Revenit Pat Simmons

Pat Simmons discusses his forthcoming work with literary critic Jonathon Scott:

JS: You currently have two works scheduled for publishment, a book of poetry and a novel. Could you briefly describe them for us?
PS: Yeah sure. I'll begin with the book of poetry. It's basically a revision of Shakespeare's sonnets.
JS: And what do you mean by revision?
PS: Well, I've always enjoyed Shakespeare's sonnets but have found them inadequate in both form and content, so I've made them better.
JS: I presume that in doing so you've updated some of the language and so forth?
PS: I've actually tried to preserve the archaic nature of the poems, as I believe that that is part of their allure; what I've tried to remove is their Shakespeareness.
JS: Fantastic. Can you give us an example?
PS: Sure, here is Sonnet 29:

When in disgust with fortune and men's spies,
I all alone accept my clouded state,
and double my heaven with booted cries,
And look upon myself, and choose my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in shape,
Featured like him, like him with possessed friends,
Desiring this man's part, and that man's cape,
Contented most with what enjoyment ends;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I count to three and then my state,
Like to the ark at break of flood arising
From soggy earth, sings hymns at seven gates;
For that sweet song remembered such health brings
That then I choose to change my fate with zings.

JS: That's certainly much better. And the novel?
PS: Well it's titled Harry: A Highly Original Novel Based on the Major Motion Picture, and, as the title suggests, I've taken a popular movie and converted it into a novel.
JS: That certainly does sound original. And when can we expect to see these works?
PS: Well the novel will be published via installments on Twitter @Harry_MoiveStar beginning next week. And the poetry can already be found online. Simply find Shakespeare's sonnets and replace some words with others.
JS: Excellent. Thank you for your time.

Verba

my eyes hurt

driving or taking the train

the bus is going too

faster than light

a neutrino pierces

my right arm

out-stretched 

ready to snap

the beat slows

strung-out

along the road the car

windows open

my eyes 

hurt

De amissione amici

On the Loss of a Friend

When I saw my Facebook friends had gone from 532 to 531, I immediately changed the song on my iPod to Pärt's Cantus in Memoriam Benjamin Britten, shaved my beard, and left for the nearest tree I knew. But it was rush hour, and by the time I stepped off the train I was feeling upset.

Anas

Suecia

I'm thinking of moving to Sweden.

Build a cabin and fish in the fjords.

Stark rocks and hundreds of words 

for frozen precipitation--snow,

sleet, hail . . . it's hard.

Geothermal springs, volcanoes 

and guys running around with drums

and funny-looking sweaters.

Does Sweden have fjords?

Or cabins?

Is everything I know about Sweden

from a Sigur Ros music video

and actually about Iceland? 

Oportet esse caelum ut locus sit Bruno Walteri

I like this.

Ars hodierna

Today in a contemporary art gallery:

In Memoriam S. Negotiorum

- Posted via iPad

Today there'll be a million poems written.
One more would not be too many.

Aqua

De animula

Warning: Implicit content. Click to proceed.

Theca

THEWOR
LDISALW
AYSREA
DYTOE
ND . . .
- The black and white box on the fifth floor of the BYU Library a few weeks ago


I'm afraid it's already ended. You missed it while you were looking into some guy's box and reading his spaceless script.
Meanwhile, I was eating a Torpedo Waffle and listening to the latest three-year-old indie folk album to hit my iPod.
All that's left is for everything to be formalized--for the creator and his devil to electronically sign and initial on their corresponding lines of a contract written and produced by Steven Spielberg and not necessarily better than any of his other end-of-world productions.
I didn't know any of this either until an hour ago when Julian Assange hacked into the Devil's email and leaked the heck out of Hell, which is now a fairly nice place--three bedrooms, two and a half baths, in one of the nicer suburbs of Detroit and left vacant after the devil fled, fearing the wrath of Steven Spielberg.

