This Is Stag Country

Lamont Ledbetter buys the jerseys for the Birch Sidewinders every year. Well, not him personally, but the Stockmen’s Bank over in Birch where he’s president. We’ll play Birch at homecoming. Tuck Ledbetter is a starting corner back for the Sidewinders, but his sister Trance wants to play volleyball here for the Lady Stags — they don’t have a team in Birch. She’ll stay with her aunt Shyanne out in Purling Rill, drive her doolie home on weekends. Lamont and Katelynn promised her a new Silverado with the King Ranch package if she keeps her elibility. If that young lady doesn’t make her grades, it’s not because her parents aren’t trying.

I heard Trance has her eye on Rhett Farber. It’s not common for a Junior girl to go after a Freshman boy, though he does run the four-forty awful fast. You ask me, Rhett needs to keep his head in athletics, and Trance needs to date older boys. I think I’ll mention this to Katelynn when I see her at the game. I can’t imagine her and Lamont would approve of Trance dating beneath her class, especially a Stag and not a Sidewinder.

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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Social Math — UK

The venerable Henry Purslane Chichester, Sir Alistair Chichester’s ancestor, is much remembered in Chichesterton-Upon-Hogg for having wrested Henry’s Bog from the Burlingame clan in 1427. (A diehard remnant of the Burlingames still refer to it as “Burlingame’s Bog.”) Henry’s Bog has afforded abundant game and blood sport to countless generations of Chichesters.

Question: The Bog measures 2.8 square hectares. It comprises three-sevenths of the Chichester estate. How large is the estate?

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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Listening to…

Patricia Barber. I hear a lot of her music on my streaming sources. This amazing artist is prolific, and sings unfailingly fresh-sounding covers of standards, like the one I just heard: “Bye-Bye Blackbird.” Her vocals and arrangements and accompaniment are dark and
textured and thrilling. She speaks French!

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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Written in the 70s — Góngora

Góngora – Mallarmé – Joyce
Hopkins and the Arabs

under threat, constant, of the
blade sweetened
whetted-sweet blade who self-denied the host
second-chanced fall the same
weak one, none such weaker language
tongue on verge (of)
tongue simply
rung toward union vía
purge and illumine dear one,
dearest unit, secure rest,
period and decline.
PEDAJIVE
“Was there a drain in the psychic energy? Did he sorta fatigue on you?”
S.O.
In case I gave the impression, with hemming and hawing, that I had written something obscene:
Lest you think I wrote something obscene, I hasten to translate the worst:
“I would like to kiss every freckle on your lovely (long) neck.”

70s-10a

Written in the 70s, 70s-10a. (Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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Written in the 70s — Formalism

FORMALISM….
finger any one food and say, ‘That’s what does it.'” What does is it his mind, the life-shaper.
The main struggle in my life is for form — its own form. Definition; delimitation of boundaries.
How necessary is solitude, literal aloneness?
Who refused to be guest; who denied himself to the host. Beerbohm called himself the perfect guest. Gary leaves money on the TV in his sister’s house. Withheld himself from hospitality. A refusal to be loved.
Maned Exeter, anchorite, ascetic, voluptuous to a point (unrecognized).
SUN SPRING
All that time I was trying to say something I should have been trying to say nothing.
MIND ON TIME
Given to alarm life-love, cooking on the water surface light

70s-10

Written in the 70s, 70s-10. (Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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“Man Gesturing”

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“Burning the Brush Pile”

I find among my keepings a poem by Galway Kinnell published in the New Yorker June 19, 2006. Its title is “Burning the Brush Pile.”

Tending the pile, the speaker discovers a small, half-burnt snake still alive:

“It stopped where the grass grew thick
and flashed its tongue again, as if trying
to spit or spirit away its pain,
as we do, with our growled profanities,
or as if uttering a curse, or — wildest fantasy —
a benediction. Most likely it was trying to find
its whereabouts, and perhaps get one last take
on this unknown being also reeking of fire.
Then the snake zipped in its tongue
and hirpled away into the secrecy of the grass.”

