Hey Jack Kerouac

On the Road caught my eye the other day as I was browsing the bookshelves. And then, I saw him again. And again. So here, a haiku set by Jack Kerouac.

Some Western Haiku

By Jack Kerouac

  

Arms folded

 to the moon,

Among the cows.

Birds singing

 in the dark

- Rainy dawn.

Elephants munching

 on grass - loving

Head side by side.

Missing a kick

 at the icebox door

It closed anyway.

This July evening,

 a large frog

On my door sill.

Catfish fighting for his life,

 and winning,

Splashing us all.

Evening coming -

 the office girl

Unloosing her scarf.

The low yellow

 moon above the

Quiet lamplit house

Shall I say no?

 - fly rubbing

its back legs

Unencouraging sign

 - the fish store

Is closed.

Nodding against

 the wall, the flowers

Sneeze

Straining at the padlock,

 the garage doors

At noon

The taste

 of rain

- Why kneel?

The moon,

the falling star

- Look elsewhere

The rain has filled

 the birdbath

Again, almost

And the quiet cat

 sitting by the post

Perceives the moon

Useless, useless,

 the heavy rain

Driving into the sea.

Juju beads on the

 Zen manual:

My knees are cold.

Those birds sitting

 out there on the fence -

They're all going to die.

The bottoms of my shoes

 are wet

from walking in the rain

In my medicine cabinet,

 the winter fly

has died of old age.

November - how nasal

 the drunken

Conductor's call

The moon had

 a cat's mustache

For a second

A big fat flake

 of snow

Falling all alone

The summer chair

 rocking by itself

In the blizzard

Three Lines by Felix

So I have this book that I discovered on some trail or another -- yeah, what a surprise -- and it is a translation of work by Felix Feneon. Yes, French. So he perused the headlines, police blotters, etc., and kept track of the headlines. He distilled them. Often to three lines. Not a book to be read in one sitting because it's not as interesting if you do so. However, it is a book to pick up at whim, flip to a page, and let your imagination run. A few samples below:

Page 85 -- Of five mussel eaters, employees of the 2nd Artillery Company in Nice, two are dead, Armand and Geais; the others are ill.

Page 29 -- A farmer of the vicinity of Meaux, Hippolyte Deshayes, married and the father of four, has hanged himself; no one knows why.

Page 150 -- Taken for 15,550 francs by Louise Lepetit, the Turkish merchant Soleiman had her arrested; reimbursed by Fat Jules, he dropped the charge.

Page 4 -- In a cafe on Rue Fontaine, Vautour, Lenoir, and Atanis exchanged a few bullets regarding their wives, who were not present.

Page 143 -- To ensure his place in heaven, Desjeunes of Plainfang, Vosges, had covered with holy pictures the bed where he killed himself with rum.

White Tower in Blue

The Kungle Jing

For all who love Shel Silverstein, and for those who smile at his words:

The Kungle Jing
by Shel Silverstein

"Oh I am the Jing of the Kungle,"
Runny roared to one and all
When he wore his cion's lostume
To the Walloheen bostume call.
But there he met a leal rion
Who said, "You'd best cake tare,
And do not start believin'
You're the costume that you wear."

Couldn't resist. From Runny Babbit. 

April 1st on March 11th

The latest. Don't forget to click to enlarge and see detail.

Interval of Joy

Interval of Joy by George Seferis

We were happy all that morning Ο God how happy. First the stones the leaves and the flowers shone and then the sun a huge sun all thorns but so very high in the heavens. Α Nymph was gathering our cares and hanging them on the trees a forest of Judas trees. Cupids and satyrs were singing and playing and rosy limbs could be glimpsed amid black laurel the flesh of young children. We were happy all that morning; the abyss was a closed well οn which the tender foot of a young faun stamped do you remember its laughter: how happy we were! And then clouds rain and the damp earth; you stopped laughing when you reclined in the hut, and opened your large eyes and gazed on the archangel wielding a fiery sword 'Ι cannot explain it, ' you said, 'Ι cannot explain it, ' Ι find people impossible to understand however much they may play with colors they are all black.

From PoemHunter

Favorites List

A few of my 'favorites' and something a bit new for this space:

From the interviews archive at the Paris Review, engage with Gabo here.

A slide through Bratislava, Slovakia -- here.

Because I have not visited her site in a while, and because...

All who wander are not lost -- Persephone.

Sometimes it's the words of others that we hear with greatest clarity.

Not to be missed -- Stoppard.

Of course, I'm anticipating this.

That's seven for the 7th. More again soon. Enjoy!

Moore Inspiration

One of my current inspirations...by Henry Moore

On the Subject of What One Ought to Be

I discovered the following on one of my usual trails. It is attributed to Khalil Gibran:

“It was in the garden of a madhouse that I met a youth

with a face pale and lovely and full of wonder.

And I sat beside him upon the bench,

and I said, 'Why are you here?'

And he looked at me in astonishment, and he said,

'It is an unseemly question, yet I will answer you.

My father would make of me a reproduction of himself;

so also would my uncle. My mother would have me the

image of her illustrious father. My sister would hold up

her seafaring husband as the perfect example

for me to follow.

My brother thinks I should be like him, a fine athlete.

'And my teachers also, the doctor of philosophy,

and the music master, and the logician, they too were

determined, and each would have me but a reflection

of his own face in a mirror.

'Therefore I came to this place. I find it more sane here.

At least I can be myself.'

Then of a sudden he turned to me and he said,

'But tell me, were you also driven to this place

by education and good counsel?'

And I answered, 'No, I am a visitor.'

And he said, 'Oh, you are one of those who live

in the madhouse on the other side of the wall.”