Mille Viae ducunt homines per saecula Romam

"All roads lead to Rome"
if true, means I'm screwed.
Not that I'd mind the sunshine,
or a gelato and perhaps
a quick tour of the Vatican,
but I gotta be in Jefferson by two.
Which, despite its temporality,
has existed long enough to develop
a bank with a decent enough exchange
on DeLorean dreams that I won't
have to keep reliving my future in my past.
And that has come to mean more to me
than even a good Zabaione. But I guess
if it's true, and I'm screwed, I might
as well stop by San Crispino.

Guttae

It all ended July 15,

but I didn't know until tonight.

So I was held somewhat in suspense

during the rebroadcast. And while the kid

to my right dementor-slurped his happiness,

I reached out for specks of Voldemort,

and slipped a few in my pocket.

Sat somniculosa

I left with three (cold) cokes.

Just tired enough to jump the gap

between televisions.

Coice mihi litteras

Just shoot me a text, she said, in a text 

that I didn't get until a day later 

because I had lost my phone under the couch

while watching American Pickers,

which I guess according to a recent study
means I'm living life on the edge,

which is what I said when I shot her

a text this afternoon when I found

my phone under the couch

while watching American Pickers on the edge 

of the couch, trying to eat the cole slaw 

on the edge of the coffee table,

although I should have been someplace else, 

on some other edge, shooting some other text

and possibly eating some other cole slaw.

Urbs arborum

Utah's city of trees it said.

And there were trees:

In the cemetary a giant willow,

the road lined with cottonwoods

that transitioned to smaller aspens

mixed with the occaisonal pine,

then in my mother's yard 

a newly planted weeping cherry.

I don't know the name of any tree.

But there were trees.

And the last was newly planted.

Avis magna et alba

Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

-Baudelaire

Vale

You go west; I'll go east. 

Eventually we'll we meet somewhere in asia, 

or, since i'm a little slow, in eastern europe. 

There we'll exchange angry birds high scores, 

eat a giant bag of hi-chew,

and watch hgtv 

till one (or both) leaves.

Genius

Il est l'affection et le présent, puisqu'il a fait la maison ouverte à l'hiver écumeux et à la rumeur de l'été, - lui qui a purifié les boissons et les aliments - lui qui est le charme des lieux fuyants et le délice surhumain des stations. Il est l'affection et l'avenir, la force et l'amour que nous, debout dans les rages et les ennuis, nous voyons passer dans le ciel de tempête et les drapeaux d'extase.
Il est l'amour, mesure parfaite et réinventée, raison merveilleuse et imprévue, et l'éternité : machine aimée des qualités fatales. Nous avons tous eu l'épouvante de sa concession et de la nôtre : ô jouissance de notre santé, élan de nos facultés, affection égoïste et passion pour lui, lui qui nous aime pour sa vie infinie...
Et nous nous le rappelons, et il voyage... Et si l'Adoration s'en va, sonne, sa promesse sonne : "Arrière ces superstitions, ces anciens corps, ces ménages et ces âges. C'est cette époque-ci qui a sombré !"
Il ne s'en ira pas, il ne redescendra pas d'un ciel, il n'accomplira pas la rédemption des colères de femmes et des gaîtés des hommes et de tout ce péché : car c'est fait, lui étant, et étant aimé.
O ses souffles, ses têtes, ses courses ; la terrible célérité de la perfection des formes et de l'action.
O fécondité de l'esprit et immensité de l'univers.
Son corps ! Le dégagement rêvé, le brisement de la grâce croisée de violence nouvelle !
Sa vue, sa vue ! tous les agenouillages anciens et les peines relevés à sa suite.
Son jour ! l'abolition de toutes souffrances sonores et mouvantes dans la musique plus intense.
Son pas ! les migrations plus énormes que les anciennes invasions.
O lui et nous ! l'orgueil plus bienveillant que les charités perdues.
O monde ! et le chant clair des malheurs nouveaux !
Il nous a connus tous et nous a tous aimés. Sachons, cette nuit d'hiver, de cap en cap, du pôle tumultueux au château, de la foule à la plage, de regards en regards, forces et sentiments las, le héler et le voir, et le renvoyer, et sous les marées et au haut des déserts de neige, suivre ses vues, ses souffles, son corps, son jour.

