Tag Archives: gary lundy

words refuse to unfix themselves | poems

silver lines the bottom of the fish pond.


gary lundy

where two men gather their equated absences into palpable congruence. exquisite bare shoulder camera eyed.

whatever to say when a truth bars entrance. a stomach muscle eye. solitary entitlements. rules expanse of introspect thought.

affair of deciduous longing. the want to corrupt what remains out of control. to glide easily into familiar narrative.

where you once stood. i seek conclusion. not particularly of the absent love. but the more which equates freedom with left lost.



you absorb his words. lie among hidden articles.


gary lundy

substitute want for desire. enormous spring sunlight. tulips slow blooming.

he wanders alone with his dream of happiness. a fiction to be sure. but enough of one to provide glimmer hope.

a young invisible child. say three. plays among dandelions. a field not far from home. what does life account for after all. a brush stroke here. there. a few words follow. memorable or not.

in a dream you envision a growing misstep. your body swelled. cold damp tears. woman plays guitar. sings into probable future. i would follow were i able. yet words refuse to unfix themselves from each heavy laden page.

right now this only works. if they don’t line up. two lips the child repeats. unoriginal although for the first time. new. to no one in particular.



introducing an unexpected narrative.


gary lundy

so that when i read it’s you who springs from the page.

yet the i remains remote and inaccessible. no matter how hard he tries. buds near their blooming moment. movement even though it snowed yesterday.

you tell me you follow a thread throughout my writing which is definitely my life. wherever we find ourselves. nor even when in japan. and in love with a precious man. his left wrist is in a cast. fingers thus protrude.

you recognize that he will in all likelihood die first. wrapped as you are in coat and pajama bottoms. why might you not be able to look at me that way. a synthesis of denial.

people sound out their displaced need to tell a truth. like left over love.

wipe your lips clean. it burns when the steam rushes onto the floor. light blisters the retinal display. remove all possible enormity.

try as he might he never quite recovers.

i hear my mothers voice as i speak with you. a singular morning with coffee. a heartfelt pain close enough to attach paper clips.

when he would begin with gentle skin touch. i would roll my minds body full of grace.

a lost seagull lands in a bowl and bathes. outside. while a dog watches perplexed.



As I wrote the last time I published some of his poems heregary lundy and I have known each other for decades, which is almost forever. We met at a philosophy and poetry conference in Canada and have been inseparable since, mostly online. Through those decades, we have continued to converse  poetically and philosophically through the personal.

His first book, When Voices Detach Themselves (Is a Rose Press), delves deep into personal space and comes out with cultural revelations. His most recent book, Heartbreak Elopes into a Kind of Forgiving (Is a Rose Press), dives even further, if possible, into the heart of matters, uncovering the space for forgiveness and a desire for continued connection—even from deep within introspection. We feel the power of pausing in order to understand how the outer world shapes us, especially through the ideas of relation/ship and loss.

gary headshotThe three poems that appeared last time played on memory, nostalgia, and longing—the delusions of what we take as granted and the cracks and splatter of a glass of wine shattering on the ground of that false sense of knowing. Here, in the three poems above, we have some of the same mood, but accompanied by a sense of narrative connecting loss to longing. In the last of these poems, the voice of the poem addresses another: “you tell me you follow a thread throughout my writing which is definitely my life.” The other person, a friend in a cafe, perhaps, has been talking about the speaker’s writing—and we also sense this thread in the three poems, a sense of his life. The sense is fragmentary, which fits the poet’s view, as expressed in the second poem: “what does life account for after all. a brush stroke here. there. a few words follow. memorable or not.”

The brush strokes of these three poems provide a sketch, suggestive and powerful in its expression. And these strokes, memorable as they are, give us, as readers, a view of the human condition. It is not “joyful,” but it has room for the “fiction” of “happiness” and, in the end, room for the brush strokes of connection that appear throughout gary’s poetry. It is, in the end, the most human of connections—not romanticized, but, as reflected succinctly in the first line of the first poem above, a connection “…where two men gather their equated absences into palpable congruence.” (The specificity of that poem requires “two men,” but gary’s poetry taken as a whole implicitly says “two people” with full gender inclusiveness.)


Shop Indie Bookstores
gary lundy’s poetry books can be found at Independent book sellers through Indiebound.


