Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Tribute to Peter Karassic, June 2013

Peter Karassik, sculptor, artist, spoon and useful object maker . . . left me with his imagination calligraphy on hanging banners . . . so in memory of that and in a bit of a tribute are these small pages from my current notebook . . . these dedicated to Peter.



*

7 Panels of Writing by Peter Karassik
ca 1969, Gift of the Artist






Karassik, 3 Panels (left)




Karassik, 4 Panels (right)





Karassik, 6th Panel (larger)





Peter these days, up in Oregon
Hello Peter! We love you and are forever grateful for your introducing us . . . 
it led to 45 years of marriage so far . . .
hello and love to you Lorraine!
larry goodell & lenore



Thursday, August 1, 2013

A Poet



Am I a poet, a light weight, a semi-heavy weight, a know-nothing, a pretender, an almost, a middle-weight, a fluff, a reality, a songster, a magician (pretend), a bard of the ha-ha clan, a bad-ass performer, a heart-evangelist, a minstrel, a skald, a scop, a rhapsode, a wordist, a poetaster, a poetatoo, a word writer, a song writer, a lyracist, a diddler, a doddler, a doodler, a listener, a journal writer, a note taker, an improviser, an open-ear responder, a receptionist, a word-wrangler, a scribbler, a creator, a recognizer, a maker, a guy with a fountain pen and a notebook spending too much time at the computer . . . 


larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / 2013 08 01







Like a house balanced on the tip of your tongue, my poetry is self-contained to this place. 
Making things is my disposition, a carpenter of air.



larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / 2013 07 31

Sunday, June 23, 2013

Iris and Iris, 2 Poems from 1977





This little booklet, hand sewn with yellow thread and cover bordered in gold pencil, came from early August of 1977, year of the NYC 25 hour blackout, Jimmy Carter pardoning the Viet Nam draft dodgers and announcing we must do something to counteract our massive oil consumption, and the year the World Trade Center was finished . . .  larry goodell


     The following poem, also for the goddess Iris (and her equivalents), is read left to right first line, right to left second line and on back and forth. The arrows will clue you which lines are to be read backwards. You can see it also in this parcel of broadsides from the 70's: 6 Broadsides from the 70's from duende press



I R I S
 
"I prefer the unknown." 
Jack Spicer  


Iris I cant find out anything about you but I love you and am yr wings
out fish I all is gods the of messenger intertwine we and mine are you or
of this cavern. I prefer to be alone & with you lightly bearing the snake stick
hair of flowers the off headband the kissing other each up & around coil we
falling down I pick up and fall down in you touch air which is yr purity
race up light up lit particles out burst speckled rainbow the of rain
the sky to the other end of the world together forever doing good to each other
soft count that ways little the ,way the pointing goods delivering
in yr soft hair I love you till the rainbow plunges in dark count of
.together cave the into us forcing us against down bearing rocket the
There is no other way but the way of the unknown as you came to me
hair and face my washing morning the in up sun prism the from blinding
and lift to do the day, that way I know. "You do your poems!" someone
tickling earth of ends the as true ,friend a was it and me at shouted
between the toes where shallow rivulets fall down between me and the nearest friend
intertwine we and fly and direct but ask not do dear true only my you
vines up each other to the bloom of the first sunflower turning red to attract the hummingbirds
up me holding ,voice no ,earth no ,spaceless being ways our in set are we
the airy innards spilled out in the lay of love, the old singer’s voice
around dancing and alone other each on back splashing ,cracking ,clacking
counterclockwise on toes tipping up and off the earth forever.
 

