As handle of spear I am, as the arching sky
I am as the unique sun,
You there, slapping the face of twilight,
——calm yourselves; here am I, Yori,
I as the arching sky, I as the unique sun
Deaf-mute hornbill, fire which spared the bone,
——chief of deaf-mute village,
I say mumble mumble, I say caw-caw the cacophonous,
Sheathed, sheathed are the old knives. Yori, my father,
——Yori, my mother, Yori, my ancestor,
——I have gone to question our founder.
The old man as if seized by uncontrollable itching
——scratches his head; thoughtfully rotates his jaw
——as if pestered by a piece of gristle;
——then hastens to Ségou to consult the sages;
For some things may be found in the enemy’s house
——that the friend’s house lacks;
——and that which is lacking makes enemies friends;
Founder, my father, my friend, exacerbation of questing
——is calmed within; there the true task begins;
——but transformation is arduous, arduous.
Come, what we are learning now existed already;
——let us accomplish the rhythm;
All cords are corridors leading to embrace of origin.
Bamana
The Fox
who runs along the wolf’s way
follows
the wolf’s track, he finds
much meat there
then sleeps inside the clearings
& when he falls asleep his shape
turns over—- like a skin
it prowls relentlessly
after the reindeer herds
o body left to ravens
wolves & eagles
for a song—- the night birds
crunch its bones
eagles & foxes shit
the flesh & bones on hillsides
then the crows take turns
to eat their shit
so hungry after meat
they are—- he is himself
he eats so much
he vomits
then sucks his vomit up
o twisty are the fox’s tracks
that sly beast
whom no devil can catch up with
master gonnif
precious is thy fur
thy pelt & not thy skin worth taking
Saami [Lapp]
A Quechua Poem
I’m bringing up a fly
——with golden wings
——bringing up a fly
——with eyes burning
it carries death
——in its eyes of fire
carries death
——in its golden hair
——in its gorgeous wings
in a green bottle
——I’m bringing it up
——nobody knows
——if it drinks
——nobody knows
——if it eats
at night it goes wandering
——like a star
——wounding to death
——with red rays
——from its eyes of fire
it carries love
——in its eyes of fire
——flashes in the night
——its blood
——the love it bears in its breast
insect of night
fly bearing death
in a green bottle
I’m bringing it up
——I love it
——that much
but nobody
——no
nobody knows
if I give it to drink
nobody knows if I feed it
Funeral Eva
(Solo)—– Oh, Priest Pangeivi, you let go
———– my son, the canoe of his life
———– is dashed and sunk.
(Chorus)–O Tane, you could have saved him,
————made him return, a
————sapling among our aging forest.
————But he died, woman-like, wet
————on his pillow, far from the
————crash of spears and adzes. You could have
————done better than god Turanga, a bag
————of lies not worth our prayers.
————Your belly full, you can’t be bothered.
————Let shitballs be thrown at you,
————Let you be smeared all over,
————Let piss and shit dribble down your
————fat cheeks, you bum god. Any man
————can do better.
(Solo)—–Fart, O Tiki, let your wind go.
————Fart on this phony god not worth
————our curses.
(Chorus)–Fart, fart, fart.
————Swallow the wind, O Pangeivi.
————Having eaten my son, you
————shall eat our feces.
Mangaian (Polynesia)
Inuit Prose Poems
A MOTHER & CHILD
A pregnant woman brought forth a child. The child was hardly born
before it flung itself upon its mother & killed her, & began eating her.
Suddenly the infant cried:
My mother’s little first finger stuck crosswise in my mouth, & I could
hardly manage to get it out again.
And with these words, the infant killed itself, after first having murdered
& eaten its mother.
WHEN HOUSES WERE ALIVE
One night a house suddenly rose up from the ground and went floating
through the air. It was dark, & it is said that a swishing, rushing noise
was heard as it flew through the air. The house had not yet reached the
end of its road when the people inside begged it to stop. So the house
stopped.
