The Paterson Project

Paterson: Book II, Chapter I, p. 57-58 (II)

2011-08-04T13:04:00.001-04:00

Eisenstein’s Heavenly Man (II)

The film is a nickel

And worth it:

Eisenstein’s heavenly man.

“The meat is rotten!”: Vakulynchuk's corpse

Ice on the inside of a window: Alma-Ata

“Госуда́рственная пре́мия СССР!”: Moscow

Ca-ROCK-ithy, C-ROCK-ithy: 4 December, 1930

“Think of them as frescoes in motion!”: to Frida Kahlo

Whisps of chilled air: Alma-Ata

Strike!: Strike

“A film without equal in cinema!”: Joseph Goebbels

One hundred thousand dollars: py6 2,746,800

The numbness of a cheek: Alma-Ata

Fingers curling along the edge of a mattress: Alma-Ata

Iris out: Alma-Ata

In the morning, Rising: 11 February 1948

Paterson: Book II, Chapter I, p. 57-58 (I)

2011-08-04T12:59:00.000-04:00

Eisenstein’s Heavenly Man (I)

Fifty feet

On a silver screen //

Eisenstein’s:

HEAVENLY MAN.

The meat is rotten!

(Strike!)

The quarters unkempt!

(Strike!)

The wages unfair!

(Strike!)

The blood unjustly spilled!

(And in a darkened

room, eyes reflect light and

Tell: shadows moving faster

than they should be.)

Paterson: Book II, Chapter I, p. 58

2011-08-04T12:51:00.000-04:00

(Priapus!)

Priapus!

Come and let me

have a look at you.

I'll not stare

at the obvious--

the enormous,

swollen,

tired phallus;

the rises of strains

in the muscles

of your forearm;

the purple bend

of awful skin;

the long-wished-lost

weight.

I'll not share

your story broadly--

the fetal curse

of a jealous

goddess;

the chasing through fields

of Other-claimed

flesh;

the thwarting,

(hilariously)

of an angry, stubborn

ass.

I'll not mock

the life of verdict--

the building

in you

of the unspeakable thing;

the want

of love

or the thrust of it;

the longing

for finish,

and the prayer for

ends.

Rather, I'll wait.

I'll look you over,

with my own two eyes,

and see you blink.

Who would have guessed

it would take your presence

to undo you?

Who would have expected

the weight of too much of you

would be the weight you could not bear?

The envy, friend, is yours.

Stand up (as if you could not);

rise,

and get out

of my sight.

KMC 8/4/11

Paterson: Book II, Chapter I, p. 55

2011-07-10T21:16:00.007-04:00

A Song for Nothing; or, "Rafters"

[horns enter]

Chorus of thousands:

arpeggiated risings, fallings

to a sound.

Let's sing, goddammit;

let's shout til the mother
fucking roof rises,
until it quakes

from the grey-dusted I-beams

posting up from the floor;

Let's sing until bolts rattle

in their holes

and hundred-year old washers

bounce on their foundings

like makeshift tambourines;

until metal winks and shimmers

in radiating rooflight,

and silvered steel hisses out

the harshest cymbaled Cs:

SSSSSSSSS--

Let's sing, you sons of bitches;

let's roar from our bellies

with full-lunged, full-

throated, fucking

full-bodied gutsongs;

let's shout until pressures unknowable

push out against the walls

of our skin;

until sound itself vibrates

our bones,

our fingers,

our teeth,

until something threatens

and will

burst, tear, rip

out of us,

splitting us each

down our alchemical

middle--

Let's break, crowd of crowds;

let's swell, rise, and part

down our seam;

let's climb in walls

of mother-fucking water,

riven as the Red Sea,

hemisected as our own

grey matter;

let's, let's build

our song of everything

until it opens,

it unzips itself,

it spills itself out

of our split-husked selves,

pouring from the hives of us

like a swarm of

unbelievable bees,

Oh, oh, my god:
LISTEN--

Take
this,
Jesus Christ,
please take
it;

take it
and keep

taking.

KMC 7/2/11, 7/10/11

Another Promise of Another Return

2009-11-05T10:39:00.002-05:00

Well, it's been quite a long time since our last post. To briefly explain: both Conversely and I are officially and very deeply into our respective "dissertation stages" of the Ph.D. program here at South Carolina. Additionally, I am now the father of a one-year-old girl, and as you might expect, my free time is not what it once was. Unfortunately, this means we have both been quite distracted and have lacked either the time or motivation to keep posting on here with the regularity this project used to rely on (and which used to be one of this project's strengths!).

In any case, I'm posting today to announce that I (I'm not sure about Conversely) want to get back in the blast poetry saddle. I've been thinking a lot, and maybe it's the sleepless haze I'm constantly in or my perpetual state of intellectual exhaustion, but I think I've got some good ideas again. I'm not going to make any official promises about posting--instead, I'm just going to say that I'm going to do the best I can. I know we have probably lost essentially all of our readership over the past year, so I can say all of these things with the confidence that I'm not going to be offending very many people, at least. I also plan on putting up some of the rough demos from our musical endeavors over the past year or so. Gaston Monescu did some incredible work on these songs, and they deserve (at least) an internet forum. With some luck, I believe Gaston is going to have an opportunity to put together slightly more professional versions of his material in the next few months, so I'll be sure to pass those along as well. As for other materials, poem/lyric changes should be posted soon, and as always, we welcome feedback on any of our archived material (remember: the basis of this project is that none of this material is ever truly 'archived'...it's always 'in process'!).

Oh! One other bit of news: Two of my poems--"The Haitian President to His Women" and its companion poem, "Women to the Haitian President"--were published a few months ago in The Breakwater Review...which of course means that I am now, officially, a published poet. So that's cool, I suppose. I've already dusted off my beret and great God, you should SEE the soul patch I've grown: it's amazing.

So, until the next post, let me say again that I appreciate those of you who have been involved in this project with all my poetic heart (twice the size of a regular heart, btw!). Take care, and we'll get new material up soon.

Also: enjoy those Paterson photos! They're old, but aren't they AWESOME?!?

-T. Az. (or, more humbly, Kenny Camacho)

Photos from Paterson, New York City and Atlantic City

2009-03-03T22:40:00.001-05:00

Paterson: Book II, Chapter I, p. 52

2008-10-21T22:50:00.005-04:00

Imagined Indians / the Ground Spoke

Looking past

suction-cup arrows

and cheap plastic bows,

my brother settles

on a toy wooden

musket and coonskin

cap, hung to the left

of the sale window

in a Blue Ridge

tourist store.

Our parents buy a

second set, and we’re

matched the rest

of the day:

exchanging empty

rifle cracks from behind

the boulders along

the clean hiking paths

to the top of the

mountain.

At the summit,

my brother raises

the butt of his gun

and rams it against

my cheek; his face: red,

angry. Our mother

scolds him, reminds him

we’re brothers; we don’t

fight with each other;

we’re not savages.

