I hate endings. Just detest them. Beginnings are definitely the most exciting, middles are perplexing and endings are a disaster. . . The temptation towards resolution, towards wrapping up the package, seems to me a terrible trap. Why not be more honest with the moment? The most authentic endings are the ones which are already revolving towards another beginning. That’s genius. Somebody told me once that fugue means to flee, so that Bach’s melody lines are like he’s running away...  

.......--Sam Shepard

About twenty years ago, when I was becoming familiar with Shepard as a playwright rather than just a Hollywood actor, I picked up from the library a grainy VHS copy of an American Playhouse production of True West. The performance was from the early 1980's and starred emergent actors, John Malkovich and Gary Sinise. And it is absolutely explosive, Malkovich in particular. Never has there been a more mercurial rapscallion to stagger across the stage. 90 minutes of poignant, ominous hilarity that mercilessly digs in the suburban male psyche. Lunatics you know through family, workplace, watering holes, sports arenas, political stages.... Remastering doesn't exist, a tape version is virtually impossible to find, but (at least for the moment) you can piece ten or so clips together on Youtube.

From  'Two Prospectors: The Letters of Sam Shepard and Johnny Dark' (via Brain Pickings):

Dear John, 

One thing I realize I love about the ‘letter’ as a form is that it’s conversation; — always available. You can just sit down any old morning & have a conversation whether the person’s there or not. You can talk about anything & you don’t have to wait politely for the other person to finish the train of thought. You can have long gaps between passages — days can go by & you might return & pick it up again. And the great difference in all other forms of writing is that it is dependent to a large extent on the other person. It’s not just a solo act. You’re writing in response to or in relationship to someone else — over time. I think that’s the key — over time. We’re very lucky, I figure, to have continued the desire to talk to each other by mail for something like 40 years. But then again, what else were we going to do? It is probably the strongest through-line I’ve maintained in this life... 

Everything else seems to be broken — except, of course, my other writing which has been with me constantly since about 1963. I’ll never forget the elation of finishing my first one-act play. I felt I’d really made something for the first time. Like the way you make a chair or a tale. Something was in the world now that hadn’t been there before.... 

Another beautiful morning here. Dew on the pasture. Horses grazing. It’s a ‘Kentucky Bluegrass’ postcard. Just a hint of fall in the air, the humidity has lifted & it’s like somebody just pulled a big heavy blanket off yr shoulders.

SPEAKER: (flat, monotonous tone)

I'm writing you this today from a very great distance. Everything here is fine. I'm hoping everything there is fine with you. I'm hoping you still miss me as much as you once did. I know that I miss you as much as ever. I'm also hoping this reaches you as soon as possible. 

Something happened today which you might find amusing. I know I found it amusing at the time. A dog came into the hotel and ran around the lobby. Nobody know what to do. Everyone was in a stew. 

Here's hoping this finds you in good health.

All my love,
Larry
.
sharp accent on cymbal
.
All the best,
Stuart
.
sharp accent on cymbal
.
Warm regards,
Mel
.
ring on bell of cymbal
.
Yours,
Nat
.
flat punch, edge of cymbal 

.
With fond wishes,
Randy
.
let cymbal ring out
.
Sincerely,
Mathew
.
flat accent, cymbal
.
Cordially,
Josh
.
bright ring, cymbal
.
Your loving husband,
Stanley
.
sharp splash, cymbal
.
Your oldest son,
Tom
.
sharp accent, cymbal
.
Your faithful servant,
Daniel Eric
.
sharp crash, cymbal
.
Respectfully,
Mitchell Lewis Scott
.
very sharp accent, cymbal
.
Yours as always,
Rebecca
.
cymbal rings out
.
Lovingly,
Andrew
.
soft, bell tone, cymbal
.
With all my heart,
Jacob
.
soft, short tone
.
Forever,
Lucille

--from Tongues; Sam Shepard (1978)

[Vincent van Gogh (1888) ].......

