To begin ...

As the twentieth century fades out
the nineteenth begins
it is as if nothing happened
though those who lived it thought
that everything was happening
enough to name a world for & a time
to hold it in your hand
unlimited.......the last delusion
like the perfect mask of death

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Clayton Eshleman: from PENETRALIA, “The Dream’s Navel”

                                                                   For Stuart Kendall

Gotham Bar & Grill in Manhattan, dining with Caryl, Cecilia & Jim.
At a table near ours, alone, a woman in whose face I saw the face of
At one point she turned toward me:
I could only stay in her black ray lane a few seconds.
   So, here we are. Sipping the cheek timber, the cistern eyes
   of earth’s granite-gated vineyard. 

Freud: “There is a tangle of dream thoughts that cannot be unraveled.
This is the dream’s navel, the spot where it reaches down into the
—where I see a spider, like a mantic mandala, pedipalp-probing its
     way, tracking the shadow of its abdomen… 

Cecilia Vicuña: “the shadow
                          is from the animal
                          you used to be
                          the shadow
                          is from the one
                          you will be
                          the shadow is not from you
                          from them
                          from the one who passes
                          it’s not a shadow at all
                          it is the sound
                          of a shadow
                          it is the shadow
                          of the sound” 

The dream navel is also a knot, tying off mother absence. The cut allowed the child to emerge. What is the Cro-Magnon dream navel?  The discovery of the cave wall as a subjectile, the maternal interior having been replaced by the cave. The point of departure for a meander is the dream navel, that nodal knot from which metaphors blossom in every direction.

Some Upper Paleolithic engravings are of “creatures” only vaguely resembling anything that lived: animal-snouted archai on the leash of,
                 in the harness of,    alchemical mush,
                 like sled dogs bounding in slow motion
                 along Combarelle’s Inner Gallery,
                 heads dissolving into fable drift… 

“In fact,” Gaston Bachelard writes, “a need to animalize is at the origins of the imagination… its first function is to create animal forms.” 

 A wolf spider is staring at me through a Henri Michaux drawing.
“Everything is translation at every level, in every direction.” 

It is all about birth, about having
no berth, about being centerless, a core of ore
loss, a log of stammer steps,
screams of lattice ivy, lettuce driven
mind entwines.

So there is no full release
even for the intestines of articulation
as they process the nurture of experience,
phantasy’s wily slip knots, or spit cots,
the bunk of our ardor, where we are
imprisoned in kittens & door slam states. 

Michaux: “The person who hasn’t been detested has missed something—common failing among the clergy, pastors, and others of this type, who often make one think of cattle. They lack antibodies.” 

We are free only to the degree that we are able to acknowledge our lack of integrity in any moment. 

The hidden forever meaning:
we lie in duplex strata, less stalk than tassel scatter. 

As if the universe were sleep’s debris.
My absence…    As if absence were mine. 

Even Whitman could not see into what he was not,
or the notness of his is, the double not,
no opposition, not-not, the no word abacination of the soul's
blindness to
its own being.

Headless oarsmen rowing the heart skiff through the rainbow of a
ebbing & flowing over the rocks of man’s now quite clearly
unregenerate nature. 

We have lost the temenos,     the imaginative precinct
     in which van Eyck, say,
could orchestrate a specific world,
we who are no longer curtailed by plants.
I continue to feel as if I am crawling around on an outside,
a globe I cannot penetrate, that I cannot get inside of & circulate.
So have I succumbed to a citizen state of mind?
When I let go, I hit this rubber-band backsnap:
No more polar bears. No more honeybees. 

                            It is crying outside. 

          image is the place where I put on my soul,
an inner lining, coiling down into the miracle of
Neanderthal tombstone cupules, Cro-Magnon engravings,
     earliest shamanic hybrids,
               through which a mistress spirit might climb,
electric with Tantrik lesions,
from the serpent lounge latent in
that magic region Artaud so feared
where the soul snake sleeps
until charmed up to that imaginarium where
brain & sperm might wed. 

My mind is a spermal animalcule
impregnated with female blood.
The Muladhara Chakra is not feminine
nor is my imagination masculine.
I reject duality & vote for the orgy of contested mind.
The soul was in exile even at Lascaux. 

Paradise is a form of polymorphous merger
charged by the bathysphere of the poem
rising from engrailings where squirrels reflect,
& robins ruminate, the animal lager… 

The poem is from the beginning a hybrid choir
coughing up ancestral bison in language twisted straits.
Oh the difficulty of the soul! Nothing explanatory grasps
what the poem uncommonly senses
when it is integral to its irony slides,
its Derrida shutters.
                                   Bottom is crossed by
something alive, mythically a crab or turtle
brought up mud, regurgitated it into a Cro-Magnon hand:
red ochre, or manganese, discovered in
the descent, mixed with cave water,
palm pressed against the dream’s navel stone, released,
leaving a “hand” without a hand,
negation’s—or was it absence’s—first
imaginal presence!

Jardin botanique, Bordeaux, 2008.
The bud & spoor density of a mauve Baudelairian incubation.
Tender vines erupting into fanged blooms…
Minute nomadic ants percolate the many-breasted
      Venus of the Plants.
Centuries pass… And the ghost of Henri Rousseau
          glides,   a virgin on a lost ark,
          in chime with cloned obsequies,
                      fertile diapasons… 

Fixed in his webbic grappling,
into the aethercore the poet pours his siliceous soul.

[note.  “The Dream’s Navel” is the final poem in Eshleman’s Penetralia, a collection of 58 poems (mostly from years 2009 to 2014) that Black Widow Press will be publishing this May. Along with two other poems, “The Jointure” and “Nested Dolls,” which come right before it in the volume, it is, as Eshleman himself describes it, “a kind of serial scholarly and imaginative piece, with the penultimate long passage drawing into a single composite focus my sense of what may be involved in poetic inspiration going back into the very ancient past.”  It is in that sense too a fulfillment of what Eshleman once laid out as a path for himself & other poets: “I am speaking of a poetry that attempts to be responsible for all an individual writer knows about himself and his world. It is that simple and that awesome.”  The determination to keep that going over a lifetime is itself to be noted. (J.R.)]

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