-Rimbaud

Dies Patris

Every Father's Day we go fishing,
which means I walk around the lake
a few times and, if I'm feeling bold,
take a step or two into the water.
(I'm never feeling bold.)
Meanwhile, my father's ghost
is in waist-deep
tying on the perfect fly
to catch the biggest ghost-fish
in the whole blasted lake.

Causae

Un coup de ton doigt sur le tambour décharge tous les sons et commence la nouvelle harmonie.
Un pas de toi, c'est la levée des nouveaux hommes et leur en-marche.
Ta tête se détourne : le nouvel amour !
Ta tête se retourne, - le nouvel amour !
"Change nos lots, crible les fléaux, à commencer par le temps" te chantent ces enfants. "Elève n'importe où la subtance de nos fortunes et de nos voeux" on t'en prie.
Arrivée de toujours, qui t'en iras partout.

-Rimbaud

Dies Floris

P. Ovidi Metamorphosen, liber tertius

     Non illum Cereris, non illum cura quietis
abstrahere inde potest, sed opaca fusus in herba
spectat inexpleto mendacem lumine formam
perque oculos perit ipse suos; paulumque levatus               440
ad circumstantes tendens sua bracchia silvas
'ecquis, io silvae, crudelius' inquit 'amavit?
scitis enim et multis latebra opportuna fuistis.
ecquem, cum vestrae tot agantur saecula vitae,
qui sic tabuerit, longo meministis in aevo?               445
et placet et video; sed quod videoque placetque,
non tamen invenio'++tantus tenet error amantem++
'quoque magis doleam, nec nos mare separat ingens
nec via nec montes nec clausis moenia portis;
exigua prohibemur aqua! cupit ipse teneri:               450
nam quotiens liquidis porreximus oscula lymphis,
hic totiens ad me resupino nititur ore.
posse putes tangi: minimum est, quod amantibus obstat.
quisquis es, huc exi! quid me, puer unice, fallis
quove petitus abis? certe nec forma nec aetas               455
est mea, quam fugias, et amarunt me quoque nymphae!
spem mihi nescio quam vultu promittis amico,
cumque ego porrexi tibi bracchia, porrigis ultro,
cum risi, adrides; lacrimas quoque saepe notavi
me lacrimante tuas; nutu quoque signa remittis               460
et, quantum motu formosi suspicor oris,
verba refers aures non pervenientia nostras!
iste ego sum: sensi, nec me mea fallit imago;
uror amore mei: flammas moveoque feroque.
quid faciam? roger anne rogem? quid deinde rogabo?               465
quod cupio mecum est: inopem me copia fecit.
o utinam a nostro secedere corpore possem!
votum in amante novum, vellem, quod amamus, abesset.
iamque dolor vires adimit, nec tempora vitae
longa meae superant, primoque exstinguor in aevo.               470
nec mihi mors gravis est posituro morte dolores,
hic, qui diligitur, vellem diuturnior esset;
nunc duo concordes anima moriemur in una.'

Dona ab te data

You've given me many gifts:

a few weeks of happiness,

perspective, hope,

the key to the perfect avocado sandwich.

But this last gift--it is too much:

Immortality.

A million years not worth living.

And that's just before breakfast

that's not worth eating.

Then in the bright morning a million more

I spend, by Eos abandoned

in a room with nothing but my endless babble.

And after lunch and a Coke
not worth drinking,
I beg for the same as Tithonus,

but I lose patience

waiting for the bullet

which takes a million years

to leave the barrel.

And leaping off a cliff:

a million years spent falling

slowly, softly, terribly to the ground.

And then the night--

how the time passes slowly:

a million dreams (without you)

not worth dreaming.

My life gone,

as a ghost I live forever.

Umbra potestne mori?