Photo of gary lundy from his book Heartbreak Elopes into a Kind of Forgiving @2016
Digital artwork ©2017 Michael Dickel

Leave a comment

Filed under Digital Art, Experimental writing, poems, Poetry, Writing

Three poems | memory | gary lundy


gary lundy

you press the rewind button

watch the same scene over until loss regulates a breach into which we all might run. an accord found between two close friends. or the movement of others whose bodies sway in the moving waves of sound and traffic. ignore for a few minutes those things beyond loss. how to now return to those boxes assumed forever lost to landfill. or a closet or drawer of a stranger. bookcase or wall. all lost although finally not. when they remember to call and we aren’t home. particles upon particles. of the one now fallen to dust. our floor covered. fragments crack underfoot. the accumulation of wasted details. we might still find room to love they say. all the while you nod fighting off sleep.

 


Sunset memories


gary lundy

when i close my eyes i fall into disquieted memory

flood within frames of imagined past events no more real than the color blue. regard a quiet as if contemplation an everyday recurring event. where a newly discovered photograph compels analogy. you sketch out your days forgetful wander under unexamined happiness. when food runs low and wine sours. when they unexpectedly slap us our glasses fall break. the residual trace of others. cigarette butts tossed onto the ground. crumpled coffee and soda cups. plastics and cardboards surround and grow in clumps. so that one wearing miniskirt and handlebar mustache attracts our attention. out of a rising boredom in the everyday. looks prevail whenever ears focus on conversation or song. when there’s nothing to say napping comes too easily. they wonder why you ignore them. or if rather they take up all your attention and thus compel you to shut them out. not even at night when quiet attaches to the rooms are they able to amend the pain that constantly compromises any even slight activity. whenever it just doesn’t work.

 


Meron Area - 22


gary lundy

are there locators for those days when indispensable vacates.

when hours fly north with the geese. hard to notice you’ve been voiceless for two months three days. not that dates count for much other than broken promises. where contracts constrict our movement and leave us in state of compromise nonplussed. or rather while the water boils check up on their movement across rugged terrain. when they startle and spill coffee or sprouts stick to the cover over skin pleasure. those usual moments when everything doesn’t hold together. they wander alongside others delusional. wrap the morning plans in warm weather protection. otherwise they garner praise and smile wrapped in red. slow it to a tune on the radio. resolve not to subject themselves to errancy when in pursuit of unwanted attention.

 


cranes2difference


 

gary lundy and I have known each other forever almost, or at least decades, which is almost forever. We met at a philosophy and poetry conference in Canada and have been inseparable since, mostly online. Through those decades, we have continued to converse  poetically and philosophically through the personal.

His first book, When Voices Detach Themselves (Is a Rose Press), delves deep into personal space and comes out with cultural revelations. His most recent book, Heartbreak Elopes into a Kind of Forgiving (Is a Rose Press), dives even further, if possible, into the heart of matters, uncovering the space for forgiveness and a desire for continued connection—even from deep within introspection. We feel the power of pausing in order to understand how the outer world shapes us, especially through the ideas of relation/ship and loss.

gary headshotThe three poems above play on memory, nostalgia, and longing—the delusions of what we take as granted and the cracks and splatters of a glass of wine shattering on the ground of that false sense of knowing. Looking at it from my own contexts of distortion, gary’s work seems to play in a liminal space, on the boundary of what we understand but can’t articulate clearly in our limited, culturally-shaped language, with imagery that we understand without language, in that boundary where delusions fracture to reveal glimpses of our human longing for connection, and tones of desire form the pallette of his word paintings.

 


Shop Indie Bookstores
gary lundy’s poetry books can be found at Independent book sellers through Indiebound.


Digital art and photo of trees ©2016 Michael Dickel
Photo of gary lundy from his book Heartbreak Elopes into a Kind of Forgiving @2016

 

Leave a comment

Filed under poems, Poetry

Yesterday—a poem of remembrance

Yesterday

in Pansy Bradshaw’s memory, may it be for a blessing
for gary, as he grieves

Parents of an infant girl
prayed in thanks at the Kotel
after so many years believing
they “didn’t merit” a child—
the weather nice, reasonably
warm for October.

Bradley Shaw z''l aka Pansy Bradshaw Selfie ©2014

Bradley Shaw z”l
aka Pansy Bradshaw
Selfie ©2014

                                 At the light
rail stop an angry man turned
the wheel and sped his car
into people waiting.

The three-month old girl
sprang into the air when
the car her stroller struck.
But she did not land—
only her clothes fell down
like white, dropped petals
on the table-cloth.

