Forrest Gander - Core samples from the world
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- Book:Core samples from the world
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- Publisher:New Directions Publishing
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- Year:2011
- City:New York
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Core samples from the world: summary, description and annotation
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A gorgeous, wide-ranging volume of poetry and essays by Forrest Gander, studded with the work of three great photographers.
Forrest Ganders Core Samples from the World is a magnificent compendium of poetry, photography, and essay (a form of Japanese haibun). Collaborating with three acclaimed photographers, Gander explores tensions between the familiar and foreign. His eloquent new work voices an ethical concern for others, exploring empathic relations in which the world itself is fundamental. Taking us around the globe to China, Mexico, Bosnia-Herzegovina, and Chile, Core Samples shows how Ganders sharp sense of place has made him the most earthly of our avant-garde, the best geographer of fleshly sites since Olson (Donald Revell, The Colorado Review). 20 black-and-white photographsForrest Gander: author's other books
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Core Samples from the World
This book comes about as unprecedented human movement leads, here as elsewhere, to conflicts, suspicions, and opportunities to reconsider what is meant by the foreign, by the foreigner. It is also a very personal account of negotiations across borders (between languages and cultures, between one species and all the rest, between health and sickness, between poetic forms, and between self and others).
No one is stranger than the self. Which appears as another and comes to haunt us by accepting, finally, one of many invitations.
Enrique Lihn (Forrest Gander translation)
There is the hidden presence of others in us, even those we have known briefly. We contain them for the rest of our lives, at every border we cross.
Michael Ondaatje
The surprising finding of Watts and Strogatz is that even a few extra links are sufficient to drastically decrease the separation between the nodes. These few links will not significantly change the clustering coefficient. Yet thanks to the long bridges they form, often connecting nodes on the opposite side of the circle, the separation between all nodes spectacularly collapses.
Albert Lszl Barabs
The astonishing night, the foreigner among humans.
Friedrich Holderlin (David Constantine translation)
for Valerie Mejer
Its not an insult to refuse to drain the glass, she tells me
And a fly crawls from the bowl of salsa picante.
Would you choose to bury the organs with the child?
And he retreats to his room and closes the door.
Here, birds in the zcalo whiz and tweet like childrens toys
And there, a charred corpse hanging from the bridge.
From the seat behind her, the boy pokes his sisters head with a plastic fork
And getting no response, tests it on his own head.
Would you kindly turn the damn wipers off, the attendant asks
And the odor of manure and wet hay hits us.
A kind of mystery adheres to those who have suffered deeply
And thank you Mr. and Mrs. Radiance.
It sounded like the chimmuck of a rock dropped into a stream
And the piston-driven breathing of sex.
The couple at the bus stationwhen had we kissed like that?
And Nice eveningYes it isA bit skunkyThats for sure.
Terrorist and victim circle the last chair as the music stops
And the worms valved mouth snapping.
When I rise out of myself into occasion, I said
And when do you rise out of yourself into occasion, she asked.
Late enough to count moths at the window
And the boy will be coming up the porch steps when he comes.
The long row of treadmills choiring
And above them, televisions replay the disaster.
Where are you going? Ghosted with dust. From where have you come?
Dull assertiveness of the rock heap, a barren monarchy.
Wolfspider, size of a hand, encrusted with dirt at the rubbles edge.
What crosses here goes fanged or spiked and draws its color from the ground.
Xanthic shadow at the edges.
Where are we going? Ghosted with dust. From where have we come?
Stretcher loaded with clods by a spavined work shed.
What does it mean, a cauterized topography?
One step forward and he is with us. One step back, another realm absorbs him.
The sense of epoch loosened, unstrung.
Each one thinking it is the other who recedes like a horizon.
The miraculous cage visible under his skin.
I cannot be discarded, his eyes say.
A flute that plays one note. A face.
In the open pit at noon, men waning in brightness.
I can be read, say the rocks, but not by you.
The air burnished, almost mineral, like a thin peel of mica.
Mound in the photograph, iris in the eye.
What does it mean, a cauterized topography?
To salvage rocks the color of all else from all else the color of rock.
I can be read, say her eyes, but not by you.
As if the land had abandoned itself.
Rain-flushed from denuded hills, the soil powders in wind.
One step forward and we are with them. One step back, another realm absorbs us.
Dont pick up the rocks, he says, because rocks belong to the dead.
Xanthic shadow at the edges.
The distance flat as horsehair plaster, all depth sponged away.
Black knoll of tailings.
There is nothing between his eyes and ours, not even invitation.
Each stone carrying its death sentence into the animate world.
Fly maggot eating the red ants brain.
The sense of epoch loosened, unstrung.
Light broken off in the air.
The twigs shadow has the same quality as the shadow of a man.
Glance held, an afterglow.
All depth sponged away, the distance flat as horsehair plaster.
Iris in an eye, mound in the photograph.
Dont pick him up, rocks say, because the dead belong to the rocks.
Encrusted with dirt at the rubbles edge: wolfspider the size of a hand.
A mans shadow has the same quality as the shadow of a twig.
What crosses here goes fanged or spiked and draws its color from the ground.
The air burnished, almost mineral.
Twenty poets speaking seven languages on a field trip to the outskirts of Beijing. A birdless summer day, no insect whirr. Entering the gate of the Summer Palace as a pack and dissolving into pairs. Without his Chinese-Persian translator, Emran Salahi is pensive, tight-lipped. He leads the way through the Hall of Dispelling Clouds, past its discolored statuary and fusty tapestries symbolizing eternal power. Then, dawdling in the corner of a side room, peers around a painted screen and discovers a white-haired man face-down on a table strewn with syringes.
Behind everything
the foreigner sees, something he doesnt
know how to look for.
Yukio Mishima telephoned Kazuko Shiraishi a week before his death, flirting, she divulges as we walk along the Summer Palace lake. Like Allen Ginsberg, whom Shiraishi also knew, Mishima spent his final days calling friends. Although its muggy enough to sweat, smog diffuses direct sun and no one slings a shadow. Not now, not any time in Beijing. Shiraishi pauses beside a gnarled juniper to stare at what appears to be a casino boat on the lake. Columned, canopied, its interiors painted with delicate floral patterns, the whole thing carved from ocherous marble. Yang Lian ambles over, telling the story: Instead of buying the armaments her militia requested, the Empress Dowager drained the treasury and built them a beautiful stone boat
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