Saturday, March 26, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
BETWEEN SAMSARA AND NIRVANA
not an inch of ground to stand on
not a hairs breadth
separates the bone
from the marrow
not an inch of ground to stand on
not a hairs breadth
separates the beggar
from the begged
poet
from
poetry
take not an inch
give not an inch
stand naked
empty and
selfless
possessed of
no
thing
free and easy
stride along
this is not mine -
this i am not -
this is not myself -
without an inch of ground to stand on
free and easy
stride along
unborn
and
undying
who hears this?
snow falling on snow
rain falling on rain
not an inch of ground to stand on
not a hairs breadth
separates the bone
from the marrow
not an inch of ground to stand on
not a hairs breadth
separates the beggar
from the begged
poet
from
poetry
take not an inch
give not an inch
stand naked
empty and
selfless
possessed of
no
thing
free and easy
stride along
this is not mine -
this i am not -
this is not myself -
without an inch of ground to stand on
free and easy
stride along
unborn
and
undying
who hears this?
snow falling on snow
rain falling on rain
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
PUMA PERL REVIEWS GETTING FAT ON THIN LINES
The most important thing is to find out what is the most important thing – Shunyru Suzuki
It sort of cracks me up that the immediacy of James Darman’s work, the lack of judgment, the grace of the tiniest movements feels almost Zen-like to me, and that I thought of this while reading a poem included in Getting Fat on Thin Lines entitled Pissing on the Buddha.
Getting Fat on Thin Lines is a collection of 64 poems where nothing happens except life; a favorite of mine, naturally, is Where the Living Gets Done:
between wisps of
smoke
&
bedsheets
between trips to
the grocery store
&
home…
There is contained in this work a peace, a lack of intrusion of the values of others and a self-acceptance within each moment, no matter how foul-smelling that moment may be. I don’t mean to belabor the Buddha connection, but I have to love anyone who has both the balls and the humility to write this one:Chasing the Buddha
so drunk
i put two legs
into one pant leg
and fall
i have grown fat
and dumb
while men
trot off to war
The language in this collection is deceptively simple and images tend to creep up behind you, as this excerpt from Affirmations of the Negative on the Wings of Birds demonstrates:
as the branches
swaying
their morning whistle gone
an evening symphony
of nada
they
rise and fall
Throughout the collection, the presence of nature, common and exotic scents, Zen death poems, and the taste of vodka bring a sense of purpose and inevitability to the moment, a sense of the writer’s presence in the world, his ability to write of simply of what is, as in the opening lines of 96 Degrees at 10 A.M.:
i tell myself i should eat
but i can’t
i tell myself i should brush my teeth
but i don’t
i tell myself that god’s hand is at work here
but he’s not listening
i put on my clothes and walk
straight to the package store
or the final lines of A Date:
i write
and i wait
and i know she’s never coming
i smell like lilacs and wine
What I like most about this collection is that it seems to come straight out of the writer’s spirit rather than his ego, a rare experience. A self-deprecating humor runs throughout, lighter than you might expect, as well as a resignation, a willingness to accept whatever it is that life is bringing today, and a knowledge that it will probably not change all that much by tomorrow. In that vein, I close this review with an excerpt from Scrape Until It Bleeds:
One day I’ll have no teeth
And I’ll compose light verse
About applesauce
Or
Green pea mush
Puma Perl, writer
It sort of cracks me up that the immediacy of James Darman’s work, the lack of judgment, the grace of the tiniest movements feels almost Zen-like to me, and that I thought of this while reading a poem included in Getting Fat on Thin Lines entitled Pissing on the Buddha.