These wonderful things
Were planted on the surface of a round mind that was to become our
....present time.
The mark of things belongs to someone
But if that somebody was wise
Then the whole of things might be different
From what it was thought to be in the beginning, before an angel
....bandaged the field glasses.
Then one could say nothing hear nothing
Of what the great time spoke to its divisors.
All borders between men were closed.
Now all is different without having changed
As though one were to pass through the same street at different times
And nothing that is old can prefer the new.
An enormous merit has been placed on the head of all things
Which, bowing down, arrive near the region of their feet
So that the earth-stone has stared at them in memory at the approach
....of an error.
Still it is not too late for these things to die
Provided that an anemone will grab them and rush them to the wildest
....heaven.
But having plucked oneself, who could live in the sunlight?
And the truth is cold, as a giant's knee
Will seem cold.

[.....


xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx....]

A last world moves on the figures;
They are smaller than when we last saw them caring about them.
The sky is a giant rocking horse
And of the other things death is a new office building filled
....with modern furniture,
A wise thing, but which has no purpose for us.

Everything is being blown away;
A little horse trots up with a letter in its mouth, which is read
....with eagerness
As we gallop into the flame.

--from A Last World; John Ashbery

This Room
--John Ashbery 

The room I entered was a dream of this room.
Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine.
The oval portrait
of a dog was me at an early age.
Something shimmers, something is hushed up.  

We had macaroni for lunch every day
except Sunday, when a small quail was induced
to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things?
You are not even here.

PBS had a brief remembrance of John Ashbery when he died a few weeks ago. Included was an interview but I wouldn’t recommend paying a whole lot of attention to it as John Ashbery did not like interviews. From Interview magazine:

ASHBERY: I don't read my poems very much after I've written them besides at a reading. I put them away and then it's on to something else. I mean, I'd love to say yes, and that would be wonderful for this interview, but I'm just not good interview material. And yet, people always want to interview me. And, of course, the interview is a tragic fact of our time.
FITZGERALD: Why?
ASHBERY: In order not to deal with things, people interview them or their creator.
FITZGERALD: The interview's a form for people to avoid encountering the art itself?
ASHBERY: I probably shouldn't be saying this for Interview magazine.

Instead I make the PBS reference for the comments section. EarthSpeak provides a good rundown for everything John Ashbery wasn’t, which is as a good place to start as any for appreciating his poetry. Now why the general public largely expects strict sanctimonious authenticity from poetry, unlike all other art forms where non-utilitarian facets are widely accepted and enjoyed on a daily basis, I’m not too sure. Possibly I can blame the politicians.

 ...3.
Now, only the willing are fated to receive death as a reward.
Children twist hula-hoops, imagining a door to the outside.
If we tried to leave, would being naked help us?
And what of older, lighter concerns? What of the river?

Children twist hula-hoops, imagining a door to the outside,
when all we think of is how much we can carry with us.
And what of older, lighter concerns? What of the river?
All the behemoths have filed through the maze of time.

When all we think of is how much we can carry with us
small wonder that those at home sit, nervous, by the unlit grate.
All the behemoths have filed through the maze of time.
It remains for us to come to terms with our commonality.

Small wonder that those at home sit nervous by the unlit grate.
It was their choice, after all, that spurred us to feats of the imagination.
It remains for us to come to terms with our commonality
and in so doing deprive time of further hostages.

--from Hotel Lautréamont; John Ashbery (1927 - 2017)

Autumn approaches
and the heart begins to dream– 

--Bashō

Haiku- Summer 2017

an open doorway 

filled full with light

and bird songs

quiet avenue

with the warmth of the sun-

memorial day

across the table

from me sits an empty seat

filled with sunshine

backyard chatter light fading into fireflies

a dragonfly perched

on the tip of a reed-

morning meditation

children swinging

only just so high above

clouds of dust

sunday evening,

through empty yards

a breeze strolls

dog days of august,

the yard out back starts

to tell it's story

morning crickets

for a moment I forget

what day it is

[ Plans We Made For Every Summer ; Justin Santora ].../.....