BLOOMSDAY - FATHERS DAY SYZYGY!

Happy Bloomsday! Lotus Eaters Erasure

ERASURE, THE LOTUS EATERS, ULYSSES*

BY LORRIES ALONG SIR JOHN ROGERSON'S QUAY

past Nichols' the undertaker's. Eleven, daresay.

Sent his right hand with slow grace over his hair:

Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere?

Ah, in the dead sea, floating on his back;

It's a law like that. Curriculum. Crack.

It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.

Per second, per second. Post office. Too late.

Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night.

What's wrong with him? Dead. And, he filled up, all right.

Chloroform. Laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Phlegm.

Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.

*Lines in this found poem are taken in order between erasures from “The Lotus Eaters” episode of Ulysses by James Joyce.

Ulysses erasure poems up at the Altered Scale blog

Two Poems by Larissa Shmailo

Scylla and Charybdis

Unsheathe your dagger definitions.

Streams of tendency

and the eons they worship.

God’s noise in the street: Space.

What is a ghost? Dialectic:

No man, not a woman,

will ever know.

Oxen of the Sun

Send us, bright one, light one, wombfruit.
Before born babe bliss had; 
within womb won he worship.
Too, she will bring forth by God
His bounty and have joy of 
her childing. 

(A pregnancy without joy, 
a birth without pangs, a
body without blemish, a 
belly without bigness.) 

There, that got in, through pleading, 
her belly. And now on the stools,
poor body, two days past her time,
the midwives sore and can’t deliver.
The abnormalities of harelip, breast 
mole, supernumerary digit, straw-
berry mark and portwine stain.
Swineheaded, doghaired infants 
occasionally born.

Little father, little father:
The Minotaur.

*Note: Both poems are erasures from Ulysses

http://thealteredscale.blogspot.com/2017/03/two-poems-by-larissa-shmailo_25.html

Happy Bloomsday! Father of a Ghost (Stephen Dedalus on Hamlet)

James Joyce b. February 2
Hamnet Shakespeare baptized February 2

Father of a ghost, but from the charnel dead!
Truepenny called, but bid his one son read
A woeful bedtime tale. So list: if Hamnet were
A suicide (the rest, what is the rest?); if Shakespeare were
Behorned by Ann (and her way hath will, clear)
And asked the poor young Hamnet now to kill the ‘dulterous peer,
(Perhaps to pour the poison in the porches of his ear?)
Cert, he would read just like a crab, ass backward and in fear:
Hamlet (his twin), ou le Distrait, une Pièce de Père Shakespeare;
Ophelia-like, rosemary clad, made mad with that despair.
Or … if the canon ‘gainst self-slaughter held fast,
Would he be murdered with all murdered at last?
And, scarred by family the most,
Who would rise to be his ghost?

From #specialcharacters by Larissa Shmailo, available from Amazon and Unlikely Books.

Bloom

I. Je suis une femme de lettres et je gagne ma vie.
─Colette

All ways a feather: bed your bugs as they bud
Welling roses these sweltering days
Rose roaches blooming by books, near pillows
Blooming by Bloomsday, busting out by June
Busting on Broadway, busting the busts…
Hey, this is…my bra!
(Like swallowing feathers, you know,
dirty feathers.)
And this is December and over there, Christmas
We call April Easter cause she makes them march.

Welling roses in Wellington Rolls
Rose roaches blooming by books, near pillows
Rolls with butter, rolls with jam
Roll her over, let’s go hot damn
Sweltering days as rose roaches bloom
Swilling slaves in rose roaches’ room

Bloom, concrete blossoms!
Bloom, Broadway bottoms!
Bloom! Picks his nose
Bloom! As he grows. . . .

Bed your bugs as they bud, as they breed─what a breed!
Ill-bred, no bread
Dirty cunt’s puking
Just giving me head. . . .

All ways are fettered
Fellated and fucked
For ever and all
But mostly for us

II. Foret sans oiseaux

All ways are feathered.
For rest a bed,
For the rest, a bed . . . .
Hey, this is. . . .I know; I’ve had them for years.
I’ve had it. Have you? Been had?
Have you a forest? Have you a bed?
Have you a haven?
(Forests of feathers: naked birds shrieking
Bony birds swooping
Burning birds screaming
Descending like hell)
Blooming rose roaches all buds destroyed
Bony birds bleeding, beating, breaking, bled. . .
For rest, a bed, for rest. . .
Fine-feathered slaughter by books, near pillows
Rose roaches breed,
Bleed swiftly and die.

III. On commence par ệtre dupe, on finit par ệtre fripon.
─George Sand

Always the feathers: hi, I’m Molly Bloom;
Blow by my bathroom . . . .
By the window a frozen bird, frozen for weeks,
A weak bird, a dead duck, a gone goose,
A pigeon petered out. . . .

But I’m Molly Bloom, you’ve had me, you know:
Birds are just chirping snakes.
But I’m Molly Bloom, I’m a mammal,
I have mammaries, see: This is a bust!
I don’t touch dead birds.

