Photo in concert at iBeam in Brooklyn, by Peter Gannushkin
“I am a poet of the lyric lineage, favoring the lucidly bent, bare syntax of George Oppen, & the strange torn off clarity of Paul Celan. Mine are poems of compressed language, of a self folded in on itself. It has been said that there is a void in my work, & a trace left by other poets. That void might be filled or left be, at the edge of our correspondence.
“I am a musician as well. As a pianist & composer, music takes place for me as a process of correspondences — between lyric & melody, composition & arrangement, player & player, improvisation & audience — where images & phrases are loosed from their moorings into focused, energetic sound. My poems are therefore, likewise scored, by turns as inscription, & voiced for performance.
“It should be noted that there is an ekphrastic component to some of these poems as well — that I wrote them while “diving in” to recorded sounds by other artists — correlating, in the case of “You Can Know Where The Bombs Fell,” to percussionist, pianist, & sound artist Flin van Hemmen’s recent release of the same name (Neither/Nor, Brooklyn), & in the case of “A Black Box For The Holy Ghost,” to the recently departed avant-grade jazz legend Henry Grimes’ double album of uninterrupted bass & violin improvisations, “Solo” (ILK, Copenhagen). This adds another layer to the process of correspondence for me as well.
“I would particularly like to mention bassist/composer Will McEvoy & drummer Max Goldman for bringing these poems to life recently on our second trio recording together. You can hear two of these poems here on “Lying in the House of You (Piano Day).” This composition of mine will soon feature as the opening track of “Out of Our Systems,” forthcoming on my label, The Bodily Press. This is a collaborative trio, with each player contributing in equal measure. We have no leader. Enjoy!”
—Eliot Cardinaux
Listen to “Lying in the House of You (Piano Day):
LYING IN THE HOUSE OF YOU
I. The SilentCold fire: the
wolves’ eyes flicker
into no one’s language.
II. The Victors
Rain stings the pulse
of the fields we lie in.
Stare loudly into the flames.
III. The Named
Torn from the flowerless rose
I have a single thorn of light
to carve their constellation.
IV. The Lost
I am a stranger, & this is their bread.
The knife is a sky between us.
Break it with your hands.
V. The Hungry
The crater’s wheat is holy.
A whole spent earth
rises mutely over the rim.
VI. The Defeated
My heart still frightened
eases the grasses, lying
in the house of you.
YOU CAN KNOW
WHERE THE BOMBS FELL
After Flin van Hemmen
Right up
against a sound
of singing
Stilling awoken spaces
I can remember
All things
intact
The final creak of it
A sadness
Ghosts
Our dissatis-
faction
The snow static
Elusive
climbs
Led down through
this hope
forever
We did
so simply
Peddle
for all our sins
Your coming-
backness
haunts us sore
Flirtations
Our
bodies in limbo
Collect in
canyons
Holes in stumps
& on trails to
salvation
where mushrooms grow
& the child laughs
& the baby
moves
The scavenger
Floats over
everything
now
When you leaf through
paper
dolls
Each bears
witness a message
TOXIN
I.
Trauma,
that blindness, that
lavender metal,
innocence
crouched like a wound
and its hollowed-out
double,
everthinking
mindbramblestorm.
Look, the way it
holds still.
II.
Remittal,
coin of the unexplored,
you fell upon a mute,
immobile mouth.
The glass erupted,
finger-grazed,
of a dime
of darkness.
III.
How can this leaf
belong to you, mother,
when all the morning sigils
moneychoke
that birthindebtedness;
when the airthorn
tore your voice.
IV.
Defenseless,
you
carve into
silence
the root-
taken
husk,
your
king-under
threat,
fall-silent.
A BLACK BOX
FOR THE HOLY GHOST
In memoriam Henry Grimes
Abusing the bass
in recalling the
tree
Wanting for
space & crowding
the voice with nothing
This specific
image threaded into
assumption
Maria
Maria
Maria
Uncontained testing
certain freedom
Doing
nothing & staying
ahead of anything
Playing the violin
Folk painting
of a dog
Who passed away
Silence
the way
out of sound
& sound
the way out
Someone made a shrine
The temple torn
down around it stands
for the midnight cipher
Somehow some-
where standing in the way of it
we have to move
& standing
In the way
we grow drunk
& tired
Having grown tired
we drink
There’s something in the way
You’re not the only mother
in town
Not the only
lady
Not
the only child
Who’s got his own
Negation
Negation
Negation
Pain
not the only
form of violence prone
to happiness
Leon & Henry
Form
interrupted
by the bass
Only because it is
form
Only because it is
Uninterrupted
Only because it is
What justification
of the unknown
death
What other violent
form
of happiness
Am I writing
Out of & into
Negating
Assumpta
est Maria
est Maria
est Maria
Feeling for the keys
For wrongness
& anything
Now that I listen
Finally in upheaval for
something’s sake
FEUILLES (LEAVING)
Heart
Blown through like
leaves
Obscured
Let the dark minor ring
against a distance
Along unnoticed
Outward
Designs
of frustration
Useless
Given
to fusing
Absence
Dwelling
in abrasion
Noiselessly
considers you
Red,
Was it you
who danced
With some
subtracted
sense
Wheeled-
about,
Un-
spoken
A PATIENT
Sin
I’m leaving
Later told
How does morning
speak
Put on
your shoes
Like everyone
My younger
self put
up
A wall
If I ever get
my hands
on
The carillon
Wringing
What morning
spoke
Coming through
the din
You did something
kind
No comments:
Post a Comment