Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Lamentations Part II

Turning to the last date, 3/22/65 today, 1/8/67
 is not as many years away as I had imagined. Since this has been with me all this time I thought to add a note as I prepare to wrap it  - or them - for mailing.
My reading of the Diurnal(s) now is not that of the last days in Japan or aboard ship on a journey returning me, with wife and children born west of the sunset to the Midwest. Then when the Diurnal(s) were given me, I read seeking clues, means of understanding. The understanding , not of philosophy of thought, but of attitudes, human feelings of specific places, persons, events. And then the Diurnal(s) were put aside to be read no more until two days ago. And then are read a new - read as of Morning & Evening coming across, in fact, the opening of Morning & Evening. Said I cannot from memory record the Italian, which sound I can almost hear, resonant in its truth. So the Diurnal(s) read now in the light of the works, the poems and prose works -
But, echoing the personal reading of - how many years ago? reading in this hour also, I find myself having made a voyage and working now at a job, at a "company" - a university which the Governor refers to ages "one of the major industries of Ohio" where the student bookstore changes 300% profit on some supplies, and in a state where the Governor says "what's wrong with profit".
Unable to work, with a chest tight, with breathing labored - breathing as though under a weight on the chest - I find myself in a similar position with the man who brought me here a reflection of myself some years ago - So that in a sense I relive a reverse role(s) that life,or those lives lived entirely in that land wherein all is said to be released. More like the Noh in structure, however, and indeed the Noh did insight me here, on a western stage and those persons, Japanese and American, with whom my past life was linked, "returned" also, instilling here.
But now is time for work, for the past days have been good days. It is right that the Diurnal(s) return now, to you, Frank. It is their time.
To one who claims color blindness, can entrust my instill statements - for myself I confess a blindness in philosophy. I cannot claim to understand, am not trained to, have not the background nor the mind. Still it nourishes; and light reflect be light, enlightens. I ramble with wordings, sadly. But you, friend, have by now learned not to rely wholly on them. As if there is a color you do not see, I know you see, in what I do, so much else.
We have yet along journey. I read yesterday of Redon, who began painting at sixty.

Thursday, December 23, 2010


I hope 2010 was a good year for all.
May 2011 be filled with the love and happiness for everyone.
Happy New Year!

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Frank and Cid - 1975

22nd December 1975

dear Frank,

               Still nothing on GIST (beyond a squib in a St Louis journal - which wd have no effect on anyone -
though it has warm intentions). Eventually there will be some notices - in the small mags. Surprisingly - however- the first report on sales (1st 3 months presumably) far exceeds my expectations: more than 1/3rd of the edition has been sold. If it could move at the same pace for the 1st year - it would be astonishing - but the initial flurry - I suspect - will be the bulk of it. (This holiday season - of course - may help a little.) In the face of such determined silence - it is certainly a notable feat. (It means - amongst other things - that your own work has become visible to a much larger audience than heretofore. Over 1100 copies involved.
               Since I've been given an advance and also purchased a large quantity myself - I'll receive very little income from the book (next fall) - but wd be more than content if the book cd go into a 2nd printing and/or paperback form.
               Your allusion to the "master" is understood - of course. I just received 22-23 from the publishers today and will be reading it later. More immediately moving to me a very self-effacing quiet meditation in prose - that has a lot of poetry in it - by Jaccottet.
               Reading Rimbaud's ILLUMINATIONS in our workshop has radically deepened my regard for him/his powers of vision. MYSTIQUE is a poem there that would approach you. And much else.
               He broke his back (leg/Heart) of course trying to make ends meet - devotedly. I know what it feels like and with you wish too for a little ease in that department. At any rate - warmth in a cold season - and poetry of  "this our art". Love always, Cid

