Friday, July 1, 2016

Hello and Love to All

Hal Johnson asked me and here I am for the month of July in 2016 and you might call this
LARRY AND FRIENDS since I just emailed for poems and any comment about "what you're up to" and most people sent in poems. To me this is further revelation that increasingly all poetry is local. Traditionally way back there were national entities of poetry, national poets even, but now there are entities within the national - poetry reading and publishing confabs in pockets entities just about everywhere. The populace of poets growing all around broken up into localities of us bards, bardic yawps everyplace. The locality I live and breathe in is Placitas Albuquerque Las Cruces Santa Fe Taos El Paso mainly but more often it's just plain ole Albuquerque-Placitas. The Facebook and email/website reaches are constantly extending and over time dear friends are in their own localities wherever increasingly.

So the poets here are some of the poets informed by the longstanding living locality plus the reachings out as everyone experiences, that growth - online, Facebook, music and "document" sites.

So welcome to all and thank you for sending poems and news and as long as my time allows (constantly being demanded on) please continue to send on here if you are indeed in some way a friend, a true acquaintance, surely you're welcome and I'll do my best. larrynewmex@gmail.com


For information about me it is embarrassingly all too available with more coming as I continue my project HEAR making much of my poetry work finally available. http://www.larrygoodell.com/  And I can't help but recommend my 3 new books from Beatlick Press. And thank you, Hal.

Rudolfo Anaya

Years ago Rudy and Patricia Anaya, along with David Johnson, Tony Mares, Jim Fisher and others, launched the Rio Grande Writer's Association which boosted poetry and all creative writing across the state and the SW . . . Voices of the Rio Grande came out of its first conference and it remains the groundbreaking anthology for us in these parts . . . thank you, Rudy . . . and thanks for sending this . . .



The Pulse of Life



It was the twelfth of June
            another hot and humid Florida night.
In Orlando young people gathered at the
            Pulse Club, enjoying camaraderie, the
            dance floor pulsating with life,
            dancers moving to syncopated music,
            Latin rhythms, good will embraces,
            laughter, friendships, plans for
            tomorrow, flashing smiles releasing
            stress in silent motions.
Then the pulse of life ended.
            A man on fire came from a dark,
            twisted place, methodically spraying
            death, massacring our LGBT
            dancers who fell like cut flowers.
Pulses died in 49 bloodied wrists,
            blood pressures plunged to zero,
            juices of life that would never
            flow into the future stained
            the sad dance floor.
Shock spread across the country,
            across the world, enough grief
            to last many lifetimes.  Lost lives
            cannot be replaced.
Orlando pulled together, offering
            condolences and help.  From here
            we sent flor y canto, oraciones,
            flowers and poems, prayers.
            Left bereaved on this senseless
            plain, we wondered who killed the
            Golden Rule, Love Your Neighbor.
We mourn our fallen comrades, our
            gay sisters and brothers, and after
            grieving we march to tear down the
            barricades of hate, bigotry,
            prejudices.  We march to tear down
            walls that separate.

                                                ©2016 Rudolfo Anaya

                                                6/19/16

Hi, Larry, good to hear from you. Yes you may use my poem in TRUCK . . . . New, just out, my new novel, THE SORROWS OF YOUNG ALFONSO, reviewed by David Stenburg in [The Albuquerque] Journal.  . . . Keep well my friend, Rudy. . . Keep well my friend,  Rudy


Jules Nyquist

Gun Crazy


            Gun Crazy is a film noir movie from 1950 directed by Joseph H. Lewis.

Does it start with boys and bb guns
Aiming at anything that moves
Including the dog?
Movie theater madness
Bonnie & Clyde

The Judge asks the boy
Why did you do it?

I don’t know, he says.
My sister says shooting is the only thing I’m good at.
It’s what I want to do
When I grow up.

I feel good when I shoot
Like I’m somebody.


