Yeah, coming into the 21st century, a new experience.
Among other things, I began a series of auto variations.
I had done in the '90s a book called The Lorca
Variations in which I followed from poems of Lorca's that I
had translated, and poem by poem took out all of his nouns,
now in my English, and setting up a grid pattern.
Just-- that's just fussy.
Process notes.
I did a new series of poems.
And I did that with other poets as well.
And then into this century, I turned the process on myself.
So I'll read a variation on "The Hell of Measures,"
which I read to you earlier, and I prefaced
all of these variations on the Jigoku Zoshi hells
with two quotes from Henri Matisse
to the Italian painter Gino Severini.
One should be able to rework an old work of art
at least once to make sure that one has not fallen victim
to one's nerves or to fate.
And, again, when you have achieved
what you want in a certain area, when you have exploited
the possibilities that lie in one direction,
you must, when the time comes, change course.
Search for something new.
And I think Matisse was somewhat younger than me
when he said that.
But that's OK.
"Variations on the Hell of Measures."
How can any of what it feels like to count coins and hell?
Hell has windows as the skin has numbers,
and the sun flashing on the sidewalk
blinds the little customers who bathe in it.
In my head as on my flesh the poems
appear, responding to my call.
My palms turn violet and blue, smoother than Chinese silk.
My room is filled with rain as hell
with fire while an eyebrow slightly raised signals deceit.
The other hells are kept in store.
A hell of numbers follows one with rhymings.
Ribs grow heavy.
The night is meant for grief.
No lotions over legs or fingers can assuage.
Lost in the smoke, we wait for day
to come, for coins to burn the swindlers who demand them
like a brand.
Crates pile up.
Windows break.
Death makes the mind turn white.
Hands open hell for others.
Let its fires trap the birds who fly through them.
Let the disaster make them all turn black.
Let them cry out with pain, the counters
filling up with cloth and boxes broken open
in the night unmeasured, boxes smelling
of the sea, the intellect in prison in their darkness
knowing the right questions but afraid to ask.
May it make it pliable like wax and let it drip over
the outlaw's cashbox.
Words have their birth in it.
And metals drawn out of the Earth and melted give us coins.
The years ahead are green.
The bedposts where we rest are iron.
Our eyes are iron, too, and blind us.
Call it hell.