Getting Fat on Thin Lines is a collection of 64 poems where nothing happens except life; a favorite of mine, naturally, is Where the Living Gets Done:
between wisps of
smoke
&
bedsheets
between trips to
the grocery store
&
home…
There is contained in this work a peace, a lack of intrusion of the values of others and a self-acceptance within each moment, no matter how foul-smelling that moment may be. I don’t mean to belabor the Buddha connection, but I have to love anyone who has both the balls and the humility to write this one:Chasing the Buddha
so drunk
i put two legs
into one pant leg
and fall
i have grown fat
and dumb
while men
trot off to war
The language in this collection is deceptively simple and images tend to creep up behind you, as this excerpt from Affirmations of the Negative on the Wings of Birds demonstrates:
as the branches
swaying
their morning whistle gone
an evening symphony
of nada
they
rise and fall
Throughout the collection, the presence of nature, common and exotic scents, Zen death poems, and the taste of vodka bring a sense of purpose and inevitability to the moment, a sense of the writer’s presence in the world, his ability to write of simply of what is, as in the opening lines of 96 Degrees at 10 A.M.:
i tell myself i should eat
but i can’t
i tell myself i should brush my teeth
but i don’t
i tell myself that god’s hand is at work here
but he’s not listening
i put on my clothes and walk
straight to the package store
or the final lines of A Date:
i write
and i wait
and i know she’s never coming
i smell like lilacs and wine
What I like most about this collection is that it seems to come straight out of the writer’s spirit rather than his ego, a rare experience. A self-deprecating humor runs throughout, lighter than you might expect, as well as a resignation, a willingness to accept whatever it is that life is bringing today, and a knowledge that it will probably not change all that much by tomorrow. In that vein, I close this review with an excerpt from Scrape Until It Bleeds:
One day I’ll have no teeth
And I’ll compose light verse
About applesauce
Or
Green pea mush
Puma Perl, writer
Friday, March 6, 2009
David Mclean reviews Getting Fat On Thin Lines
James Darman
getting fat on thin lines
chapbook
reviewed by David Mclean/mourningabortion.blogspot.com
James Darman's first chapbook is a book really, 64 poems that have a hangover, that are contemptuous of workaday values, poems that drink in the morning – and there is a little Mick Farren and the Social Deviants flavor here.
Humanity in this book is
strung-out
like a vacant sign
between the grave
and the ever expanding
atomic funeral pyre
(from “where the logic of the sun fails”)
as the poet's voice describes himself, it's a world where home improvements are drawing the curtains, turning up the volume, and drinking beer not coffee for breakfast. Ambition and industry are misplaced.
Though Darman distances himself from the Buddha
i’m sure that rock
is still there
in the middle
of Seattle’s
Volunteer Park
you can have it
and if you see
that cocksuck’n
Buddha
tell’m
i’m still pushing
the broom
&
drinking wine
(from “there is no Buddha here”)
it's nevertheless a Zen message of illusions covering emptiness that is taught here, as this poem, cited here in its entirety, illustrates
CHASING THE BUDDHA
so drunk
i put two legs
into one pant leg
and fall
i have grown fat
and dumb
while men
trot off to war
This whole book contains poems that teach this message, so it may not be for everybody, but it's a book of poems for everyone who likes to see if he left any cans open in the fridge when he wakes up, or any cans at all, and then stoically buttons up to go buy some more if there are none left.
leave me alonew/ a empty stomach
and a bottle of wine
i’ve got my own
suicide machine
to oil
(from “staying oiled on an empty stomach”)
In my humble opinion these poems are pretty much masterpieces of a nihilism that is not inhumane but just lets things be, like Sartre says in Being and Nothingness, there is no moral difference between a man who is a leader of nations and a man who gets pissed as a rat alone in his room everyday, except the man who gets pissed as a rat isn't a pin in the ass for everybody else like the leader of nations. So these poems tell us how to let go of stupid and boring societal norms and chill with your kitties and a few beers. (Why this American obsession with wine? Ah, sorry, Coors and Budweiser explain that of course.)
We are just this lack of substantial being and a creature shaped by nothing in the way Sartre tells us.
it was here today
and its here now
as i take the last
paper and roll a fat stogie
as i pound down the last drops of
wine
and it will be in here tomorrow
waiting in the corners
like the spider’s web
(from “in the presence of absence”)
And Darman is more than message and attitude, though that's there too, there are poems here of rare beauty. from the porch i watch the birds
rise and fall
above the cypress trees
their wings silent
as the branches
swaying
their morning whistle gone
an evening symphony
of nada
they
rise and fall
(from affirmations of the negative on the wings of birds”)
In general they balance each other, each of these poems has a message and does not rely on its beauty, but it also has an aesthetic value so the message doesn't take over the show. Probably the best new poetry chapbook or book I've read in 2009 so far, so do yourself a favor and go buy it, it's available at lulu just now at the link below
http://www.lulu.com/content/2905371
But you'll be needing plenty of beer and wine too, to do right by it.
getting fat on thin lines
chapbook
reviewed by David Mclean/mourningabortion.blogspot.com
James Darman's first chapbook is a book really, 64 poems that have a hangover, that are contemptuous of workaday values, poems that drink in the morning – and there is a little Mick Farren and the Social Deviants flavor here.