An old man-nanny
fell for her, in Montana
I think it was. His body
collapsed to earth. His
spirit grabbed hers. He
carried her into the sky
as his brain bled for her.

Digital art from Michael Dickel-selfie by Pansy Bradshaw ©2014 Bradley Shaw z''l

“appwerk” from selfie I sent Pansy z”l
Digital art by Pansy Bradshaw ©2014

He turned blue, grew
wings and flew—a
violin under his chin.
A goat standing on
the roof of a yellow
shed saw.

           A small red bird
rested on his shoulder,
the air filled with color—
speckled bubbles,
sefirot of an artist’s
imagination contracting
and expanding to burst.

The weather was nice
for October and his love
for children too great to let
her fall. It was the only
thing that he could do,
one last painting that
he wanted to give you.

"kafka past warhol..." ©2014 Pansy Bradshaw z''l

“kafka past warhol…”
©2014 Pansy Bradshaw z”l

Bradley Shaw, aka Pansy Bradshaw was a writer and artist—I had published his poetry as co-editor of Voices Israel (36) 2010 and participated in a project where he did his “appwerk” art with a selfie I sent him (shown higher up in this blog). He worked as a nanny to make his living. I’d met him briefly once when visiting our mutual friend, gary lundy, in Dillon, MT, but most of our friendship came through email and FaceBook. He died 23 October 2014, after collapsing and suffering a brain hemorrhage. This poem is for Pansy’s memory, and for gary as he grieves the loss of his friend, his love. The photo and “appwerk” / artwork on this page are copyrighted—©2014 Bradley Shaw / Pansy Bradshaw—with rights reserved for his estate and may not be copied or reproduced without express permission of his estate. Chaya Zissel Braun, a 3-month old infant, was killed on 22 October 2014, when a Palestinian resident of East Jerusalem drove his car into people waiting at a light rail stop near East Jerusalem. 

Mourner’s Kaddish

The following is a Jewish prayer (Pansy was Jewish), in Aramaic, said by those mourning to memorialize the dead. Its text praises and celebrates Creation and does not mention death or an after world. It does ask that the Creator make Peace for the world.

Mourner's Kaddish

Mourner’s Kaddish
Click image
for English transliteration and translation

6 Comments

Filed under Poetry

New projects underway

I’m taking a short rest from posting the experimental writing series for a promotional post. I have two new projects—one decades under development, the other a few days old. Also, while I’m at it, I have a couple of recent publications to mention as well. Call this self-promotion.

is a rose press logo

is a rose press

Project one is a new poetry / contemporary press that three colleagues and I are preparing to launch. For now, books will be by invitation only. After we get up and running, iron out any bugs, learn more about what we’re doing, we will probably change that policy.

The first official publication will be gary lundy’s when voices detach themselves. This is an amazing book of short poems that are also a single work, exploring relationship, meaning, connections and (dis)(un(connect)ions). As Donnelle McGee (Shine, Sibling Rivalry Press, 2012) puts it:

The remnants of love and fragmented voices shape the narrative of Gary Lundy’s when voices detach themselves. You will be enthralled with Lundy’s lines. Each line constructed of images that breathe vulnerability onto the pages of a narrative that brings you in close to the voices of longing, and even closer to the voices and bodies trying to find harmony amid discord.

We have the cover designed, the inside laid out, and we’re ready to purchase our ISBNs and assign the book to one. Then we’ll go to press. Schedule will be to send out review copies soon and an official launch later this summer. Check out the press here, on our blog / web page. It’s new, too, so many pages just have the logo, but there is some content and it will be changing daily. Or weekly. Something like that.

gary and I have been talking about working together at publishing contemporary poetry and writing for two decades now. It’s time we actually did it, don’t you think? With Valerie Déua and Rebecca Knots on board to help, we might actually do something here. We all hope something interesting and worthwhile. Stay tuned. Read more about the beginnings.

Po[a](es)[thet](it)i[c]s Un(der)gournd(ed)

Po(es)(it)is Un(der)ground(ed)

Po(es)(et)is Un(der)ground(ed) is about as long as I was allowed for the name of a new online “newspaper,” actually a news aggregate service that I have set up to follow certain feeds using filters. I’m trying to capture online activity—from conventional journals and news sources to Facebook, Google+, and Twitter feeds—related to contemporary poetics and poetry.

