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I've Been Reading A Lot Lately About Indian Captives. One Woman Who Had Been Captured By The Indians And Made A Squaw Was Resentful When She Was Rescued Because She'd Found That There Was A Lot More Work To Do As The Wife Of A White Man.

-Stephen Vincent Benet

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I've Been Reading A

Stephen Vincent Benet

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I've Been Reading A Lot Lately About Indian Captives. One Woman Who Had Been Captured By The Indians And Made A Squaw Was Resentful When She Was Rescued Because She'd Found That There Was A Lot More Work To Do As The Wife Of A White Man.

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Occasionally I Encounter People Getting Into Their Cars Who Will Say, "oh, You Haven't Been Walking Lately" - Like I'm A Symbol Of The Ancient Art Of Walking!

I Do Think That The Kind Of Writing That I Do Will Always Be Around And Printed In Books, Magazines, And Now Blogs.

I Have Fallen In Love With American Names, The Sharp Names That Never Get Fat, The Snakeskin-titles Of Mining-claims, The Plumed War-bonnet Of Medicine Hat, Tucson And Deadwood And Lost Mule Flat.

Few People Have Written Significant Books About San Francisco. Robert Duncan Was, In My Opinion, Often In The Clouds. If He Walked The Streets A Lot He Didn't Write About As Such.

It Is Better The Truth Should Come Little By Little. I Have Learned That, Being A Priest. Perhaps, In The Old Days, They Ate Knowledge Too Fast.

A Phrase May Come To Me As I Am Walking, And, Once I Write It Down In My Journal, The Rest Of The Poem Will Unravel From That Catalyst.

Books Are Not Men And Yet They Are Alive.

At First I Was Blogging Everyday, But I Don't Do That Anymore. It Varies; Sometimes I'll Write These Little Essays And Other Times Political Commentaries. Other Times It'll Just Be New Work That I'm Doing.

One Cannot Balance Tragedy In The Scales Unless One Weighs It With The Tragic Heart.

Ironically The Blog Has Re-opened The Essay As A Good Form For Me. I Like To Look And Make Commentary! If I Sense My Essays Are Good, I Try To Resubmit To Another Place In Pulp And Several Of Them Have Been Variously Published In Newspapers And Magazines.

Grant Us A Common Faith That We Shall Know Bread And Peace-that We Shall Know Justice And Righteousness, Freedom And Security, An Equal Opportunity And An Equal Chance To Do Our Best Not Only In Our Own Lands, But Throughout The World. And In That Faith Let Us March Toward The Clean World Our Hands Can Make.

Basically When I'm Walking I'm Not Consciously Writing Or Intending Anything. In The Manner I Have Learned From Meditation Practice, I Let Things Unfold.

Meditation Practice

Truth Is A Hard Deer To Hunt. If You Eat Too Much Truth At Once, You Might Die Of The Truth.

When My Own Writing Needs A Perk, I Open Zukofsky And Read From "a" - Particularly Sections "22" And "23." It Can Be Opaque, But I Love The Intensity.

I Shall Not Rest Quiet In Montparnasse. I Shall Not Lie Easy At Winchelsea. You May Bury My Body In Sussex Grass, You May Bury My Tongue At Champmedy. I Shall Not Be There. I Shall Rise And Pass. Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee

Most Of The Time I'm Not Really Attracted To Writing That's Focused On Filling And Fighting It Out Within A Well-defined Container. I Like Work That Gets Out In The World And Lets The World Shape The Poem.

We Thought, Because We Had Power, We Had Wisdom.

Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee.

It's To A Younger People's Advantage To Work With Evolving Computer Technologies That Provide So Many Ways To Explore The Use And Distribution Of Text, Including Sound, Images And Motion.

I Had Lost Something In My Youth And Made Money Instead.

I've Been Reading A Lot Lately About Indian Captives. One Woman Who Had Been Captured By The Indians And Made A Squaw Was Resentful When She Was Rescued Because She'd Found That There Was A Lot More Work To Do As The Wife Of A White Man.

I Died In My Boots Like A Pioneer With The Whole Wide Sky Above Me.

I Don't Think I Have Ever Really Gotten Leopold Bloom's Interior Ramblings Out Of My Head! I Am Sure That Voice Continues To Inspire The Walking Consciousness In My Work - That Is, The Way I Carry On An Interior Monologue As I Walk Through This City.

Oh, Georgia Booze Is Mighty Fine Booze, The Best Yuh Ever Poured Yuh, But It Eats The Soles Right Offen Yore Shoes, For Hell's Broke Loose In Georgia.

Dreaming Men Are Haunted Men.

We Do Not Fight For The Real But For Shadows We Make. A Flag Is A Piece Of Cloth And A Word Is A Sound, But We Make Them Something Neither Cloth Nor A Sound, Totems Of Love And Hate, Black Sorcery-stones.

I Tried To Think Of My Knowledge, But It Was A Squirrel's Heap Of Winter Nuts. There Was No Strength In My Knowledge Any More And I Felt Small And Naked As A New-hatched Bird.

