Just learned from Jack Foley that Jim passed away in January of this year. I visited him back in ‘94, with students, and then in ‘95 with my future wife. At the first meeting Jim read from his chapbook to the students. Maya and I had pizza with he and his wife in ‘95. It was a great meeting and one that I will always remember. Rest in Peace James Schevill, author of the fine collection of poems, The American Fantasies, some fine plays, and a kind man.

We’ve gotten some great comments on our books over the past several years and they are due, in large part, to the efforts of Joe Z. of Printed Matter Press, Tokyo. Joe is one of the most gifted book designers and printers around, as many of our authors can attest. We wish Joe and family a great and prosperous New Year. Jess

Phil Davenport’s Haptic Teaparty is now in progress. We have a great issue of new Flash Fiction (curated by “Big World” Mary Miller and featuring the wonderful pix of Margaret) and an eye-popping all-Paris (Fancypants) issure edited by Alexander Dickow (just arrived this morning!), with issues edited by Pam Brown, Eileen Tabios, Dayana Stetco, and many others in the works for early to mid 2010 publication. The Prague issue has hung-fire a bit due to the slowness of authors providing bio information to the editor. We hope they hurry up. Boston, New York, and “New Chicago School” issues eagerly awaited. We have plans for a teacher/mentor-student issue, a Native-American issue, and many other schemes to fight back oblivion. Jess the oblivious

The late Judith Hoffberg of Umbrella fame was indeed a memorable person. She stayed with us at ahadada central several years back on her first (and unfortunately last) trip here. Judith had just turned 70 (I believe) and was already boning up on Japanese. She was determined to find her own way around Kyoto and Tokyo totally without help. “Don’t worry about me,” she assured us. “I’m good with languages.”

I took her at her word and proceeded with what I had to do. I would come back from work and find the formidable Judith at home or Judith away exploring over the next two weeks.

Later, Judith recounted one of her adventures to us in support of the fact that she had pretty much mastered the local lingo.

One afternoon she decided to make the trip to a rather nice museum of contemporary art in Urawa–pronounced OOO La-wa in Japanese. However, Judith insisted that the town was called OOO WA WA, and would correct us if we happened to mention that the town’s name wasn’t quite pronounced the way that she was pronouncing it.

One evening, after I returned home, I found Judith recounting some of her adventures to my wife. She included me in the conversation right away, and said: “You know, I went out to Uwawa a few days ago, and I was sitting on the train, trying to see the signs at the different stops. Finally, I asked an elderly Japanese man sitting near me–’Is this U-WAWA? U-WAWA?’ and he shook his head and said ‘Yes, U-WAWA,’ and I thanked him and got out.

And you know what, Jess? It WAS U-WAWA!”

I can only wonder what the old man must have thought on that train, with the inimitable Judith Hoffberg aboard!

Had a great lunch with Burton Watson today in Tokyo. In the midst of some good wa-shoku, Burton mentioned that some of the ahadada books he’d gone through left him cold. It was then that I waxed religious (or as religious as I can wax) and said: “There are many mansions in the paradise of literature–esp. new and experimental literature.” On the table before us was a selection of the works of George Crabbe. We were also discussing some of the latest e-chapbooks that had gone up on the site and the work in Ekleksographia. I said that within that range it was my belief that Burton would find something of worth, or at least of interest. He grinned and chuckled. A Zen answer, but one that I took to be an affirmative.

Poesie Der Vocale is a small, perfect-bound, hardback book from the visual poet and Japanophile Josef Linschinger. Yuji Nawata’s introduction, translated from Japanese into German, English, and French, sets the stage for Linschinger’s Japanese kana (with Western alphabetic vowels mixed in) beautifully rendered as pop art (think “Love” from Love Story) bar codes. We take it as a poignant handshake between cultures; a souvenir fit for global village gift shops.

For more information on how to obtain this book, please contact Josef Linschinger at

Uferstrasse 93
A-4801 Traunkirchen
Austria

or josef_linschinger[at]hotmail.com

Guest curated by Judith Skillman. Click the black box link on this site to get to the riches. Har me hardies! Pirate Jess

The new year is hard upon us while the old is busily filing itself away in various archives and synapsial patternings. To the near and dear, once near and dear, and never near nor dear, we say throw on the virtual yule log, strike up the imaginary concerto, find your “ideal audience,” and turn the shining page.

An abiding resource. Jess

Every time I scan through the back issues of the Clarksville (TN.) Chronicle, I find another gem. In the Jan. 20th, 1846 issue, I stumbled across the fine writing of a remarkable gentleman who called himself “The Learned Blacksmith.” Similar to another working class autodidact, the Scottish stone-carver Hugh Miller, Burritt had a distinct gift for languages, and a flair for descriptive writing. Largely forgotten today, Burritt was no doubt well known to Emily Dickinson both in his popular volumes, and in his numerous newspaper appearances over the years.

ED’s “I like to see it lap the Miles–” dates (according to Seward) from the 1850’s, but I can’t doubt but that a poet of her gifts would not have been struck by Burritt’s description of an “iron horse” enough to have remembered it.

Here is the passage from the paper.

“The Steam Horse

Elihu Burritt has a better fancy for a steam horse than we remember to have met elsewhere before. This is his way of describing him:

I love to see one of those huge creatures, with sinews of brass and muscles of iron, strut forth from his smoky stable, and saluting the long train of cars with a dozen sonorous puffs from his iron nostrils, fall gently back into his harness. There he stands, champing and foaming upon the iron track, his great heart a furnace of glowing coals; lymphatic blood is boiling in his veins; the strength of a thousand horses is nerving his sinews, he pants to be gone. He would ’snake’ St. Peter’s across the desert of Sahara, if he could be fairly hitched to it; but there is a little sober-eyed man in the saddle who holds him with a finger, who can take away his breath in a moment, should he grow restive and vicious. I am always deeply interested in this man; for begrimed as he may be with coal, diluted in oil and steam, I habitually regard him as the genius of the whole machinery, as the physical mind of that huge steam horse.”

ED’s poem:

I like to see it lap the Miles–
And lick the Valleys up–
And stop to feed itself at Tanks–
And then–prodigious step

Around a Pile of Mountains–
And supercilious peer
In Shanties–by the sides of Roads–
And then a Quarry pare

To fit its Ribs
And crawl between
Complaining all the while
In horrid–hooting stanza–
Then chase itself down Hill–

And neigh like Boanerges–
Then–punctual as a Star
Stop–docile and omnipotent
At its own stable door.

Of course, ED’s poem goes well beyond Burritt’s description in boldness of invention and plain linguistic brilliance, but still the similarities give one pause.