poetry

Saragun Verse: Civil War for August

The Poems of the Saragun Civil War by Dame Daisy and Various Lambs

Introduction

The Poems of the Saragun Civil War between Goats and Lambs are presented this week. Everyday we will feature a poem by the Pygmy Goatess Dame Daisy Kloverleaf that she sent the Lambs of the Lambystan community in Saragun Springs and the reply poem from the Lambs, ostensibly written by their leader, but it appears that it was a team effort. This was perhaps the only Civil War in history that never escalated to violence. To paraphrase Sandberg, “We held a war but everyone went to lunch.” But, to quoth Daisy. “It was hotly hot by word.”

Leila

The First Pair of War Poems

“Haggisly” by Dame Daisy Kloverleaf

i

Little Lambs O little Lambs, thou annoy

Goatly measures of pride with silly ploys

It is so clear that you don’t give a damb

About becoming humble Ewes and Rams

ii

The cold hearted dastardly deedly deeds

That invade the garden of my sweet ease

Will not by I be soonly forgotten

Each of you is an apple quite rotten

iii

By the hot beat of my hooves I proclaim

This meadow will never be samely same

Until you recant calling me sour feta

Soonerly soon than laterly latuh

“Our Reply” by Shaytan Shotten, Viceroy of Lambystan

i

O dope Goatess who’s hardly the mostest

Everything you say does so offend us

The name of your “pomely” poem perchance

Infuriates the demons of Sheep dance

ii

I am spelling as slowly as I can

We know your mind is like a can of spam

You hold onto the stupid stuff you think

Forcing the best of us to smell the stink

iii

By ruminancy powers we declare

You will surrender your foul underwear

After we win the day on the field

Mighty Lambystan shall never yield!

Afterword

Well, there you have the flavor of the struggle.

L.A.

Leonard Cohen on the Phone by Dale Williams Barrigar

(Image of Berwyn, Illinois, U.S.A. provided by DWB)

“Show me the place where the word became a man.”

– Leonard Cohen, “Show Me the Place”

Poetry can create

and does create

urban

affection, the tiny,

brief

reaching

out

to one’s fellow

humans

that us city

folks (the vast

majority

of the planet

now) need to

indulge in so we

can remain

connected

to one another,

our fellow

humanity,

in a real way,

however strange or

however much

a stranger. Whenever

people compliment

one of my beautiful

animals (Siberian Huskies

or pit bulls), I take it

personally

and return

the favor.

Walking across

the parking lot,

I resolved

that I

would continue

to do so. And I turned

the Leonard Cohen

song way up

on my phone

and placed it

near my ear

one more

time

for now.

Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar is a poet whose own poetry transformed his own life: suddenly, and then gradually. It’s good enough for him.

Porcupine Spirit by Dale Williams Barrigar

(Image of DWB provided by DWB)

Porcupine Spirit

For Montmorency County, Michigan,

USA

In a cedar swamp

one time, I saw

a gigantic

porcupine

standing up

on his hind legs

like a miniature

human. He was three

feet tall, and looked

like something out of

Star Wars with his incredible,

innumerable

quills

sticking out every which

way and his arms dangling

in front of him as he

stood there, his small face

unafraid of me and his whole

self refusing to move

off the path

which he

was blocking.

And indeed

he continued

to block the path

and watch me walk

away after I

gingerly

stepped

around him.

The forests up here

allow for many

moments like these –

vast, indigenous,

Germanic, huge,

mysterious, with little

to no

human habitations

for gigantic wild

stretches and nothing but

dirt roads. If you want

to be independent

on foot and wander

in a pine wilderness

like Johnny Appleseed

with a wolf,

you can choose

any direction

to do that

here

in the middle

of a place

that makes you

free.

Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar is a poet whose own poetry transformed his own life: suddenly, and then gradually. It’s good enough for him.

