POETRY DISPATCH No. 363 | February 8, 2012

WISŁAW SZYMBORSKA
1932 – 2012

poetry dispatch & other notes from the underground

This can be a mistake, while many socially orientated sites do get a lot of natural links where there is a useful resource people may link to from a forum. It is very uncommon for people to link to a business related site so relying on natural links is a sure fire way to never get highly ranked.

Even though there are a lot of search engine optimization techniques such as meta data, page titles, xml/ html sitemaps, crawl issues, keyword usage, these factors altogether are not even ten times as important or powerful as link building. If you have been on any semi-professional SEO forum they will not even mention these other factors because they are easy to learn and much less important.

If you want to rank high and get a lot of visitors you must be devious. You must think of ways to make your own links as this is the only way you will really improve your search engine optimization in the online market. Even though Google’s Terms of Service say that buying or creating your own links is prohibited, more than 90% of links on the internet were from those two sources. So despite their rules there really is no way to compete without joining the ‘Black hat’ side of online marketing.

Even some of the biggest retail websites on the internet are doing very shady practices like spamming pages on their own website to improve internal links. When they get caught Google don’t drop them completely from the search results, but just discount their internal spam pages so they still retain most of their link power. Why would Google be this generous? One word, Adwords. Big retail sites know if they spend $100,000s on Adwords then Google will not hurt them too much as they want to keep this Adwords revenue stream.

To put it bluntly the online world is like the Wild West only in digital form, the ability to do link building is like the ability to sling a gun in a Wild Western movie. Another important often overlooked factor is you should link a lot more to subpages than the homepage because a subpage article will be more content heavy and if you spread your links over more pages Google rewards you more because it appears more natural.

POETRY DISPATCH No. 362 | January 5, 2012

JIM HARRISON

FIVE POEMS

Editor’s Note: I just trashed a lead-in piece, essay, on Harrison that I spent too much of yesterday (and the afternoon of the day before) writing. I liked where it was going, but after a trip to town, after a cup of coffee and reflection, after I came back to the desk here in the coop, I was tired of the piece, tired of what we’ve done to Harrison, maybe even more tired of what Harrison has done to himself.

Success in American writing means the making of the myth. Then living up to it till it eventually kills you, spiritually if not physically. I don’t want to get started on this or I’ll spend another day or more writing that piece. I don’t want to be reminded of how many times Harrison has been compared to hard drinking, hard living, hard loving, hard writing Hemingway. And how the myths sometime converge. But…

Fuck it! (I’m angry). Harrison may be our Hemingway of today (he may have even preened himself for this distinction through time…including what seems his present, ‘heroic’ road to self-destruction), but he is not Hemingway. He is Harrison. In some ways, a better writer than Hemingway. Certainly a better poet. Certainly a fuller grasp of the narrative of the natural landscape of America (the Midwest in particular), how it speaks, what it says, how it saves us from ourselves…how it shapes Harrison’s words far beyond the Nick Adams Stories.

Forget the myth. Forget the photographs. Go to the work. There you’ll find him. — Norbert Blei

Calendars

Back in the blue chair in front of the green studio
another year has passed, or so they say, but calendars lie.
They’re a kind of cosmic business machine like
their cousin clocks but break down at inoppormne times.
Fifty years ago I learned to jump off the calendar
but I kept getting drawn back on for reasons
of greed and my imperishable stupidity.
Of late I’ve escaped those fatal squares
with their razor-sharp numbers for longer and longer.
I had to become the moving water I already am,
falling back into the human shape in order
not to frighten my children, grandchildren, dogs and friends.
Our old cat doesn’t care. He laps the water where my face used to be.

[from IN SEARCH OF SMALL GODS, Copper Canyon Press, 2010, $ 16, pb.]

I Believe

I believe in steep drop-offs, the thunderstorm across the lake
in 1949, cold winds, empty swimming pools,
the overgrown path to the creek, raw garlic,
used tires, taverns, saloons, bars, gallons of red wine,
abandoned farmhouses, stunted lilac groves,
gravel roads that end, brush piles, thickets, girls
who haven’t quite gone totally wild, river eddies,
leaky wooden boats, the smell of used engine oil,
turbulent rivers, lakes without cottages lost in the woods,
the primrose growing out of a cow skull, the thousands
of birds I’ve talked to all of my life, the dogs
that talked back, the Chihuahuan ravens that follow
me on long walks. The rattler escaping the cold hose,
the fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see
from the left corner of my blind eye, struggling
to stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot.

[from IN SEARCH OF SMALL GODS, Copper Canyon Press, 2010, $ 16, pb. ]

Tomorrow

I’m hoping to be astonished tomorrow
by I don’t know what:
not the usual undiscovered bird in the cold
snowy willows, garishly green and yellow,
and not my usual death, which I’ve done
before with Borodin’s music
used in Kismet, and angels singing
“Stranger in Paradise,” that sort of thing,
and not the thousand naked women
running a marathon in circles around me
while I swivel on a writerly chair
keeping an eye on my favorites.
What could it be, this astonishment,
but falling into a liquid mirror
to finally understand that the purpose
of earth is earth? It’s plain as night.
She’s willing to sleep with us a little while.

