AN IDEA OF ORDER AT KEY WEST

I have a character who appears in some of my poetry now and then.  His name is Ramon.  He is quite an amazing person, who often seems to know the right thing to say or do in a situation.  He is certainly much braver than I am and is impressive in his ability to create magic, not just card tricks, this guy can make natural magic.  I am reminded of another Ramon who appears in Wallace Stevens AN IDEA OF ORDER AT KEY WEST.  Stevens said that his Ramon was fictional, or mostly so.  I may have borrowed his character and made it my own.  Here is Stevens poem.  I find him a constant inspiration and a true magician himself.

The Idea of Order at Key West

Wallace Stevens

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
                   It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

DESOLATION ANGELS AND OTHERS

INSECT PORTRAITS

DESOLATION ANGELS

The clouds open and for a moment,

Form a circle in the sky.  One could

See angels moving within this circle.

Tall and pale, they are towers,

Leaning into each other and moving

Their giant wings slowly, as in breathing.

I dropped the car into a lower gear,

Swerving to avoid the back of a semi

As it exploded the road, caught up in a

Frenzy of delivery.  The sky was all a gold,

A blue hole revealing a churning from

Heaven to Earth.  Highway 80 West,

Aflame with the eccentricities of the early

Evening.  An endless stream of vehicles

Up and down the interstate, a Jacob’s

Ladder where we are all angels.

The spinning of the clouds moves,

Recedes as clouds change shape

Again.  I see Sacramento in the 

Distance, stringing its night lights, 

Claiming the horizon.  There, on

The edge of the night, it becomes

A remarkable presence.  I begin to

Think that perhaps the angels dwell

There, a place of sacrament.  A blue

Camero without lights on, nearly clips

My pickup as it slides across three lanes.

Its license plate reads HLY GHST.

PATCHEN AT THE BAR

There they were.

There must have been

A couple of hundred of them.

Clear balloons floating

Across the road.

Each with a lizard inside of it.

They were the breeze

For ten minutes, then

Drifted out of sight.

Talking to Jody

At the bar, he said,

“They’re going to make

A series out of that,

You know.  You never

Know what you’ll see.

Three persons walked

Into the bar and sat down.

One of them was Kenneth Patchen.

“How’s everything today?”, he said.

MORE INSECT PORTRAITS 

A STORY IN STANZAS

 Giant Anteater

Giant Anteater

Certainly one of the most incredible large animals on the planet.

It looks as if were created by magic.

Here is a poem of mine that invents the history of an object.

A STORY IN STANZAS

Headline: “A crystal box filled with music. c. 1000 a.d.”

The sound would be lost

At once were the box opened.

It is impossible to record the music.

It seems to create an empathy

In the listener as a Paraclete would.

For each listener, called ‘voicers’

By those who study this event,

The experience of the music

Is significantly different.

This is known:  The music

Is always melodic, memorably

So.  Rhythm is patterned.

Certain passages repeat themselves,

Yet, this is extremely rare.

Oftentimes the music generates

Usually abstract visual information,

But also occasional narrative, as in myth.

Animals, from insects to birds,

Mammals, reptiles, amphibians, seem

To hear these sounds with ease.

They oftentimes pay long attention to

The sound.  all have been seen moving

To the rhythms seemingly generated by it.

Some researchers believe particular

Mating behaviors in many species

Have been initiated or changed by

Exposure to this music.  Much more

Research is necessary to prove this.

It is said that people who have encountered

This phenomena have recorded their names

In a document upon doing so.  This document

While testified to, has never been verified.

The box has moved frequently

Since its discovery.  It is liable to appear

Almost anywhere.  It has been seen and

Heard off the Australian Great Barrier Reef

As well as in the Himalayas and the jungles of

Peru, Southeast Asia and South America.

No one knows how the box comes to

Move or where it may appear.

Its appearance has always had the quality

Of a mystical event about it.

In the past seventy years it has been seen

Very infrequently and very briefly.

One other box was known and was opened.

It shattered immediately and caused great

Disturbances in the Earth’s

Magnetic fields and impressive light patterns

In the ion layers of the atmosphere.

Its existence is usually denied except

In poetry and certain fairy tales.

If you encounter this box contact

Creatures that sing or listen to

Recreate your own experience

That others may know these songs.

Pigeons is a coop. Herald, California

D.R. Wagner

Dancing with the fish.