In the afternoon,

our father buckles us

both into the back-

seat of our car, and we

close our eyes for the

long, winding drive back

down the Parkway: two

Boones, two Crocketts, foe-

less, now, and silent;

sleeping on and off.

I have a picture

at home: A doe-skinned

Mother, papoosed,

paused mid-stride along

a game trail, bare foot

lifted and waiting

to slip silently

into the oil-painted

underbrush. White streaks

filter down through the trees.

Caps in my pocket,

striped raccoon tail pinched

in the nape of my

neck, I imagine

Indians, smooth, dark,

hatchets in hand, bows

on their backs, quiet –

each frozen in step

as our car turns tightly

around another corner.

10-21-08

Paterson: Book II, Chapter I, p. 52-53

2008-08-27T13:38:00.005-04:00

Mount (Mount)
Mount Garrett
(Mount):

Two hundred steps up a dirt road,
and then two hundred more from an old lookout tower
bring you to a flat rock with no trees in front of it. From there,
You have a view of Paterson, the West end of Passaic,
And in the distance (a bit purpled),
New York.

I think everyone looks for the Towers first,
and then they look away quickly, as if their look had caught
the city undressing.
There are plenty of other nice buildings to see:
the Chrysler. Empire State.
The whole lot of them are much closer than you would think,
maybe an hour by train.

There are so few sounds from here,
and although this (mount) is small,
there are no others between here and the City.
New York is flat and static on the horizon and
Paterson moves beneath it, wriggling,
even undulating, it seems,
as the backs of cars appear
and then disappear
between buildings.

But not for anything. It’s just gray and
white and brown and
red roofs and houses and street
lights and streaks of resurfaced asphalt;
an empty and crumbling stadium,
an apartment building with dark windows and
open, dirty curtains; a half-dozen
cheaply stucco-ed hotels littered near
the Turnpike, all smaller
than the silhouettes that give them
(this)
any meaning at all.

It’s a lot to throw out ten miles of _________ ,
but four hundred steps make it easier.
In any case,
the walk back is slowed by the frozen patches of mud that have
thawed while we were taking more pictures
than were necessary.

Paterson: Book II, Chapter I, p. 45

2008-03-10T03:13:00.010-04:00

Walking (Fig. 6B)

Feet bear
especially heels
weight

heavy heat
still, bare
on hardwood.

less, however,
Fig. 6B
when walking

one imagines
point between
hip foot

there rolls
except ground.

One waits
on another
the great

catch up
move spool
for worth.

Meaning through
the foot
roll up

numbers or
Fig. 6B
nothing noting

joints’ ligaments
stretch bear
weight.

Some Technical Housekeeping

2008-03-09T21:11:00.009-04:00

I've added an updated page to archive.org with our songs on it. However, you no longer need to go over there. Just click on the flash player on the right.

A New List! Paterson: Book Two, Chapter I

2008-02-27T15:51:00.003-05:00

* NOTE * Paterson: Book Two, Chapter I spans pages 41 to 61 in the 1995 New Directions edition of the complete Paterson, editor Chris MacGowan.

To the festivities! A new and incredibly awesome list of titles is ready! Proceed with jubilation:

Paterson: Book Two, Chapter I
(Catastrophe of the Falls)

1. Dr. Paterson's Walk from the Cliff; or, Two White Towers [p. 43-61]
2. (so close are we to ruin every day!) [p. 45]
3. Walking (Fig. 6B) [p. 45]
4. Unrequited; or, Exiling One's Self From One's Self / Another Letter Unanswered [p. 45]
5. "How Do I Love You? These!" / Preceding Whispered Voices [p. 45]
6. An American Occupation [p. 46]
7. The German Singing Societies of Paterson Present: "Not On This Ground!" [p. 46]
8. "A Great Crowd, A Great Beast!" or, McNulty has a Plan [p. 46]
9. Pecking Order [p. 46]
10. Imagination; or, Pheasants in Flight [p. 47-48]
11. Chapultapec! Grasshopper Hill! [p. 47-49]
12. M.N. to W.C.W. / W.C.W. [never] to M.N. [p. 45, 48]
13. combating sleep/------------/the sleep [p. 49]
14. Officer Goodridge's Encounter; or, The Little Critter That Had Caused So Much Fun, 1939 [p. 49]
15. A New Mind, A New Measure [p. 50]
16. Lovers in the Park [p. 50-52, 54-55, 58-61]
17. Imagined Indians / the Ground Spoke [p. 52]
18. MountMt.GarrettMt. [p. 52-53]
19. The Bitch and the Man in the Park [p. 53]
20. Musty: A Love Story [p. 53-54]
21. "A Great Crowd, A Great Beast!" or, Voices Lifted in Voices [p. 54]
22. The Quaking of the Great City / The Capital of Call and Response [p. 55-56]
23. Hungarian Metronome; or, Time Over the Falls [p. 55]
24. A Song for Nothing [p. 55]
25. Eisenstein's Heavenly Man! [p. 57-58]
26. (Priapus!) [p. 58]
27. 3000 Years, 3000 Lovers [p. 58-61]
28. Desire and the Evangelist [p. 59]
29. Rush Over the Falls: A Good Dream [p. 59-60]
30. A Town Spread, A River Accepted [p. 60]
31. A Horn, A Trumpet! / Meaning Therein [p. 61]
32. To Be Good Dogs. [p. 61]
33. NO DOGS ALLOWED AT LARGE IN THIS PARK [p. 61]

So, the new rules: any response is a valid response, and any post is a responsive post. What do you guys think so far?

Another Quick Update: A Substitution of Centers

2008-02-24T00:29:00.002-05:00

So, Conversely and I have decided that we are returning, so to speak, to the Paterson Project: instead of just fleshing out the musical aspect of the original project, we will be continuing that work (which is pretty arduous, for a variety or reasons, not the least of these being that neither Conversely nor I are particularly talented musicians) AND we will be beginning a poetic dissection and flowery-offshoot-eruption-(can i say eruption?)-re-creation of Paterson: Book II, Ch. 1. We are working on titles for this section now, and, man, we are excited. First of all, the poetic rules are going to change a bit, as the liberty (thank you, George Rogers Clark) to expand from the geographical locus of Paterson, N.J. has been discussed between the two of us and we agree that, NO!, these poems should happen, as much as a poem happens, wherever and whenever we think appropriate. This means little to you, but it is a great and exciting bit of news to us. More important to you is this: similar rules of media and form are also being relaxed, so don't be surprised if songs come before poems or pictures come before songs or whatever whatever whatever. It's all fun times, now.

So, you can probably expect a new list of prospective titles in the next week or so. Until then, I leave you with Conversely's favorite so far:

Poem 5; or, "How Do I Love You? These!"

A New Song Surfaces

2008-01-18T10:44:00.000-05:00

Wow. Has it been four months since we last posted something on here? That's awful - and I'm sure that means we've lost our entire readership...so, bummer. BUT, for those of you willing to give us a second (third? fourth?) chance, I have something truly spectacular for you.

Another song.