For the First Time by Dale Williams Barrigar

(image provided by DWB)

Through it all,

and during it all,

the vast collection

of poetry

he’d created

in the last

ten years

had turned into

a monster

like Grendel

that was now devouring

my life. William Carlos

Williams said:

since the imagination is

nothing, nothing

comes

of it. This lesson

was weighing

heavily. But Jack

Spicer

also said: the poet gets

messages

for her or his life right

from the act

of writing poetry. This

makes poetry

worth doing daily

in its own right,

regardless

of any outward

consequences, or

non-consequences,

that can be

immediately seen. I remembered

I was a person born

with a humble sense

of mystic vision

(since day one). Since day

one

I’d felt

the correspondences

in the world

and had

a certain sense that we

are all here

for a reason, or for

many reasons

and meanings, which we

can feel (sometimes), but not

clearly

see

or say (most of the time).

An ambiguous

mystical

seeing, since

the dawning

of consciousness:

the first memory:

opening the eyes

outside of her body

for the first time.

Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar is a poet whose own poetry transformed his own life: suddenly, and then gradually. It’s good enough for him.

A Life of Drama by Dale Barrigar Williams

A Life of Drama

His book

had become

its own living entity

unto itself. Every time

he thought it was

finished, and these times

were many, something else

was sure to change

again within a week

or so.

Among many other

gifts,

this book

had delivered

him

a life of drama.

This life

we live

is filled with

involuntary immediacy,

as Lou Salome

pointed out.

Now, with this book

in his life, every unexpected

arrival was a bigger

shock. Each departure

had a greater

reverberation. Words

between people

lasted longer

inside the mind.

Tiny details

took on looming,

symbolic

significance.

Every squirrel

he passed as he was walking

his pit bulls, then later his

Siberian Huskies, along the sidewalk;

every song playing

in the grocery store or from

a passing car;

every cloud;

every wind that blew

or door that slammed

shut;

every woman

laughing

down the street

and every man turning

the corner so you’ll never

see him again; was loaded with

spiritual significance.

The unseen

correspondences

that make up the real

layers and levels of

existence

had become

both

more meaningful, and

less important.

Everything

was important

beyond belief; and

nothing was, because

everything changes

and gets redeemed.

The religion of poetry, and he

suddenly

realized

it was a religion

that had become his,

left nothing

and everything

to chance.

Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar is a poet whose own poetry transformed his own life: suddenly, and then gradually. It’s good enough for him.

Elephant by Dale Williams Barrigar

(Image provided by DWB)

“A poet is a time mechanic.” – Jack Spicer

The poem sat

in the corner

staring at

his eyes

and heart

with the eyes

of a cat

and the body

of a lone

wolf.

Then it changed,

the poem, into

a dolphin,

trout,

gorilla,

shark,

monkey,

wild boar.

A horse,

then a camel.

A hawk,

peacock,

osprey,

owl,

sparrow,

eagle,

crow,

dove,

pigeon,

thrush,

another nightingale,

and now

an elephant.

It is undoubtedly the

(invisible)

elephant within

the room.

I can neither leave it

there

alone

nor take it with me;

the door

isn’t big enough.

Yet, I’m

in charge

of this elephant.

However, nobody

is really in charge

of this unseen

animal,

who is, truly, a creature

never really seen.

Its intelligence

and will-power

are incredible,

like a real

elephant.

But it remains

invisible, like my blue

butterfly, the one that

travels with me

everywhere,

hovering over

my shoulder.

And so

I toil, struggle, wrestle,

labor, study, save, caress,

create, rest, and renew,

daily. Daily life is

a struggle with It,

capital I, but I

struggling with the power

and the breath

in this way

am truly

my own reward,

every day and

every way.

William Carlos Williams

and Jack Spicer, the great

Jack Spicer,

were right.

A poet

is a mechanic

of time.

Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar is a poet whose own poetry transformed his own life: suddenly, and then gradually. It’s good enough for him.

