We Who Are About To Die : Eileen R. Tabios

Eileen R. Tabios loves books and has released about 30 collections of poetry, fiction, essays, and experimental biographies from publishers in nine countries and cyberspace. Her most recent is INVENT(ST)ORY: Selected Catalog Poems and New (1996-1915). With poems translated into seven languages, she also has edited, co-edited or conceptualized ten anthologies of poetry, fiction and essays in addition to serving as editor or guest editor for various literary journals.  She maintains a biblioliphic blog, “Eileen Verbs Books”; edits Galatea Resurrects, a popular poetry review; steers the literary and arts publisher Meritage Press; and frequently curates thematic online poetry projects including LinkedIn Poetry Recommendations (a recommended list of contemporary poetry books).  More information is available at http://eileenrtabios.com

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.