/6August77
larry goodell



this is a duende press tattered old manuscript broadside was resurrected february 2006 as part of 6 Broadsides from the 70's using Issuu & Scribd. larry Goodell

Saturday, June 15, 2013

Walking Hawk





























pot with poem in it -
mix up strips (lines) and read


. long hair is a scaffold for blowing out yr brains


. a Nixon nugget is a nuxin Nigget


. Survival is kitchen napkin


. they want the most violent image to tear their tissue paper


. revolution is a dragass minority in rear


. it defeats the purpose not to be named


. it pops into yr head


. do you want another he said pouring charcoal out the sewer


. I cocktailed inefficient Sunday     rock     rock


. nematode is no toes


. flash on cards


. a heap of Sundays


. on cards


. freeflowing Tuesdays jacks yr diamonds


. change attire    retire


. going out on Sunday


. sundancers


. keep in towards


. leaping hinges


. a jack in time multiplies the dime


. reaches on Sunday


. what you can’t reach on Monday


. it’s terrifying what language does to him


. I am used     ill-used


. leaping high in vineyards


. language to put in a pot


. take it out on Sunday     & leave it there


. a make to brace


. a challenge for Europe


. old electric dildo     catching a snooze


. I’ll never make you on Tuesday


. make you mind


. I am out on Tuesday


. tie it all together with a mop & sop


. how many wafers do you have in yr corn


. donuts        donuts


. in each case there was a case to shake


. other than that it was stone pussy


. jack off backwards


. I come first    then play all day


. that is    your ferris wheel rocking


. knocking them off


. sugar towards   Christian hippies   knock them off


. a meeting on Sundays


. knock them off


. a meeting on Tuesdays     time to get up


. don’t go out     go out


. time to get out


. whack a steward


. this is not the first time     the first time


. I never slept with you


. are you minding yr puddings & yr pants


. don’t breeze off     too soon.


. a jacket on Tuesday  


. a meeting on Tuesdays


. rock my wind pardner


. a hanging cob justifies the brain


. you get too much money     for what you do


. his peter was up higher than his salary


. I’m not going to be pleasant     pleasant


. I’m going to fill this soap notebook up


. wipe yr ears clean


. adjusted images     a deviled pig


. where it’s at was where it rot


. don’t look at it 2 ways     upside down


. pick it up & lay it down along the pot


. images on Tuesday    Monday’s Sunday


. I’m red    you’re dead


. she comes itching out of her period


. periodicity is a dish for a period


. get up & ejaculate the dawn


. a rooster is a quick pulling hen


. my sex is yr sex     disaster


. playing with the trucks


. he done fuck himself with rapid cleanser


. a solid formation on the cup


. a releasing thru


. he cd hear the fly buzzing after it was dead


. the fly wasnt dead


. take it out on time


. the precious nowhere escapes me


. the face of Cain is the ass of Able


. are you able Tuesday


. Aaron is Monday     Tuesday is Sunday


. all school functions are decrepit


. a school is a walking hawk


. the hawk that walks


. he realized he cd go on forever so he stopped



larry goodell / placitas, new mexico



This was written 18th August 1972, with procedure "pot with cards in it – shuffle & read." For now printing the poem double or triple spaced and then cutting each line out with a paper trimmer works fine. The pot I'm using here I unearthed out on Rio Grande Blvd. in North Valley of Albuquerque when I was living there & teaching at the Academy For Boys (Albuquerque Academy). . . 



Notebook #14, back cover. I had finished the "Staff" a poetry performance piece and/or serial poem, and herein started on the "Bowl of Ometeotl" . . . . 


a page from "Walking Hawk" which is also in this NB.

I find it interesting to look at the full-blown original writings of a poem (any poet's poem), the notebook, the papers, the surroundings, the time and place, the "3 dimensionality" of the poem in specifics . . . to get a sense of the context and gift-offering of the poem . . .