Jules Nyquist






Haiku


white yucca flowers
irreversible time
at Trinity Site





Jules Nyquist is the founder of Jules Poetry Playhouse, LLC in Albuquerque, NM where she teaches poetry classes and invites visiting poets to read.







Mitch Rayes

I've been working on writing my Chiapas years, and I got a manuscript under consideration . . . . Here's a new poem for Chiapas poet Joaquin Vasquez Aguilar.


Joaquin



in a forest in the clouds far above your adopted city
zapatistas emerge from the shadows
to answer their time to fight

alone in a room
you retreat forever from the battles of the living

waves pound the sands of your birthplace
there is a flash in the water
your brother abandons his nets
hurries to catch the last bus to tuxtla
only to find you already lifeless

the swallows ask about you
and I offer them a morsel of Whitman
to carry back to their secret chambers
to see if it finds you
in the most stubborn droplet of the deepest calcium

and I trace my regrets in a saucer of salt
on the flimsiest table of our favorite cantina
to see if you might join me again
after one more drink

and I place a thank you
into the longest pause of our final handshake

for the words you have gifted us
for the years
as they carry us closer to the darkness that shines

closer to you


Mitch Rayes






Margaret Randall

I cannot speak for the gun


I cannot speak for the gun
doing its ugly job
in George Zimmerman’s overeager hands.
I cannot speak for those eighteen ounces
easily concealed in any pocket.

Easy to guess what George’s intention was,
too easy to imagine the terror
in Trayvon’s eyes,
the grief his mother holds
four years beyond her loss.

The Law never found Zimmerman guilty
or condemned his crime.
And Martin could not know
his death would bring a nation
into the streets

or that hundreds of other black youth
would have to die, gunned down
by white policemen
or self-styled protectors
of an order that runs by exception

in this country where Law protects
the men who write it, works
for white, fails for black, rich
or poor, genders
that matter or don’t.

Now George Zimmerman auctions
the gun that murdered
Trayvon Martin. He’s asking
$5,000, promises some of the money
will go to fight Black Lives Matter

because, simply put, they don’t matter
to him. Will this gun’s new home
turn its barrel around
or lure another trigger finger
in wait?

I cannot speak for the gun or the men
who love caressing its fever.
My job is finding the words
that describe the weapon’s threat
exactly.


Dear Larry:
Here's a new unpublished poem for you.
About Naropa, I'm about to go up to Boulder to teach in week 3 of Naropa University's Summer Writing Program (SWP). I've been doing this almost every year for the past decade. It's always thrilling: long days and hard work with serious students, plus the thrill of hearing the other visiting poets and writers read and lecture. Naropa . . . Started by Chögyam Trugpa Rinpoche and Allen Ginsberg, Anne Waldman took it over after their deaths, and her special gift for imbuing it with energy and creative exuberance permeates every part of the experience. I hear there are still openings for those interested in attending Week 3 (beginning June 26th) and Week 4 (beginning July 3rd). Week 3 features Tisa Bryant, Julie Carr, Corrine Fitzpatrick, Colin Frazer, Gloria Frym, Renee Gladman, Laird Hunt, Steven Taylor, Danielle Vogel and myself, with special guest Richard Tuttle. Week 4 features Charles Alexander, Junior Burke, CA Conrad, Christian Hawkey, Valentina Desideri, Thomas Sayers, Ellis and Janice Lowe, Thurston Moore, Eileen Myles, Julie Ezelle Patton, Paul Van Curen, TC Tolbert, and Anne Waldman . . . .  I'll be there, teaching and learning . . .

Love, Margaret.


Anne Lynn MacNaughton



General Relativity: to Osaka Bay

we fly west
to go east
passing the moon

Anne MacNaughton




Anne is the silken voice of history illuminating the present and bringing us in to a deeper sense of the now, now-now, the now of all time that includes the past and is evidence of the future.



a little collage in appreciation of Peter Rabbit Max Finstein
Anne MacNaughton and the Taos Poetry Circus Renaissance





D.R. Wagner

ABOVE THE WORDS



Already the poem no longer belongs to me.
Its road of miracles shows wondrous horses
Shining with brilliance even in the darkest of nights.