The first edition is now up here. Right now the filtering is perhaps a little broad, so related topics is wide enough to include non-poetry books, literature, reading links. It’s okay, though, I think. The paper will “regenerate” every week, Tuesday, 9:00 am Eastern U.S. time. I’ll go through the automated edition sometime shortly after and editing out unrelated material. I will tweak the feeds, filters, and priority for inclusion as much as I can in the coming weeks.

I hope that if you’ve been reading my blog and enjoy the full range of the posts, that you will go to this project, share it in your networks, and even “subscribe.” If you subscribe, you’ll be notified once a week, when the new edition is ready.

The title, as represented by the logo, can be read several ways in variation / derivations from Po-aesthetics to Poetics to Poiesis (possibly without the ego i) // Underground or Ungrounded or Ground or Grounded. po (a) (es) (thet) it is (alt. ics) un der ground ed. Have fun kneading your own combinations and versions. And feel free to include Greek, Spanish, French, Russian…Hebrew, Chinese, Japanese…Tamil, Anishinabe, Diné

Hands kneading bread

Two pieces in the most recent Drash Pit

The most recent issue of Drash Pit, which will remain up online through the summer, includes a poem of mine and a short essay. The poem, Following, responds to the theme announced in the prior issue, “bread crumbs.” The editor derived the theme from a piece I wrote for that issue, so I can’t complain. The short essay, If We Turn Down the Noise, reflects on the relationship between narrative and hope, with a Jewish flavor to the mix. If you read them, I hope that you like them. If you like them, I hope that you will share them on your social networks.

Next post

I expect to be back to the experimental writing for the next post. If you’d like to be included in an upcoming experiment, leave five random or free-associated words, comma separated, in a comment here. Thanks.

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Publication

Experiment two—The Other Day

“The woman with a beard insists on returning,” so she has joined this series of experiments. This, experiment number two, has words contributed by Agnew T. Pickens, Rivkah Johnson, Monika Ashwin V, gary lundy, Aliona Zykova (aka aLioNKa), Verica Zivkovic, Chinedu Jonathan Ichu, Lynn Pries, Paul Dickinson, and Uwe W. Stroh. I have strung their lists and phrases out with my own surrealistic automatism-style writing. Community subconscious, collective unconscious, experimental writing series…

Please leave your comments and responses, like this post if you found it provocative reading, and share it with your friends and networks.

If you wish to have your words included in a future experiment, leave a list of five random words in a comment below. Thank you.

The Other Day

Road in Israel. Photo, ©2008 Michael Dickel

Road in Israel. Photo, ©2008 Michael Dickel

The woman with a beard insists on returning time and again to the past, resurrected on a credit card. Clouds, pink, grey tinge morning‘s eastern flowers, trees silhouetted with birds singing. The day’s chaperone opens the door and she strolls down to the creek. The screen slams shut while the computer cursor floats over the images, seeks links.

Never, she thinks. Never can she recall anytime worse or better. Yet each recollection collates her emotions into collections of missed chances, chance misses, all chance encounters, no path or purpose. My church window—most likely, glass from a bottle on an anvil—would branch paths predicated on doing nothing; I’m not an expert, she thinks. An expert and a green sweater would be just right in each case.

The polar night of memory courses along protons and electrons, north and south magnetic fields shaping the almond flower in soft moonlight. Stranded dresses turn up in the rock tumbler, polished like sheets of mica.

Almond flower in Jerusalem, photo ©2007 Michael Dickel

Almond flower in Jerusalem, photo ©2007 Michael Dickel

Sunrise, though, its scarlet monopoly on the world, takes backseat to no melody. Floating on the wings of maybe, the woman with the beard stretches arms toward the new day. Gamma floats between alpha and omega, gimel a game between aleph and tav. A single ray of sun hits the creek from under the blood-colored cloud of mourning nostalgia, false memory, flashing like bits of dream.

Love is the law now, physics mixed with mysticism and life a passing energy come to wake matter, stir it to potential beyond physicality. Memory dissipates, evaporates as the fog of dawn clears from her waking mind, a trinket that will traffic in trigonometry across a toad’s forest plaza.

Reflected blocked archway, Nimrod's Castle, Israel. Photo, ©2009 Michael Dickel

Reflected blocked archway. Photo, ©2009 Michael Dickel

Menu for the series

Experimental Chaos  |  Experiment two—The Other Day  |  Experiment three—The Toad’s Garden  |  Experiment four—Reflexive Properties  |  Experiment five—Word-Tossed Salad  |  Experiment six—Deciduous Mirror Reflecting

9 Comments

Filed under Experimental writing