Lady and I have some words and visuals in the latest issue of Tinfoildresses along with Adam Schmidt, John Burroughs, Rosa Jamali, Marissa Prada, Heather Ann Shepard. Editor / Publisher Heather Ann Shepard.
Check it out —
https://tinfoildresses.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/tinfoildresses-2024-2.pdf
for Lady’s 51st
This past year
you’ve worn the face you earned
your first 50 autumn falls
And a fine face it is
good heart strings
moral bone
With spirit and laughter
to firmly level
here now and after
You walk in good
feel kind
find the fold
You are here
present
giving
I am grateful
for you, to you
for your great full
Smarter than me
and sweeter, kinder
postive, protective, proactive
You go
I follow
we move in music
And such a song
strong
long
Never gone
In 19th year
we still befuddle
the huddle
These words are clumsy
you are not
you are my lot
You me besot
There are feet in inches
measures unknown
you are my standard
Heart
spirit
soul
whole
Lady’s previous day’s poem and chatGPT / Dall-E illustration…
From here the rotation of the planet rubs longer on the rosin of the days’ bow like the regal ruby arrow of a sparrow’s heart hefting the want of earth, winging a swim forward and forward again in blurted movement the runners chrome sparks of track I feel of you God you are a nickel faucet of sparkling facets that start, stop, cop goes the traffic light of end point like a clicking shifting shuffle of blinks, nails beholding a lot of loft a burden on a back of man, a trough of thought.
Lady asked Dall-E via chatGPT to illustrate her new poem…
the sun with a face
with lips a motif on
van gogh water in the
perfectly imparted
hand-operated paper wave
effect stage, the
audience civilization
of the panopticon, a blurry
of thinking tongues licking pixels
of an abbatoir.
Art collaboration between Lady, T.S. Eliot, and the A.I. graphic generator Dall-E 11.24.2023
This has been my favorite Eliot poem for over 50 years.
~ ~ ~
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T.S. Eliot, 1915
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Source = Collected Poems 1909-1962
“Our thanks to the Smiths today—Steven B. and Lady (Kathy)—for their collaboration/presentation/excavations, as they write to us from their estate in far-away Cleveland-by-the-Zoo. Lady says they’re lucky to live where they are; I concur—I would dearly love to live where I would be awakened by the sounds of elephants trumpeting in the morning. Anyway, keep on Trekkin’, Smiths; we’ll see you next month, gods willing and the crick don’t rise…” – Kathy Kieth, editor/publisher Medusa’s Kitchen
some Lady, a Smith & Lady, some Smith + 10 fotos
https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/10/son-of-sisyphus.html
“Our thanks to Cleveland’s power couple, (Steven) Smith and his spouse, Lady (Kathy), for today’s poetry and visuals. Steven is battling sarcoma again, this time a 10” tumor behind his left kidney (the alien inside him), with nuke-juice and hope, and we’re with him all the way in cheering for those ray-guns and for yet another win in that department. Steven’s a long-time SnakePal/monthly contributor whose latest poem-mantra is Radiate/Remove/Recover—and he’s also a tough old bird, so hope is not misplaced. Give ‘em hell, Smith! (And thanks again, Lady K!” – Medusa
http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/09/like-dandelion-seeds.html
Lady’s latest poem 8.26.2023
Wildlife Way
Our yard is in this foreign country Cleveland
by the Zoo where Latin music beats up the hill
from Friday cars on Wildlife Way
and we set on magic carpet
of our deck
level with the canopy.
We’re so lucky, we say, this house,
our lucky deck.