Our dear, dear (talented) friend Gaston LaValle has recorded another Paterson song, this one based around the second part of the Hatian President/His Women sequence. In my personal opinion, this is the finest song yet released - maybe ever released - and it is well worth your four and a half minutes. To hear it, simply click the following link or, if you're old school, click the link on the right hand side of the page.

CHECK IT OUT NOW!

Also, Conversely and I will begin putting up "lyrics" to correspond with each poem soon, so be on the lookout for that. And if you can't help yourself and you are a huge fan of our sporadic, often self-indulgent updates, we have begun a second Paterson-esque project over at mappedspacetoenactment.blogspot.com. It's a much longer name, so it must be much better, right?

Right?

Signing off for now,
T. Az

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 202

2007-09-21T15:08:00.000-04:00

**this poem is a collaborative effort between Conversely and T. Azimuth Schwitters. It also marks the end of the main poetry sequence of the Paterson Project. Both the music and song-writing portions of the project are still active (although mostly unrecorded!), as are our hopes for beginning another poetry project, which we will share with you shortly. Lastly, if you were to look at the "Listing" page, you might notice we never wrote a poem for "The Bitch and the Man from the Sea." We suggest you simply do not look at the "Listing" page. Signing off, T. Az.**

Ends (Oh, Passaic!)

These ends are always so redundant, what with their gymnastics and linguistic representations of pictorial representations of mathematic representations of an impossibly simple natural phenomenon.

Oh, Passaic, why do we bother? Your course—our chorus—is, of course, not quite the ends we’d like it to be.

Your path explodes, vomits, if we’re that kind of poet—which, truth be told, we are, because we all are; otherwise, we say again (though in a slightly different context), why bother?—out and away from silk and graffiti and awkward, painful teenage fucking in the ruins of the somewhat less than pure products of America but nonetheless products, and ones Hamilton would have swooned over at that.

We’d hoped, oh Passaic, that our ends would be in shoring, in snuggling among stones, these same stones and bricks, never to splinter, never to drift apart, never to rot. But for what life is there that which is still?

And for this reason we find ourselves thoroughly discouraged. Oh, Passaic—what is all this spreading out? Standing in the spray of your mouth, trudging through the sand and the slop of the city, wading into the whole and rippling present. The present! This is no gift! This is where we come to wear away and break and crumble for our own first time over and over again, dissolving into new stories for not only new and different verse, but, what’s worse, a whole new chorus.

And each time we hope for a monument, that for once what we seek will not be fixed in decay, and will not spread out into the brackish waters and rust away. It seemed so solid, once, this history.

We had carefully cut new pieces with a dull and rusty blade to fill in those missing from our jigsaw puzzle memories, a box mostly empty but from which we were compelled to use all that’s there. Oh, you God damned Passaic and I mean God damned Passaic we shuffled along your floor, scooping your muck and molding it and squeezing it flat, holding it out in our hands, cutting palms to shreds with these wretched old blades, and carefully—so carefully—carving new puzzle pieces from your bed that fit perfectly—so perfectly—with the old ones.

This thing, this thing, it is the only thing. We will not find, at the end of our days a monument or memory, but instead this thing, floating briefly, just visible in the current, one among so many, dissolving quickly in the sticky film at the ocean’s surface. What has moved? What has moved us, lost, but to the memory which too is lost.

Do not pull us apart, oh, Passaic! Let us fill! Stay the bursting! Together, we will find the others, we will borrow their pieces, the brackish waters can heal our hands and we will touch, we will lock our fingers together, Swedenborg’s angels will have nothing!—no nothing!—on us! Light will burst from our hands, a glowing ball of healing palms pressed together, blood will flow through the wounds and our hands, locked together as the young couple looking for a place with a little privacy lock theirs together, and our skin will heal, our skin will heal our skin will heal and our skin will lock our hands together and we will let our fingers free and twist them about but our palms—our palms—will remain fused and forever aglow.

But here, our present, we’re tossed out to sea and our work, our careful work, is destroyed, ripped apart in a spiral of Passaic and Atlantic, and we somersault out onto the shore, weeping anew our hands are healed but separated from the others and the sea is sleeping a tired mother and we are weeping and hungry and we drag ourselves away from it all only to find we are young and full of energy and so tired and our slates are wiped clean except for all these used puzzle pieces and we strive and strive for the more that we can have the more monuments we can make the rot that will not rot the drivel that will grow into the monument that we can flow through and in and live on and on without the pain of our own birth, shredded and squeezed from the ocean.

To be one—to simply, perfectly, be one, is all we’ve asked, oh Passaic. Our verse and song, let it be one, just one, our hands on fire.

A thousand choruses. Spreading out, a thousand verses. At once, a thousand voices, a thousand more.

An iron bridge stands over the Great Falls of the Passaic River in Paterson, New Jersey. From here we dive, gloriously, Olympian, into the muddy foam.

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 199

2007-09-21T14:59:00.000-04:00

*adult content disclaimer*

Seeds, or Ideas Spilled by the River Into the Sea

You want to talk about seeds? How’s this:

Two nights ago, rain fell in the middle of the Paterson, New Jersey night for just over an hour and a half. After it funneled down defunct gutters and cascaded over the twist-torn corners of tar-flat roofs, it splattered down on brown-grey piles of week-old frozen winter shit and knocked loose bled-grey newspapers, fast-food bags, crushed packs of cigarettes, and a used condom caked in the crease between sidewalk and storefront and carried them in a flash-flood stream to the park adjacent to the S.U.M. building. There, in the dying-dead carcass of Hamilton’s America, three dry-cold weeks of detritus slipped into the crawling current of the long-spoiled Passaic and made their way, soggy and broken, to an estuary on the Hudson and out to the Sea. If you want poetry, look at the condom: coagulated, left-over semen in a flimsy-yellow bit of latex sank in the current and rolled hesitantly across the riverbed, sending over the course of an hour its contents in sporadic pollen-bursts of wasted spunk into the filth of that long-named River in this yet-named night.

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 193

2007-09-10T22:55:00.001-04:00

The Memory of the River

Is it absurd to believe the bottom
is reachable to hands desperately
stretched and seeking it? To see in the strain
grains of soft sand wet and clinging downwardly
to current- and finger-traced lines of a body
unmoved (unmoving) in motions passing
on and through the stilled silence of its whole?
To reach for this ever, albeit now
more exhaustedly? To float still, silent,
inverted yet over the quiet floor,
holding against for a moment the flow
of all that is pressing, urgent, spoken ---
So much water passes, spreads out, in waves
while so little catches, in fingers, and stays.

Paterson Photos, Part II?

2007-03-08T12:25:00.000-05:00

Forgive me for a moment, I must talk shop, and I'm leaning heavily on the first person here because Schwitters has not been consulted:

As we've said repeatedly, and as recently as the second to last post, this project started as a joke and turned into something that we actually care about. Because of this, I'm not going to post the pictures I took in Paterson here. Check out ulmlls for that. I can't reconcile it in my head because Paterson the city is not Paterson the poem. Nor should it be. The poem doesn't need the "real" city, mainly because the poem is real with or without it.

