Where are you
now?
In front of my computer in kitchen. I have a
writing studio outside of the house but it’s impossible for me to use it as my
two German Shepherds insist on always being near my ankles (see photo of my
dogs Achilles and Athena under my writing desk). So I mostly write in the
kitchen … which is fine as I rarely cook so that room has to be useful in other
ways.
What are you
reading?
Just finished an advance copy of RESCUE ROAD by Peter Theutlin,
journalism about Greg Mahle who transports rescued dogs from the southern U.S.
where strays proliferate to more adoption-convivial areas. I multi-task read
and current reading includes LUCI: A FORBIDDEN SOTERIOLOGY by j/j hastain; LOST WORDS: THE FINAL JOURNALS OF WILLIAM S.
BURROUGHS; DEXTER IS DEAD, novel
by Jeff Lindsay; NOTES ON CONCEPTUAL
POETRY by Felix Bernstein; 1111
#19, literary journal edited by Hugh Behm-Steinberg; and HEAVENLY TREE, NORTHERN EARTH by Gerrit Lansing. As regards the
latter, I love reading Collected or big Selected Poems projects to see whether
a life devoted to poetry has been worthwhile as determined by the poems (vs.
the poet’s life).What have you discovered lately?
For poetry, I have attempted wide reading for most of the past two decades. I am discovering the limits of this approach, and wondering whether it’s time to narrow the focus in exchange for more in-depth considerations. I also have to up the quality of my fiction reading in order to write the novel I’d like to write.
Where do you write?
For poems, mostly in my mind. I put them down on paper or computer when the time and place is convenient to do so.
What are you
working on?
A new blog focused on poets in or related to Napa
Valley, California. Spreading the word about my just-released book, INVENT(ST)ORY: Selected Catalog Poems &
New 1996-2015 from Dos Madres Press (http://eileenrtabios.com/poetry/inventstory-selected-catalogue-poems-new/). Notes for a novel. And final editing and book
design for three poetry collections coming out in 2016: THE CONNOISSEUR OF ALLEYS (Marsh Hawk Press); THE OPPOSITE OF CLAUSTROPHOBIA: Prime’s Anti-Autobiography (Knives,
Forks and Spoons Press); and AMNESIA:
Somebody’s Memoir (Black Radish Books).
Have you
anything forthcoming?
See above.
What would
you rather be doing?
Eating food prepared by avant garde chefs.
NOTA BENE
EISWEIN
[1]
I forgot the interior, from the beginning, was
stone…. I forgot that stone was the compromise defining the absence of void…. I
forgot how effectively pain obviates abstractions…. I forgot that thing unidentifiable, though it evoked
pink pearls luminescent among a gutted goat’s entrails…. I forgot I was left
with a stone watching itself like a poem in a forest, covered fretfully by
ancient moss, its legacy only a stone toe with its orange paint long faded
(though it lingers in someone’s memory)…. I forgot sunsets call for wine…. I
forgot we agreed to toss away the blindfold so that our ears can become more
than holes for burning stones tossed our way by a cruel race…. Or stones tossed
our way by a passive bureaucrat wielding power over the education of the child
we will never have…. Or stones tossed our way by that obscene combination of
trust fund baby and hedge fund billionaire…. I forgot the absence of green as
my bandaged wing swung to break stalactites.
I forgot that after ice falls, they merely lie on ground, evaporating….
I forgot a mirrored face only partially owns its reflection.
[2]
I forgot the interior, from the beginning, was
stone…. I forgot how effectively pain obviates abstractions…. I forgot paint
can transform canvas to skin. I forgot that when the paint can is empty, only
then will innocence reveal itself…. I forgot we agreed to toss away the
blindfold so that our ears can become more than holes for burning stones tossed
our way by a cruel race…. Or stones tossed our way by a passive bureaucrat
wielding power over the education of the child we will never have…. Or stones
tossed our way by the demands of poverty: how poverty paradoxically narrows the
impoverished focus into the small, then petty, then brutish…. I forgot the
absence of green as my bandaged wing swung to break stalactites. I forgot that after ice falls, they merely
lie on ground, evaporating.
I forgot a long-haired woman exists, but
outside the frame as has been reality for centuries…. I forgot how the sun’s
stare becomes tolerable through the cotton eyelets of another generation’s
apron.
[3]
I forgot a roof tile flew and slate sliced my
cheek. Blood on fingers after brushing
against cheek’s glimmer of bone…. I forgot crackle
of light, dream of icicles and the unpredictability of angles cut by any
creature chased for its nutritious heart…. I forgot that thing unidentifiable, though it evoked pink pearls luminescent
among a gutted goat’s entrails…. I forgot we were swollen underground with rain
as certain elements erased their absence:
whisper
Song
stairway
I forgot the moving prop of clouds can fail to
soften the edges of dark architecture…. Or stones tossed our way by the demands
of poverty: how poverty paradoxically narrows the impoverished focus into the
small, then petty, then brutish…. I forgot the absence of green as my bandaged
wing swung to break stalactites. I
forgot that after ice falls, they merely lie on ground, evaporating…. I forgot
a mirrored face only partially owns its reflection…. I forgot a long-haired
woman exists, but outside the frame as has been reality for centuries.