It’s wild and undomesticated like you, I say,
and confirm the evidence of fallen branches on the hill
which have settled into loopy silver spaghetti swirls
wherever they can be held, protected by
the poison ivy
I do, I do, I think,
and as I set to write in your notebook
God beams light and illuminates the paper and
in my juicy mouth I taste the tongue from troughs of
dripping maple leaf, from the green humidity all around
and the shape around my body baffles my ears with cotton oxygen
The roots of the green grow from fecund soil
on Folger coffee ground from last year’s leaf
where ants daub distinctly on amber legs made from
rubber cement, chitin segments size of dried up scabs
The locust rattle shakes at crow, caws sing saw in lulls
of cricket fiddle, the opera ladies of the woods
These woods are woods in the city
where they don’t have a big building
and squirrels chuck at dogs and we
saw a raccoon in its hollow then
sleeping on a branch all summer long.
This is the wild by the zoo
where we are. A brush of noticing
cleans the palate’s stage, hears clear air
and squirrels swear and chase each other down
the trees in laughter which later
frogs will answer
They like our talk, I say.
Does your belly does your twitch shake
like a squirrel in a safe haven?
Clearance Frogman Henry, he says.
Whatever the song his hit is,
he sings the song in one voice.
Then he sings exact same words
in a high falsetto then more music
exact same words, and lo –
Bullfrog mode.
We’re probably talking ’60 – ’61 –
Coulda been ’20 – ’29
for all I know.
I learn a lot from you, I say.
I know a lot of useless stuff, he says.
Oh no, I say.
You know, he says, just looking at all these woods
We’re so-o lucky. Our house is surrounded by trees.
there’s life in the life in the life –
There’s eco, echo systems everywhere
from happy sap water
to craft brewery beers and
micro dynasties.
Oh, I say.
My brain and my mouth just skip along, he says.
Sometimes I’m here, sometimes I’m not.
Yesterday I called you God’s fool, a joker,
a professor. Today you’re a bum, I say,
an archetypal bum in a sweatshirt,
two torn off elbows. It’s what I like
about you.
You have to put your head back on
Persephone, I tell him. This weekend.
You’ve got to do that.
I kind of like it as it is, he says.
The antenna balances the load on
her back.
Oh yeah, I say. Sculpture of a load
on the back of a headless woman is a woman,
a Woman’s Persephone.
Oh Dear, Dear, he says. I will fix her
this weekend. The bugs are biting.
Maybe that’s why I itch, I say.
The bugs are biting.
Time to go on in, he says.
Time to roll one up,
come up with dog
– Lady 8.26.2023
Lady, you inquired about Les Claypool songs in my shuffle pool…
Beezlebub – Beats Antique w/ Les Claypool
Eternal Consumption Engine – Primus
Wield The Spade – Oysterhead
Easily Charmed by Fools – The Claypool Lennon Delirium
Elephant Ghost – Colonel Claypool’s Bucket of Bernie Brains
Hendershot (album version) – Les Claypool & The Holy Mackerel
Highball with the Devil – Les Claypool & The Holy Mackerel
Hip Shot from the Slab – Colonel Claypool’s Bucket of Bernie Brains
Holy Mackerel – Les Claypool & The Holy Mackerel
Mr. Wright – The Claypool Lennon Delirium
Mushroom Men – Les Claypool
Primed by 29 – Les Claypool
Rumble Of The Diesel – Les Claypool
Candy Man – Primus
Hello Wonkites – Primus
Mary the Ice Cube – Primus
My Friend Fats – Primus
Oompa TV – Primus
Restin’ Bones – Primus
Sathington Waltz – Primus
The Chastising of Renegade – Primus
The Ends? – Primus
Wounded Knee – Primus
Shadow of a Man – Oysterhead
you also asked about John Cale…
Heartbreak Hotel
I’m Waiting for the Man – Velvet Underground
Thoughtless Kind
Church of Anthrax – John Cale & Terry Riley
Letter from Abroad
Fear Is A Man’s Best Friend
Barracuda
Nobody But You – John Cale & Lou Reed
Pablo Picasso
Lay My Love – Brian Eno & John Cale
Brotherman
One Word – Brian Eno & John Cale
For a Ride
The Protege – John Cale & Terry Riley
Lazy Day
Work – John Cale & Lou Reed
Mothra
Heroin – The Velvet Underground
Twilight Zone
Sweet Jane – The Velvet Underground