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Just released, Bill Pearlman’s A
Brazillian Incarnation - New and Selected Poems 1967-2004 is the
premier publication from the Rough Road Press. The book is 256 pages and
contains Bill’s newest and best work.
Click here to purchase and for more informaiton
Click here for a review of this book by Bill Dodd
Poems by Bill
Pearlman
WILD AMERICA
Marilyn Monroe and
The Misfits
‘Huston
couldn’t figure out Monroe…
His idea of a woman was Kate Hepburn in The African Queen… His
primary interests were male honor and male corruption.’
Norman
Mailer
Marilyn
Wild figures
Document for all
time
Perce Clift
drinking salty dogs
Marilyn
hysterically pregnant
Gable dying of
heart fatigue
Miller confused
about the wife
Huston perplexed
about his female lead
‘What the
fuck’s she want from me?’
I’m an
honorable man
Professor Higgins
behind the camera
Look out for that
shadow
Who’s
watching her barbiturates?
Memory loss, whose
line is it?
Keep track of the
takes, will you?
‘She’s
prime,’ says Gable’s Gay
Remember Wilder
working her on
Some Like It
Hot, Sugar
Kane,
Gorgeous on the
beach Coronado
MM approaching a
‘Granted’ Curtis
And then the yacht
scene (42 takes)
‘Best damn
flick ever’
But she dominates whatever she does,
Gasping beauty
tragic power
Chasing Montand
after Let’s Make Love
Arthur Miller
beside himself working
Good script with
Huston peaking
Give a shot
she’ll finally come through
No depending on
her, nights are hard
Though she finally
arrives on the set
Makeup’s
ready for her, coffee?
How about some
speed?
Chasing down the
privileged line,
‘you ready
to try that bar scene again?’
Middle of shoot,
she can’t work,
Miller takes a
separate room,
‘Nerves,’
says Paula Strasberg
So down to LA goes
MM, clinic
For the deranged,
more meds
And back in a week
she’s doped
But ready for more
action
Long take with
Clift outside the bar
After his rodeo
injury, two of the best
Sitting close-up
in the Nevada
night
In their final
filmic hour, big money
Riding all around,
‘that’s a wrap’
‘Gotta shoot
that horse scene,’ says Big John
Wild concoction
down in the valley
This’ll be
the clash of the sexes
Miller’s
been trying to avoid
But here it comes,
racing (near Reno)
Wild horses and
men’s ropes trying
In these
precarious last movements—
We’ll let
her vision prevail,
She’s the
center of the universe,
Stillborn veteran
of the American circus
All the greats
riding one last scene
Into historical
relief, the horses go free
MEMOIR AND PRESENCE
Stars and
blossoming fruit-trees: utter permanence and extreme fragility give an
equal sense of eternity. —Simone Weil
A lasting integrity
vaults
O’er the disturbing scene;
We’ve been here before, how
Long does the rose take to expire
Or these almost opened lilies
On the dining table, blossoms
Covering the old laptop, signs
Of how the fallen stay down,
Even as against the wholesome
Aspirations we’ve expected
Beside the exhausted auxiliaries
Of time.
Eternity lapses and
the universe,
Once sparkling with lunar landings
Dips into dispossession, always
The shadow lurking within brilliance
Staying for a long entertainment
As the lone gunman mounts the stairs
Bent on a bloody act—
How often the beloved stood still
Gazing at the surrender to fire,
Looking after the fact outward
Just as your used-up destiny
Dropped from the pages of Life.
No argument sees far
enough,
No bitterness climaxes
In that quaint engine room
Where galaxies are reshuffled
And the hearts blaze furiously
As the fireworks explode
In the near distance. Come,
Gentle supporting force,
Come sleep near the oasis
Or the fountain endlessly surging
At the mouth of its flowing
MEMORIAL DAY, 2006
Lovely day, deep
spring,
May 29th, my mother’s birthday
Would have been 84,
Never made it to 60,
Old age staring at us,
What a world of mighty spins,
Longing for the deepest freshness,
Cling to the old
styles, the murmuring
Of the brook down below the house,
Your outcry against
all this leaping strain
Saw a woman yesterday
in a shop,
An instant of splendor, dark beauty
What I wouldn’t give
To make it all up to her,
Give her back that quenching grip,
Make it happen just as we’d planned
So many aeons ago
Driving toward gentle
excess—
Oh, for a taste of the south,
Getting to the formidable pitch,
Standing as much as you can,
Lifting that
prerogative into the heavens,
You too could climb my wall,
Jump over my rainbow,
Emerge from my fleet intact,
Trace the devil-may-care moon
Down through the ages,
Living how readily in the known
Flooded abstract
watercolors
Piling up in the room, once more
Scribble with anecdotes of unconscious
Zoning unforgivable we name ourselves
Legion in color and space
You think clearly it
will rain possibility
Then it shies back away from bliss
And you thieve your various memory fortunes
For just a trace of living miracle
Who is still around?