Nonetheless, I did take--and willingly and excitedly--a trip to Paterson as a kind of pilgrimage. I teared up a little the night we entered. I saw some really totally awesome stuff--an incredible waterfall, a wacky castle, a wackier watchtower, and some cool, crumbling factories (from which I stole a brick). It was an exciting and awesome trip. But I did not find Williams's Paterson; his was in my backpack the whole time, and at no point did I dig it out. There was no reason to--Paterson and Paterson are not the same. Art is not ever accurate mimetic representation, but it is art and that's why it's important.

I don't know what this has to do with our project, other than to say that the city itself, at least for the few poems I've written, isn't what what I'm writing about. I'm not sure it's the poem either, though. And I mostly don't care.

Photos from Paterson Trip

2007-03-06T22:39:00.000-05:00

Paterson Trip 3-4-07

Follow the link above to view my album from the Paterson trip this past weekend. I'll post a full report on the goings-on in the next day or so, but for now, feast your voyeuristic eyes on all of the above. Briefly: Paterson is one awesome, inspirational, slummy town. Signing off, T. Az.

On the Road

2007-03-01T09:56:00.000-05:00

Conversely and I are leaving today for Baltimore, and by extension, Paterson, New Jersey. I know we're both excited about hitting the road, but I will say that, personally, this trip feels like a validation of this project for me. As we've said before, this whole thing came out of a joke after a class presentation - and now, looking back at what we've put out in the past four(?) months, I'm actually pretty proud. I think the Paterson Project is turning out to be pretty damn interesting, and I'm excited to see the town and the Passaic Falls and Garrett Mountain and all that, but I'm even more excited to see where this project takes us in the months to come (don't forget, we still have about twenty songs to write!). Anyway, if you're out there reading this, thanks for the interest so far, and we'll do our best not to disappoint in the future. Full report on Monday, I think. Signing off, T. Az.

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 194-95

2007-02-22T00:15:00.000-05:00

**a note on the following: this poem is, frankly, too long. it has been stewing for some time, and after much consideration, i have decided to post it, in hopes of receiving much needed editorial and critical advice. to this extent, it is a work in progress. as someone who mostly hates apologetic prefaces, i'll shut up already. thanks, all.**

**CHANGE LOG:**
(2/24: added several sentences to V, in response to post 1; cut stanza 4 from III)

Fred Goodell Jr. and the Murder of His Daughter (Culminating in Her Burial on Garrett Mountain)

I.

Paterson, N. J., Sept. 17 -- Fred Goodell Jr., twenty-two, was arrested early this morning and charged with the murder of his six-months-old daughter Nancy, for whom police were looking since Tuesday, when Goodell reported her missing.

Continued questioning from last night until 1 a.m. by police headed by Chief James Walker drew the story of the slaying, police said, from the $40-a-week factory worker a few hours after he refused to join his wife, Marie, eighteen, in taking a like detector test.

At 2 a.m. Goodell led police a few blocks from his house to a spot on Garrett Mountain and showed them a heavy rock under which he had buried Nancy, dressed only in a diaper and placed in a paper shopping bag.

Goodell told the police he had killed the child by twice snapping the wooden tray of a high chair into the baby's face Monday morning when her crying annoyed him as he was feeding her. Dr. George Surgent, the county physician, said she died of a fractured skull.

II.

Fred Goodell Jr., a factory worker, killed his daughter, six-month-old Nancy, by twice snapping the wooden tray of the girl's high chair into her face after her crying annoyed him. He then placed her in a shopping bag and buried her under a rock a few blocks from his house on Garrett Mountain. After refusing to take a lie detector test with his eighteen-year-old wife Marie the next day, Goodell was questioned until 1 a.m. by Chief James Walker of the Paterson Police Department, after which he led Walker and other officers to the rock on Garrett Mountain where Nancy was buried. Goodell was arrested and charged with murder within the hour.

III.

I got a home in that rock, well, don't you see?
Way between the earth and sky
I thought I heard my Savior cry

Well-a poor Lazarus poor as I
When he died he had a home on high
He had a home in that rock don't you see?

The rich man died and lived so well
When he died he had a home in Hell
He had no home in the rock, well, don't you see?

You better get a home in that rock, don't you see?

IV.

I did not kill my daughter.

I did not kill my daughter.

What happened was an accident.

It could have happened to anyone.

V.

I closed the door, first thing - Marie had let it out for the evening breezes. I changed and she left for work, and I needed to wash the clothes, if there was time, and make sure I ate and fed the baby, all before the night shift started at two. There was food left out on the stove, and the baby had been sleeping most of the afternoon in her crib. Tired and clean, I woke her and lifted her into a high chair. She cried, loud and piercing, and then she bounced two tiny fists on the wood tray of the chair, the silver springs wobbling and ringing each time with the metal-on-metal crash. The metal and crash, the metal and crash, and the tray bouncing up with each hit and the tiny fork and spoon rattling with the vibrations. Her sound disappeared inside itself, the way a word disappears inside itself if you look at it too long, no longer making sense as a whole, but only as strange, separate parts: scream and moan, air in and then pushed, hard, out. A man couldn't stand it, with the factory in a few hours and dinner getting cold:
I pulled down the lever, and released.
I pulled down the lever, and released.

VI.

in two, it was done, and I expected
silence (I did); the ghastly kind, where I could hear
my heart beating in my chest or
a hum in my ears, rising up louder and
blocking all the other things out -

but what I got wasn't a humming, or my heart,
but a rushing sound of in-out waves, far off,
like a big broom sweeping over stones,
and then a dog barking a few blocks off, irregular,
with another sounding back -

I looked out the window for it (I did);
the glass caught my stare a bit, and I could see
the white frilly curtains blowing with the window open, too;
and the yellow light of the tall streetlamp sort of pooling
on the grass and the stones at the bottom of the hill.

And slow, very slow, I led my head down,
led my eyes from the window, to the floor, to the table,
and I looked at it, still sitting there, still,
and expected something awful -
but not in the way this was awful:

VII.

"We've got something over here, sir."
(lifting a rock)
"It's wrapped up, but it's been crushed pretty good."
(opening the bag)

VIII.

there wasn't no blood, and that surprised me,
but instead its face mashed in the front,
scrunched up like it had tasted something sour,
and bruising fast as I watched it, that red-purple of a baby-face
darkening to black around the nose and around the squinted-up eyes;
the tongue was out, just a tiny grey sliver,
and all the while the shine of the skin was fading dull and flat,
like the skin of a peach.

there weren't no blood.
none at all, but that in the bruise.
it surprised me.
it was all so dry.

IX.

This world is a wilderness of woe
So let us to glory go

Dying is a blooming rose
And none but them who feel it know

X.

pulling it up out of the seat, my belt caught the wood tray,
and it snapped it on the hinges, a loud pop and then
__________________________a loud pop and then
a rattle to settle it down.