They had no blubber when they stopped. So they took soft, freshly
drifted snow & put it in their lamps, & it burned.
They had come down at a village. A man came to their house & said:
Look, they are burning snow in their lamps. Snow can burn.
But the moment these words were uttered, the lamp went out.
Inuit [Iglulik Eskimo]
The Vulva Song of Inanna
I am lady I
who in this house
of holy lapis
praying
in my sanctuary say
my holy prayer
I who am lady
who am queen of heaven
let the chanter
chant of it
the singer sing of it
& let my bridegroom
my Dumuzi my wild bull
delight me
let their words fall
from their mouths
o singers
singing for their youth
their song that rises up
in Nippur gift to give
the son of god
I who am lady sing to
praising him
the chanter chants it
I who am Inanna
give my vulva song to him
o star my vulva of the dipper
vulva slender boat of heaven
new moon crescent beauty vulva
unploughed desert vulva
fallow field for wild geese
where my mound longs
for his flooding
hill my vulva lying open
& the girl asks:
who will plough it?
vulva wet with flooding
of myself the queen
who brings this ox to stand here
“lady he will plow for you
“our king Dumuzi he will plow for you
o plow my vulva o my heart
my holy thighs are soaked with it
o holy mother.
Sumerian
The Lovers II
Carrying his coarse mat under his arms he unrolls & spreads it
beneath his pandanus tree where a space has been cleared—then gropes
for his sea-urchin pencil spines, lined with ridges like the waka mara—
with these he pulls out her pubic hairs—& they pop
like the splitting of leaves hakapaki eitu
Only some short ones are left
————inside the vagina
—————(he asks):
Where are they?
——-At the end of the space
——-between the buttocks, accustomed
——-place for the grinning of
——-the teeth of my lover
——-who rules it.
——-If you were going to eat it
——-the thing isn’t clean
(He says)
Your eyes are red with hard crying.
(She says) I am carried up to the skies
my toes spread apart with the thrill of it—- I put
my feet at their place
———————–around your neck.
(He says)– I land my might—
————-gather to push open
————-that mouth.
————-Not yet soft. I
————-look along her belly.
————-She lies flat.
(She says)–Why’re you
————-lying down
————-Stand
————-up, the rain
————-is coming seaward of
————-Hukuniu Island.
————-The island is buried, the rain
————-moves eastward
————-see what its nature is.
(He says)– It will pass us, it blocks
————-to the east of us.
(She says)–Lie
————–on your bed, come
————–back
————–to the swollen thing—
————–crawl here!
Kapingamarangi (Polynesia)
Blood River Shaman Chant
then grasped
my sky tree— grasped it
all my friends
would bend their backs to me
they sprang up to their feet
then stretched me on their laps
“now I must harness the sky’s reindeer
“the smallest of the seven
“must hold the reindeer’s reins
cloud island sledge
shot off— we found
the grass ridge
there at the ridge’s foot we found
a hill with lawns
bored through by seven lizards
who bored through it
“mother lizard— grandmother
“give thou a child
“a child give to my friend
the lizard child— my friend
bored through my side
we found the ice ridge then
& at its side
found a blood river
the blood river started flowing
its currents started flowing
in the currents the blood river
tufts of hair flowed by
for me to cut— to cut the river
with bare hands
would make the blood stop
the river & the current stop
until we crossed the river
& the blood— we found
the iron tent
I went into the iron tent
the seven women sat there
I embraced them— seven women
swaddling seven boys
cloud island sledge
shot off— again it took us
to our tent
“I must unhitch
“our spirit reindeer
“the smallest of the seven
“I must head back to camp
“my friends must head back
“of the seven let a single one remain
then they took back my sky tree
left me— I have found no place
to camp but here
inside this fire I fall
to pieces
Nenets
Speaking the World: Seven Praise-Mottoes
1
Arm and Hand
Arm, shoulder is big
Arm, separates at the elbow
Fist is small
Fingers lengthy
Palm is striated
Fingers, each with three phalanges
2
Hoe
Iron hoe says hu
All day; iron palm
Finger tip
Hole in the handle fits
Iron in: hafted like man and woman
Bent neck
Slenders to the grip
Poor man works with it
Rich man works with it
Who has a hoe hangs on
Even an orphan grows
By dint of:
Sun, fatigue, content.