Lump us all into one driving predicament
Stone’s throw from the frontier
Aliens standing for bright recovery
A few dollars just to make ends meet
Flesh junky, old
school,
Let me have a look at that—
But I was able, and willing
And you stood me in your stead,
Light broke from the tunnel,
We were living where no one had ever been
An ongoing commitment
to time—
This is May, fifth month,Not sure what will come next
Half a year to the initiative,
Leaping hellish fun fair
Ok you have me there
I’ll cave, tell me what you know
Bear in the road the
other day,
Exaggerated black features of face,
Brown mane, huge animal
Not at all alarmed, just walking through
The property, like they say,
Getting used to being pushed aside
But too big to frighten,
John says you freeze if close to them,
They need to feel dominant
Nevada City
PERFECT PAIRING
No error. Fred &
Ginger
in Swing Time, awake,
streamlined, profound
a backdrop of song & dance,
specialties of perfect steps
long medium shots the pair
in totally synchronized
numbers, getting it right,
to Kern's music, timing
each sequence with feeling
lasting regard reviewed
BODEGA HEAD
for
John Pearlman
The great sunlit
runway of the sea
whale-watching and California
coastline
rugged cliffs overhanging the endless
reaches of the great body—
And you, irritated
beauty
full of questions, hunches
spring in your gaze, confused
before the process of living—
My aged auxiliary
indulgence
tries to get close, imagines
a deep spectacular escape
sporting midsea a monstrous mammal
almost visible,
heading south
amid the following boats and eyes
surrendered to your mute charm,
holding you aloft in marine dream
21Jan06
—Bill Pearlman
In a Time
of Sorrow
..We wasters of
sorrow…R.M. Rilke
How could we come
this far
Enabling the thoughtful realm,
The ways we weave composures
Or heartaches, the making of joy,
The purpose of earth and earthlings,
The body that kicks its own rage,
The particulars of haunting parades,
The boots, the flags, the parallels
With outrage and force, the rise
Of that awful collective beast
Destruction madness intrusion
Of so many long centuries
The Shadow loose, the commentary
Stocked on shelves, dreams
Of order, of art, the integrity
Of a whole cadre of masters
Who gave themselves to finding
Just what is good, is godly
In our processes, making up
Refinements and new dispensations
Crying for light, more so
In a time of darkness and hope
We have come this far, how
Extend the streaky gamble,
The aspiring bridge beyond
For Gus Blaisdell
(in memoriam)
Gran dia
established extasis
bright corners of all
that might aspire—
singular circling the whirl
we almost cornered:
this too stayed true
though the elaboration of desire
put you into a mode
we could never fully know:
how those days of consciousness
accumulated in meaning
or remorse: nothing
but did fill you
as you wandered locally:
each step of the boundaries
you knew by heart
and you ambled riotously
(like those great clowns of film,
Chaplin, Keaton)
in and out of lives,
shops, places of exchange and gesture
you loved and cared for.
But the body gave out
too soon for us who mattered
and our cases stood mute
before your fallen life.
Little did we know
your jocular respondings
would dissolve into memory
as your heart stopped:
Now what? surely
there is another gest, no one
takes your death that seriously;
it is too remote, too
sphered beyond your
incessant presence: phonecall,
restaurant, bookstore, always
filled with the vocal
manner of your unique
staying power: this
celebration in conversational art,
pushed to new performance
unknown until spoken:
collected, precise, mobile
in that arch excess of learning
which surpassed endearing
for it was housed
in a real historical life—
California, New
Mexico,
The Frontier Restaurant, Italy,
Photography, poetry, philosophy,
the train into modernity
spoken with large hopes,
an intrinsic revelation
this could have happened
on the bus or off—
Kesey in an Oregon field,
the bus Further
just behind his uproar,
or Connell on the Albuquerque
lawn
holding Mayan figurines,
or the body of work
not quite finished, another
production almost underway
embraced with staggering
dispositions of grace & aggression…
We have our heroes,
nevertheless it accedes
a celebratory range, feeling
states that rise formidably
in the long haul of love
San Miguel de
Allende, 15Feb04
For James Blake
One player just keeps
comin’
And we praise his hurried oomph,
His pure mental spark
Or the fantastic
passing shot,
Or the huge serve up the T
That gives away his buoyant verve
Or else, in a
twisting wild excitement,
Something whirls the body outward
And rips a winner down the line
(2005 US Open)
SOFT YOU NOW
Spoke necessary
yields, as though
what we care about forwards
this everyday pride, purpose
softly reaching the richest intent:
a gentle kind buoying
of what will be, what
in the long run tells all
and returns to our pivotal chest
these proverbial goods, a glowing
paragon sifting through worlds.
