--William J. HarrisGarbage trucksGroaningGarbage cansBangingCar alarmsSounding offNoisy pushyBirdsWaking me atDawnWith theirSmartass songs
--John BrehmSo sexy to slide under-neath a river,to sit inside thissnakelike sub-marine-likesubway car andfreely imaginethe world above—the BrooklynBridge invisiblytrembling with theweight of itsown beauty,the East Riverstill guided bythe groovesWalt Whitman'seyes wore in it,the bulldog tug-boats pushing thepassively impressivebroad-bottomedbarges around,and the double-decker orangeand black StatenIsland Ferries,with their auraof overworkedpack-mulemournfulness,and beyond themthe Atlantic Oceanwhich I lately learnedwas brought hereby ice-comets threebillion years ago,which explainsa few things, likewhy everybodyfeels so alienated,and of coursethe thoughts beingthought by everyperson in NewYork City atthis moment—vast schools ofundulating fishcurving and risingin the cloud-swirlingwind-waved sky,surrounded bythe vaster emptinessof nonthoughtwhich holds themand which they trynot to thinkabout and youlying in bed inyour sixth-floorwalk-up subleton St. Mark's Place—such a breath-taking ascension!imagining merising now to meet you.
--John BrehmThere's something to be saidfor having nothing to say,though I don't know whatthat is, or isn't, just asthere's something to beknown about not-knowing,which I would tell youif I could. There must besomething to be gainedby losing, a seed of victoryburied in every failure,else I would not be here.Clearly, there's somethingto be desired about beingbeyond desire, as the sagesnever tire of telling us,and nothing more fulfillingthan emptying yourself out—no ground beneath your feet,nothing to hold onto, no handrail,no belief, only this bright self-sustaining air, and a fallingthat feels like floating.
--John BrehmMostly they live in the darkunderwater weed-slitheringcurrents and worry aboutbeing swallowed up by theirmore furious brethren.Some of them have eyesperched atop long thin stemslike flowers. And somehave forty or fifty armspocked with suction cupsto help them stick to thingsand will squirt blackclouds of ink to keepthemselves concealed. Othersresemble subtropicaldottybacks or scaleless deepseagulper eels, with theirvelvety bodies, zipper teeth,and whip-like tails. The fearsomedragonfish—likewise theviperfish, hatchetfish,and bristlemouth—all find theircorollaries in the Red Seaof my heart. Eventhe phantom glass catfish,entirely translucent exceptfor its intestines,is no stranger to my feelings.The unforthcoming among thembehave just like shovelnosestingrays who flop right downin the bottom-ooze and flickthe muck up over them.But some of them, when theyswim too near the surface,find themselves suddenlyexalted, lifted and flyingthrough the air, wind-filled,sunlight-sharpened skyexpanding around them, highabove their proper element—
birdclaws sunk into their backs.
--Chelsea WoodardWide-lobed threes of trillium leaves tapedand labeled, trifoliate veins, wrinkles driedand finite as her penciled marks beneath.My hands are attuned to the weight of pages pressedlong on such fragile anatomies—pistils of lilies,cowslip petals, delphinium halos and bright spikesof iris, ovaries and ovules tenderly picked,patterned and splayed. I know the bodyof desire could fill a book and still spillout. It isn't a question of will, or killingfor pleasure, for beauty that's flattened and lasts pastthe end of one season, where we've lived in bloomand hate to leave. Late February castsits defeatist light and I quit this reliquary now, this room.
ENVOIIn the world of dreams I have chosen my part,To sleep for a season and hear no wordOf true love’s truth or of light love’s art,Only the song of a secret bird.--from 'A Ballad of Dreamland'; Algernon Charles Swinburne
ER: I’ve heard you say many times that nature is comprehensive, that nature is EVERYTHING. That sense of inclusiveness manifests in this book in a way that really reflects your attitudes. Could you cite an example from the book that shows how you perceive such expansiveness?
