Cover of Beyond Landscape by Andrew Jendrzejewski

I didn’t know how I felt about the film, at first. It is purposely slow, but with a powerful masculine portrayal of the 19th century wild West, but without the usual stereotypes or commercialized cowboy images.  Frankly, the film brought me back to my sense of the godlessness and the develish brutality of man on a hellish earth that I experienced in Vietnam. Was there any hope in this world?  My wife and I looked up the film on the Internet and found that the film was well researched regarding the fur trade industry and, especially, the character of the Indian, whose name is Nobody.  In the end, Blake is launched on a small boat, not across Dante’s River Styx, but on the Pacific ocean where his soul might return back to its poetic and spiritual origins, rather than continuing  to “speak with a gun”.  Perhaps a hopeful sign until the last of three bounty hunters finally kills Blake and the Indian, as the Indian kills him. Hope? Maybe looking into Blake more deeply. Maybe the soul transcends it all, as the boat continues to drift.

The character’s names were often symbolic, and their were many references to Blakes poetry surprisingly recited to the “outlaw” by the Indian, suggesting to me a possible rare confluence between Western poetry and Native American spiritual concepts.  I found that the play is regarded as an excellent example of postmodernism, with many references to at least Twentieth Century and Twentyfirst Century film artists, poets and musicians by director Jim Jarvis and with its minimal plot and emphasis on character. A concept that I have often heard as an artist is eloquently and usefully repeated with the quote below by Jarmusch, found in many places on the Internet, like Wikipedia. Reading it felt like he punched the refresh button on my browser:

“Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery – celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: ‘It’s not where you take things from – it’s where you take them to.’ ”

che uno staccato nello paesaggio e cielo!
as we started our cars to leave the parking lot, the scene struck me with
its vastness and its repetitive qualities, which in its finite form suggested the infinite te-te-te-te…

in your lengthy fuss
aligning your cameras
you two had ignored us
not recognizing our powers
thinking you knew better
to look beyond for hours
for trolls, leprechauns or elves to fetter
only to find ones not so fine
at a Norwegian store?
in Nashville? Waiting in line?

we wore no tights
nor pointed slippers, ick!
we don’t like fights
nor live under bridges
with those ugly mud skippers, sick!
you searched and searched
to no avail
we were right in front of you
how could you fail?
to see us, your own magic beings
over the roof’s slant
on the ridge of the park’s
water treatment plant

its shimmering leaves invite the western gardener
as it contrasts with the native plants in the west
something exotic, unusual in the united states
sometimes considered a weed, sometimes an ornament

recently mikhail suprun had been detained
for gathering facts in the russian archives
as one might gather olives for oil
only to find that the russian olive branch has thorns
that threaten consequences for rewriting his story
about german populations in poland and ukraine
who disappeared under stalin

the olive
russia’s forbidden fruit
records on its leaves
marked like trails of blight
cyrillic stains of ink
interred under institutional shade
threatening to be found and exhumed
to uncover russia’s fabricated history

often majestic in the sun and wind
each silver leaf reflects the skies
of a vast frontier of the ancient east
of rugged nobility
they are like ancient sirens
veiling twisted branches beneath
to confound the history of arctic gulags

on the occasion of the anniversary
of the invasion of poland
seven decades ago
by germany initiating the second world war
vladimer putin writes an open letter to poland no less
declaring in defense of stalin no less
that one can not be so sure of history
we each perceive it differently, he writes
after all 27 million russians died
to fight hitler’s advance
so who can blame who?
(he asks of a people that continue
to mourn their dead from stalin’s bullet and sword)

under the olive’s shimmering and slender leaves
hide twisted branches
but also its life giving fruit
yes, here the history of 27 million dead is the same
as the history of the countless dead from poland
left cold in the fields on journeys toward slavery
on the battlefield as conscripts of stalin’s army
at the front door, the streets, the church steps
continuing for generations after the war
and generations before the war
when the concept of being polish
was to be exterminated
putin you deny that our histories can be the same

poland ukraine slovakia
lithuania hungary georgia
czeks slovaks and others still cry
(they have kept their documents too, you see)
as you cry for stalin’s honor
and for those 27 million
in death they share the same history
as our dead
and we both continue living it

looking
beyond our
own universe we
have for centuries traversed
across treacherous voids suspended by
fragility and allures of
distant landscapes toward
mysterious realms
unknowable

 
1.
Four and a half mouths, this year,
She teetered on the line between states:
Fever, then none; consciousness, then un-
Sitting, mostly laying;  hi and bye;
Fighting, surrendering; breathing, not.
From flesh to ashes, from body to spirit,
As ancient now as the Parthenon. I mourn.

2.
Now we have just moved them
Into another home
With various sorts of care.
Parent/child roles have switched.
We hear, “When are we going to eat?”
“We have just eaten.” he says. Minutes later—
“When are we going to eat?” she asks,
“ I should set the table.”
“We have just eaten,” he says.
Laid bare in her words are 60 plus years
Of speech, a repertoire of speech, patterned on
Her life of managing a household—we mourn.

3.
The end of summer
The beginning of fall—
Daily increments of color change,
Falling leaves and temperatures,
Silence of naps,  rustling of middle schoolers’
Comings and goings through piles of leaves,
The boob tube screaming
About money and power or anything bizarre,
Or the naive programs of our childhoods,
The right and the left, pro and con,
Old and new, old and young, old and older…

 4.
…and in all these above are layers:
Layers of color, layers of wakefulness,
Layers of truthfulness and honesty,
Layers of meaning, of clothing, of nakedness,
Of confidentiality, openness and protection.
Peeling layers of pasts, photographs.
Peering to anticipated futures,
Headlights and rearview mirrors.
Autumn, full of loss and reminders,
As the leaves change and fall, they dry.
Autumn, both subtle and startling,
Is for now our map .