[from IN SEARCH OF SMALL GODS, Copper Canyon Press, 2010, $ 16, pb. ]

BROOM

To remember you’re alive
visit the cemetery of your father
at noon after you’ve made love
and are still wrapped in a mammalian
odor that you are forced to cherish.
Under each stone is someone’s inevitable
surprise, the unexpected death
of their biology that struggled hard, as it must.
Now to home without looking back,
enough is enough.
En route buy the best wine
you can afford and a dozen stiff brooms.
Have a few swallows then throw the furniture
out the window and begin sweeping.
Sweep until the walls are
bare of paint and at your feet sweep
until the floor disappears. Finish the wine
in this field of air, return to the cemetery
in evening and wind through the stones
a slow dance of your name visible only to birds.

[from SONGS OF UNREASON, Copper Canyon Press, 2011, hb, $ 22]

Death Again

Let’s not get romantic or dismal about death.
Indeed it’s our most unique act along with birth.
We must think of it as cooking breakfast,
it’s that ordinary. Break two eggs into a bowl
or break a bowl into two eggs. Slip into a coffin
after the fluids have been drained, or better yet,
slide into the fire. Of course it’s a little hard
to accept your last kiss, your last drink,
your last meal about which the condemned
can be quite particular as if there could be
a cheeseburger sent by God. A few lovers
sweep by the inner eye, but it’s mostly a placid
lake at dawn, mist rising, a solitary loon
call, and staring into the still, opaque water.
We’ll know as children again all that we are
destined to know, that the water is cold
and deep, and the sun penetrates only so far.

[from SONGS OF UNREASON, Copper Canyon Press, 2011, hb, $ 22 ]

poetry dispatch & other notes from the underground

POETRY DISPATCH No. 361 | December 14, 2011

Three Native American Prayers

Editor’s Note: Though my working environment in the coop is saturated with ‘spirit’…the pine walls, glow with sacred memorabilia of all sorts, from hand-made wooden crucifixes to paintings, photographs, holy cards, carvings…windowsills of glass, pottery, sculpture…much of it reflecting the Southwest and the old country…much of it appealing to myth, mystery, meditation…there’s a particular place above my desk, to my right, where at least thirty years ago I posted a copy of “A Prayer of the Navaho Night Chant” which I found during one of my New Mexico sojourns, and which I have never removed since.

Though I don’t read it every day, or pray every day, I consider it a kind of blessing of words which hover around me, good days and bad days. Words that make a difference. Which is all any writer is ever after. His sole reason for being.

Along with the artwork on the coop walls done by many of my friends, here and there a warm, comforting and perfect piece of pottery by Chris Spanovich, a woman I truly loved, makes its presence felt. I smile. I walk over to it. I touch it. Her pottery begs to be held in both hands, like an offering—received. More spirit. More reverence. More prayer. I did a long story on her once, “Chris Spanovich, The Potter of Chimayo” which appears in DOOR TO DOOR, Ellis Press, 1985.

Prayerful, thankful…that’s how I feel today. That the arts speak to us in ways no organized religion can ever understand. All this spirit that surrounds me is all that really matters. ..Norbert Blei

I’m an Indian.
I think about common things like this pot.
The bubbling water comes from the rain cloud.
It represents the sky.
The fire comes from the sun
which warms us all, men, animals, trees.
The meat stands for the four-legged creatures,
our animal brothers,
who gave of themselves so that we should live.
The steam is living breath.
It was water, now it goes up to the sky,
becomes a cloud again.
These things are sacred.
Looking at that pot full of good soup,
I am thinking how, in this simple manner,
The great Spirit takes care of me.

— John Lame Deer

Greeting, Father’s Clansman,
I have just made a robe for you, this is it.
Give me a good way of living.
May I and my people safely reach the next year.
May my children increase; when my sons go to war,
may they bring horses.
When my son goes to war, may he return with black face.
When I move, may the wind come to my face,
may the buffalo gather coward me.

This summer may the plants thrive,
may the cherries be plentiful.
May the winter be good, may illness not reach me.
May I see the new grass of summer,
may I see the full-sized leaves when they come.
May I see the spring.
May I with all my people safely reach it.

— Crow Indian prayer

Tségihi,
House made of dawn.
House made of evening light.
House made of the dark cloud.
House made of male rain.
House made of dark mist.
House made of female rain.
House made of pollen.
House made of grasshoppers.
Dark cloud is at the door.
The trail out of it is dark cloud.
The zigzag lightning stands high upon it.
Male deity!
Your offering I make.
I have prepared a smoke for you.
Restore my feet for me.
Restore my legs for me.
Restore my body for me.
Restore my mind for me.
This very day take out your spell for me.
Your spell remove for me.
You have taken it away for me.
Far off it has gone.
Happily I recover.
Happily my interior becomes cool.
Happily I go forth.
My interior feeling cool, may I walk.
No longer sore, may I walk.
Impervious to pain, may I walk.
With lively feeling may I walk.
As it used to be long ago, may I walk.
Happily may I walk.
Happily, with abundant dark clouds, may I walk.
Happily, with abundant showers, may I walk.
Happily, with abundant plants, may I walk.
Happily, on a trail of pollen, may I walk.
Happily may I walk.
Being as it used to be long ago, may I walk.
May it be beautiful before me
May it be beautiful behind me.
May it be beautiful below me.
May it be beautiful above me.
With it be beautiful all around me.
In beauty it is finished.