Winter
Solstice 2004
May love begin anew
warm growing power
come alive inside skin
your best chronicled soul
reaching from below
to the top of the world
—Bill Pearlman
The Unfolding
For Meredith
LaVene & Dede Rhodes (i.m)
Slowly but achingly
we hoist through summer days.
The momentum back downward,
and a death advancing;
we will the fullness of life,
yet life does not cheer us now.
The presences of simple souls
matter, and our respondings;
Light of sky on lake,
brightness, abundance,
a few water birds. Time,
though heedless of our joys,
takes the whole show to task:
what more can you find,
among the dark greenery,
the flowers perfectly attuned,
the messages straining toward
unfettered hope or dear acceptance
as what’s dearly beloved proves provisional.
—Bill Pearlman
TWO POEMS IN MEMORY OF WALTER WEBER (1924-2003)
Tennis
furies at Walter Weber’s Courts
Forced or unforced,
fury builds
from error to error & implosion
(held checked by sanctioned rule)
burns red-hot on hard clay—
What the hell made
this racket fail
or slid the volley under me
while vile strings went nowhere near
the picture-perfect groundstroke?
Undone at net, a
dribbling mishit
makes mischief of addled hopes,
puts the onus on sheer luck
and down goes the racket in rage.
And yet, submerged in
ancient ritual
contestants storm exhaustive tumult,
as the occasional sweet-spot winner
brings us back to high five.
But whence cometh
these tennis furies?
and how put them to work to flash-out
the effort of muscles on solid ground,
power surges recharged for joy
or the mute unfolding
of mastery
summoned from the soul’s vision
of a fluid sunlit presence
where all is faultless & free
San Miguel de Allende, January, 2003
Tennis Butterfly
And while I stood on
the clay court,
(down a break but rallying),
an abstract of hellish emotion
& bitter rivalry (en garde),
a small frail white
butterfly
landed on my tennis shoe,
and I was ready for vision,
as I kicked my serve
into steadfast motion,
staving off court enemies,
landing a clean groundstroke,
that butterfly all
the while
reminding me
of the light happy states
life conspires toward,
the soft landings, the eternal joys
—Bill Pearlman
The satisfaction
of Conversation
Study the interlock
folks who feel
words,
right brain
standing
against
the fellowship
unearthed
distant
object
a star emitting
solid light-
I was listening
trying to hear
as always
you cornered me
we were
locked
two against the
emptiness
two polar states
gravitating as one
2
Was it speaking
or
listening?
or both?
what was the
intercept
flowed
between us?
Something immensely
necessary
as always
humans with great
promise
a
species given over
the light,
the plaything
so much that calls
out
to catch us
spoiling
for a union-
3
Whatever was it
stayed with us
we fought for cover
a dancing synthesis
so many who came
long ago,
wanting a clear
investigation,
one on one
a desert island
how we loved,
depended
on the recovery
close to the full
engagement.
