Sunday, May 9, 2010

Aimless Reading: The H's, Part 2 (David Hadbawnik)


Ovid in Exile
Originally uploaded by Michael_Kelleher
Hadbawnik, David
Ovid in Exile


Purchased at a reading by the author, in the back room at Rust Belt Books.

Looking back at yesterday's entry, I realize that it is doubly out of order. First, Dictee should be filed under "C" for "Cha." It is instead filed under "H" for Hak Kyung Cha. All I can say about that is, Duh.

Anyhow, in "H" it will stay, immortally incorrect.

And even if it were supposed to be under "h" it would come after "Hadbawnik" instead of before it. To that, I can speak more clearly.

Until yesterday, this book sat in a pile of other books that had been moved from a pile on the bedstand to a pile on a living room endtable to a pile on a window sill behind the desk in my office to, finally, another pile atop a shelf of books to my left.

It just so happened that yesterday Lori and I decided to clean the house from top to bottom, which included dusting the bookshelves and re-shelving or shelving for the first time all the books taken out and/or acquired in the past year.

At the end of the day, I also took a bag full of books to Rust Belt in exchange for store credit ($20 worth). Almost all of the books in the pile went to the bookstore, but this one was given its almost proper spot in the "H" section.

Anyhow, it's a beautifully handmade, hand-sewn, hardcover book of beautiful poems by current Buffalo resident and poets theater impresario David Hadbawnik. Signed, number 23 of 50.

from Ovid in Exile

I.

There is no sight more pathetic than a lover
pining away of the lack of someone
to pine for. Late at night I awake to
the sound of distant voices, pounding

footsteps, my dreams of Ovid disturbed
by neighbors arguing 3 a.m. I can't
make out what it is but the undercurrent
of their words enough to sweep me along

out of this world and into that & my light
winks on hospital and its desolation.
O where is the voice that soothed Aetna,
                                                  roused
those august passions that olive smile

That insinuated itself into thoughts like
the plunging line of the Beloved's inner
                                                  thigh?

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