Humanity in this book is
strung-out
like a vacant sign
between the grave
and the ever expanding
atomic funeral pyre
(from “where the logic of the sun fails”)
as the poet's voice describes himself, it's a world where home improvements are drawing the curtains, turning up the volume, and drinking beer not coffee for breakfast. Ambition and industry are misplaced.
Though Darman distances himself from the Buddha
i’m sure that rock
is still there
in the middle
of Seattle’s
Volunteer Park
you can have it
and if you see
that cocksuck’n
Buddha
tell’m
i’m still pushing
the broom
&
drinking wine
(from “there is no Buddha here”)
it's nevertheless a Zen message of illusions covering emptiness that is taught here, as this poem, cited here in its entirety, illustrates
CHASING THE BUDDHA
so drunk
i put two legs
into one pant leg
and fall
i have grown fat
and dumb
while men
trot off to war
This whole book contains poems that teach this message, so it may not be for everybody, but it's a book of poems for everyone who likes to see if he left any cans open in the fridge when he wakes up, or any cans at all, and then stoically buttons up to go buy some more if there are none left.
leave me alonew/ a empty stomach
and a bottle of wine
i’ve got my own
suicide machine
to oil
(from “staying oiled on an empty stomach”)
In my humble opinion these poems are pretty much masterpieces of a nihilism that is not inhumane but just lets things be, like Sartre says in Being and Nothingness, there is no moral difference between a man who is a leader of nations and a man who gets pissed as a rat alone in his room everyday, except the man who gets pissed as a rat isn't a pin in the ass for everybody else like the leader of nations. So these poems tell us how to let go of stupid and boring societal norms and chill with your kitties and a few beers. (Why this American obsession with wine? Ah, sorry, Coors and Budweiser explain that of course.)
We are just this lack of substantial being and a creature shaped by nothing in the way Sartre tells us.
it was here today
and its here now
as i take the last
paper and roll a fat stogie
as i pound down the last drops of
wine
and it will be in here tomorrow
waiting in the corners
like the spider’s web
(from “in the presence of absence”)
And Darman is more than message and attitude, though that's there too, there are poems here of rare beauty. from the porch i watch the birds
rise and fall
above the cypress trees
their wings silent
as the branches
swaying
their morning whistle gone
an evening symphony
of nada
they
rise and fall
(from affirmations of the negative on the wings of birds”)
In general they balance each other, each of these poems has a message and does not rely on its beauty, but it also has an aesthetic value so the message doesn't take over the show. Probably the best new poetry chapbook or book I've read in 2009 so far, so do yourself a favor and go buy it, it's available at lulu just now at the link below
http://www.lulu.com/content/2905371
But you'll be needing plenty of beer and wine too, to do right by it.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
poems from GETTING FAT ON THIN LINES
96 DEGREES AT 10 A.M.
i tell myself i should eat
but i can’t
i tell myself i should brush my teeth
but i don’t
i tell myself that god’s hand is at work here
but he’s not listening
i put my clothes on and walk
straight to the package store
i move down the alley towards El Cajon blvd.
i tell myself there is meaning in the wild flowers
that cover the streets and lawns
but there isn’t
i tell myself there is reason in red lights
but i move against them anyhow
i tell myself i should impress the world
but i am only one man
hung-over
in the sun
at 10 a.m.
AS THE HAMMER DROPS
my skull
is a out
of tune
piano
each note
rising
&
falling
upon the keyboard
bent
&
worn
by the
hammer
my skull
is a out
of tune
piano
playing
its own
funeral
song
my teeth
are
rotting
out
i have 26 left
to make music with
as the hammer drops
and the music dies
my skull
is a out
of tune
piano
SUDDENLY AWAKE
from the lazy void
of afternoon sleep
i hear the phone
ring
it encourages
nothing
the sound is
dull
i hang up
w/out speaking
outside my window
2 birds
fight over
a branch
one flies away
w/ the small branch
in his beak
and the other
caught between
the dying sun
and tree’s shadow
flies into
the empty
horizon
and i go back to sleep
i tell myself i should eat
but i can’t
i tell myself i should brush my teeth
but i don’t
i tell myself that god’s hand is at work here
but he’s not listening
i put my clothes on and walk
straight to the package store
i move down the alley towards El Cajon blvd.
i tell myself there is meaning in the wild flowers
that cover the streets and lawns
but there isn’t
i tell myself there is reason in red lights
but i move against them anyhow
i tell myself i should impress the world
but i am only one man
hung-over
in the sun
at 10 a.m.