[4]
I forgot we were swollen underground with rain
as certain elements erased their absence:
whisper
Song
stairway
I forgot the moving prop of clouds can fail to
soften the edges of dark architecture…. I forgot we agreed to toss away the
blindfold so that our ears can become more than holes for burning stones tossed
our way by a cruel race…. Or stones tossed our way by a venal dictatorship…. Or
stones tossed our way by an incompetent health care system…. Or stones tossed
our way by a passive bureaucrat wielding power over the education of the child
we will never have…. Or stones tossed our way by that obscene combination of
trust fund baby and hedge fund billionaire…. I forgot a mirrored face only
partially owns its reflection…. I forgot a long-haired woman exists, but outside
the frame as has been reality for centuries.
[5]
I forgot the interior, from the beginning, was
stone…. I forgot that stone was the compromise defining the absence of void…. I
forgot a roof tile flew and slate sliced my cheek. Blood on fingers after brushing against
cheek’s glimmer of bone…. I forgot how effectively pain obviates abstractions….
I forgot the maddened sunlight into which hostages emptied long-held fears
as they erupted from a robbed bank…. I forgot that thing unidentifiable, though it evoked pink pearls luminescent
among a gutted goat’s entrails…. I forgot I was left with a stone watching
itself like a poem in a forest, covered fretfully by ancient moss, its legacy
only a stone toe with its orange paint long faded (though it lingers in
someone’s memory)…. I forgot a woman shrouded herself in white linen—a poem
invisible but stubbornly transparent until flesh became stone…. I forgot
sunsets call for wine…. I forgot we agreed to toss away the blindfold so that
our ears can become more than holes for burning stones tossed our way by a
cruel race.
[6]
I forgot that when a stone hand cracks, its
pieces will not be caught…. I forgot a roof tile flew and slate sliced my
cheek. Blood on fingers after brushing
against cheek’s glimmer of bone…. I forgot how effectively pain obviates
abstractions…. I forgot crackle of light,
dream of icicles and the unpredictability of angles cut by any creature
chased for its nutritious heart…. I forgot we were swollen underground with
rain as certain elements erased their absence:
whisper
Song
stairway
I forgot a woman shrouded herself in white
linen—a poem invisible but stubbornly transparent until flesh became stone…. I
forgot sunsets call for wine…. I forgot paint can transform canvas to skin. I
forgot that when the paint can is empty, only then will innocence reveal
itself…. Or stones tossed our way by an incompetent health care system…. Or
stones tossed our way by a passive bureaucrat wielding power over the education
of the child we will never have…. I forgot the absence of green as my bandaged
wing swung to break stalactites. I
forgot that after ice falls, they merely lie on ground, evaporating.
[7]
I forgot that stone was the compromise defining
the absence of void…. I forgot a roof tile flew and slate sliced my cheek. Blood on fingers after brushing against
cheek’s glimmer of bone…. I forgot crackle
of light, dream of icicles and the unpredictability of angles cut by any
creature chased for its nutritious heart…. I forgot the maddened sunlight
into which hostages emptied long-held fears as they erupted from a robbed bank….
I forgot I was left with a stone watching itself like a poem in a forest,
covered fretfully by ancient moss, its legacy only a stone toe with its orange
paint long faded (though it lingers in someone’s memory)…. I forgot sunsets
call for wine…. Or stones tossed our way by an incompetent health care system….
Or stones tossed our way by the demands of poverty: how poverty paradoxically
narrows the impoverished focus into the small, then petty, then brutish…. I
forgot the absence of green as my bandaged wing swung to break
stalactites. I forgot that after ice
falls, they merely lie on ground, evaporating…. I forgot flying fish are always
wide-eyed always breathless always look unbelieving.
[8]
I forgot that stone was the compromise defining
the absence of void…. I forgot we were swollen underground with rain as certain
elements erased their absence:
whisper
Song
Stairway
I forgot I was left with a stone watching
itself like a poem in a forest, covered fretfully by ancient moss, its legacy
only a stone toe with its orange paint long faded (though it lingers in
someone’s memory)…. I forgot a woman shrouded herself in white linen—a poem
invisible but stubbornly transparent until flesh became stone…. I forgot paint
can transform canvas to skin. I forgot that when the paint can is empty, only
then will innocence reveal itself…. I forgot we agreed to toss away the
blindfold so that our ears can become more than holes for burning stones tossed
our way by a cruel race…. Or stones tossed our way by that obscene combination
of trust fund baby and hedge fund billionaire…. I forgot the absence of green
as my bandaged wing swung to break stalactites.
I forgot that after ice falls, they merely lie on ground, evaporating.
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