NO. 3 SEEDS CREELEY, O’HARA, BLY, AND HASS TAKE ON CONOLEY, MYLES, KNOTT AND CECIL

Gillian Conoley is scared.

In Scarriet’s Second Annual March Madness, with more viewers than ever, this young poet must take on an icon in the first round of play, a poet she greatly respects.  “Oh hell” was her response when she learned she had to play Creeley.

“No way.  Creeley? I love that guy.  I can’t play him!

Creeley’s poems are small, but he brings an army.

You bet she’s scared.

Here’s the Creeley APR poem that made it into the Scarriet March Madness Tourney:

Be Of Good Cheer

Go down obscurely,
seem to falter

as if walking into water
slowly. Be of good cheer

and go as if indifferent,
even if not.

There are those before you
they have told you.


Conoley
knows that every one of her words will seem excessive next to that masterpiece.  There’s a world in the simple “There are those before you/they have told you.

Is this poor woman going to be skinned alive?

Is this competition business too dangerous?  Should Conoley simply forfeit?

No.  She’s gonna play. She’s going to say creeley over and over again until the word becomes absurd, to bulk up her courage.

These are only words.  Nothing can hurt me.

Her poem:

Beckon

Dead cold spots in the air,
others bright and richly colored as opera,

my old dress is worn out,
torn up, dumped,

another thing the mad made.
Saddles laid out to dry,

vowels left up in the air as if something is better
left unsaid as if I could have.

And truth is music’s mute half,
a sentence broken into,

the half tone of a husband
waiting alone in a car,

so that only the sun warrants a red mane.
A figure passes quickly

in the ever-unquiet breath
of you, you, you and sometimes me.

The future made, an absolute night
troubled by how we will live up

to the day’s sequence of images in full sail,
as wind folds other things,

and ink branches and conceives.
Last night was floral,

a satin comforter fell
into violence, old

strangely beautiful voices
in the thin thread of my dreams

in the thin thread of my speech.
I was embarrassed because I wanted lines in the face

and the laughter that spills over
to bring me luck’s child.

I had a dream like seconal, sleepy rule of birth,
odor of seduction. I had only prayer, prayer

and science. On a street young girls gathered,
loud with nothing to say, as in an attempt to explain a local fire.

Gillian Conoley has done it!  The crowd is going crazy! Conoley has beaten Creeley!  Oh my God I don’t believe it!  Another upset! Scarriet March Madness, can you believe it?

Marla!  How did she do it?

MARLA MUSE:  She brought an uncanny sense of absence to her presence.  It’s almost as if she studied Creeley’s every move!  Every gesture, every image, every line was understated, suggestive in the extreme…down here at courtside…can you hear me up there, Tom?…what a scene down here…it’s bedlam…I’ve never felt such excitement…we’re trying to get in closer, so we can get a word from Conoley, but it’s just a madhouse…! I’m afraid I’m going to get swallowed up by the crowd…

Marla?  Marla, are you there?  Fans, I’ve never seen anything quite like this!  Young Conoley just gave us the thrill of a lifetime…she just beat Creeley…the final score 61-60…

The upsets just keep comin…!

2 Comments

  1. Noochness said,

    March 19, 2011 at 10:41 pm

    Be of Good Cheer

    Go down obscurely,
    seem to falter

    as if walking into water
    slowly. Be of good cheer

    and go as if indifferent,
    even if not.

    There are those before you
    they have told you.

    Robert Creeley

  2. Noochness said,

    March 19, 2011 at 10:43 pm

    Beckon

    Dead cold spots in the air,
    others bright and richly colored as opera,

    my old dress is worn out,
    torn up, dumped,

    another thing the mad made.
    Saddles laid out to dry,

    vowels left up in the air as if something is better
    left unsaid as if I could have.

    And truth is music’s mute half,
    a sentence broken into,

    the half tone of a husband
    waiting alone in a car,

    so that only the sun warrants a red mane.
    A figure passes quickly

    in the ever-unquiet breath
    of you, you, you and sometimes me.

    The future nude, an absolute night
    troubled by how we will live up

    to the day’s sequence of images in full sail,
    as wind folds other things,

    and ink branches and conceives.
    Last night was floral,

    a satin comforter fell
    into violence, old

    strangely beautiful voices
    in the thin thread of my dreams

    in the thin thread of my speech.
    I was embarrassed because I wanted lines in the face

    and the laughter that spills over
    to bring me luck’s child.

    I had a dream like seconal, sleepy rule of birth,
    odor of seduction. I had only prayer, prayer

    and science. On a street young girls gathered,
    loud with nothing to say, as in an attempt to explain a local fire.

    Gillian Conoley


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