3
Woman
Worn stirring stick.
4
Young Girl
Young girl sways
Eye of the dawn star
Gleaming neck
Breasts no bigger than
Ewe’s udder
Firm as a cake of indigo
Belly flatter than
Fulani’s sandal
Hips a hand could
Span the measure of.
5
To Gazelle Mask
Greetings, goat of the bush,
Full of the beans you have eaten,
An able man shoots—
Blood flows on the ground.
All eyes are upon you—
Hare stares
Turtledove watches.
Good bush, shake your legs
Good bush, shake your body.
6
Blindness
Morning darkness, evening darkness
Always, always.
7
Ogotemmeli
Flicks away rooted obstacles.
Dogon
Twelve Kura Songs from Tikopia
1
o kume kume of the falling rain
kume to draw near
and to ask after kume
And One-Before-Us to draw near
to do something to enter, o
to do something to turn to us
2
stand firm, my housepost
and stand firm for me, my housepost
rata was dancing in front
he had followed me
he had followed me, o
he had followed me here like the iron tree
he had followed me, o
3
& knock away the rear of the hermit crab, o
my maleness had long been prepared
now was ready
now that you’ve turned on your back
& sleep snoring
4
your pit, your cherry
is concealed and must stay hidden
must not spread your legs apart
but hide what smells there
5
take it
& keep on scorching it
& turn it over nicely
with legs apart
& call the long one penis
to turn it over nicely
& desire it
6
he is like a spider, he shits
& comes on as a tree trunk
& shits, o he shits on that road
all men reach for
7
& is red as rata
& as all this land
& its mountains
8
asking my wife to come near
to hold up my penis
& say:
you are penis
like the cunt of an unmarried woman
his penis is dark
9
the woman you found on the road
who stayed on the road
and brought the men to fulfillment
whose buttocks are black as an oven
10
leave me only
the lips of my throat
o my belly is hungry
o this bright red flower
you carried away
& my fear you would drop it
11
the bright red flower of that road
adorned by woman
you came walking down that road
your body glowing
12
your penis, penis of the hot cordyline root
your fruit-dark penis
that looks dark, looks dark to me
in front of you
& darker, like a cowry shell
for darkness
Tikopian (Solomon Islands)
The Flight of Quetzalcoatl
*
Then the time came for Quetzalcoatl too, when he felt the darkness twist
—–in him like a river, as though it meant to weigh him down, & he thought
—–to go then, to leave the city as he had found it & to go, forgetting there
—–ever was a Tula
Which was what he later did, as people tell it who still speak about the
—–Fire: how he first ignited the gold & silver houses, their walls speckled
—–with red shells, & the other Toltec arts, the creations of man’s hands &
—–the imagination of his heart
& hid the best of them in secret places, deep in the earth, in mountains or
—–down gullies, buried them, took the cacao trees & changed them into
—–thorned acacias
& the birds he’d brought there years before, that had the richly colored
—–feathers & whose breasts were like a living fire, he sent ahead of him to
—–trace the highway he would follow toward the seacoast
When that was over he started down the road
*
A whole day’s journey, reached
THE JUNCTURE OF THE TREE
(so-called)
————-fat prominence of bark
————-sky branches
I sat beneath it
saw my face/cracked
mirror
An old man
————& named it
————TREE OF OLD AGE
thus to name
it to raise stones
to wound the bark
with stones
to batter it with
stones the stones to
cut the bark to fester
in the bark
————-TREE OF OLD AGE
stone patterns: starting
from the roots they
reach the highest leaves
*
The next day gone with walking
Flutes were sounding in his ears
————-Companions’ voices
He squatted on a rock to rest
he leaned his hands against the rock
————-Tula shining in the distance
: which he saw he
saw it & began to cry
he cried the cold sobs cut his throat
—–A double thread of tears, a hailstorm
—–beating down his face, the drops
—–burn through the rock
—–The drops of sorrow fall against the stone
—–& pierce its heart
& where his hands had rested
shadows lingered on the rock: as if
his hands had pressed soft clay