D.R. Wagner

POETRY READING MONDAY, APRIL 15, NOON

April 15, NOON

UC Davis Bookstore Lounge

on campus UC Davis

Davis, CA

I'll be reading from my new book

97 POEMS

There will be a book signing afterwards.

Please attend if you are able.

These campus readings are usually not

very well attended.

I could use your support.

THE HARP IN THE CIRCLE

FFireflies at Ochanomizu, 1880 - Los Angeles County Museum of Art

Kobayashi Kiyochika

Here is one of mine.

THE HARP IN THE CIRCLE

The hard songs come through

Holes in the night sky,

An impending electricity of purpose

Gathers into patterns, constellations

Remembered from dares we took

As children, stories around 

The night time fires,

The stars, reminders of our bone

Dust congealed within our sorry bodies.

Touched with grace for a moment,

They are able to form a mouth,

Then a music, then a welter of instruments.

We hear them as animal voices,

Frogs and loons, crow talk,

The coughing of a cat,

Slap of fish on quiet water.

Oh let us sing the hard songs.

Songs of goodbye and of parting,

Of winds on the moors and

Mists moving across bogs

where plants eat meat,

Dreaming they are gods,

Where love flees a room

Dense with violins and clarinet

Laments.  Pieces of loves across

Ages of time, dead ancestors

And friends turn from our embrace

To ride the night sky forever,

To pour through shining holes in the night sky.

The Rio Vista bridge, Sacramento River, 2012

photo: D. R. Wagner

Clouds Above Elk Grove, 2013

Photo:  D.R. Wagner

Another one by me.

A PROPOSAL

But I’m walking in the labyrinth 

And the labyrinth begins to wander

Away from me.  I have heard

About a ancient moon from Chaldea

That can decipher the climates

Of the heart and yet refuses

To do so until only the legend of its existence

Remains and even this is confined in a room

So silent it is said to exist only in a mirror.

I will go there and you may go with me

If you would like to see the

Kingdoms conquered, to learn to

Regret that the infinite can exist

In simple stories and uncountable

Rivers that flow through everything

We give meaning to every day

We forget or do not wish to name.

And there you may want to ask this same

Kind of question. Here is a personal souvenir. 

It is a footprint toward the center.

I no longer recall where

I acquired it and since I am going

Out to sea again, I have no use for it

At all.  Perhaps you will make something

Truly memorable of this day without

Getting lost in it.  It is not so easy to do. 

Night Light

COMING BACK TO D.R.'S SPOON

TIME TO GET BACK TO THIS BLOG AND START POSTING ITEMS AND POETRY AGAIN
It has been too long and I keep finding I discovered too many images and good poems to use on Face Book.  I also want to open up another blog for my students from last quarter at UCD.  Details to follow.

MUEDUSA'S KITCHEN at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com has been featuring my poetry and photography now every Saturday for some time.  I generally only publish my work at MEDUSA'S KITCHEN.  So if you enjoy reading, it MEDUSA'S KITCHEN is a good place to find it.

The year is a banner year for me.  Cold River Press. org has published my 97 POEMS in a truly beautiful edition of 240 + pages, perfect bound, with cover and inside illustrations by Bodhi.  I also have some photographic illustrations in the book.

The book is available for $24.95 plus $5.00 shipping from www: COLD RIVER PRESS.ORG.

I also have a very limited edition chapbook published by wwwbospress.net.  The book is named: PRIVATE ARCHAEOLOGY. This  book was designed, printed and hand bound by Bill Roberts in Dover, Delaware.  The text is set in Adobe Garamond Pro and printed on an HPCP2025dn.  The cover is printed letterpress on a Vandercook SP15 on 160gram Fabriano Tiziano paper from copper plate and handset metal type.  the first edition is limited to 126 copies.  100 sewn in wraps and 26 lettered copies, hand bound in boards and signed by the author.
The book is 40 pages, 5.5 inches x 8.5 inches.  The cover is by Tom Kryss.
Paperback Edition is $8.00
Signed Hardcover Edition is $30.00
It is available now.
I feel BOTTLE OF SMOKE PRESS produces the best looking and most cared for books of poetry on the planet.  I am honored to have them do a book of my work.