XI.

holding it was quiet; quiet, light and warm; and I couldn't do nothing with it warm like that, so I set it on the table, on its back to wait until the warmth was less.
I thought about dinner, cooling,
and then: a bag, for groceries; thick.
and everything was as loud as you would think: popping air into the bag to open it up, opening up a place on the counter, picking up the weight and sinking it down in to the bottom. from the handle, everything was more right, and I stepped out to do it.

I knew the place without planning it, and I went the few hundred yards to the stone:
a larger rock on the slant-face of the mountain.
there had been snakes underneath it in the spring, but they had cleared with the frost
and room was there;

my thoughts spread loose:
a cold, huddled spot in the belly of the mountain --
tomb.
I placed the shopping sack inside and thought if I needed
a rope to tie her in place with.
but I did not have one.

rolling the stone back:
"nancy"
but between us, only.
between us.

XII.

Oh, my father had the stone
That was hewn from the mountain,
Oh, my father had the stone
That went tearin' through the world.

XIII.

there weren't nothing to it with Marie, just:
I don't know what happened, she was gone, and
I went to the back of the house with the front door unlatched...
But she put a hand to her stomach and knew,
and she cried for it, silent.

There was no noise from the police, either.
The lights were not on. Just dark car-shapes and wheels crunching up
from the bottom of the hill.
I sat waiting.
My shift was still a few more hours. I hadn't ate nothing.
I sat waiting.
The table seemed to glow a bit, with the kitchen light shining down on it
and with nothing placed on top, so the reflection just caught it all and held it in that way light can do,
with the dark outside.
When they came in, they sat, opposite,
and one put both his hands on the lip and then raised back up to stand.
I watched his fingers push down, white around the nail, and then slide off backward.
But nothing happened.
Nothing happened.

XIV.

Where shall I go?
Where shall I go?
Where shall I go for to ease my troubled mind?

I went to the rock to hide my face
For to ease my troubled mind;
The rock cried out "no hiding place"
For to ease my troubled mind.

The man who loves to serve the Lord,
For to ease my troubled mind,
Will sure get his just reward,
For to ease my troubled mind.

1st dr.
KMC 02-21-07

A Brief, Paterson-related Announcement

2007-02-09T23:50:00.000-05:00

For any of those who find these types of things interesting, Conversely and I will be visiting the town of Paterson, New Jersey, locus of Williams' epic poem and inspiration to this project, on March 3. Our hope is to have all the poems done by that time, with the exception of "The End (Oh, Passaic)," which we each hope to compose a draft of from the shores of Passaic Falls State Park. If we can stand the pressure. In any case, the trip feels like a validation, at least to me, of what we've been doing here, and I'm very excited to walk down the Bourse and River and Ison Streets for myself, looking for the haunts of Ginsberg and Williams before him, and maybe even having a drink from Godwin's Taproom, across from the old county courthouse. Rest assured, we will write up the story of our travels when the time comes, but until then, be thinking of your friends and faithful travelers...

Thanks, everyone.

T. Az.

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 199

2007-02-08T00:56:00.000-05:00

The Man Facing Death

River, why do I think of you?
What, in your long history, am I?
That that was loosed from the deep split of stone?
That that runs carelessly over pulp earth between ribs of high granite?
That that will give itself too quickly, in time, to the stream?
And where were you in those moments of gathering, of
Self pulled to Other, of
Broad to Collective, of
A Push in the Back at the Lip of the Falls?
Where was I?
When was I?

Why do I think of you?
Whose hope was this, that water move onward?
That it move downward, in weight, in gravity, from stone?
That it roll as one over miles of sand and sunken limbs
to break around the bone of an ankle dipped, giggling, in?
That it slow, slow, spread wide at its end,
reach thick over steady undertows and then lift,
as the sole of a foot in stride,
up from the opposed tides to meet breeze, gulls, cross-current air?
Why, if the sea is ever a bringing in?
I ask again: Why is the sea ever a bringing in?
I hear this rhythm endlessly.

And this, too, River:
At times, did you also feel it was the shore moving past us?
I remember dreaming once, of towns flowing endlessly through our vision,
the strange, solid-land feel of a surface sliding on, on, and out...

What, in your long history, am I?
This wave, or
the next?
This wave, or
the next?
This wave, or
the next?
Do you still know?
And will I yet be living?

KMC 02-08-07

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 202

2007-02-02T22:09:00.000-05:00

The Trial, Conviction, and Execution of the Murderer John Johnson

John Johnson, from Liverpool, England, was convicted after 20 minutes conference by the Jury. On April 30th, 1850, he was hung in full view of thousands who had gathered on Garrett Mountain and adjacent house tops to witness the spectacle.

I

John Johnson son of son of John hanged for his hatchet work.
Johnson, John, son of son of John hanged for his hatchet work.
John Johnson son of son of a grandfather hanged for his hatchet work.

His hatchet work was among the best in the business.
His best work was his hatchet business.

II

After twenty minutes it was his head for which they called.
The passive voice removes responsibility.

After twenty minutes they called for his head.
The jury has decided the active voice is best.

III

Some hinges are terrifying.
John Johnson's hatchet work was killer, but some hinges are truly terrifying.

Verily.

IV

They gathered (like they would some years later at Wrigley) to see just how terrifying two simple hinges can be.

And they all said, "Verily, verily. Terrifyingly true."

V

A wild chant rose up
while he rose up
the crowd rose up:

"Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country!"

And to its aid they came.

Spectacle of spectacles!
Look at how those hinges glint!

VI

There comes a time in every executioner's career that he removes the hood or hopes he isn't shooting blanks.

VII

"Any last words?"

"No"

VIII

But blanks will be shot.

IX

X

I would like to think (I would like to
think to you I am thankful I think.

Such thoughts are fruitless; I really ought to forget
all this fruitless thinking.

But perhaps I should have said something. (I would like to think for just a little longer, though.)

XI

Late that evening in Liverpool,

England

, John Johnson’s brother another John Johnson was seen entering his home. He was seen lurching at the sound of the hinges on his front door. And with a sickening snap and a gurgle he was seen felled at the feet of his two excited young daughters who had run to greet him when they heard the sound of the hinges. They looked at him—curiously—and asked in unison, “Any last words?” His snapped neck was seen lolling around in reply. The coroner listed his cause of death as a blank hanging. The first such case to be seen in Liverpool in many years.

---

John Johnson from Liverpool was convicted after 20 minutes conference by the Jury. He was hung on April 30th, 1850 in the Jail Yard in full view of thousands who gathered on Garrett Mountain and on the house tops to witness the spectacle.

gbs 1-31-07

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 190

2007-02-02T16:45:00.000-05:00

The Difficulties of Holding All Together in the Mind

fishing, late, the heavy wound weight of the net drops quickly down from the long, black boon and spreads, thickly, across a surface:

water, tensely held to itself, rolling eagerly in a way that is bound, binding; as ropes break it, are swallowed, darken beneath the surface; as a gear clacks loud, close, letting more loosed rope out and down.

jolting, the boat moves forward as a second rumble from aft stretches further backwards until taut and holds --- engines pull an equal weight behind us, unseen, soon in black-green water, ballooned in opposite motion.

motors stop in a suitable time, wenches tighten engage dredge pull on the draws of the purse-seine as it brings up the first flashing, clapping grays.

loads change in sudden fashion, the water-weight rushing in thick columns out, the stunned and gasping fish, a moment ago weightless, piling in thick mass as the net is lifted up from the ocean, long strands of kelp dangling limply as water channels their lengths and runs steadily down.

with a deep movement, the deck rocks backward in relief, the sea no longer its responsibility.

watching, with a gloved hand I pull hard against the cold, metal handle of the hold-latch and listen: to the echoing patter of water falling from cord, from knot, from crushed bodies, from open mouths and down to the grease-slick floor.

with another motion the net opens and there is a singular sound,
____________________before the lapping of waves resumes against the bow.