As if the rock were clay
The mark too of his buttocks in the rock,
embedded there forever
The hollow of his hands preserved forever
————A place named TEMACPALCO
*
To Stone Bridge next
water swirling in the riverbed
a spreading turbulence of water
: where he dug a stone up
made a bridge across
————& crossed it
*
: who kept moving until he reached the Lake of Serpents, the elders waiting
—–for him there, to tell him he would have to turn around, he would
—–have to leave their country & go home
: who heard them ask where he was bound for, cut off from all a man
—–remembers, his city’s rites long fallen into disregard
: who said it was too late to turn around, his need still driving him, &
—–when they asked again where he was bound, spoke about a country of
—–red daylight & finding wisdom, who had been called there, whom the
—–sun was calling
: who waited then until they told him he could go, could leave his Toltec
—–things & go (& so he left those arts behind, the creations of man’s
—–hands & the imagination of his heart; the crafts of gold & silver, of
—–working precious stones, of carpentry & sculpture & mural painting &
—–book illumination & featherweaving)
: who, delivering that knowledge, threw his jewelled necklace in the lake,
—–which vanished in those depths, & from then on that place was called
—–The Lake of Jewels
*
Another stop along the line
————This time
————THE CITY OF THE SLEEPERS
And runs into a shaman
Says, you bound for somewhere honey
Says, the country of Red Daylight know it? expect to land there probe a
—–little wisdom maybe
Says, no fooling try a bit of pulque brewed it just for you
Says, most kind but awfully sorry scarcely touch a drop you know
Says, perhaps you’ve got no choice perhaps I might not let you go now
—–you didn’t drink perhaps I’m forcing you against your will might even
—–get you drunk come on honey drink it up
Drinks it with a straw
————So drunk he falls down fainting
————on the road & dreams &
————snores his snoring echoes very far
& when he wakes finds silence
& an empty town, his face
reflected & the hair shaved off
————Then calls it
————CITY OF THE SLEEPERS
*
There is a peak between Old Smokey
& The White Woman
Snow is falling
& fell upon him in those days
————& on his companions
————who were with him, on
————his dwarfs, his clowns
————his gimps
————–It fell
till they were frozen
lost among the dead
The weight oppressed him
& he wept for them
He sang
—–The tears are endless
—–& the long sighs
—–issue from my chest
Further out
THE HILL OF MANY COLORS
which he sought
Portents everywhere, those
dark reminders
of the road he walks
*
It ended on the beach
It ended with a hulk of serpents formed into a boat
& when he’d made it, sat in it & sailed away
A boat that glided on those burning waters, no one knowing when he
—–reached the country of Red Daylight
It ended on the rim of some great sea
It ended with his face reflected in the mirror of its waves
The beauty of his face returned to him
& he was dressed in garments like the sun
It ended with a bonfire on the beach where he would hurl himself
& burn, his ashes rising & the cries of birds
It ended with the linnet, with the birds of turquoise color, birds the
—–color of wild sunflowers, red & blue birds
It ended with the birds of yellow feathers in a riot of bright gold
Circling till the fire had died out
Circling while his heart rose through the sky
It ended with his heart transformed into a star
It ended with the morning star with dawn & evening
It ended with his journey to Death’s Kingdom with seven days of darkness
With his body changed to light
A star that burns forever in that sky
Aztec
Resources
https://www.ucpress.edu/books/technicians-of-the-sacred-third-edition/paper
Technicians of the Sacred, Third Edition
https://www.ubu.com/ethno/index.html
UBUWEB Page on Ethnopoetics
https://jacket2.org/reissues/alcheringa
Alcheringa Archive: A Journal of Ethnopoetics, 1970–1980
https://jacket2.org/podcasts/alcheringa-sound-anthology
An Alcheringa sound anthology
https://media.sas.upenn.edu/file/215661
https://media.sas.upenn.edu/file/215662