Courtsey of Bob Arnold, Longhouse Publishers & Booksellers, Cid Corman's Estate

Dear Cid,
             I think it is true to say that both Dante and Rimbaud stand behind my Morning and Evening as form (altho the opening as figure has Wittgenstein, whom his work ultimately misunderstood, which his work ultimately shows: he who has eyes stands seriously before that augustimism mysta gogue laconically)
Rimbaud to me wrote the Book of Youth, that is, the New Life - that he did not go on to write his Comedy is one of the sorrows of modern letters, because he of all others had established the foundation - and yes! his eye is one of the finest most natural of our time... of course, I didn't draw form his rebellious side (Miller on that account did more harm for us here - "the Beats" more a wake phenomenon): his resolution of Baudelaire not something to be side-stepped: island-hopping le vous l'aucre! leads to Romantic Disillusionment (and are there not examples today of those poet who pose as materialists poking fun at Romanticism, and yet drawing all their strength and imaging from the I-Dwellers!?) for me Rimbaud is a far deeper philosophical spirit than Mallarme, that is to say, he never bought the Poe postulate which the line Baudelaire-Mallarme-Valery did (Oh! how one shudders under the ramification spicer-Zosky here!).. altho it is seemingly far-fetched there is harmony between Rimbaud (his works) and Wittgenstein (his Tractatus) who sees this! who dears see it!
so you see, the richest richness is the richness of implication which at its deepest is poverty of spirit: subtlety is fine, but over-subtlety is sophistry and of the nature of a tongue twisting glittery technique.
          That you say that there is a poem much else of Rimbaud that would approach me is indeed a high compliment and I thank you (who reads and writes any degree of understanding or vision today! so much to be reaped from my work, but it remains as if far under... Take care, Frank

Courtsey of The Lilly Library, Indiana University, Bloomington, Indiana.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010


in the midst of nature
one remains unobserved
the hidden
               the text
the dissolution
a falling away
before his very eyes

the poet

the master of veils
guards at the same time
the ultimate meaning
of his work

he gives battle
foils every key
the dragon rendered

the pure approach
the fourfold
in their gaze
they enter

never return

inward the eye
Eternity in view

less than dream

going on a ways
approaching water
objects now only

stepping beyond

ground non-existent

extinction complete

nameless formless

the god in wood
shedding light
the extent
the meadow

the adjacent
hill country
the manifestation
three lakes

three planes
springing from
mirrored in
the single eye

This edition consists of 250 copies designed by Cid Corman and printed by Genichido, Kyoto, Japan for The Elizabeth Press.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Lamentations Part 2


To engage contemporary Europeans and American thought in battle one must enter the city and take a stand for the sake of Love's revolution. This is to the point: Rimbaud is not revolutionary.
Made out first visit to Sanjusangendo - took in (that is as we moved along) the 1,000 Kannona & "the principal image" - plus its "subordinate" gods - an impressive sight: calm juxtaposed with aspectual "fierceness". Then we walked along Higashiyama - and some where past the street leading up to Senuji we found a bench in front of a bus stop: the three of us stopped to react and point ourselves toward the final light.

Feel more than ever the need to get back to America - nothing can be done here except to pro-pogandize for these - we've said this before, but as always the iteration won't hurt. If I could come away with some tools necessary for the argument then I should say the time was not wasted. Am I longing for Spring?
Because of the austerities one has set for himself, there is the temptation to fall back on the way of others - for example Baudelaire's etc. How easy it is to fall under the spell of the voice ( the material ideal: the states: nature as furnished by mentality whose presupposition in motion - that is when stripped of its virtual mask, matter as first principal comes thru) that draws one toward darkness.

My songs lament over the failure of individuation to come thru because of the ambiance that renders the will tortuous, therefore where is there a lack of fullness of experience? if one views from the "angle" of our present form of economy then he's always looking for the close up that is type rather then the ambiance that keeps individuation from coming thru. The Comedy is in the direction of the differential - therefore I don't go for that modernity that's of the image of a man's shadow lengthened on a slope in snow.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

My father's Library

My father's library went from NY city all the way to Sun City, Arizona when my parents moved.
My wish was to always have my father's library and to keep it intact.
When my mother finally sold the house in AZ and moved to NJ, I boxed as many books as I could to take back with me to California. Eric, my husband, built me a library so I could display these rare and eclectic collection of books that my father passionately gathered in his life time. My children will hopefully take care of them after I gone.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Reading List - 10/14/77

Click on image to enlarge

My father created this Reading List for John Perlman in 1977.
He then resurrected it for my husband , Eric in the 1980's.
From Homer, Plato Aristotle, Virgil, Augustine to Aquinas, Dante, Shakespeare and Leopardi
it makes for quite a deeping knowledge for ones lifetime.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

A Napkin Poem for Claudia

click on image to enlarge
My dad probably wrote this in the 1970's when I was in high school.

