By John Wieners
707 Scott road, the magazine of John Wieners, dates from 1958-9, the years while Weiners used to be composing The lodge Wentley Poems, in addition to a few of the nice lyrical poems incorporated in his chosen Poems. The magazine includes models of a few of those poems in addition to others that experience by no means been released at any place. "I needs to put out of your mind easy methods to write," he states at the beginning web page. "I needs to unlearn what has been taught me." after which later, a section much less portentously: "I needs to find out how to not write. i have to watch with my five senses." Wieners was once twenty-four, nonetheless greedy for the ineffable "other" that might by some means attach his a variety of selves and provides his lifestyles which means, but he was once already absolutely shaped (in some ways) as a poet. The query was once how to find the "other," how one can get there via invocation, intercourse, poetry, medicinal drugs and magic.
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Additional info for 707 Scott Street
Help me God, he thought, to be a man and keep this woman and her brood. Of course it was her house and she brought the food. And he just sat in the sun and let the sweat roll down his thighs. But they were good together at night, she let him know that. And she was his first woman. And despite other lovers, she gladly came back to him, courted him and made him feel at home. Her and her friend Margo up the row. That was good for him, he thought, rubbing orange stains offhis belly and spitting his sinus mucous inro the sea, pulling part of his skin offhis back as he moved too quickly, stuck as he was somehow to the green chair!
A poemfor trapped things. Oh God what have you given me that a black butter& lives in this room. This morning with a blue fame burning this thing wings its way in. Wind shakes the edges of my yellow being. Gasping for breath. Living for the next instant. Climbing up the black border of the window. Why do you urant out. I sit in pain A red robe amid debris. You bend and climb, oxtending antennae. I know the butterfy is my soul gro\ rn weak from batde. A giant fan on the back of a beede. I'm home ro8 a new home apart seeks from this room.
They fold up into the lotus position listening to rain. The night with one far auto call over the unseen hill. Only the flesh of the beloved is before his eyes. And that too out of sight. Only strange bones sit before him, reading comic books and the latest pages of poetry from the renaissance. High buttoned shoes, high collared shirts, hoods and white cloaks hang in the closet. The stretching of limbs under an Indian Army blanket. The rubber tires always in our ears. The reunion of the beloved boys there, hearing them unzip their fies in the night.