Testament

This prose-poem was originally published some years ago, in the online journal Yggdrasil, still going strong it would seem.

Testament

  

by

Victor Grauer

  

  

   When the General went out the door he came in the door. In going out

   the door the General came in. As he, the General, exited, he, the

   General, entered. For a moment he was exactly at the threshold between

   the inside and the outside and at that moment he became divided from

   himself exactly in half, one half to enter and the other half to leave.

   One half spoke. The other half remained silent.

Rest Now

from I Bertolt Brecht, Act I Scene 4:

Victor Grauer

Rest now but not in death in life
No time in death no time for rest
In death time dies too rest rest now
While there is time make time for rest

The Field

from Book of the Year Three Thousand

Dance

As he moved in toward her she slowly backed away.

As he looked into her eyes she averted her gaze.

When he spoke softly she was already speaking to another.

As he touched her face she brushed his hand away. 

Summer Nights

When I was a young boy, when I

Played in the streets, when I played, barefoot, in the rain

Which flooded the whole town; when I laughed and cried

Through summer to autumn; again and again,

When finally submerged in the dark-flooded streets

Of my sleep, I had terrible dreams. 

To Cygnus

Victor Grauer

A swan in flight has been arrested,
Her bright wings splayed upon the Northern Cross.
Now she, from high, where high on high she’s nested,
Looks down through diamonds on this world of dross. 

Just for Fun

This was written for the child of a friend:

Santy Anno — version by V. Grauer, for Bobo Cummings

There’s plenty a gold so I  been told,

Heave away, Santy Anno.

There’s plenty a gold so I been told,

Way down the Gulf of Mexico.

Night -- After Blake

This poem, inspired by a poem of Blake, is a companion piece to the one presented in the previous post, Day, inspired by a line from Rimbaud. The Blake reference should be obvious: "Tyger Tyger burning bright/In the forest of the night." There are some other references, a bit more obscure, such as some words and phrases from the British folk song, "The Cruel Mother," along with some other references to phrases drawn from folk literature and used in Book of the Year Three Thousand. The line "you must burn Garcia" is in homage to the poet José Garcia-Villa, whose favorite advice to young poets was: "You must burn."

Day -- after Rimbaud

"Day" was originally published in a now defunct online poetry journal called Pyrowords. Their editor was responsible for the symmetrical formatting and choice of color.

Book of the Year Three Thousand

My "epic" poem, Book of the Year Three Thousand, was written somewhere between 1969, when I began work on Book I, and 1973, when I completed Book II. All told, both books constitute over 80 legal sized, typewritten, single spaced pages. Eager to disseminate my work, yet distrustful of the usual venues, I figured out a way to squeeze all 40 odd pages of Book I onto a single poster-size sheet, possibly the only "book" ever printed complete on one page. Shortly after, it was reissued, using the same master photo, on a single page of the avant-garde music journal Source.

I: Version Two

from Book of the Year Three Thousand

I like a great hot blowing wind swept down upon the great plain my sword the

sun my spear a screaming hawk made of blood my shield a shower of gold plumes

plummeting down in blazes of fire before my swarming opening eye like a great

singing hawk made of mouths swooped down upon the great plain my sword a sea

of restless flame my spear silver moon rays on shimmering diamond needle points

I: Version One

from Book of the Year Three Thousand

I ventured into the desert the great plain great plain great plain great plain

sweeping down like a great west wind west wind burning I ventured into

the desert the desert burning the great plain sweeping down like a great wind

howling howling I ventured down into the desert sweeping down down down down

upon the great plain and there in the midst of five enormous lakes filled

with blood with blood howling howling I ventured down upon the great plain

Why I Write Such Excellent Poems

Why is my poetry so remarkably well crafted, so effective, so excellent in every way? Why is everything I've written superior to so much of what I continually find in the literature, both past and present? Indeed why do I know more things than other people? Why, in fact, am I so clever?

Spring Changes

Some years ago, I was invited to participate in a project at Carnegie Mellon University involving collaborations between poets and student artists. The project was associated with a grant to fund the creation of large-scale wall art to rejuvenate a run-down Pittsburgh neighborhood. I worked with a student who created a design to go with my poem, and the result wound up on the wall of a fairly decrepit Giant Eagle supermarket on Center Ave. In keeping with the nature of the project, I decided to design a visual poem.

Zebra

Zebra

Victor Grauer


Imagine yourself in a pitch black cellar with a zebra --

Imagine a zebra wading in a shallow sea of blood.