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    N/O
    N/O
    N/O
    Ebook147 pages1 hour

    N/O

    By Ron Sulliman

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Poetry. N/O is a book-length poem in two parts that marks the nineteenth publication from Ron Silliman, a prolific American writer, critic and organizer of localized issues. Described as a "poem of moments," N/O expresses a poetic methodology that has brevity and wit on its side. At the same time, Silliman, who was once a leader of the Language poets, tips his hat to the tradition of the extended poem. N/O itself is considered to be two sections of Silliman's longer project, The Alphabet, which itself contributes to a life-long work called Ketjak. In N/O, the poet "rants, records, juxtaposes, declares, riffs, puns [and] pans" in expression of "his hunger and will to live and absorb" --Tom Beckett. Silliman, "a political poet par excellence," has written a book whose "pleasures.are resonant for the time they take to taste" --Samuel R. Delany. Ron Silliman has written and edited over 30 books, and has had his poetry and criticism translated into 12 languages. He has worked as a political activist, editor, and market analyst. Among his honors, Silliman was a 2012 Kelly Writers House Fellow at the University of Pennsylvania, and the 2010 recipient of the Levinson Prize, from the Poetry Foundation. His sculpture poetry (Bury Neon) is permanently on display in the transit centre of Bury, Lancashire, and he has a plaque in the walk dedicated to poetry in his home town of Berkeley, although he now lives in Chester County, Pennsylvania. 
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRoof Books
    Release dateJan 1, 1994
    ISBN9780937804568
    N/O

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      Book preview

      N/O - Ron Sulliman

      Alphabet

      NON

      For Jackson Mac Low

      So then go back

      to the old forms

      as if they were forms at all

      wood frame

      of a new structure, a theatre

      soon to be covered by stucco

      sort of a foam cement

      or across the street the small

      delicate elderly Korean lady

      with her thick

      and curiously deep red hair

      squats in her garden

      so damp that frogs thrive

      coming up from the creek

      sun to my back

        blanches the hillside

      each eucalyptus still as a candle

        tho we feel the breeze

      She rises

      wearing green rubber gloves

                        long stalks

      of yellow-headed weeds

      in hand

      Continuity demands a margin

      What is the import of detail?

      How do we stake that claim?

      Here we fathom connection

      each word an accident of letters

      ink bleeding into the page

      the cage is open

      but the canary’s dead

      Dylanologists who bet on the wrong man

      Sam Donaldson shouts

      over the copter’s din

      the prez he home

      but nobody in

            Little hill shrouded in rain

            the way shingled houses streak when wet

            or the concrete block apartments

            with their bland identical drapes

      women my own age

                  making the transition

                          away from youth

            telling the barber

            I part it on the right

            fever crowds the brain

            its thinking convulsive

            porch lights on signal winter dusk

      man in a three-piece suit

      with a buttoned-down shirt

      but the striped tie

      hangs loose in two strands

      holds his briefcase in his lap

      open, a kind of desk

      compulsive eye,

      mottled world

      old friend but an unfamiliar street

      too brightly lit

      sharpens the dark —

      big glimmering headlamps

      cars behind them not visible

      float past

      as the reader turns the page

      you glimpse the shape of stanzas

      What’s the plot of this song?

      Be sure to include the quotes

      dim blue lights

                leave tunnel in shadow

                    bright burst

      arrives the station

                one-legged woman

      swings on her crutches

      onto the escalator’s

      first step

                   shining black skin

                pulled tight

                       and through her nose

                     two gold loops

      Imagine light

      as a kind of firmament

      this small metal lamp

      a ground to write by

      pen’s stiff spine elongated

      shadows to swallow letters

      merely a shining pole

      upon a wide black base standing

      on an old walnut dresser

      bulb’s socket held aloft by a black clip

      shade a cheerless plastic

      from which hangs an insulated cord

           refrigerator’s hum

      is joined by furnace

      the case is made of wicker

      and the top is arched

      shelves so deep

      that in front of the books

      stand small framed photos

      and a basket

                try to write

      without shoes on

      tight grip of canvas

      focus thought

      setting the book down

      I roll over and kiss you

      bumping glasses

                  up my nose

      orange enamel kettle

      atop white stove in kitchen

      (harsh overhead light)

