Videopoetry: relation of word to image

Belle Harbor NY 11/11/12

The Wound-Dresser
by Walt Whitman
1 An old man bending I come among new faces, Years looking backward resuming in answer to children, Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me, (Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war, But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd and I resign'd myself, To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;) Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances, Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;) Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth, Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us? What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains? 2 O maidens and young men I love and that love me, What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls, Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover'd with sweat and dust, In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful charge, Enter the captur'd works—yet lo, like a swift running river they fade, Pass and are gone they fade—I dwell not on soldiers' perils or soldiers' joys, (Both I remember well—many of the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content.) But in silence, in dreams' projections, While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand, With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up there, Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.) Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, Straight and swift to my wounded I go, Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in, Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground, Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof'd hospital, To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return, To each and all one after another I draw near, not one do I miss, An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail, Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill'd again. I onward go, I stop, With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, One turns to me his appealing eyes—poor boy! I never knew you, Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you. 3 On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!) The crush'd head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away,) The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through I examine, Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard, (Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death! In mercy come quickly.) From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood, Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv'd neck and side falling head, His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody stump, And has not yet look'd on it. I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep, But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking, And the yellow-blue countenance see. I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound, Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive, While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail. I am faithful, I do not give out, The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame.) 4 Thus in silence in dreams' projections, Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals, The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad, (Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and rested, Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)

storm moon

For Rebecca

Shutters Shut

fall!

Danse Russe

BY WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

If I when my wife is sleeping

and the baby and Kathleen

are sleeping

and the sun is a flame-white disc

in silken mists

above shining trees,—

if I in my north room

dance naked, grotesquely

before my mirror

waving my shirt round my head

and singing softly to myself:

“I am lonely, lonely.

I was born to be lonely,

I am best so!”

If I admire my arms, my face,

my shoulders, flanks, buttocks

against the yellow drawn shades,—

Who shall say I am not

the happy genius of my household?

mirrored evening

I'm reading Mary Ruefle's Madness, Rack and Honey. She 
has said she gave these lectures in order to learn about poetry.
I met her once. She was sweet, smart and kind of spacey in a good
way. The essays are like that too. The first one is a long
investigation on poetry and the moon. At the end she quotes
Maurice Blanchot on light, which is something I spend a lot
of time thinking about.

Repose in light can be--tends to be--peace through light,
light that appeases and gives peace; but repose in light
is also repose--deprivation of all external help and impetus--
so that nothing comes to disturb, or to pacify, the pure
movement of the light...Repose in light: is it sweet
appeasement through light? Is it the difficult deprivation
of oneself and of all of one's own movement, a position
in the light without repose? Here two infinitely different
experiences are separated by almost nothing.

Yesterday on the evening of the fall equinox the light on the lake
was there and not there and it was difficult to know where to look.

O-Dark Thirty

I have a poem up at O-Dark Thirty.

Libra Horoscope for week of September 6, 2012

"Disappointments should be cremated, not embalmed," said the aphorist Henry S. Haskins. That's good advice for you right now, Libra. It's an auspicious moment for you to set fire to your defeats, letdowns, and discouragements -- and let them burn into tiny piles of ashes. I mean all of them, stretching back for years, not simply the recent ones. There's no need to treat them like precious treasures you have an obligation to lug with you into the future. The time is right for you to deepen your mastery of the art of liberation.

Big muddy on the Ganges

soon