You were given a special outlook -
you don't have to follow it:

but you could hold on to it,
the way anything outgrown is held.

When I was in high school and college all I wanted to be was an artist and follow in the foot steps of my father. He was my inspiration to better my craft as an artist (painter) and follow the spiritual path.
I feel now I can continue that path knowing that I held onto his teachings.

Monday, December 6, 2010


After working in the prison yard, a man in his cell turns to his thoughts to hear deeply: God be praised!
Late at night, a man standing on a subway platform, the trees the homes everything beyond.
You move thru every place, and the feeling persists: some other place home - the memory a fall. But could this feeling be due to just being out of sorts? it has been experienced by others thruout history: it can't be just alienation: the man moves, the angel illuminates, the one the other harmonious, full common society the ground the Holy Spirit the foundation the Way toward final release.
We are now into the days (now) when to expect words from another can cause collapse if the words don't come. Some poets stay amidst nature because they feel - I guess - that to stay in the city is to be abstract: they - unknowingly, of course, falsify: in the country does not guaranty poetry; on the contrary, it is possible (to pay lip service) (to tip one's hat) to the natural sciences under such conditions, that is, the poetic activity there is referable to the position here in the sense that it is there in order to ease the city of its severity: consequently, poetry draws none of its force from either in city or in country. Imagery in toto is species in the Image.
What is better than what a thing is like - even tho what is can only be gotten at suggestively. The practicing of the art of poetry should be enough for the young, but it seems that (the competition competitiveness of situations) forces them to consider making it as the sole (stamp of victory approval). I guess all young poets go thru this: how many later are willing to die for it?

Saturday, December 4, 2010


If one denies most of the tenets of modern literature, then he's in no position to teach. How can I gather myself up? write of the deadness of my movements? I go to work - my return leaves me with no desire to write of a world that can be of no help to Humanity; and yet, my present movement says I must do just that.
It is true that my withdrawal from the literary world is complete,but withdrawal can only mean desire of fame (vanity) - writing is not pride: to write for Humanity God the Subject alters every sense of the writer as personality: therefore, it is not the writer's job to seek art the latest innovations of the day - the principles of the craft are perennial; he has ancient teachers, and with them he silently converses.
If they consider your cold remarks, the perennial rights your; near warm. Not every man should love your speech, nor is it just that such a unanimily exist, but there is Hod Who insights the vision - more enough for any man. A wandering seeking new speech entia mon sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem. It is best that my work remain unknown - the age continues the work of the last 600 years; who's the poet, then?
I'd like to write of friendship, but that's more memorial than actual fact; nevertheless, the memory of it mollifies walks otherwise hapless. Not much time for walks these days - the job tyrannical. It is not possible to teach the young poetry of their sense of (poetry) it is competitive. They seek judgements that have nothing to do with the art, that is, a man gains nothing from being told that his work is stronger than another's: but again, the eye wants no part of a teaching that has God as end, the audience is no sense identifying with a work, release necessarily telic. Here it comes clear: the teaching of poetry says just that we much be heirs of a view that impedes no sense - second that the wholeness of a work is equally given up: from these the audience is fulfilled, the sense the wholeness unimpeded. What happens when the age of false (propagandistic)? the artist must seek the truth doubly. You waste away for want of companions - those who visit you only wail upon a verification that is referable to themselves rather than the common that makes companions participants in the greater life. The rage is gone, but the ambiance remains the same.
What comes upon one that makes him (you) feel that everything has reached its peak, and that everything more to do is over and above! There is separation, and the terrible sorrow of the day reflects it makes us inwardly dual. Maybe this is the way it should be: the life empty for all purposes except the poetry that says God the vision everything lived thru not so bad after all: but this is true at the moment of writing; it has no meaning at the moment of living. Such a conflict can't be real; it must be imposed - from where? - the outside. Does (that this state not) exonerate the sufferer? Wait! don't work on the major poem until there is time - but suppose the time never comes? wait! if.....

(To be continued - one of my father's notebooks - hand-written)

Friday, December 3, 2010

SAPPUNTA - Hawkhaven Press - 2004

una leggera brezza all about me,
especially my arms-
the branches outside my window
give way easily
and just as easily return-
the leaves mostly fully light,
their near companions hardly
shadow to them at all:
so there's not much trouble
in going
from splendore
to raggio
to luce