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 191-92

2006-11-08T15:26:00.000-05:00

* This poem is the second in a series dealing with the Haitian President of Williams' text. The first part can be read HERE.

Women to the Haitian President, upon Gathering at Dusk near Point Croix

We
who have been your lovers
have talked this through:

Yes,
our beauty is collective.
It is spun
from the sameness of our contours,
it is outlined
in black, gathered
and flocking against
the background of our dusk,
where we have been threaded
over that losing light,
crossed and woven
in darkest silhouette
upon the loom;

and Yes,
the shape of breasts we know
are enough, more than -
doubled and doubling
the smaller joy of your
heart,
so much of us
in pairs
you'd say;

we say
your conclusions could only be
reached this way:
multiplicitly.

But Man,
who loved us each
divided, parts of
a whole seen so
distantly,
great God, what you did not know
in this shadowed shape,
What!

Our eyes;
twinned depths
of night, suns each
setting on waters paired
and equally bottomless.

Dearest man,
I say,
as I, as
I, as
I, as
I:
what love,
love, love,
for this beauty
has been lost?

KMC 11-8-06

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 188-189

2006-11-07T08:44:00.000-05:00

Virtue and the Death of the Grandmother

I.

What is your virtue and
what has it become?

A process.
A bird.
Stout, with stringy flesh,
tough, peppered skin.

Oh do no,
do not eat that turkey--
she's barely cold.

What are we doing here?

Our lives,
because we are not the one dead
will go on, but not now no not now no.
Amuse her! Amuse him!

She is my muse and I refuse to go on.

II.

Not now no not now no.
_____________________"But yes. The past is for those like me, though not quite
_____________________cold, cold I will be. And soon."
No not now no not now no!
_____________________"Your virtue, stout as it is, must grow stouter, must become _____________________more. Continue becoming. Go on."
Be coming and going?
_____________________"Yes. I am growing colder and you are growing stouter
_____________________and fatter. Do not limp."
Oh do not, I can not, oh what not can I say, oh how to end the awful wait?
_____________________"The wait will be light. It is the dark that will not be. It is
_____________________the now that I have that you will lament. Go. Become."
Become? Become? Not now! My God, my God why has thou--"
_____________________"Do not quote. Become. Go. Go on. You will find yourself
_____________________stout if you move. Go become."
But what of you?
_____________________"My self stiffens and grows colder. Come now, be going."
But what of becoming?
_____________________"Be coming and going."

gbs 11-6-06

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 193

2006-11-06T13:41:00.000-05:00

Another Letter from A.G.

Dear Doctor:

I'm writing to you because you
have forgotten something
{break}
I found it, walking the streets
nearest the River today
{break}
Do you know the Bourse,
Doctor? Of course
{break}
You know your town
as if it were you, sir -
{break}
that is to say:
anatomically

{break}

But that sound that reaches
from the Manufactory
{break}
all the way down the channels
of streets to the very City Square
{break}
Dear God, the River, and the
sound of it
{break}
I wonder if you have grown used
to that which does not howl
{break}
as the Falls here
are wont to

{break}

I found the pubs, you know
the ones: off Mill and River Sts.
{break}
Godwin's is the place I
most move about these days
{break}
Quiet, as I'm sure
you know it is quiet, but
{break}
This past Wednesday, as
I walked the Bourse to
{break}
Mill, I saw a man
drunk and hanging out
{break}
over a balcony, tip-
ping in a chair, al-
{break}
most falling as the reek-
ing smell of propane
{break}
leaking from a pipe or
stove somewhere in-
{break}
side his house seeped
out from the cracks and the
{break}
drains of the place, flow-
ing down the narrows
{break}
of the alley, reach-
ing out to me and pour-
{break}
ing into me until I could
taste it, on the back
{break}
of my throat, thick but
sweet almond-gas swill
{break}
of it, ah, even as
I moved on and past
{break}
down the street
to my home

{break}

Watching this man sway,
Doctor,
{break}
I thought of you, of
what I found that was once
{break}
yours. But the water is
running, Doctor, and I'm off
{break}
to find what you found
in it at the start.
{break}
I hope this letter finds you well,
Doctor. What you lost is not
{break}
enclosed. But you will find it
if you run.

A.G.

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 190-92

2006-10-24T22:20:00.000-04:00

The Haitian President to His Women, on the Sight of Swallows Flocking in the Waters off Fort Dauphin

Quite often from my house, I see swallows
moving in a wide sweep over the harbor
as one, the denseness of them somehow
flat and twisting as a loose ribbon or
flag might, if wrested from its mooring and
blown haphazardly in rough gusts of wind.
It is the sameness of motion that most
delights me; the hundred bodies turning
in tight unison, wrapping around ghosts
of invisible up-drafts now churning
in the late day heat of the western shore -
and with them, a lone thought rises, and sings:
my beauty is in this rushing chorus,
this doubled beating of separate wings.

KMC 10-24-06

Here are My Keys, Go Up and Help Yourself

2006-10-24T10:11:00.000-04:00

Without further ado, we present the third song-offering for the Paterson Project: "The Incomplete Seduction of a Scholar and Clerk; or, 'Here are My Keys, Go Up and Help Yourself." As before, you can access the poem page HERE and the song file HERE. This one has a few ch-ch-ch-changes, so check 'em both out and see what you think.

Oh, and then tell us what you think. All you silent site-checkers are makin' me nervous...

Song 2: The Murder of the Dutchman

2006-10-20T14:43:00.000-04:00

The second rough cut of a Paterson Project song is now up on the "Murder of the Dutchman Jonafen Haring" page. For those about to rock: we salute you.

Click HERE to go straight to the audio file.

In related news, we will be posting "lyrics" and (what do you think, LaValle?) possibly music for these songs soon. We will also put up any revisions to songs in the same manner that we post revisions to poems: erase the first one and give you the one that's totally better. So, if any of this changes, you will be the first to know. As for now, enjoy another entry in the Project's second wave - I have to say, I think this one is niiice.

How many extra vowels can you put in your response?