—Bill Pearlman
“Let
me play among the stars…”
Keep hearing Peggy
Lee singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ (Bart Howard) which appeared
on the Classic Arts Channel on the local cable. “Let me see what
spring is like on Jupiter and Mars…In other words, hold my
hand…” Why it’s been a standard, standard of beauty,
standard by which all else is measured. How one becomes a standard,
keeps at it, becomes…Peggy Lee in the clip, from a 1984 concert, late
in her career & life, late but great blonde wall of a woman, next to
the Steinway and fine accompanist, Michael Renzi, crescendoes, and she with
one eye half-shut, but such ease of delivery, such an old sound, star of
radio days, style all her own, graceful soft sound, long light gown, torch
songstress, keen in the groove here, her voice revealing a long
life’s journey, but hopeful as the full moon on a clear night, the
spotlight spilling into the feeling of such lyrical flight, the song so sweetly
melodious, stirring enchanted testimony, years after the recorded
event…
—Bill Pearlman
Against the Great Heave of Eternity
Power to provoke
the livelong song
auspices that cry out
breaking through all ways
you could have blended
what went before & now
but the outcry stammered
in the great flux of time
and you felt your way forward
and you cried out fierily
this is our joint momentum
hold this forever rushing
dance of formalities steady
But it was you
or us or the inevitable
causeway we marveled
out at the varying edge
pushed forward into this
sensation at the birth of thrust
or when you saw unfold
that tireless spectacle,
that aggrieved ancient form
we only imagined downwind or onstage,
keeping the verse timely,
regular, sweepingly grand
across the centuries
—Bill Pearlman
Act of Joy
Rehearse what gives
you joy
a giant sweep of fun that drives
into the heart of commotion
or a landslide in
which winningly
she takes down your future
and puts a flower in
or a jumping
disposition that spins
out at the edge of forever
and dauntless rides you inward
or a leapfelt hope
that divines
the only circus in town
running up the tent, the poles
inventing a shape we
all admire
the players and the animals
all entering on cue, the lights
undiminished,
aligning
all eyes with spectacle and height
where the imagination heaves a sigh
and wonder, that just
yesterday
went wanting to the shore,
wishing for tumult and outcry
now beds down with
splendid action,
a tightwire act that sparkles
as muscle and bone rise
--Bill Pearlman
The Death That Capsizes All Reproach
For Gus
Saw his mute
overthrow as a sign
there would be difficulties at the edge
of time. Just when things looked auspicious,
his heart attacked
and the whole system went south.
I would have loved to find him new rhythm,
juice his stride for another ten years.
But no such luck. The inevitable flat-on-the-back
figure in hospital, looking peaceful,
displacing who in fact is departed;
the great word machine adjourned,
the great vocal capability not even
whispering one final valediction.
—Bill Pearlman
9-11-02
Such was our
merciless gaze
that when the towers collapsed
the weather changed forever,
and there was endless winter
debris hanging from hope,
the dynasty under siege.
What did we do to
provoke
this fathomless deterioration,
this unthinkable wrath?
The underpinnings of our realm
plunging haplessly downward,
the sky itself a nuclear doom.
Come down with me,
American love,
pray elevators dropping endlessly
will take us to a new domain,
an innocent rearranging of desire,
a momentary resurrection reversing
the untold agony of those attacks.
—Bill Pearlman
In the Coffee House
And so you struggle
it's not so calm as
death
nor so apocalyptic as
a gale
but it seems hard
& you wished you
liked it better-
But after a long
sleep,
the hanging dream
portends depth
and you can go to
breakfast.
You can go for coffee
and rolls
and the sight of
children and mothers
& the young
scrambling to learn
some treasured take
on history-
Nothing but does
matter,
keeps us hungry and
full,
keeps what sanity
provides
toward ongoing
existence.
—Bill Pearlman
En La Playa
These forms of beauty
you understand. It is the open and you hear the crack
of surf and the totality of the sea's gorgeous identity: nothing like this
has yet occurred, though it is obviously the repetition of this beauty that
so astounds.This was everywhere your desire: to be in the sun, in the
gentle
breeze, the body of ocean never at ease, but restlessly moving, strident
and
sure, witnessed by gathering birds, amazed contingencies and continuities,
rocks and sand, the human body happily absorbed.
But fall back on late
afternoon, the sun still strong, though falling, and
the surmise of day's end. The old route of the sun and the forms of
elemental closure. The house and course of human destiny, its stamina and
senses of loss. But the pure strength of it, the necessary momentum, the
frank retrieval of new life after lengthy struggle. No more to say but it
has surrounded us, has brought us happiness, has sent us packing. But a
strange insistence overall, a magnificent view of the sea, endless
brightness and yet always shadows beginning to form, a brisk almost
sentimental cohesion, a praiseful dance, a surrendering to the presence of
more and more vital littoral splendor
—Bill Pearlman
WORLD SERIES KISS
for Barry Bonds
Sport that deems
transparent
hopes: the long ball
& all
that it
imports-Towering
drive into the
furthest
reaches imagined: the
ball
become an inflated
sphere
worth millions. Love
should
have such power, a
kiss
ascend the starry
heavens.
—Bill Pearlman
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