love to all,
larry


Sunday, April 14, 2013

On The Mesa



                                                                                                                     for Don and Pamely Lichty


There is much love that goes wasted on the sides of morning
when "skating in Vermont" means living in the desert
& sitting on top of the world is a delicate song
rocking with the windmill from Jemez to the Sangres
the same old steps again Wisconsin New York Kansas Europe
bobbing with the knocking in groan Tibetan horn wind-
mill burns the Peter Hurd off the canvas morning where
the panorama stares back Sandias in the morning
cobalt blue the haze forever lifted from the eyes as
we walk up the ladder thru adobe built up to the cedar
bedroom out to see the new roof flat black asphalt
mopped under pebbles & the frying pan full of piss
to float eyes out from this top of the mesa
into love that goes wanting in disheveled cities slid
awkward down the pilings of earth twist out
& fold levels fold & geology present Miller's
from Milwaukee or Azusa or Fort Worth sitting
on the mesa tipped in tipped in love gone sliding thru
stuff under tarps woodpiles things live underneath
our pointer after mice birds wind & exotic
religion sides with our insides     you connect the landscape 
as land forms form out     chile & beans with salt pork 
pressure cooked   stares in the afternoon Die-Hard battery 
to work the TV seldom on just looks & doesnt look back
we have filtered out our present built up our logs on 
this ship launched out
added special twists & uncorked Tulemare Dew made
Irish coffee & worshipped night      in daytime
way way north of Placitas     the road turns
around where you live     & everything stands
up to lay down     before the fire on a clear     cool warm
day     day New York New York Wisconsin New Mexico
Sunday      the new room     with cedar ceiling builds
the history     building     our history      the movie finds itself
entrapped in the heart     Rebel Without a Cause
stares from the kerosene lamps whose reflectors of glass
are insides of vacuum bottles     carefully positing
every step along the way     a narrative     of where we
stand     or sit      build a new door out of
split wood held together     by dust off the palms
& the working sweat    of the morning beer
take it easy     & care no care     until caring everything
is love in air      creaking under      the depression    out there
mesas build on mesas flow out from volcanic core
in the frozen warmed present November
I come to sing     Woody Guthrie Hank Williams Kell D. Robertson
if I had a guitar      I couldnt sing a song
but talk in the round of four-fold friends comes
singing around     the corner.      There are no corners here
where    in the dust lit up     Joel plays     & the dogs romp
& play on this mesa     in this mesa in our hearts     we flow
from the center of the fire.



/25Nov74
larry goodell / placitas, new mexico


  

(the photographs are from the Open Space north of Placitas in a mesa area much like
where the poem took place . . . houses have built up around where our dear friends,
the Lichtys, lived in the early 70's).

This poem is a testament to a wonderful place and wonderful friends . . .
                                                                                                                                              larry goodell

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Talking Water

Photograph by Walter Chappell (1925-2000)
































God has the dewdrops to bake and ache
as burning sun meets cool wind
to suck juices out of the dirt
monument to sky, monument to the missing moisture
to irrigate is life to the trees and the lost garden.

Why must we be pleased with this, oh world of balance

where are you where is meaning in this, to kiss
a hot rock, be comforted by a cool night?

Flow with slower juices in the channels of earth

and accept with bitterness lessened by prayers
or at least good breathing & conservation.

Spirits of the high mountain communicated with high summer

to bring on the rain to bring on the rain again,
bring back the possibility of a garden, spirits of a tomato world
blessed. Oh jalapenos of the spirit world, see us through
Creator creating from the image of life, balance and rain again.

May I create equal steps in walking, and my heart and mind

on equal plane and bring someone what they need while waiting
for the beautiful storm, the rainbow that’s etched in my memory.

As a headdress of glowing water, and thunderclouds of miracles

brought down to Earth, splashing our dry furrows, oh drinking water
with a mountain face and a sky of love, a dancing spirit of the springs
on our knees before you, thundering as I remember, welcome
your presence in total submission and surrender, and dependence on your dance.

Rain water trance. Transformation. Fruit trees are looking up

from our home here, awaiting your pleasure, everything in the water.

Reflection of the sky in the spring, clouding up thundering down

your sound of rain surprises. Helping others brings you closer.