– A Prayer of the Navaho Night Chant

poetry dispatch & other notes from the underground

Charles Bukowski | Photo by Herb Ritts

POETRY DISPATCH No. 360 | December 10, 2011

John Bennett

Sometimes You Feel So All Alone

I’d like to address the court. I’d like to address the hung jury. I’d like to address the envelope in the best penmanship possible. I’d like to dress up like a Lilliput and go traipsing thru the streets of Chicago. I’d like to dabble in redress to ease my distress. I’d like to respond to the warrant. I’d like to warrant your love. I’d like to live in a warren and watch the world pass by.

I wish I could stop tap dancing and snapping my fingers. I wish I could take off this grease paint. I wish I could lay down and die. No, seriously, how bad could it be? Except I wonder how long my brain will continue to churn after my heart has stopped. I wonder if they’ll be unkind to my body.

I’m partial to a funeral pyre pushed out to sea. Or just lay me down in the leaves in some deep forest dressed in everyday clothes. I don’t need a service where people show up who’ve stopped thinking about me years ago. Let’s not make a lie of it on the cusp of my last breath.

Sometimes you feel so all alone it just feels right.

Goodbye, Charles Bukowski.

poetry dispatch & other notes from the underground

The ingredients are as follows:

• 3-4 Chinese or Japanese eggplants
• 1/4 cup Shaoxing wine or dry sherry
• 2 teaspoons cornstarch
• 3/4 cup low-sodium chicken broth or chicken/ham broth
• 1 tablespoon Sichuan fermented chili-bean paste (or generic Asian chili-garlic sauce if unavailable)
• 3 tablespoons soy sauce
• 2 tablespoons black vinegar (or 1 tablespoon sherry vinegar and 2 tablespoons cider vinegar)
• 1 tablespoon sugar
• 2 tablespoons ginger, finely chopped
• 3 cloves garlic, finely chopped (about 2 tablespoons)
• 4 scallions, whites and light green parts finely chopped, greens sliced (optional)
• 2 small hot green chilies (preferably Chinese, but Serrano or Jalapeño will do fine), seeds and ribs removed, finely chopped (optional)
• 3 tablespoons peanut or canola oil
• 4 ounces ground pork (optional)
• A sporadic sprinkling of sliced tomato (optional)

Cut the eggplant into quarters by length, then cut into 3-4 inch portions. Put pieces in bamboo steamer and steam in wok over medium heat until fully tender, about 15 minutes more or less. If cooked, an indentation made with finger on the eggplant should not spring back. Transfer eggplant to bowl and set aside.
Next put wine and cornstarch in a bowl and whisk until no dry cornstarch remains in the bowl.

Add broth, bean paste, soy sauce, black vinegar, and sugar and whisk to combine them. Add ginger, garlic, scallion whites, and chilis in small bowl. Heat up oil in wok over high heat until just beginning to smoke but be careful not to burn the oil. Add ground pork and stir-fry for 40 seconds until most of the pink colour is gone. Push pork to sides of wok to make space at bottom.

Add a ginger mixture and stir fry 30 seconds until there is an aromatic smell  Add an eggplant and toss to combine them. Add sauce mixture and bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer and cook until the sauce is thick and rich should take about 15 minutes. Optionally add the scallions then serve. Hope you enjoy it.

POETRY DISPATCH No. 350 | August 21, 2011

STEPHEN DUNN

THE IMAGINED

If the imagined woman makes the real woman
seem bare-boned, hardly existent, lacking in
gracefulness and intellect and pulchritude,
and if you come to realize the imagined woman
can only satisfy your imagination, whereas
the real woman with all her limitations
can often make you feel good, how, in spite
of knowing this, does the imagined woman
keep getting into your bedroom, and joining you
at dinner, why is it that you always bring her along
on vacations when the real woman is shopping,
or figuring the best way to the museum?

…………………………And if the real woman
has an imagined man, as she must, someone
probably with her at this very moment, in fact
doing and saying everything she’s ever wanted,
would you want to know that he slips in
to her life every day from a secret doorway
she’s made for him, that he’s present even when
you’re eating your omelette at breakfast,
or do you prefer how she goes about the house
as she does, as if there were just the two of you?
Isn’t her silence, finally, loving? And yours
not entirely self-serving? Hasn’t the time come,

…………………………once again, not to talk about it?

[from THE NEW YORKER, March 14, 2011]

poetry dispatch & other notes from the underground

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