one hour magazine, thundersnow, 8 cups of coffee
-One Hour Magazine was a total success. The sculpture, collage, poetry, stories, wine, and company made for an amazing evening. I can't thank Max & Parley enough for helping me organize it, and I can't wait to do it again. After last night the ideas for Volume 2 are running wild through my mind--for those of you who cut out a little early, you missed "1 Minute Bios," which might have been my favorite part of the night. Look for the magazine's appearance online within the next couple of days. -Thundersnow, which I am continuing to insist on pronouncing like Husker Du, has mostly cleared out. I still don't have power, heat, or a working stove at the house, and most of the groceries in the fridge have turned useless, but I'm told we should be back in the 21st century by Saturday. In the meantime I'm sleeping in my entire wardrobe and scrawling poems by candlelight, which is weirdly gratifying.
-I learned about cinquains the other day. Invented by the unfortunately named poet "Crapsey." There are even more variations on the form than I thought! I like them. One of the things I tried to emphasize at One Hour Mag is the way that a single restriction--time, or syllable count--can be such a catalyst when its combined with otherwise total freedom. Cinquains are good like that.
-Been reading a lot of Frank Stanford, right in the middle of You. He's like a Bukowski of the Appalachias, but without any of the doe-eyed admirers & imitators overcrowding his grave. Totally wonderful. Here's his "What About This."
What About This
BY FRANK STANFORDA guy comes walking out of the gardenPlaying Dark Eyes on the accordian.We’re sitting on the porch,Drinking and spitting, lying.We shut our eyes, snap our fingers.Dewhurst goes out to his truckLike he doesn’t believe what he’s seeingAnd brings back three-half-pints.A little whirlwind occurs in the road,Carrying dust away like a pail of water.We’re drinking serious now, and O.Z.Wants to break in the store for some head cheese,But the others won’t let him.Everybody laughs, dances.The crossroads are all quietExcept for the little man on the accordian.Things are dying down, the moon spills its water.Dewhurst says he smells rain.O.Z. says if it rains he’ll still make a crop.We wait there all night, looking for rain.We haven’t been to sleep, so the blue lizardsOn the side of the white porchLose their tails when we try to dream.The man playing the music looks at us,Noticing what we’re up to. He backs off,Holding up his hands in front, smiling,Shaking his head, but before he gets half wayDown the road that O.Z. shoots him in the belly.All summer his accordian rotted in the ditch,Like an armadillo turning into a house payment.
Estate of Frank Stanford © C.D. Wright
Source: You (Lost Road Publishers, 1979)
More soon. Love yall.