Foley's Books
| The Alsop Review
Philip WhalenJack FoleyThe recent death of at 78 of Philip Whalen (1923-2002) brings to an end the career of a brilliant, spiritually-striving poet whose work has been described as the product of “a restless, self-consciously rhetorical sensibility.” In Donald M. Allen’s The New American Poetry, Whalen described his work in the following way: This poetry is a picture or graph of a mind moving, which is a world body being here and now which is history...and you. Or think about the Wilson Cloud Chamber, not ideogram, not poetic beauty: bald-faced didacticism moving, as Dr. Johnson commands all poetry should, from the particular to the general. (Not that Johnson was right--nor that I am trying to inherit his mantle as a literary dictator but only the title Doctor, i.e. teacher, who is constantly studying.) I do not put down the academy but have assumed its function in my own person, and in the strictest sense of the word--academy--a walking grove of trees. But I cannot and will not solve any problems or answer any questions. My life has been spent in the midst of heroic landscapes which never overwhelmed me and yet I live in a single room in the city--the room a lens focusing on a sheet of paper. Or the inside of your head. How do you like your world? (1959) Because of his blindness, Whalen had not written
poetry in recent years. I had this exchange with him: Jack Foley to Philip Whalen: Have you been writing
anything recently? Philip Whalen: I can’t write, I’m blind! Jack Foley: So was Homer! Philip Whalen (after a short pause): Homer who? We then went on to talk about Borges, Milton, and other blind
poets. Both Gary Snyder and Michael McClure were longtime friends of
Whalen’s. Following is a statement by Gary Snyder and a poem by Michael
McClure: Gary Snyder Dear Friends, Our great poet, Dharma Teacher, Zen Priest, bon vivant wit, and spiritual friend Philip Zenshin
Whalen died 6:00 AM Wednesday the 25th of June [2002]. He was in Laguna Honda
Nursing Home in San Francisco, and was attended by several old friends and
students. Philip had been ailing for several years and the actual cause of
his death remains unknown. I had just visited with him on June 20 and he
was funny, lucid, but also speaking occasionally his imaginative fantasy
journey life to other geographies, and we shared a pear-custard tart.
Michael and Amy McClure were with him late in the evening before he died.
He is being cremated on this Saturday the 29th [of June, 2002], attended by priests from
San Francisco Zen Center. A memorial service will be held, probably at
Green Gulch, sometime in mid-August. May Zenshin's great Bodhisattva Vows
be realized. Gone gone gone beyond gone beyond beyond Bodhi Svaha Gary Chofu Snyder 29. VI. 02 FLOWER GARLAND FROTH
-- for Zenshin Ryufu, Philip Whalen by Michael McClure
THROUGH
THE SKANDHAS, THE BUNDLES
OF BRIGHTNESS AND HUNGERS,
arises
more FOAM
making foam with no origin
but mutual reflection
Taste hunger
perception thought
NO
JOKE
not even traps
gorgeous manacles
(( physical
form-bubbles
sensation-bubbles
perception-bubbles
conditioning-bubbles
consciousness-bubbles
<<>>
MALLARME'S HUGE PASSIONS AND
FRANCESCO CLEMENTE'S
tiny, skinny dark figures in the joy of their excrement
and bright excitement, and Blake's fairies
and caterpillars
swimming in nada, right where we breathe
The Circus of Celebration runs away
with us
(not us with the circus!)
pulling us out of the
big top
like kernels from
a wrinkled shell
more foam
<<>>
FOAM POPPING BY THE SIDE OF THE RIVER
rainbow bubbles burst, while reflecting all
from a black smooth rock
made of bubbles
A white hand
reaches
TO
FILL A VASE
from the cool stream
Bronze vase clinks
on a stone
foam
More foam
<<>>
FOAM WHERE A SKUNK
DRINKS
from the trickle elegant
black and white
fur of foam
Sound of the water
foam bubbles
FUR
OF
A
MOVING TRUCK
in the wet forest
Paint chips
on mulch
A huge presence and purpose
bursting into being
with everything
Solid nothing
<<>>
... SOLID FOAM-BUBBLES BURSTING
INTO OLD SHOES NEW
SHOES
black with high tops
bubbles of irridescent soil on
the soles
Smell of redwood and wet mulch
in countless realms of
reflections
IN
JUST
one body
or none
trickling
over the mirror
<<>>
HERE IS THE TRUE CONTENT OF EXPERIENCE
THE UNTRUE CONTENT OF EXPERIENCE
silver raindrops falling on bubbles Words
spill from sleep
Hungry ghosts behind trees
push over dreams
NOT
TRUE
Tiny black seeds
rattle in an envelope
BIG SCARLET FLOWERS
Bubbles
Foam
A SWORD WITH EDGES OF
FLAME
slashes the walls
BLACK ANTS CIRCLE A BUBBLE OF HONEY
Zerbras, wildebeeste,
at the waterhole
Smell of red dust in the air
is
foam
Uncoiling fiddle-neck ferns,
astroturf,
voices of wisdom
BLADE THROUGH A RAINBOW MEMBRANE
EVERYTHING SMILING
with haloes and imaginary radiance
ALL
FOAM
real
as delusion
and the sunyatta physics of pond plants
and hot air ducts
blowing into outburstings
of snow banks
These caves
are inhabited by nothings constructed
of bubbles
I drive them around
and eat them
<<>>
FALCON SHAPES WOVEN IN GRAY SILK
Tension of plum buds
in
night fog
Stars a trillion years
from the mist
BUBBLES
all in one
ONE
IN ALL
Hidden in moss
in the redwoods
near
a Butterfinger wrapper
THE SOUND OF THE DOWNPOUR ON WALLS
is bubbles bursting
into stuff of delusion,
fine as a new chip on an old tooth
LIKE
THE TECHNICOLOR MOVIE
of smells projected between raindrops
on a screen of touches and tastes
The message of flannel is foam
for the shoulders
in the perfume
while floorboards shine
Perfectly clear
I RISE PROUD TO BE BEING
as
I
am
and I
lie
silent
NOT
KNOWING
I
Know
I
know
the long-gone delicacy
and meat of apricots
sun-heated on branches,
and waves and caverns of fuel
smashing the earth
in the arising
and pouring
of patterns
I love those who fight this
I
HAND
THEM
the
primate crown
shimmering
with hunger and automobiles
and velvet and contracts and postage
and duck weed and emeralds
and jazz
THIS IS NOT MINE
THIS WILL NOT BE MINE
THIS
IS NOT MINE
THIS WILL NOT BE MINE
This is not mind
This will not be mind
THIS IS NO BODY
THIS WILL NOT BE BODY
Me |