Cover up the sound of the crickets with your falling rain.





larry goodell / plactias, new mexico
from Dry Water, poems of 2003
©larry goodell 2011

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Center, a poem written in 1967


                   Center


the sea
(body of water, salt flats, briny water I walked out to
naked)
of singing to you

water of  voice
wanting you in it in here floating
desire
along
   the profile

the lake is my entry vision kind
heart
pumping
to touch

I follow you along the edge      forever
yr lines enough to be with   a few minutes of that
come home with
where the limbs of the body meet
water
water
liquid
diet
death of this looking looking over you

to where the piƱons stop me
snow over the ground
the wind after two days    died away
here
all I pour    floats in the center of the page
pressed   wood pulp

the liquid is hope   I wont give up give up
you cd look from the center once
to the center skin against skin
of my soul

God is fulfilling
age over a tripod crapper
come to the sage

looking back over the years of     dry spots
the grave

& the wind with rain/snow comes     to you
I sing    to you
only
I enter
smoke in the wind over the house
& music in the air

that you will enter   of yr own tributary  & all
with me
tho over   & over & over & over again
you havent
where do I miss

  still
the center of me flows

waiting  .



larry goodell / placitas, new mexico /15Dec1967

photograph is from early in 2014 at las huertas creek in the sandias . . . 


Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Chorale, a poem written in 1967











hear the poem read          
                   

 
                                Come out in the daylight hours

                                let the union that is the voice on the tapes speak
                                mingle with the sunlight float out the room with
                       the incense
                       the unreadable label       it is my limitation I offer

                                          come out in the daylight hours
                                    let us love with our silence in the air
                              record the voices
                              spread them thru us      waking time
                              the day
                          is ours     to make or break

                                    I live up here where you can see the steps of this
                                    country
                              up to the largest volcanic crater      extinct
                          alive in extinction        listening to the tapes
                          whatever enters the mind        or blows it
                          exhaustion of the voices of the earth
                          renews
                                          come out

                                    meet we meet

                              when the sun comes down from zenith
                              tilt the world
                              mingle our landscapes
                         the beauties float up like muses encountered
                         the smoke into our lungs
                         out floats out over the voice
                         what gift there is        this tape

                    night is for sleeping      messages and miasma
                    trivia & concord in the folds       interruption & hard drinking

                              day breaks
                           for friendship

                        & the working       out the orders of the voice
                 
                  va ya ba ya  the rocks say
                  we listen to      va ya ba-a-a-a-a ya
                  when the pleasing lights    fall leaves fall       strike
                  the fires outside our galaxy     or wherever the X falls
                  to speak to us

            -tongue     the daylight hours        our fall is golden
              this state shines thru       come out       sun casts & tilts the walls
              we follow        speech ba-a-a ya  our humans given
              from outside       revelation revolution-

                        to learn        come twining from the spirals
                  not to learn

                  to love        sage      inhale what cant be read
                  cottonwood for the sacred fire
            & drums
                                                  make it blow it up       make it
                                            it is fall leaves fall
                                    the tender reach       that catches

                              catch me in friendship        over & over
                              the renewing     is the stalk of my soul

                        come out in the daylight hours

                        this is the only sentiment that breaks the machine:

                  the voice of those who love the most        it reaches

                                                                                                                                       /16Oct67



larry goodell / placitas, new mexico



a poem from 1967 when we were recording poetry on tape and sharing it, so you hear "tapes" mentioned. hey, the message is the same: let's get together and celebrate poetry! written in the fall on the north shoulder of the Sandias just overlooking the village of Placitas, at the Hertfords' where I was caretaker  . . . and I did a mimeo broadside of this but I don't seem to have more than one copy . . .  I notice in my notebook from then that the next day I "listened to Spicer's lecture on dictated Poetry" which like all my tapes were 7 inch reel to reel, many of which I dubbed from Creeley or recorded myself.

me in those 60's
I linked to my new recording of this on Facebook and Bill Pearlman responded: "That effortless hopefulness is in the air in this. What a rare point in time, still a celebration not to be missed."

Thanks, Bill! and thanks David Chorlton for this: "Sounds fresh today, with verbal energy on tape!"

Followers!