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From Memory

“In Memory of W. B. Yeats,” poem by W. H. Auden, poets.org

This poem has several “movements,” like a symphony. I marvel at its discursive tone — “You were silly like us” — until the last stanza, where it becomes highly stressed and rhymed. That transition, for me, is a punch in the gut, like the organ cutting loose in a cathedral.

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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To a Friend

8-12-2012
“I need to return to it at a quieter time.” Lets have this understanding, though. Never give anything I send or link you to more than a moment of your time unless you really want to. And if you don’t even give it a moment I’ll never know, and it won’t matter! Just delete it and move on! You’re still my hero. (You don’t mind if I steer clear of “heroine,” do you?) I provide links as a courtesy, “just in case,” but I don’t expect you to read all the stuff, or any of it. With all the demands on your time? Good heavens. (Glad to hear about your IT work. Didn’t know you were still consulting.)

I know you don’t need to hear any of this, but I need to say it. I’m trying to be more enunciative and transparent in revealing my expectations (to students, notably) because I think I’ve often fallen short in that respect, instead expecting people to simply know what I think or want. How could they? Conversely, I spend too much time trying to guess why people are acting as they do. Why don’t I just ask? I think real communication becomes difficult (for me) when I think I might have feelings about how they respond. I’m aware at these workshops, when I’m thrown into crowds, how fiercely I keep people at arm’s length, including those I know. I’m polite to a fault, but…Keep your distance! I know I’m considered a snob, or worse. It’s an unconstructive reflex that gravitates against success in the material world.

Back to winteranthology.com. Just so you know: I probably have spent all of four minutes on the site. Sized it up, liked the look, skimmed a few things, and got back to my task, which was to find out a little more about “Flarf poetry.” Four minutes, mind you. Like you, I thought, I need to come back here, but not now. I’m finding it hard to consume much content (online at least) because I’m so preoccupied with creating it. And my consumption is still oriented toward books and magazines, which do absorb a lot of my time. It makes me remember a sardonic comment by a well-respected poet: “It’s easier to write poetry than to read it.” There’s so much truth there. You’re not alone in needing multiple exposures to poems. All serious readers do, including poets. I look for hints and advice all the time about how to read poems. I find it useful to resist the need to paraphrase a poem, and the subsequent tendency to beat myself (or the poem) up if I can’t. The poem already “means” what it says. (Supposedly. Let’s not forget there’s plenty of shall we say unrealized poetry out there! But which is realized and which isn’t? That’s the fascinating aspect of confronting the contemporary. It’s up to you and me to figure out where there’s value and to hone our faculties for that high calling.) I have to try to perceive it on its own level, which implies not vigilance but receptivity, a heightened attentiveness. I end with that outrageously pompous and obscure comment.

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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This Is Stag Country

Fay Dawne Burmeister was valedictorian the year Boog Jeeters got his lacerated kidney in the game against Horne. When Boog was born, Lonnie wanted to call him Booger. Can you feature that? Booger Jeeters. Reba wouldn’t have it, said no fruit of her womb was gonna be called Booger. She wanted to name the baby Peter after her daddy, but Lonnie said Peter Jeeters sounded like the funny papers. So Boog’s real name is Johnny Mack, but Lonnie called him Boog from day one and that name stuck.

Fay Dawne, I was saying, is too pretty for her own good, but smart. I hope she learns to cook like her momma. Hollie Jean makes the best chicken-fried frankfurters in the world. Says her secret is condensed milk and pancake mix for the batter. She also makes a mean Jello pudding with whipped cream, and puts minimarshmallows in it. Those tricks are hard to teach, you just have to have a feel for the kitchen. I hope Fay Dawne gets it. I don’t care what you say, the way to a man’s heart is not through his fly. That wears off soon enough, and what’s left is his stomach.

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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