I have been editing and arranging no less than 7 books of Poetry, containing both Poetic Prose, Lyrical Poems, Philosophical Verse, and every combination in-between. Much has already been written throughout my 20s, and published. Although, I will admit that being "published", means absolutely nothing, other than a random check in the mail anywhere from 50 to 300 bucks; a $5,000 lawsuit; the thrill of seeing your book on the bottom shelf at the local bookstore for $16.95, and a burnt case of 200 books edited without my consent and to my disapproval, for which there was no distributor......
Ah, but all is not Tragic. I did self-publish two short collections, each under 100 pages. I printed 50 of these, myself, on a 1940's AB Dick 360 duplicator press. Those were the days, sitting by that machine as it ran through the night, I can still hear it running now....These Books, were not even books at all really,–no, but completely unbound, –unconventional, as has been my Style ever since I can remember. Each page separate, and printed on one side only. These pages fit inside a black box, of the same width and height as the pages, its depth just enough to contain the stack of pages, which opened from the top. Such a Beautiful thing, such a Precious thing, surely a fitting way to carry and contain Immortal Thought.
And then there's the unconventional way in which my work ended up in the Poetry Curriculum at not less than a few Liberal Arts Colleges in St. Augustine, USA; Texas; Lyon, FR, and then Berkeley, CA......All credit having to go to a close lady-friend at the time who was an art teacher at Flagler. My crowning achievement to date is when I'd sit in on the Poetry lectures, and a "Professor of Literature" would decide to read one of my pieces and then commence with discussion, criticism, and analysis amongst the students. Of course, true to my Style, nobody knew me, except the Professor, and she only knew me as that art teacher's boyfriend, not Lucien J. Boisclair, the high-school dropout who wrote that piece which was supposedly teaching these students something, these students who pay over 20K a year to sit, here........
Well enough rambling reminiscence. The whole point of all this is that during this process of review, arrangement, editing, and even writing, I am driven to post random pieces here, as I fancy them, in some way or another, fitting, for whatever reason, at a particular time. It has never been quite clear what this little blog will ever grow up to be, if it's ever to mature in any way at all. For now let's say it is this: The following piece I indeed wrote while drinking wine in the garden at my little home in Emeryville, CA. The dear Lady, who, along with her Partner, legendary artist Peter Neufeld, so lovingly and carefully cared for this sanctuary which i was so grateful for, has since passed away. So this Piece is now dedicated to her, Briana Kaufman.
Drinking Wine in the Garden
Languid from performing in closed theaters,
on dilapidated stages, behind the drawn curtain—
voice broken from yelling to the celebrated singing
of birds—
I've found my placid place, drunk with stillness,
numb with detachment—
but still holding fast, to dying Value.
I sip, cautiously, and with great respect
for the power
of Pleasure's Kill.
~
Beauty's Jealousy has stolen my heart,
and for this everlasting moment,
I surrender and listen:
Once, an innocent child,
virgin to Specialized Ignorance—
now, carelessly copied,
over and over again,
with worn-out machinery
onto recycled paper
full of Impurity—
now, timid and tainted,
broken and weak—
a faint apparition,
rousing fear among the unsuspecting,
hope among the suspecting,
and Inspiration among the
Enlightened.
~
Fear, is visible
in the eyes of the lost:
becoming many and angry—
Harmonic Unrest is audible
even in the Bird's Song—
tension disrupting Natural Resonance
as Silence becomes louder
than the Decaying Screams
of Progress.
~
I sip.
A bird lands close.
It sees what I see,
and knows:
We have grown old with our Surroundings
The young have all been eaten—
their carcasses thrown into the Footings
of the current Architecture—
spilling its long, foreboding Shadow
on the once-golden
Grounds of Life.
~
.......... this piece was put to print in an underground Berkeley 'zine a few years back. The editor emailed me and arranged to meet at a Peet's coffee shop on Shattuck Ave. I was a little nervous, because normaly you just get an email saying that your piece was rejected but thaaaaanks, or in the rare case, "we love your piece, and have accepted it. What is your mailing address so we can mail you this huuuuge check" I figured, well, it's a local rag she probably just wants to meet face-to-face, you know, west-coast style. There was no money involved so it wasn't like she wanted to personally hand me a check for 5 dollars. I get to Peet's early, so that i'm sure to be there before she gets there. I prefer that. I don't like entering into other people's space. If i'm there first, sitting down with my tall black-eye, she is entering my space, and that's how I roll.
I get my coffee and sit down at a stool facing the window, looking out onto the busy Shattuck Ave. in downtown Berkeley. I had no idea what this lady looked like, and unless she stalked me on the internet, she didn't know what I looked like so I had no idea how we would actually connect. This was the dominant thought going through my mind as I watched and listened to a guy playing the sax on the sidewalk for change.
"Hello, are you Lucien?"
I turn around rather surprised.
"oh hi, Yes, but call me Josh."
"oh?"
"yes, yes–Lucien is my middle name, my Father's name, and a much better pen-name. Josh, besides being biblical, is a ya know, a joke"
Laughter breaks out and the ice is broken, and there was ice, let me tell you. There was not one lady here to meet me but two.
"well it's a pleasure to finally meet you Josh, I'm Anne, (she is the one i'd been corresponding with)
and this is Ashley, she's our Publisher"
So at this point I'm thinking, wow, the editor brings the publisher, what's going on here.First of all Anne, the editor, is probably 65 years old and Ashley is maybe 25, maybe....I instantly conceive the plot: they both are Asian for sure, so Anne is either Ashley's mother or grandmother, too hard to tell which, but clearly related. And then it ends, I have nothing beyond this, other than curiosity......
They get their coffees and we relocate to a table which makes me rather uncomfortable but I always give in to accommodate, it's just my Style. Anne begins:
"well Josh, I must say that your Piece, Drinking Wine in the Garden, is just spectacular, really, really profound. It's depth and breadth, and the way that you have orchestrated and arranged the separate pieces into a unified whole is just, well, i'd call it nothing less than poetic genius, and we are so grateful that you have submitted this piece for our consideration....but i have to ask, why the rather lackluster title? I mean, the scope of this piece, the ground which it flies above, its altitude and delicate presence, really demands a title which reflects that i think"
Here we go. Ashley, sits quietly listening to Anne and gives me a blank glance while I pause. Whose idea was this? i think.....Anne's or Ashley's? Now i see why they both came, because this, this is now a debate, and i poise to put them in their place, gently:
"Anne, Ashley, ...it appears that you have missed a major element of the composition. First comes the honesty, which is necessary in all great art, the fact that i was drinking wine in the garden as this came to me. now, if that was all there was to it, i would wholeheartedly agree with you. But, what comes after this lackluster title is what then turns the title into the perfect, unexpected, introduction and allows the words to penetrate deeper into the reader's consciousness and thus more meanings are able to present themselves and rise from the lines and give the whole thing wings, than if the title had any sort of pretension or meaning, which would not be understood until the poem was read anyways. The reader enters relaxed, no pretension, no idea what is next. the first stanza is read, and ends harshly. this surprises, and sets the tone for the rest. the reader now can feel that something is coming, that the following words will kill something, and it will be beautiful. but they have been eased....perhaps even teased into this, i have poured them a glass of wine, you see? and by the time they get to the end, they no doubt will be pouring their own, and not in despair, but in order to savour the moment of beauty which they have been enlightened to, to help it last just a little longer. they will no doubt go back and re-read, and just keep on gaining, the poem will never stop giving, its wine flows, and that, basically, is why the title works, and not only works, but is an essential piece of the whole. many pieces I write have no titles, and there is aesthetic reason for that too."