AS THE HAMMER DROPS
my skull
is a out
of tune
piano
each note
rising
&
falling
upon the keyboard
bent
&
worn
by the
hammer
my skull
is a out
of tune
piano
playing
its own
funeral
song
my teeth
are
rotting
out
i have 26 left
to make music with
as the hammer drops
and the music dies
my skull
is a out
of tune
piano
SUDDENLY AWAKE
from the lazy void
of afternoon sleep
i hear the phone
ring
it encourages
nothing
the sound is
dull
i hang up
w/out speaking
outside my window
2 birds
fight over
a branch
one flies away
w/ the small branch
in his beak
and the other
caught between
the dying sun
and tree’s shadow
flies into
the empty
horizon
and i go back to sleep
reviews of: GETTING FAT ON THIN LINES
GETTING FAT ON THIN LINES by American poet, James Darman, is a tight, well-crafted collection of poetry centered around madness, solitude, poverty, apathy and wine. Darman's lines explore one man's search for meaning in a world that is meaningless.
GETTING FAT ON THIN LINES is ultimately a work of resignation. The most stunning example of this is found in Darman's poem, Suddenly Awake. Here the poet is startled from an afternoon nap by a ringing telephone. He answers it only to hang up without speaking. Then opens the window and watches two birds fight over a branch. One bird flies away with the branch while the other flies into "the empty horizon". Whereupon the poet goes back to bed. The reader, however, is left senseless - as empty as the horizon, the branchless bird, the sleepy poet - at most, with a dry, dead branch between it's greedy talons.
It's wrong to suggest that these resignations are without triumph. The triumph in Darman's poetry comes from embracing the absurdity and futility of existence. Poems like The Night Can't Get Here Soon Enough are testaments to the strength of mind and will to embrace apathy. Here, as the world outside his front door is busy making useless home improvements, the poet writes that he's making home improvements of his own - "skipping the coffee and going/straight to the beer/turning up the music/closing the windows/and drawing the/curtains".
Darman's poetry is a welcome blast of originality. These lines will startle you, challenge you, bury you, stick with you long after the book has been put down. They will begin to erode the foundation upon which your most cherished beliefs are built - leave you reaching for a bottle of wine if only to reconcile yourself with the futility of your own existence.
GETTING FAT ON THIN LINES is a nihilistic feast.
wolf carstens/epic rites press
exploding with rich truth, James Darman's book flawlessly fails to rely on the predictable overactive poet's imagination and settles instead for the bone dirt truth, as he sees it, through dirty windows and midnight kitchens, through sunrise headaches and pausing reflection. or perhaps he's pulled one over my eyes and the cohesiveness in this collection is nothing less than thoughtful conning..but i doubt it.
Andrew Boerum/Good Japan Press
GETTING FAT ON THIN LINES is ultimately a work of resignation. The most stunning example of this is found in Darman's poem, Suddenly Awake. Here the poet is startled from an afternoon nap by a ringing telephone. He answers it only to hang up without speaking. Then opens the window and watches two birds fight over a branch. One bird flies away with the branch while the other flies into "the empty horizon". Whereupon the poet goes back to bed. The reader, however, is left senseless - as empty as the horizon, the branchless bird, the sleepy poet - at most, with a dry, dead branch between it's greedy talons.
It's wrong to suggest that these resignations are without triumph. The triumph in Darman's poetry comes from embracing the absurdity and futility of existence. Poems like The Night Can't Get Here Soon Enough are testaments to the strength of mind and will to embrace apathy. Here, as the world outside his front door is busy making useless home improvements, the poet writes that he's making home improvements of his own - "skipping the coffee and going/straight to the beer/turning up the music/closing the windows/and drawing the/curtains".
Darman's poetry is a welcome blast of originality. These lines will startle you, challenge you, bury you, stick with you long after the book has been put down. They will begin to erode the foundation upon which your most cherished beliefs are built - leave you reaching for a bottle of wine if only to reconcile yourself with the futility of your own existence.
GETTING FAT ON THIN LINES is a nihilistic feast.
wolf carstens/epic rites press
exploding with rich truth, James Darman's book flawlessly fails to rely on the predictable overactive poet's imagination and settles instead for the bone dirt truth, as he sees it, through dirty windows and midnight kitchens, through sunrise headaches and pausing reflection. or perhaps he's pulled one over my eyes and the cohesiveness in this collection is nothing less than thoughtful conning..but i doubt it.
Andrew Boerum/Good Japan Press
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