My voice shakes above the words.
It is no longer witness
To the weather, or the moon,
Or this silent scratching upon
Whatever beach this is, catching
Waves like tears, voices
Heard only in sleep.

Still, I can see you.
Even without time collected
Around you.  You are more
Than breath to me now.

We are as intimate as lovers
In a carriage, in an unknown city,
Plying the streets all of the night.

The clatter of our horses hard
Against the cobblestones as we
Make love to one another, again and again.

Street lights flashing past, falling
On our naked flesh.

D. R. Wagner


Douglas Blazek & D.R. Wagner (photo courtesy of D.R.)





Jim Fish

THE GOOD LIFE




The early morning meditation
Picking wild cherries
In the orchard
In the upper reaches
Of the historic village of Placitas
Qualifies
As part of the good life
Of making wild cherry wine

Some years ago
Later in my dad’s life
He and I were riding
At the ranch
Where I grew up
And
Where he lived the better part of his life
We rode thru the landscape
Looking
Listening
Talking
At the top of a ridge
He stopped his horse
And turned to me

            You know
            I never got rich
            But I have always been surrounded
            By wide open spaces


My brother calls it
The Church of the Original Creation
He attends the sermons
As both the pastor
And the audience of one
Often times
The sermons take place
At the Milton Puckett Ranch
Ten miles south of Fort Stockton
On Wednesday afternoons
After he closes his veterinarian clinic at noon
For the day
Sometimes
He holds a weekend retreat
With himself
Thirty miles southwest of Marfa
On the W. E. Love Ranch


Sometimes
He leans back in his recliner
On a Sunday morning
With a cup of coffee
To watch some game he recorded the night before

Late June
Early July
Finds me

Picking wild cherries

Jim Fish

Jim is the generous fruit wine vintner and owner of Anasazi Fields Winery in Placitas. His hand-built place, mostly adobe structure, has a PA, seats, and welcoming atmosphere for poets, musicians, artists . . . it was the home of the Duende Poetry Series of 11 + years. Bravo to Jim! (photo is from both of us)

Brendan Douthit

"I'm Brendan Douthit, Anne MacNaughton's son. She suggested I send a few poems of mine  . . . "

Thank you Brendan.



New Strings of Silk



new strings of silk
between me and my morning chair
bright light
sunrise tethered
optic fiber
back and forth
back and forth
on air
I walk the long way






Raised by Old People



Mowgli was raised
by wolves

Tarzan was raised
by apes

I was raised
by old people




RASQUACHE



I was gonna tape
the tape
but realized the tape
hadta be retaped


Brendan Douthit

Michael Boughn

larry . . . here from a book I am working on -- it's called Hermetic Divagations.

thanks Michael - I love "contracted//loss of laundry day vulval/extasis somehow ends up/with electromagnetizing Freemasons" - and that's not all . . .


[2-15]

Where you go is part
deflection, part memory
of water. Then she is there

terrified but splendent. War
raged, a word of incandescent
complications in later contexts

she would ignore, it rends
earth and sky, the shock announces
strange opening alive

with electrical energy
of the Celestial Bed. In thrall
to the Whore of Babylon electrifies

sex beyond acceptable
sociological standards of simply
explicable agony and contracted

loss of laundry day vulval
extasis somehow ends up
with electromagnetizing Freemasons

dancing politely while exact
intellectual components, olive
green, suggest distant mist

wreathed lake, embrace her in other
harmonious analogies as some
one who knows what was lost

Michael Boughn


Poet and teacher Robin Blaser on the left, Michael on the right,
Notable among other notable items: The H.D. Book by Robert Duncan
edited by Boughn and Victor Coleman, UC Press.