p. 66 of Li-Lin Lee, Feb 96
Li-Lin Lee: In poetry, there’s a much higher level of communication. In painting, it’s the lowest level. It’s like when you see a rock cliff. You’re astounded by it — the formations on this rock. That’s a very low level of communication. You see it and it affects you.
Cooper: But that’s instant communication.

p. 76 Li-Young Lee to Jansen, April 96, “That’s my model all the time, of the within that is within the within. So the poem is an infinity-inward flowering.”

p77 Li-Young Lee to Jansen, April 96 “We should write out of grief but not of grievance. Grief is rich, ecstatic. But grievance is not — it’s complaint, it’s whining. ”

p. 87 LYL “this body itself is already in the past. The body itself is a late report of an earlier report. Everything that occurred here, everything that is occurring here is the late report of an earlier event.”

p 89 LYL: This chair is a coarse form of vibration; my voice is a higher form of vibration. Silent thought is vibration…the whole universe is humming, is vibrating. It’s theat hum I want to hear. That’s the subject of my poems.[…]p. 91 “It [language poetry] looks like a literary activity. I’m trying not to write. The fact that I have to write is unfortunate. I’m just trying to hear something, so there’s a difference.”

(btw, Happy National Punctuation day!)

my plant song man

frog thumb prophet I am grateful.
if it were not for your level-eye,
shrugged shoulders of action,
I would be surrounded by the pale
stalks of my transgressions.

you don’t get taken in by my verbiage of,
the houseplants are stable, ie:
in a state where they do not wilt or rot,
beyond need for misting or watering,
a dusting if you must be particular
about appearances.

you do not chastise but gaze with slight
private smiled head-shake of kindness,
wordlessly replenish the clay
with hungry roots you pay for
out of pocket, energy, time

each of your visits is rain

–

Part of Ringing of the Bards XIV

–

airing
laundry, dirty by default,
yes, rub it in

–
Poet comic

There must be some unifying theory
of psyche that ties the consensus paradox tight
explains how cooperative non-violence drives
boxing match sales, movies with blood capsules for actors
to spew on director’s command, gratification
rubbernecked, observing battles vicariously,
precariously tip, not towards bloodbath fury
but to tranquil, post-orgasmic calm.

by the time I point at my heart as demo of closed
it has reopened. I glance over for admiring
the great Open, but the timelag that is perception
or is existence, intones off archival reports

– subject / has continued, living / heart rate, varies / norm,

( open shut open case, now cl o(pe) lo (n) sed ( (o) ) )

it’s a homeless pride of territoriality
to believe anything. It’s not a small faked death to
catch yourself in disciplined palm, pause pendulum, warm
it in hand, its frustrated twitches vibrate tissues,
feel its desire to make a funeral and a
wake. 1/250 sec. glance , was it
blur of metal plug, curling through the bore, fresh shavings,
dropletted mould, or silver fox who mocks surety
with traceless disappearance, grass over-writing plain.

Elmer Fudd anger; ill-timed long-eared heckler of mind
sniggers: benefits of low-fat eating has me dreaming in
creams of tongue. reading about vegan, drives up spikes through
wriggling chest carnivore cravings, gasp at rosaries

release the fist, let the ticked talk, know every swing
makes the hunger for motion, edge keened for the coolness
of breeze of own range, for the heat of the rise and

–

(incidentally, each line is 13 syllables, the theme of the Daniel’s hosting of Ringing of the Bards XIII)