From: "michael helsem"
To: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: book1 Date: Thu, 06 May 1999 10:27:43 PDT Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-type: text/plain; format=flowed; Content-Length: 5372 Status: O Following is explain-prose about this poembook entitled "Moon River": One could argue that the word 'poem' requires in Lojban that an audience for the poem at least potentially exist. Or else one writes 'word arrangements'. Likewise with poem-conventions. But i say it is not the case that genres of poetry arise solely from either prototype-imitation, or the established genres of an alien tradition. There is something in the relationship of a language to the situation of its people in time, space, & necessity, that creates & fulfills genre-potential. One might call it 'specific-image hunger'. (This & this alone is the succeed-measure for an artist.) And it will be those who recognize themselves in the mirror of this art, who constitute the powerful new poetry audience. "Language-Rose": Once it seemed that Durationness had lost the power of procreation. Language crept along in a line-group like a onewide road full of heavy trucks. It seemed like everything had finished being expressed, even noiselessness. The amount of nation-languages was decreasing, & only semi-language thrived. Morninglight & the smell of a mountain forest. JCB asked, 'What do humans need? What is the cause of our troubles?' --No, it wasn't like that. A child played on the banks of a lion-colored river, while all around him were living stars fallen from the other-sky. We shall celebrate the marriage of Strangeness & Clarity, but first there shall be war in Heaven. Nothing is more strange to the human mind than logic, so the Trickster gave JCB the spirit of straight lines to preside over his invention. Nothing could be more needed or desired by the mass of confused-ones, than clarity, so the Goddess of Understand-Explain gave JCB a thick pile of explanation-paper. And it was good. And PrometheBob took the language-fire & gave it to the people. And that was even better. We are go-climbing out of the pit of Babel. We are singing the cough-song of a place where the myth-smoke is most dense. We are calling for the joining of Jokegod & Understand-Strong Goddess, & the only language that is not perhaps, a Virus from Outer Space. "The wind of the wing of Lojban-music": One had not yet spoken of the mountains of Lojbanistan, or of their deep purple shadows. Of the animal fast-ones & the plant slow-ones. Of the sky a color which no one elsewhere has perceived. Of the cabbages & of the kings, & of the sorghum & of the wise-vendors. Of the forgetters or rememberers or those who neither remember nor forget Middle Lojban. Of the haiku & of the Drottkvaett. Of word-arrangements & of poems about what is not yet expressed about Lojbanistan. Of the stars & of star-goddesses. Of the earthquakes & of butterflies that live forever. About the preceding, regardless of it, one had not yet spoken about the seas. "Teardrop Road": Event of neither fate nor the absence of fate, -sub-N. Dissolver (alienation!). Morning drive of the pertaining-to-'Me Habit' thing. Street-across shadows are the journey south, intermittently, with new machine-noises. I weak-understand the emotion of returning to the same place in the planet-route. Not memory but something more physical. Moment-intense lightpain in the semi-conscious story-flow. --As-if collide (fear!)!!(anger!) Utter: 'You God-opponent Driver!' And i resume going. "Head Ransom": Rejoice! now that the textbook is done, O ye of Lojbanistan, whether or not you speak the language. "Blackbird Shadow": The mosquelike poem contains no pictures. The poisonous-snakelike poem lies in wait. The old-carlike poem sometimes stops working before the journey's end. The highest-fruitlike poem remains in the sun. In a coffeehouse imaginary to me, i write & fail to describe it. "The feeling of being free": In the result-of-removal all-nest, one doesn't understand another. Green & ironic beverage kind of smell-memory (familiarity!). (Strangeness:)[That sofa fire was a pseudo-event. Ask something else of me, dear. Poem-audience tomato. Red, blue & green soft-floor thingy (very strange!). Not that we are other-sky thingy walkers] when on the verge of the thingy across-process during which (we) discuss the Asiatic vegetable-shape, really. "Y2K & This River": Unclean water whether empty or full. (Effort!) The long ago me-sad one was like that. She was unhappy when chemical-without (strong pity!). Or else cruel-powerful when chemical-with (intense-guilt!). For a long time i would ask what earth-evil she was heir to, in the time before two jointly-began. The last time (i) saw her was in a break from 'diving' toward the usual place, & we (fear!) did-the-usual (not-her-anymore!). "Beggars Can't be Choosers": The superfective leaf, yellow-green or orange-red or red-brown, with what knowledge ceases to remain; & does this knowledge bring an answer to the broken-thing in my hands? Or is it only a stage in the process i already escaped? For the next to the last time, i promise-utter. Break the broken. Magic-word meaning the end of hoping. "Book Like I Used to Have": Barely i remember past awe, a 'moon shadow'. Do you think this Coke left in the car still retains its Coke-ness, after a couple of heatings to 120-plus? _______________________________________________________________ Get Free Email and Do More On The Web. Visit http://www.msn.com