Saragun Verse

i

A field is a magic world

Timeless in sun and storm;

Yet when gold grubs push the worm

The field is killed and torn

ii

Ghosts haunt the other side serene

Of unsettled losses and fields plundered;

The gold grubs cannot turn a dream

They are blind to the wonder

iii

Yet it all moves along

In stumbles and dances;

We do not have to be dead alone

Even gold grubs get second chances

Solitude Equals Freedom by Dale Williams Barrigar

(image provided by DWB)

Solitude Equals Freedom

Harold Bloom, my spiritual mentor (if I had to choose, at gun point, just one, other than Jesus), rightly opined, over and over and over again (in the good way), that an American never feels free unless she or he is alone. Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, and Johnny Appleseed all agreed with him; as did Chief Joseph, Crazy Horse, and Geronimo.

The following poem, about my beloved Christina, is the result of that unnerving, wonderful, and true formulation.

Fleeing with the Geese

“Sometimes she is a child within mine arms…” – Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Tedium alternating with

Ecstatic balloonings which

Collapse

So suddenly

Equals this

Teenaged life

(for a few more months)

Of mine…

But then again

There comes

A sudden feeling, seeing

These geese exploding with power in their

Winged

Freeness

Like Bucephalus

The young war horse

Terrified

Of his own

Shadow in Plutarch

Until

Alexander

Understands

Him and now he’s

Becoming fearless

Over cottonwood

Trees

And power lines

Of the Ragged Prairie

Land

In the ghosts

Of the geese.

The UFO

Filled with marvelous mystery

Monsters

Is

Coming down

Now

And the

Mastodon Bone Museum

Is unleashing its feverish

Dancing

Creatures

And there’s

One bar

Open

On the edge

Of the

Railroad tracks in this

Dying American town!

And I’ll

Be back

On the highways and

Byways tomorrow,

She intoned,

At the end

Of the

Summer,

In 1991, to

Her Homeric

Soul,

Her heart

Humming,

Her hair blown

So wild

And so free,

Shaking the dust

Off her feet, in

America

ALONE.

Dale Williams Barrigar is an American artist who loves to be alone.

Self Doubt by Dale Williams Barrigar

(image provided by DWB)

Self Doubt

If you don’t question yourself from time to time, or even frequently, even the things you love best, it can rightly be said of you by anyone who wishes to – that you’re an idiot. Not the saintly idiot variety that Dostoevsky so convincingly portrays in his fascinating novel The Idiot; but the kind whose personality is lacking in somehow massive ways; the kind with blinders on who thinks they know it all and has got it right about everything in this endlessly confusing, mysterious world.

None other than Socrates himself, probably the second or third smartest human who ever lived (if such things can be calculated that way, which they cannot, necessarily), after Jesus, and along with Buddha (and a few others who can match them), repeatedly pointed out that the smartest among the smart know first what it is that they don’t know.

I’ve seen too many bored and boring, gossiping, chattering, small-talking busybodies in this world who think they know it all so that I have to agree with him.

Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison, in her riveting, genius book Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament (devour it immediately if you haven’t already; the chapter on Lord Byron alone will blow you away if you’re awake) describes how the depressive side of the artist leads to the necessary self-critical moods that lead to artistic shaping of the highest variety. So: it’s all worth it: for the artist, anyway.

Christina, in the following poem, is lost in a low mood, a very, very low mood.

In the final poem of this series (scheduled to appear tomorrow), she gets out of it alive.

Alone

“…the better fortitude / Of patience and heroic martyrdom / Unsung.”

– John Milton

Gas gauge

Nearing empty

Now

And earlier

She pulled over and wrote

In kind, gentle

Violent

Desperation.

All the mileage and the empty

Credit cards. Maps, colors and lines,

Colors and lines, blurring

What’s left

Of my mind.

Roadside diners. Coffee cups. Rest stops.