JC: I’ve been playing a lot with this little string of definitions. Jonathan Skinner was talking with me about how Timothy Morton and some other ecologists want to abolish the word “nature” because it’s become debased, abused, sentimentalized, perverted even. But what I would like is to let the meanings proliferate, even the pile-up of contradictions that come with different definitions. Contradictions are important, by the way, because nature is full of contradictions when you look close.
I mean, we wouldn’t, I think, change “I love you” to “I experience interpersonal gravitation in regard to you,” although “love” has been debased and corrupted.
In the preface at some point I have a few nature definitions listed, and I’ll just read them to you:
Nature is everything and something.
It’s the ocean in which culture swims.
It’s that which is not manufactured.
It’s a stick, a ladybug.
OOOoooooooooooo.
It’s its logic.
It’s causal essence.
It’s a lost purity.
It’s a rose and it’s a photographed rose.
It’s the desire to smash something. Therefore it’s an entity of great simultaneous scale. We need to be in touch with these to some degree all at once.
Incidentally, what I’ve been doing in my current writing in the last couple of weeks—I’ve been trying to make an expanded list of “Nature is,” of really expanded scale. It’s difficult to be selective and still convey infinity.
ER: Along with being encompassing—nature and its great simultaneous scale—what comes through so strongly here is this sense of play. Nature plays amid us, among us, with us. I can’t think of your writing without thinking of the play, whimsy and humor of it. How do humor and nature interrelate or interact?
JC: Yeah. I think play represents freedom from one’s own preconceptions. I think humor is just accuracy. Humor’s mechanical basis is incongruity, and when you look close anywhere, in nature and anywhere else, if there is anywhere else, there is a lot of incongruity. I think the universe is very funny. It’s just seeing that first you have one thing and then another thing too, and there are many ways in which they are mismatched. We tend to slur over these processes and get overviews too quickly, too simply for an overall idea of what we are looking at.
--Jack SpicerAny fool can get into an oceanBut it takes a GoddessTo get out of one.What’s true of oceans is true, of course,Of labyrinths and poems. When you start swimmingThrough riptide of rhythms and the metaphor’s seaweedYou need to be a good swimmer or a born GoddessTo get back out of themLook at the sea otters bobbing wildlyOut in the middle of the poemThey look so eager and peaceful playing out there where thewater hardly movesYou might get out through all the waves and rocksInto the middle of the poem to touch themBut when you’ve tried the blessed water longEnough to want to start backwardThat’s when the fun startsUnless you’re a poet or an otter or something supernaturalYou’ll drown, dear. You’ll drownAny Greek can get you into a labyrinthBut it takes a hero to get out of oneWhat’s true of labyrinths is true of courseOf love and memory. When you start remembering.
--Ted Berriganfor SandyWinter crisp and the brittleness of snowas like make me tired as not. I go mymyriad ways blundering, bombastic, draggedby a self that can never be still, pushedby my surging blood, my reasoning mind.I am in love with poetry. Every way I turnthis, my weakness, smites me. A glassof chocolate milk, head of lettuce, dark-ness of clouds at one o'clock obsess me.I weep for all of these or laugh.By day I sleep, an obscurantist, lostin dreams of lists, compiled by my selffor reassurance. Jackson Pollock RenĂˆRilke Benedict Arnold I watchmy psyche, smile, dream wet dreams, and sigh.At night, awake, high on poems, or pillsor simple awe that loveliness exists, my listsflow differently. Of words bright redand black, and blue. Bosky. Oubliette. Dis-severed. And O, alasTime disturbs me. Always minute detailfills me up. It is 12:10 in New York. In Houstonit is 2 pm. It is time to steal books. It’stime to go mad. It is the day of the apocalpysethe year of parrot fever! What am I saying?Only this. My poems do containwilde beestes. I write for my Ladyof the Lake. My god is immense, and lonelybut uncowed. I trust my sanity, and I am proud. IfI sometimes grow weary, and seem still, neverthelessmy heart still loves, will break.