As For What You're Calling Hard Luck - Well, We Made New England Out Of It. That And Codfish.

When I Was In Graduate School, My Thesis Included Both Poetry And Essays. Influenced By The Personal Essays Of James Baldwin And Norman Mailer, I Loved The Form, But Pretty Much Stopped.

I Am Tired Of Loving A Foreign Muse.

I Admire The Attention Other Writers Can Give To The World We're Walking In.

Money Is Sullen And Wisdom Is Sly, But Youth Is The Pollen That Blows Through The Sky And Does Not Ask Why.

Our Fathers And Ourselves Sowed Dragon's Teeth. Our Children Know And Suffer The Armed Men.

There's Nothing Compared To The History Of Writing About The City Of New York That You Get, Say, In Charles Reznikoff.

Something Begins, Begins; Starlit And Sunlit, Something Walks Abroad, In Flesh And Spirit And Fire. Something Is Loosed To Change The Shaken World.

When Daniel Boone Goes By At Night The Phantom Deer Arise And All Lost, Wild America Is Burning In Their Eyes.

Books Are Not Men And Yet They Are Alive. They Are Man's Memory And His Aspiration, The Link Between His Present And His Past, The Tools He Builds With.

Go Play With The Towns You Have Built Of Blocks, The Towns Where You Would Have Bound Me! I Sleep In My Earth Like A Tired Fox, And My Bufdfalo Have Found Me.

Defeat Is A Fact And Victory Can Be A Fact. If The Idea Is Good, It Will Survive Defeat, It May Even Survive The Victory.

I Have Fallen In Love With American Names, The Sharp, Gaunt Names That Never Get Fat.

Remember That When You Say "i Will Have Non Of This Exile And This Stranger For His Face Is Not Like My Face And His Speech Is Strange," You Have Denied America With That Word.

Our Earth Is But A Small Star In A Great Universe. Yet Of It We Can Make, If We Choose, A Planet Unvexxed By War, Untroubled By Hunger Or Fear, Undivided By Senseless Distinctions Of Race, Color Or Theory.

The Art Finds Kingdoms In A Foot Of Ground.

And Thames And All The Rivers Of The Kings Ran Into Mississippi And Were Drowned. They Planted England With A Stubborn Trust But The Cleft Dust Was Never English Dust.

Since Graveyards Are Often Built Over Older Burial Grounds, I Assume Dolores Park Was Probably An Indian, (an Ohlone) Graveyard Before That. I Think The Fact That It Has So Many Layers Underneath The Contemporary One Intrigues Me.

The Other Week I Wrote A Piece On A Photograph I Got At A Flea Market, And I Got About 70 Hits. I Think A Lot Of People Must Be Interested In Flea Markets.

You Can Take Off Your Hats Now, Gentlemen, And I Think Perhaps You'd Better.

God Pity Us Indeed, For We Are Human, And Do Not Always See, The Vision When It Comes, The Shining Change, Or, If We See It, Do Not Follow It, Because It Is Too Hard, Too Strange, Too New, Too Unbelievable, Too Difficult, Warring Too Much With Common, Easy Ways, And Now I Know This, Standing In This Light, Who Have Been Half Alive These Many Years, Brooding On My Own Sorrow, My Own Pain, Saying "i Am A Barren Bough. Expect, Nor Fruit Nor Blossom From A Barren Bough."

Outcasts Of War, Misfits, Rebellious Souls, Seekers Of Some Vague Kingdom In The Stars - They Hide Out In The Hills And Stir Up Trouble, Call Themselves Prophets, Too, And Prophesy, That Something New Is Coming To The World, The Lord Knows What! Well, It's A Long Time Coming, And, Meanwhile, We're The Wheat Between The Stones.

I Think A Blog Is A Catalyst For A Number Of Possible Kinds Of Writing Besides Being Its Own Medium.

If Two New Hampshiremen Aren't A Match For The Devil, We Might As Well Give The Country Back To The Indians.

Whatever Poetry That Was In Me Was Coming Out In The Form Of Constructing Art Books!

Seine And Piave Are Silver Spoons, But The Spoonbowl-metal Is Thin And Worn

Even In Hell, If A Man Was A Man, You'd Know It.

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American Muse, Whose Strong And Diverse Heart So Many Men Have Tried To Understand But Only Made It Smaller With Their Art, Because You Are As Various As Your Land.

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Honesty Is As Rare As A Man Without Self-pity.

Grant Us Brotherhood, Not Only For This Day But For All Our Years - A Brotherhood Not Of Words But Of Acts And Deeds.

We Thought We Were Done With These Things But We Were Wrong. We Thought, Because We Had Power, We Had Wisdom.

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Sometimes A Sign Or A Quote Is Simply Interesting By Itself And Does Not Require Anything Beyond Being Framed On A Page.

Life Was A Storm To Wander Through.

Broad-streeted Richmond . . . The Trees In The Streets Are Old Trees Used To Living With People, Family Trees That Remember Your Grandfather's Name.

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