Gas stations. More coffee stops. Pep pills, a downer from

Back home in Chicago. Throbbing Bob

Marley music. Bob Dylan – Street Legal. Hiding

Rasta baggies from charming

State troopers. And I’m lonely now

And I’m

Alone…

And she realized,

I’ve eaten almost nothing

But nut-containing candy

Bars washed down with water

Or tea three whole days!

In search of

These things

I don’t even know

About.

I’ve got

Blisters on my fingers from

Too many pencils and papers,

Eyes weary, and bleary, from

Reading, looking, seeing or driving

And I’ve been on the road now

I don’t know

How many days

And how many

Ways.

The end

Will come when

It will come

(Or should I hurry

It)

But it’s

Giving me the

Creeps now

(And my skin

Is crawling like

With mean, nasty

Bugs)

And I’m

Wondering

Seriously

If all this aloneness

Can be

Good for

My soul.

Dr. Dale W. Barrigar has suffered so many crushing, brutal depressions that he’s often considered throwing in the towel and leaping off the Mackinac Bridge, in honor of John Berryman and Hart Crane, but he’s always resisted – and always will resist (unless somebody pushes him). For Barrigar, daily doses of Depakote and various other sedatives and mood stabilizers (plus a few other things) do wonders for steadying the nerves, and do nothing to dampen his creativity even in the slightest. He looks forward to the day when, like Leonard Cohen, he ages so much that he can throw the pills away. Until then – you do what you need to do, whatever it is. This life will end soon enough for all of us – don’t take that leap, it will all get at least a little better tomorrow – he promises you.

In the Car by Dale Williams Barrigar

(image provided by DWB)

In the Car

People used to think I lived in my car, because I carried so many items around with me in it, items that shall be (and are) elaborated in the following poem. Truth was, I did sometimes live in the car, but mainly only the times when I got kicked out of other places, and also all those times when I was on the road in America.

People used to think I only went on the road in America because of my passion for Jack Kerouac. And it was true that I did go on the road because of my passion for Jack (Kerouac and Daniel’s); but there were many other artists who often superseded Kerouac in my mind and imagination as my inspirations: for years, Jim Harrison, the great poet, essayist, and fiction writer Jim Harrison of Michigan and Montana, was my primary inspiration, and the list is long of other American drifters who also inspired me for years. Many of them were musicians.

And while a passionate fan of music and musicians, and while I can pluck the guitar and plink on the piano and blow the harmonica and drum the drums a little bit when the moment is right, I’ve never been a musician, because I’m not a performer in that way. I’m a performer in other ways, but not that one.

The following poem is about a nineteen-year-old girl, because I used to be a nineteen-year-old boy with a (not-very-obvious-usually) feminine side (everyone has both masculine and feminine sides, as Sigmund Freud both pointed out, and proved), and also because I now have daughters who are both eighteen at the moment.

Sketch Books

“A wayfarer by barren ways and chill…” – Dante Gabriel Rossetti

And I’m still looking

At the ghost,

She wrote,

That isn’t even there

Beside me any more,

After all, since childhood

When it had been.

My

Haunt-eyed closet ghost; so later will I label those

The Haunt-eyed Ghost of Warrior Traveling the Sky

Sketch Books

As she tossed the sketch books

Into the trunk of the car

With the rest of the papers

And notebooks.

The battered traveling library

Was spilling

Over into the back

Seat. Books

Are everywhere, and under

And next to

My pillows

From home.

Two sleeping bags.

Long, heavy watchman’s

Flashlight

From Grandfather.

For night time reading

And protection. And

I’m living in my car,

On the road

In Arizona,

New Mexico, Utah, Colorado, Wyoming,

Montana, Idaho, Washington…don’t know

if I’ll ever go

Home!

D.W.B., sometimes referred to as The Drifter by none other than himself, has always had a penchant for moving from one place to another in a kind of restless, and sometimes listless, fashion, since this helps him to refrain from getting bored. He doesn’t take fancy vacations, or any vacations for that matter, but he does maunder from here to there on a daily basis – whistling in his soul.