      its wooden handle, tho treated,

      has been blackened by flame

      small bowls within bigger ones

      is the right way to stack them

      asleep beside me, you grind your teeth

      two needlepoint doves in a circular frame

      I hear the rhyme by accident

      does not equal

      accidental rhyme

      earlier

      your left hand gripped lightly

      the base of my cock

      so only the tip

      passed your lips

      sperm mixed with saliva

      spilled onto my belly

      you stirred it with your finger

      inside my navel

      Brilliant postcard of Godzilla downtown

      taking my hat off

                is sometimes as dramatic

              as stepping outdoors

      as the play commences

      one begins to notice

      props on the table

      at the rear of the stage

      she wears her shirt untucked

      to elongate the torso

      in Beijing

               Col. Sanders’ name

                  translates into

                  Elder Head

               the Hac Man with his flap down

            Discharge planning

          in academic theory

                   the primary principle

         is defensibility

              from one letter

      generalize an alphabet

      add civilization to weeds

      yield flowers

      What’re you doing, asks I

      Sucking bear, says she

      eggwhite, eyes of the blind

      gulls’ cries echo

      up from the valley floor

      after the cold

      the bus

      hot as a sauna

      bread truck’s dolly

      is in fact

       a stack of shelves

      silent radio electric kiosk

       the particular itself

       exemplifies the typical

      here disjunction’s visible

      because spatially figured

      just for you

      bright blue plastic tarp

      atop the unfinished wood frame house

      work stopped by the rain

      distinct patches

      back on the wing

      of the black-shouldered kite

      small otherwise white hawk

      high over the grassland

      flapping to hover

      road barely visible

      thru windows fogged in the rain

               Ted’s sonnets

               mimic Jackson exactly

      therefore here

      little spasms of light

      O parking lot

      oh parking lot

      I’d give my arm

      to find a slot

      shattered umbrella

      bent

      awkwardly as a broken bird

      morning markets meaning maybe

               old disposable

               diapers

               tied in knots

               atop the black asphalt

      almost blue

      barely visible

      smoke spews

      from a red brick chimney

      weird social movements

      (save the snails)

               my little chubbette

      imagine Nobel laureate in chem

      as political, as pathetic

      as those in lit

               homeboys in the rain eat brain

      After three days solid

      indoors

                 the shock

      of the bus

               I struggle to keep the shoulder bag from slipping

      galoshes

               that don’t quite stretch

                  over old loafers

                   thumb-size

      hummingbird

      still atop the branch tip

      pips

      yellow light almost orange

      red stained furniture

      sun caught in the shades

      the gauzy curtains

      this door to the livingroom

      that to the hall

      gaudy rings on the cashier’s fingers

      undercurrent of banter

      half-teasing, half-sexual

      between checkers & baggers

      I want my wares double-plastic

      a beard to hide

      the wide neck

          rough edges

          to fresh clipped nails

          catch on the sweater

      deliberate as the lack of path

            is the forward motion

      while the gull shakes and flaps

                       big teeth form a beautiful smile

         one man stands on a garage roof

               with a small bucket of hot tar

             here, closer, another man

                 pulls a blue collar

          up over his sweater

            sleeves bunched up to the elbows

          or a tall young man in bright yellow pancho

      holding a day pack in one hand

      grabs a seat

         write what you see

      but not to privilege sight

      fog diminishes the horizon

      the biosphere is shut

      a man with dark hair on

      the back of his hands

      the curtains always drawn

      on massage parlor windows

      ears sting

      in crisp air

      green plexiglass awning over rear porch

      on the highschool football field, the goal posts are rusting

      an RV wrapped tight against the elements

      woman with a mole at the comer of her mouth

                   which section is this?

      Oh, it’s the mess

      I eat a banana

      the way some men make war

      to exercise my faculties

      fully

      said the regent

      What does not change / is the difficulty

      making change, coin vendor

      not in service at this time

         bag of salted

           sunflower seeds

         comer ripped open

        beside the fat

         paperback novel

      atop one of a row of six

                            plastic seats

         by the laundromat door

      businesslike, an informality

      that is almost intimate

      yet impersonal

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