Technicians of the Sacred 50th Anniversary Celebration, September 28, 2017
https://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Technicians-Of-The-Sacred-40th.php
A 40th Anniversary Celebration of Technicians of the Sacred, at the Bowery Poetry Club, September 14, 2008
Playlist – Origins and Meanings: Primitive and Archaic Poetry
Playlist – From a Shaman’s Notebook: Primitive and Archaic Poetry
Jerome Rothenberg Reads from the 50th Anniversary Edition of Technicians of the Sacred
Jerome Rothenberg performing the 13th Horse Song of Frank Mitchell
Mayowa Adeyemo praises Ogun
Voyager’s Golden Record – Navajo Night Chant
Kumulipo
Seyewailo The Flower World, Yaqui Deer Songs
Baka Pygmy traditional song
*
p.s. Hey. ** This weekend the blog is given over to an extraordinary and rich post about Ethnopoetics devised by the writer and distinguished local Carsten. I don’t believe I’ve ever done a post related to Ethnopoetics before, so the post is locally groundbreaking on top of everything else. Ethnopoetics is a really important area of poetry and writing in general, and whether it’s new or familiar to you, Carsten has created the finest coverage I can imagine. Please let it saddle your minds this weekend, and thank you a million, Carsten. ** Carsten, And there you are. Even more thanks ‘in person’. Everyone, If Carsten weren’t already generous enough, here’s another tip from him: ‘To anyone else here in the Franco-German zone, my favorite recent doc Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat is available for streaming on Arte here. I’m in the zone and will check it. No, no hard feeling towards ARTE. They just aren’t quite as adventurous as their image hints, but hey. Have a great weekend. ** _Black_Acrylic, I saw ‘The Baby’ too, and I second your assessment. I was just reading about that Fred and Rose West doc series, and I’m about to cross my fingers and see if soap2day’s got it. ** Misanthrope, In horror, bad usually means good. Enjoy the party and every other little thing. ** Alistair, Let’s see … horror movies, haunted house attractions, maybe roller coasters although that’s more of a search for adrenaline? It’s endlessly fascinating how the physical size of a creature’s brain is not an indicator of its intelligence. Bon weekend! ** jay, Excellent! No surprise, but that does sound like a pretty prime time slot you ended up with, so kudos to the fates. I doubt my weekend will compete with yours, but I’m going to give it the old college try. ** Dev, Whoa, Dev! So awesome to see you! I’m good, busy with film-related stuff because Zac’s my film is finally finished and starting to make its way into reality. More importantly, what’s up with you these days and recently? ** PancakeIan, The evil kid is timeless. Isn’t that ‘Megan’ franchise about that? I read somewhere that ‘Mystery Science Theater 3000’ was going to be rebooted, but I guess it never happened or it was a big flop. Makes sense that the ‘furs’ would need extra special care. Don’t they always have a minder standing unobtrusively nearby to help tow them away or batten away aggressors? I went to Disneyland on Ecstacy once, and for some reason it gave my eyesight special powers, and I could see all the plainclothes security people secretly mingling with the crowds, and there were so many of them, I was shocked. I’ve been friends with a number of people who are or were famous over the years, and they’ve all been nice. The worst I could say about them is that they tend to be kind of narcissistic, but I guess that goes with the goal of being famous. I know of that Rudi van Dantzig novel due to my time living in Holland where he at least was very famous, but I never read it. I’ll check it out. Thank you. ** Steve, I think ‘The Baby’ won the day. I haven’t tried the Intense coffee yet. It’s Yury’s, so I’ll have to steal some when he’s not looking. Happy birthday! Are you doing anything else festive to mark the occasion? Everyone, Query from Steve: ‘Does anyone know if NO OTHER LAND will be streaming on MUBI in the U.S.? I couldn’t find any mention of it.’ I have no idea. ** Bill, Hi. Will do. Not yet sure how long we’ll be in town. Figuring that out at the moment. Me too: I used to ride my bike down to the local drug store and buy the new issue of ‘Famous Monsters of Filmland’ every launch day. Thanks for the tip about the new Michael DeForge. Of course I would absolutely love a graphic meta-storytelling or something blog post if you’re game. Thank you, B. ** julian, It takes a lot of searching to find escorts with unusual and interesting profile texts, let me tell. Or you’ve looked around, so you know how rare they are. One of the things I was interested in doing in ‘Guide’ was writing nonfiction such that it would read as fiction and writing fiction to read as though it was nonfiction, and transforming ‘Words from the Front’ fit into that. I like horror movies. I’m a ‘I’ll watch any horror movie’ guy. I feel the same way about disaster movies. But horror movies aren’t really so important to me. Gosh, kind of an obvious answer, but maybe my favorite is ‘Texas Chain Saw Massacre’? What’s your fave? ** Dom Lyne, You are on a streak. That’s sounds very tempting. No, only the SF screening for that trip. There are a bunch of possibles coming up elsewhere. Sorry I’ll miss you in Paris. Sucks. Enjoy ‘Zombie Creeping Flesh’. Promising title, natch. Scary but cheesy hugs! ** Uday, Yeah, I wish there were combination fan-hats that were stylish. I was still fairly young during the Civil Rights Movement. LA had the big Watts ‘Riots’ in the late 60s, and I mostly remember how that and my parents’ and friends’ response to that made their degrees of racism suddenly very crystal clear. ** Adam Allbright, Greetings, Adam! I’ll check out those films and pass along your rec. Everyone, Adam Allbright has a tip for you: ‘If anyone is interested in pursuing the rabbithole of truly bizarre no-budget horror hallucinations, check out the MURDERDRONE “manifesto” and the films that fall under that banner. They will re-wire your neurons beautifully.’ Thanks! Please come back anytime for any reason. ** HaRpEr //, Indeed. We can keep each other on track. Huh, well, I guess I’ll at least go over and give current day Craigslist a quick once over. ‘Night Tide’, no, never heard of it before. Cool. ‘Trog’ is great, yep, yep. Is Eurovision tonight? I had no idea. Yes, then I will watch it until I can not take another minute of it, which takes about four hours, haha. Is it where your eyes will be fastened this evening? ** Steeqhen, I think having a mom who’s into horror films sounds kind of utopian. My mom’s favorite movie was ‘Harold and Maude’, which always seemed kind of creepy to me. Glad you passed through the anxiety ultimately untrammeled and possibly wiser. Try to think of being sick as just an interesting new drug and reconsider the world through its effects. That’s what I try to do. ** Nicholas., Oh, no, so I’m John Cena of my blog? So I guess I should turn evil like I think he recently did. That could be fun. Those words in your notes are the titles of these old anthologies composed of the best of the legendary transgressive smut zine Straight to Hell. Coincidence? ** Darbz 🕷️, Perfect post for you then! I guess that dog must be named after Tallulah Bankhead, right? Are there other famous people or even normal, everyday people named Tallulah? I sure don’t know any. I hope the gig was good. Rectal mucus is a somewhat popular substance in the master/slave realm. I think it’s exactly what it sounds like. Wait, you go to NYC today?! Wow, safest trip up there and then amazing adventures and fun once you set yourself down there! Wild. I want to hear all about it. There are a bunch of really good small music venues here. Paris is excellent for music if you like experimental stuff like I do. Everyone comes through here on their little tours. Nah, you don’t make people here uncomfortable. That’s the blog posts’ job, haha. Enjoy your NYC trip maximally, pal! Whoo-hoo! ** Right. And back you go into Carsten’s amazing post. And I will see you afterwards aka Monday.
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