This summer LUMMOX PRESS, www.lummoxpress.com will publish a collection of 100 of my poems in a 148+ page perfect bound book called BREAKING AND ENTERING.  The book will sell for $15.00 and may be pre-ordered at the above address.  The cover is my Michael Robert Pollard, a wonderful artist currently living in Chicago.  It also features photographs by myself throughout the book.  Price is $15.00 plus postage.  It is a very nice collection of my work.

I could not be more pleased to have this much work all published within the same year.  Please order a copy for yourself.

Michael Robert Pollard painted this portrait of me almost ten years ago when he was living and working in Davis, California at the University there.

Here is a self-portrait by me more recent

than Michael Robert Pollard's painting.

Here is a poem from

  BREAKING AND ENTERING

KING LEAR ON THE HEATH

The swarms are moving in.  They pass

Through our breath and fog the glass of days

Completely.  If they have bones, they use

Them to make music, a curious dry, music,

The sound of grasshopper wings in a still field.

We begin to write the opera they contain.

“I am more alive that you.”, wail the flutes,

Lugging their way through storms and broken

Reed to light upon the quick scarves of the 

Tongue and burst into colorful flame, capes

Unfurled, as if they were not paying attention 

To how the story might go.  They eat heroes

And heroines alike, spitting out the small bits,

Extinct and irrelevant but always catching us,

Making us regret their actions, passing us

With thick arms and buckets filled with fascinating

Treasures from the deepest parts of the sea.

Finally we are asked to walk among them,

Suspend belief, give ourselves over to their

Crackling displays that take language out

Of the senses violently, pulling our hair

To direct us in the direction they will have us

Go.  We become weary meeting other people.

Looking for the light in their eyes that allows

Us to understand they have seen what we 

Have seen, heard what they have heard.

From on high we can watch the doors of perception

Swing open and closed, millenniums of behavior,

Always similar to our own but finally crouching

Behind one another, As flies to wanton boys, 

Are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.

We will leave the room quickly, dress without

Caring, only to be warm, find our way into the snow.

We will get into our automobiles, humming to ourselves

To keep some sanity and drive off into  music finally

Done with it, lucky to be alive.

TWO EXCERPTS FROM 'SEE YOU IN THE MORNING' BY KENNETH PATCHEN

Kenneth Patchen published 'See You in the Morning' with Padell, New York, in 1947.  i do not think it has been re-printed since then.


Pages 159-160.

   Soft dark velvet shoes walking slowly down into the valley.  Red barns turning gray....
   Stars coming out like bubbles in a dish of ink.  The frosty breath of the river wreathing up into the purple mouths of pine trees.
   Houses.  A dog barking....
   Fields.  The irritable good-nights of blue-jays....The rusty creaking of a windmill....
   The ruhhahahanahaha-ing of a distant train.
   "Did you lock the chicken coop, michael?"
   The light going fast.  The lonely whistle of a boy coming back from the pasture where he has taken the cows.  He vaults the rails of the fence, catches the whistle again.  The cows move forlornly about, shadows of waning shadows, their hooves like frozen, ugly fingers pressing into the wet grass.
   Ruhhahnanahahahaoooahahooeeee....
   "We'd better bring the tools in from the garden - it feels a lot like rain."
   "Oh it won't rain tonight.  wouldn't surprise me, the wind'll shift back the other way afore Jack Benny comes on."
   A chipmunk flings across the road, his cheeks bulged out like tow furry little baseballs.  the dipping headlights of a car just miss him.  He is already swinging off to a second tree when the roadster comes up.


Page 170.


   A creation of haphazard order, the craning necks of trees dipped sleepily off into the remote and ever-changing lacework of lights which pinpointed the village far below them.  The moon clung to the chimney of the old house like a silver gumdrop pressed down by giant, invisible fingers - veined by the occasional licorice of a darkening cloud.
   Horses, serpents, drunken warriors, castles, thousand-legged frogs and whole histories of the unexpected floated above them with that zeal characteristic of things which partake of eternity.
   And higher still the ancient stars, like flowers torn from milk, tossed silently on their velvet table.  Over in the orchard the night breathed through soft, perfumed nostrils; and down on the riverbank violets shuddered delicately under festive lips.
   ere and there on the roof of the mansion leaves of moonlight scampered about like frightened flows.  the broken windows looked out like eyes into which tinsel and burnt apples have been smashed.  A loose drainpipe under the eaves rattled like the can of an old man tapping across a rusty floor.