A Note on Translation; or, Striking Up A Chord

2006-10-20T01:00:00.000-04:00

The Paterson Project is extremely proud to announce the first entry into the second phase of this enterprise:

Contributor Gaston LaValle has started working on translating the poems Conversely and I have been putting together here on the site into lyrical - and, in due course, musical - form. And we've got the first batch of initial recordings in stock. The first song going up is LaValle's quite-faithful rendition of "The Skeleton of Peter the Dwarf." The link below will get you straight to the sound file, but if you want the poetry at your fingertips as you take it all in, please go to the poem's existing page and link to the Internet Archive (who is hosting our music so graciously) from there.

Two more songs should be up by tomorrow, and after that, it will be up to you guys to keep this thing rolling - not unlike a mythical fairy, LaValle needs the sounds of your hands clapping to keep his light shining - so let's all go hit up the message board!

THE LINK: "The Skeleton of Peter the Dwarf"

This is an ecstatic T. Azimuth signing off - you all take care of yourselves.

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 197

2006-10-16T19:56:00.000-04:00

The Murder of John S. Van Winkle and his Wife by a Robber in the Winter of 1850

He stole through the snow,
he stole in the night,
noiseless wheels crunching.
Walking wheels--walking, so
circular, a sine wave rolling
endlessly step after step--noiselessly
wheeling footsteps
toward an old housewife,
her husband, his house. There
to rob, with a chop, to end
Van Winkle's sleep with
a hatchet--a hatchet!--in a
sternum sounding

--curiously--

like a hatchet in a tree.

The Van Winkles awake, spill
and he steals back home
considering his wares as fallen
leaves.

gbs 10-16-06

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 186

2006-10-11T09:18:00.000-04:00

The Language as Virgin Purpose; or, Illumination

"Begin
at the beginning,
Brother."

This cry rings out across the
hot wood-pew place of this
summer Sunday, this
Amen! this
Glory! this
Hallelujah!

And with these most lowly
I am,
all these words in my
ears holding a perfect purpose
at tongue's long distance
from me.

Where are Your most-golden trumpets, Lord?
I ask; the angels gathered in the sky?
The fish in great numbers, the day in midst of night?

Where, in
this sun-white place,
this house of hollow voices,
am I?

And in a whisper
of leaved branches
against the nearest wall:

the words are why we're here.

---

Speak, oh God,
speak --
form me
in the roll of your tongue,
in the sounding of me
out;
stirred from dissonance
to being,
spoken,
spoken from and
for.

---

Here,
here in the filth of
this house, Father,
boards cracking long down the walls,
floors scarred and rubbed smooth
with a thousand feet
and knees
worn,
find me,
and hear:

the light is going down outside this
old building;
the sun is nearing the horizon
and the white
clapboard white
of this body will glow,
gold and yellow,
in the last light --
for a moment,
a long moment.

We do not light it.

Tell me I'm clean,
and I will be clean.
Tell me I'm clean,
and I will be clean.
Tell me I'm clean,
and I will be clean --
Hosanna.

KMC 10-11-06

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 197-198

2006-10-08T22:46:00.000-04:00

"What have I done?" A Claim and Question

What have I
done?

Indeed, what have
you done?

What have
__________I
_________________done?

Indeed, what have
you done?

What
_____have I
Indeed, ___________done?
what have you done?

What
_____have
Indeed, _____I done?
what have you done?

What
Indeed, have
what have you done? I done?

What,
in deed, have
what have you done? I
_________________done?

gbs 10-08-06

Paterson: Book One, Chapter I, p. 15-16 and Jane Eyre, second to last page (unless you have a copy with really large or really small print).

2006-10-02T18:22:00.000-04:00

Dear Reader[s],

So, due to several questions from readers (only one of which has had the nerve to respond to us on the blog, unafraid to face us even if we're bad poets and you're embarrased to tell us), we have clarifications on our modus operandi. Actually, it's more of a complete restatement than a clarification. We're taking chapter three of Paterson IV and using the themes/language of the poem as a springboard for our poems. They occassionally contain direct quotations (which we will continue to leave unattributed). They more often contain gross exaggerations of thematic material. We often have little or no evidence from Paterson for our characters' characterizations. We just make that up. Sometimes plot elements are also invented. In fact, every time, thus far. Fairly often we'll reference other poets and pop culture icons like Bob Barker. The titles of the posts serve as a kind of work cited page; we like that better than using the titles of the poems because we do not believe we're being original enough to call the poems' titles official blog titles. Also, it's how we started and we really dig uniformity.

All will continue unapologectically because some things can be done as well as others.

With apologies,

Schwitters and Conversely

P.S. We just discovered that we were doing the same thing. One of us wrote an explanation--a "What We're Up To"--in the sidebar. The other of us did it right here. We're leaving both because, as you can see, some things can be done as well as others.

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 187

2006-09-29T09:51:00.000-04:00

A song is now available for this poem on the Internet Archive!

The Incomplete Seduction of a Scholar and Clerk; or, "Here's My Key, Go Up and Help Yourself."

I.
Thank Jesus you're sleeping
at last in the dark.
I know it from the sigh that
escapes-
in each odd breath,

While too quickly I move
from the still-made covers,
and do not dress as I
switch on
the lamp near the wall.

In -light- the room's read:
books in each corner,
on each table and each
chair, all
bound thick in cold leather.

II.
And in light, you will open
as blank pages do open,
and the white of your back
will part and then fold -
along the ridge of your spine
still shadowed in night:
two thin pages facing
two thin pages facing

---

III.
My finger is tracing
the lines of your shoulder,
reading your skin
as it
might letters in Braille;

Moving above the
slight rise of your lungs
across ribs even-spaced,
stan-
zas unspoken, I--

Break the rough still-
ness of night in the room
with my own sound of
air mov-
ing thin from my lips-

And I will not tell you
Not ever tell you
Not ever tell you
it was not with the [sound of trumpets],

but a whimper.

KMC 9-27-06

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 198-199

2006-09-26T17:50:00.000-04:00

The River Facing the Sea

October 10, 1950,
Thalassa pleas nostalgically:
"Here I am, where you are to run!
"This, each of my rivers has done!"

But if to her the river goes,
if to her fresh water flows,
what will become, what will be left?
of a river complicit in its own theft?

The sea is not the river's home;
never to be aqua seafoam.
She will snap and chew, tear and spit,
dying the waters, a sunrise lit.

It moans, beckons, Thalassa calls:
"Here you can sleep, Passaic falls!
"Here you will grow, bearing my seeds."
But the river arrives, and bleeds.

Fresh to brackish and this to salt
a man scoops, drinks, and from it balks.
Turning and looking toward the town
he sees the falls in a white gown.

The Passaic runs, moves but stays,
the Passaic running, moving but staying,
the Passaic ran, moved but stayed,
the Passaic runs, moves, and stays.

gbs 9-26-06

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 196

2006-09-25T23:49:00.000-04:00

The Circus and the Play of Candle Light

the whistle blows,
closing down the mill
of the National Manufactory
as I listen - hard -
for the cracking sound
of my father's boots
on the stones outside our house -

walking heavy down
Ison,
swallowed in the broom-
sweep sound of the Falls

and it's the third night
of the the wide, striped tent
set up on Main
for passing circus clowns,
their
thin horses
waiting outside on Market -

hitched in a circle
to a post,
shoulders huddled
in the darkness.

