tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19954746.post3162900133004435733..comments2023-10-28T06:24:47.456-04:00Comments on Song of a Reformed Headhunter: Cyril Wong's "Satori Blues"Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19954746.post-86475837191990237822012-06-20T07:52:23.681-04:002012-06-20T07:52:23.681-04:00Cyril sent me a copy of this along with 4 of his o...Cyril sent me a copy of this along with 4 of his other books. I love Satori Blues. This is such a wonderful piece of art, as well as his You Cannot Smoke and Oneiros, my favorites. I love reviewing the books of my beloved friend Cyril, who is one of the greatest influences in my poetry.Squid Kidhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10360664023182833787noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19954746.post-5643951269782939432011-02-03T08:44:15.836-05:002011-02-03T08:44:15.836-05:00Hi Jee,
I have only read isolated poems by Cyril ...Hi Jee,<br /><br />I have only read isolated poems by Cyril and I like his work, so I might buy a few of his books. (Over to you, Amazon...)<br /><br />There is a difference between a meditation and an argument: one carefully advances its line of thinking in carpet slippers while the other clomps upstairs in combat boots. But, if you follow the direction of the feet, you will notice that they are both heading upstairs...<br /><br />I am glad you like the Nabokov. Pale Fire is really a remarkable book. One of the weirdest and most wonderful tales I have ever read.<br /><br />Dinner soon. I have a little present for you.<br /><br />I would stay away from the fat flies. People might mistake you for Beelzebub.<br /><br />It happens to me all of the time,<br /><br />All of the best,<br />-E.Eric Norrishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14134441351114653719noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19954746.post-24207101461291730762011-02-02T21:13:09.605-05:002011-02-02T21:13:09.605-05:00Hi Guzman,
I almost laughed. Thanks for the joke....Hi Guzman,<br /><br />I almost laughed. Thanks for the joke.Jee Leonghttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19954746.post-53133375013490158262011-02-02T21:11:59.185-05:002011-02-02T21:11:59.185-05:00Eric,
The poem does not argue, it meditates. This ...Eric,<br />The poem does not argue, it meditates. This may sound evasive, but it is not. Thanks for the Nabokov. I am a devotee of fat flies, but it was an interesting experience to immerse myself in a way of thought that I don't personally believe in. I can lend you the book when we have dinner again or something.Jee Leonghttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19954746.post-25938113985650131262011-02-02T11:48:42.839-05:002011-02-02T11:48:42.839-05:00Thanks for posting this review, Jee. I am very cu...Thanks for posting this review, Jee. I am very curious to read Cyril’s book and see how he develops his argument. The poetry excerpt sounds great.<br /><br />I wonder about the interchangeability of ‘love’ and ‘nothing’ though. They are interchangeable to an extent, I think, if we regard them as words, pure abstractions, bums floating by our cocks in an erotic dream. But, to use a non-Euclidean, Einsteinian analogy, our frame of reference changes when we assign ‘love’ a four-dimensional identity: a physical existence external and equal to ourselves, a taste, a texture, a name. <br /><br />Once we enter the world of people, places, individual faces, I think the interchangeability (or interoperability) of ‘love’ and ‘nothing’—perhaps even Buddhism—breaks down. We lose something. We lose something hard to define, perhaps, but for the sake of argument I will exercise my rights as a poet and call it ‘love’: that impulse that tosses a marine on a grenade to save his buddies. The one that levels cities.<br /><br />I am reminded of something Nabokov wrote in Pale Fire.<br /><br />…And yet<br />It missed the gist of the whole thing; it missed<br />What mostly interests the preterist;<br />For we die every day; oblivion thrives<br />Not on dry thighbones but on blood-ripe lives,<br />And our best yesterdays are now foul piles<br />Of crumpled names, phone numbers and foxed files.<br />I'm ready to become a floweret.<br />Or a fat fly, but never, to forget.<br />And I'll turn down eternity unless <br />The melancholy and the tenderness<br />Of mortal life; the passion and the pain;<br />The claret taillight of that dwindling plane<br />Off Hesperus; your gesture of dismay<br />On running out of cigarettes; the way<br />You smile at dogs; the trail of silver slime<br />Snails leaves on flagstones; this good ink, this rhyme,<br />This index card, this slender rubber band<br />Which always form, when dropped, an ampersand,<br />Are found in Heaven by the newlydead<br />Stored in its strongholds through the years.Eric Norrishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14134441351114653719noreply@blogger.com