longstory's Journal

 I've been so busy on my FIVE WEBSITES.  I've picked up some MAJOR SUPPORT from around the country.

SHIFT HAPPENS!

HUGS,

k8

Williams is very Billy Collins or is it the other way around?

Forgetfulness

The name of the author
is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem
that you used to know by heart.


On Oct 15, 2009, at 10:38 AM, Barry Owen wrote:

> Wow! I was introduced to William Carlos Williams in the poetry class 
> taught by May Robbie at Merced College, ca. 1971.
>
> I loved this little imagist poem from the beginning and easily 
> memorized it (plus Williams's "So Much Depends")
>
> I kept my Williams textbooks for several decades, but never explored 
> his work much further, though he's still considered, I believe, an 
> important American poet.
>
> My interest in Williams has been renewed recently by all the reading 
> I've been doing by and about the Beats. Allen Ginsberg, who has 
> always appeared to me surrounded by light, is a great current hero. 
> As a scrawny young Jewish intellectual with a seriously mentally ill 
> mother and a chaotic home life in Newark, he sought out Williams--a 
> doctor in nearby Paterson--to show him his poetry. Williams was 
> among the first to recognize Ginsberg's genius and potential, so 
> took the boy seriously and encouraged him. So: Hail William Carlos 
> Williams, Poet and Poet Finder!
>
> I saw Allen Ginsberg in person only one time, despite the fact that 
> he was nearly ubiquitous for a couple decades. I wonder if you were 
> there? His old friend, Gary Snyder, who has lived for many years, as 
> I'm sure you know, up on "The Ridge," arranged a gathering of poets 
> at the American Victorian Museum. This was a kind of happening, a 
> potlatch of music, spoken word, spontaneous utterances; it would've 
> been about '77 or '78, I imagine. The audience and the stage were 
> packed. I don't remember who I went with (you? Dianne? Linda Heafey? 
> Kate Doyle?) or who else was there (Corso? Ferlinghetti? Orlovsky?), 
> but I do remember dear old Allen--he would've been just over 50 
> years old--leading us in chanting. Enchanting....
>
> xx,
>
> BrO
>
>
>
>
>
>
> On Oct 14, 2009, at 10:08 PM, kate wrote:
>
>> This Is Just To Say
>> by William Carlos Williams
>>

     I have eaten
>> the plums
>> that were in
>> the icebox
>> and which
>> you were probably
>> saving
>> for breakfast
>> Forgive me
>> they were delicious
>> so sweet
>> and so cold
>
> Barry >