The tent flap is closed
as we walk by it outside,
passing near the top hat man
four feet tall, standing on
a deep red box,
waving my father
to pay him -

ten cents for
us both,
eight for a man
on his own

and the seams (the seams)
are glowing in the candle light
and shadows
roam, from face to face
and through the cracks in my fingers

and men inside are walking
with legs eight feet high
and taking turns
tossing three yellow torches,
crackling with the sound of their burning -

with the sound of their burning.

KMC 9-25-06

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 192 (with reference back to Book One, Part I, p. 10) [Draft 2]

2006-09-25T21:32:00.000-04:00

A song is now available for this poem on the Internet Archive!

The Skeleton of Peter the Dwarf

It's hard to be a hydrocephalic.
54 inches, head to toe.
(27 from my chin to scalp alone;
that makes me a marvel.)

Washington came to see me
(the man, not the city; or, maybe, the city is the man).
He looked at me, marveled at me;
I answered with inactivity.

I floated along, day to day,
endlessly rocking,
loving Jesus and preacher's conversation,
swelling with pride at the show I could provide.

It was hard for me to move,
my head being so huge,
but I got by without going out;
keeping to the cerebral.

My head's got its own box now,
it's lost all its water!
And now they say my skull is a marvel!
but they say nothing of the parts of me everyone's had.

What I never told in my time
was that, more than theology or phrenology,
all I ever wanted out of life
was to not shit in my cradle.

A tiny outhouse with plenty of headroom,
straps to hold me up and a stand
from which I could read
my Bible or a dirty magazine.

Oh that would be marvelous.
"A marvel indeed," they would say,
as they tied me in and
sang of my tenacity.

gbs 9-22-06, revised 9-25-06 with kmc

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 193-197

2006-09-24T21:41:00.000-04:00

The Forgotten Paterson: A Tavern Song

Do you know
the Bourse?
to the west, go west, go west
Or the slow curve
of River
as the town moves back
from the Falls?

It's the haggle of the Hall,
the Bourse, on City, on West
that lends its name at interest,
to all who give it interest.

And interest is in the hollows,
the alleys cutting through;
a man out overhanging
Washington's thick
weatherboard sign:

This is Godwin's Taproom!
House Ten of Ten of Town!
Let the General INN! (bartender)
As Spirits Might Soothe Hys Thurst!

There are negroes in the dark
(do you see them?)
There are gypsies in the dark
(do you see them?)
There is Paterson on these streets
(oh, oldest man!)
There is a serpent not sleeping,
but coiling tightly
in this almond-gas swill
(Oh, Great God!)

From Park, from
Goffle, from
Boudinot, in oh;
From Collet,
Carrick, from Roswell
Colt;
From Dublin, New Dublin,
New
Dublin Spring, oh
Irish wave and wave:

The work-bell is ringing out --

Do you know this part?
Do you know this part?

KMC 9-23-06

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 192 (with reference back to Book One, Part I, p. 10)

2006-09-23T20:26:00.000-04:00

The Skeleton of Peter the Dwarf

It's hard to be a hydrocephalic.
54 inches, head to toe.
(27 from my chin to scalp alone;
that makes me a marvel.)

Washington came to see me
(the man, not the city; or, maybe, the city is the man).
He looked at me, marveled at me;
inactivity was my answer.

I floated along, day to day,
endlessly rocking,
loving Jesus and preacher's conversation,
swelling with pride at the show I could provide.

It was hard for me to move,
my head being so huge,
but I got by without going out;
keeping to the cerebral.

My head's got its own box now,
it's lost all its water!
So now they say, "That skull is a marvel!"
never about the parts of me everyone's had.

What I never told in my time
was that, more than theology or phrenology,
all I ever wanted out of life
was to not shit in my cradle.

A tiny outhouse with plenty of headroom,
straps to hold me up and a stand
from which I could read
my Bible or a dirty magazine.

Now they've ripped me apart,
half in one box, half elsewhere.
So now, if bowels move in death,
I'll never know this simple joy.

gbs 9-22-06

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 186-7

2006-09-23T18:53:00.000-04:00

A song is now available for this poem on the Internet Archive!

The Murder of the Dutchman Jonafen Haring

Something's in
with the horses.
I hear it,
rising up
from dawn.

You will look
As you always look.

The sound of you
on cold steps
down and across
and so briefly in snow;
crunch, I listen
I listen
for you.

And then the
beating of hooves
the beating
of hooves
the beat-
ing of
hooves
on stone.
-------
Through the silence
of strangers
and torches
(four tories,
their judas)

past the entry
of my house
to horses
in darkness
away;

through waiting
on footsteps
in the hall,

a cold thought
will penetrate:

there is no virgin
beginning.

KMC 9-22-06

THE LISTING

2006-09-23T09:18:00.000-04:00

So, here's the list of titles with which we're starting. I mentioned this at ulmlls, but if you're coming here blind the sources of these titles was Schwitters's presentation on this book of Paterson. He used these titles as notes to talk about part three. We're very much aware of their Sufjan Stevens-ness, thank you. By the way, the Paterson text we're using is the New Directions paperback, first published in 1995, I think. It's got the sepia-tone photo of the Passaic falls on the front, if you're looking for it.

Here they are:

The Language as a Virgin Purpose

The Murder of the Dutchman Jonafen Haring

The Incomplete Seduction of a Scholar and Clerk; or, "Here's My Key, Go Up and Help Yourself."

Virtue and the Death of the Grandmother

The Difficulties of Holding All Together in the Mind

The Haitian President / His Women

The Skeleton of Peter the Dwarf & [Draft 2]

The Memory of the River

Another Letter from A.G.

The Forgotten Paterson: A Tavern Song

Fred Goodell Jr. and the Murder of His Daughter (Culminating in Her Burial on Garrett Mountain)

The Circus and the Play of Candle Light

The Murder of John S. Van Winkle and His Wife by a Robber in the Winter of 1850

“What Have I Done?” A Claim and Question

The River Facing the Sea

The Man Facing Death

Seeds, or Ideas Spilled by the River Into the Sea

The Bitch and the Man from the Sea

The Trial, Conviction, and Execution of the Murderer John Johnson

The End (Oh, Passaic)

Ars Poetica

2006-09-22T16:47:00.000-04:00

This blog represents a collaborative effort between its two authors to write, develop and (in its way) publish a collection of songs and poems derived in inspiration from the third chapter of the fourth book of William Carlos Williams' Paterson. The songs will be written by the following method:

- The Chapter will be read and studied in detail.
- The Chapter will be divided into narrative and thematic movements.
- These movements will be titled.
- Poems will be written from these titles; the connection between the resulting poems and the original text may be tangential, at best.
- These poems will be linked with music; at this point, more changes may, of course, occur.
- Songs will, then, be songs.

The larger purpose of the blog will be to share this work with any interested parties, with feedback welcomed. There is no hope of material gain with this project - it is purely for what the kids call "kicks." What do you think we are? Millionaires?