Up, or I guess down, to this point 

you could say I had been coasting,

thinking that although I don't see as many colors

I will enjoy each a little longer

and that they are everywhere equally bright.

Or changing metaphors--to sailing I think--

I had, as they say, gone wherever the wind took me,

only taking care not to get out too far.

This has changed.

And now, stranded,

with my atrophied will

still trying to figure out the rudder,

I admire the immense dark waves.

Or, switching back, climbing a steep slope

in a car powered by strength of will,

with my fuel gone and the brakes out,

I marvel at life's brevity.

Olim-domu

Two as-if-brothers after hours knees-to-dash-crammed down-throw themselves and sing-loud now in the blue-hot-yellow-white sun-sky-cloud and turn to return to the was-home ere the flash-light-dark-and-loud clouds come.

There now the men-boys cough-scoff and themselves-laughing drink-eat. Then, bed-thrown they moon-dream of horse-bear-coyote-riding and other thought-coulds and, between them, one should-did.

Now, late-morning-waking, they spoon-eat puffed-corn-and-I’m-sorry-there’s-no-milk bowls. And after child-playing, trying-hard-not-to-try-too-hard and rhubarb-cutting-biting-spitting-and-making-into-pie they return to travel knees-again-to-dash-crammed to here-now, him-and-him largely unchanged, but them, well this will be the last sentence that I ever hyphenated-verb-end.

Ad Schuyler

Dang it you New York School poets

have already written the best lines.

But let's be honest Mr. Schuyler,

the only thing that could possibly

be better than beer and skittles

is a few lines of your poetry

or of your coke. By the way

I'm sorry I never got around

to finishing your Hymn to Life.

I'm sure the ending was amazing;

I just didnt have the patience.

Perhaps some day I'll finish

it and say--to myself or some friend--

"That ending was amazing."

Serpenti clauditur paradisus.

The serpent is shut out from paradise. But allowed almost daily to slither up its walls and stick his forked tongue into the pristine air while Eve innocently tastes all the other fruits of the garden. He then falls back down into the world to rue the rest of the day.

Ventimolinae

And I said windmills.

The wind is bound to the earth by gravity and is driven by the convection forces of the sun.

Its kinetic energy is converted by windmills into mechanical energy which turns a shaft connected to a generator which produces electrical energy.

But really windmills were the last thing on my mind, only the first to come into my view as I turned to face you.

Instead, I was thinking about something unbound, and driven only by her own will, a source not of energy to be converted and eventually consumed but of vitality untranslatable.
And I said windmills. Windmills!

Cocam tecum bibere

Having A Coke With You

is something I never got the chance to do.

We’ve had: some type of pomegranate lemonade, aranciata, Russian and South African tea, white-grape peach juice drunk straight out of a gallon bottle, and Diet A&W but never Coke, despite both our passion for it.

And I admit I’m a little jealous that O’Hara got the chance and not me. But at least the bugger got the feeling right (and describes it better than this):

When you were at the dentist and I snuck out and stumbled into an artist’s studio, I almost laughed out loud when I saw that he had wasted his talents painting someone who obviously wasn’t you. I had to excuse myself when he explained about his extensive studies; one glance at the x-ray of your cavity-ridden teeth would be more profitable to his art. I would’ve taken him to meet you, but you know how jealous I get.

And as for travelling, once you asked me where I most wanted to go. I lied and said Turkey or India or some other hot, dreadful place with all types of refreshing drinks, not wanting to admit that I wanted to sit there in suburban Utah, even if we were only drinking water, as long as possible because, though Istanbul at three in the morning would be exciting, Utah at four in the afternoon with you and a glass of water is enlightening, transcendent and a million other adjectives more important than exciting.

So anyway if you change your mind about travelling, as I’ve already changed mine, I’ll come to where you are, take you as far as I can before I run out of money, which will probably be before I get to where you are, order a bottle of whatever they’ve got, forget all the nonsense I’ve learned about art or literature, and try to hide my jealousy when you talk to the server.