UPDATE. Dumuzi has found a publisher! It’ll be a book in the world in the spring of 2020. I’m superstitious, so I’m waiting till I’ve signed a contract to make the details public. The book has also changed some – most of the visual poems are gone – so much of what you’ll read below is out of date. Revisions to this page coming soon.
Dumuzi is a poetry MS just done & looking for a home. Named for a Sumerian vegetation god whose myth is among my sources. A note once at the end – it’s fallen out of the MS but still serves – describes the project, joking only a little, as an experiment in Cubist interior journalism.
I mean journalism etymologically, the study of the day, the look of the day, dailiness. Too, most of its materials have passed at some point through my journal or mailbox or a friend’s mailbox. By interior I mean moving self-portraiture and by moving I simply mean in motion and by self I mean WTF. By Cubist I mean that as the newspaper coffee cup café table they sit on are seen from all vantages at once – multiple vantages, high and low, here and there, and explicit vantages multiply implicitly till the eye becomes space and space is given to see – so here, all moments of the myth are so at once, and the mind is time.
Heavy. Here’s Dumuzi feeding some sheep.
It’s got poems made of words
Let no state be
enemy. Wet, dry, agon.
Work an inmost first
Wind blows light about
the life (hemlocks) from
which art is not apart
nor of a part. What a
rock thought to do
was rain and it
out of th
and poems made of bar codes
and aasemic poems too (what’re those? read here)
I tried a polyrhythmic syncopation among the different sorts of poem in it. Dropped that, and arranged them as if among different rooms in an archaeological dig
Dropped that too. It’s been tricky, cuz I want the whole to feel as unrehearsed as a vacant lot gone to weeds in an ugly corner of New Jersey, and as shapely too, each note in its fated place, as a late Baroque symphony. What comes of taking Spring and All as your, not model, your own insight.
My Rubicon came when I saw the Inanna junk mail comic book bedded in it needed to be its own freestanding beastie. So I cut that out, and drew in a gross or so other poems, from a project about abandonment I’d abandoned. It held a still beating heart.
Here, pour t’amuse, “poor Tammuz,” a bit of they is, and it are.
Most of these posts speak of earlier drafts, in all their clumsiness.