This is December, and over there’s Christmas
And Easter will rise to any occasion
For ever and all
For Peter and Paul. . . .
But I’m Molly Bloom, I’m a pagan, you fuck!
Amen
(A man? Where?)

A feather bed for me, a haven for rest,
Pillows for the head, and books for the rest
I need the rest: this is short, where’s the rest?


All ways are fetid
Fellated and fucked
No bird’s no damn good
Until it’s been plucked.
A man? Amen. This is Easter.
Rest that piece.

Reading for Seattle AWP 2014 for Madhat and Fulcrum

Reading of my poems "In Paran," "Bloom," "Father of a Ghost (after Stephen Dedalus's Theory of Hamlet), and "Letter to Lermontov." Video by Jonathan Penton
Madhat/Fulcrum Seattle 2014 AWP reading

Happy Bloomsday! Ulysses Erasure Poems

ERASURE, ULYSSES EPISODE FIVE: "THE LOTUS EATERS"

BY LORRIES ALONG SIR JOHN ROGERSON'S QUAY
past Nichols' the undertaker's. Eleven, daresay.
Sent his right hand with slow grace over his hair:  
Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere?  
Ah, in the dead sea, floating on his back; 
It's a law like that. Curriculum. Crack.
It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.
Per second, per second. Postoffice. Too late.
Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night.
What's wrong with him? Dead. And, he filled up, all right.
Chloroform. Laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Phlegm.
Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.
 

Bloomsday poem #2:
ERASURE, ULYSSES EPISODE 1O: THE WANDERING ROCKS

Legs shot off by cannon balls,
Ending their days in some pauper ward;
If I had served my God as I had my king,
It was probable he would certainly call.
Pilate, old back that owlin mob; but one
should be charitable, according to their lights 
Unfortunate, people to die unprepared, 
Excessive for a journey so short and cheap.
A thousand casualties. And heartrending scenes.
Human eyes: pleading. Sanktus! Amen.

Happy Bloomsday!

Last year, I erased Ulysses to create 18 found poems, one for each episode. Here is "Calypso:"

Thick giblet soup, fried hencod's roes,
grilled mutton kidneys, a fine
tang of urine.

Gelid light and air in the kitchen;
out of doors gentle summer morning
everywhere.

The coals reddening.
A slice of bread and butter
Cup of tea.

O-Cat-Mkgnao!
Warmbubbled milk on a
saucer.
Gurgh.

Ham and eggs, no.
Better a pork kidney.
Still perhaps: once.

Her prime sausages.
To catch up and walk
behind her, behind
her moving hams.

Bread and butter,
sugar, spoon,
her cream
Yes.

Father of a Ghost (after Stephen Dedalus's Theory of Hamlet in Ulysses)

James Joyce b. February 2
Hamnet Shakespeare baptized February 2

Father of a ghost, but from the charnel dead!
Truepenny called, but bid his one son read
A woeful bedtime tale. So list: if Hamnet were
A suicide (the rest, what is the rest?); if Shakespeare were
Behorned by Ann (and her way hath will, clear)
And asked the poor young Hamnet now to kill the ‘dulterous peer,
(Perhaps to pour the poison in the porches of his ear?)
Cert, he would read just like a crab, ass backward and in fear:
Hamlet (his twin), ou le Distrait, une Pièce de Père Shakespeare;
Ophelia-like, rosemary clad, made mad with that despair.
Or … if the canon ‘gainst self-slaughter held fast,
Would he be murdered with all murdered at last?
And, scarred by family the most,
Who would rise to be his ghost?

From #specialcharacters by Larissa Shmailo, available from Amazon and Unlikely Books.

Father of a Ghost (after Stephen Dedalus)

James Joyce b. February 2
Hamnet Shakespeare baptized February 2


Father of a ghost, but from the charnel dead!
Truepenny called, but bid his one son read
A woeful bedtime tale. So list: if Hamnet were
A suicide (the rest, what is the rest?); if Shakespeare were
Behorned by Ann (and her way hath will, clear)
And asked the poor young Hamnet now to kill the ‘dulterous peer,
(Perhaps to pour the poison in the porches of his ear?)
Cert, he would read just like a crab, ass backward and in fear:
Hamlet (his twin), ou le Distrait, une Pièce de Père Shakespeare;
Ophelia-like, rosemary clad, made mad with that despair.
Or … if the canon ‘gainst self-slaughter held fast,
Would he be murdered with all murdered at last?
And, scarred by family the most,
Who would rise to be his ghost?

Happy Birthday, James Joyce!

Happy birthday, James Joyce! Here is an erasure of The Lotus Eaters episode from Ulysses.

BY LORRIES ALONG SIR JOHN ROGERSON'S QUAY
past Nichols' the undertaker's. Eleven, daresay.
Sent his right hand with slow grace over his hair:
Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere?
Ah, in the dead sea, floating on his back;
It's a law like that. Curriculum. Crack.
It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.
Per second, per second. Postoffice. Too late.
Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night.
What's wrong with him? Dead. And, he filled up, all right.
Chloroform. Laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Phlegm.
Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.