Meditation brought about by George Bogin's translation of Jules Supervielle's poem "The Sea"

Something in the letter found in the box, and something just out there in the winter white, and something in the sky, something less than discontent: sheer light blue through one window, at least for now-something in the way you got out of her, I mean got out of the relationship, something in the way you got out of the relationship truly neglected the vision of the nova you then brought to George (the nova in the sky, not the car. And not the "no cars in the sky" which the kindergarten teacher actually warned her class about before the little ones began drawing. Not the nova car I wrecked and was lucky to have not placed in the sky along with myself. Appropriate white man constellation: el nova in el sky). And something in my endless awkwardness when George would tell me I had more feeling than any of the others, I was ashes with feeling . . . and my awkwardness with this was not unlike the awkward and incomplete version I or I-and-Lisa brought to George about the sky nova flash, incredible distance / closeness / vastness / vanishing witnessed by us the night before

-something in the torn pieces of blue paper the little girl has typed upon, a letter to her friend she calls it, but also angry at the friend she says for not wearing a dress the two of them as later the letter tries to explain had planned . . . ashes with feeling. . .

Something, something, but you can't put your finger on it. The old postcard? The postcard which you referred to as "pre-car." The postcard you felt this dis-ease looking at but kept anyway in an isolated place where you were bound to see it again, by itself, and yet not quite see anything or anything you could be sure of because of this dis-ease. Ashes with feeling? Another version of it? As a writer with more feeling than the others, isn't there a pressure upon you to know what you are talking about, or at least to not know in some manner which would reveal itself as acceptance, not pretended but felt? Is this the feeling, to be a few moments from it, and still feel it?

What about George's feelings? Doesn't it take a feeler to recognize another feeler? What about Lisa's feelings? What about another George, who walked into the recovery meeting like he was a friend of Al Capone's, appropriately oblivious. Maybe there's a planet named Capone? Lisa?

Remember Bob looking at a card you also had, and unlike this village-corner-card of dis-ease this other card is a corner you like, ashes with feeling again, but Bob looks at the card for just a moment and sees a person/figure walking on the street and you had never for these years and all this looking seen this figure. The figure is all but gone, erased, erased ashes, but Bob sees it, Bob with his magic eye . . . a retina with more feeling than the others . . . an iris with more feeling than the others. . . Is that it? Is that him? Who is he?

George Bogin translated many poems by Jules Supervielle. Today I am looking at a copy of wonderful old IRONWOOD #23, Michael Cuddihy's magazine, incredible Michael Cuddihy with incredible retina and iris and ashes. I am saying to myself let's look at some of the poems in this issue because since I had a few in there myself I probably never really took a close look at anyone else's-and some of this feels true-or it could be my bad memory for poems which has never improved despite anyone's feelings or retina-or it is a sideways memory which remembers a life just to the side of everyone's poems, not unlike (again) ashes, or the retina dashing off to another place it accounts for, sometimes truly, sometimes counterfeit. I start to read a poem by Carruth, I read a part of it, a favorite reading habit of mine, just parts, especially with favorite poets . . . you wouldn't think this was true, but it is, if I am reading you line by line all the time I am probably feeling trapped, and with more feeling than the others this is a major turnoff, not unlike turning off not only the road but the wrong road at the wrong time . . .

I start to read a poem by Carruth, I read part of it, and then I see George's translations are in there, and I look at two and feel this slight turning going on. Something in me knows this feeling.

-But is there a wrong time? Is there a wrong road? Is there a wrong sea? A wrong sea . . .

In a few moments or a minute or two I am moving small boxes, cigar boxes. The house I am living in is being torn up upstairs, and I am moving small boxes, still another box. And knowing it is letters I decide to look inside and pretty quickly among about one hundred or more pieces of paper I come across accidentally a letter from Ruth Bogin written just after George's death. And now I am wanting to drive somewhere, this feeling of slight turning is turning into trapped, and I don't care if it's a wrong road or a wrong road to a wrong sea at anytime: I want to come up with an excuse to get moving, to get away from something, with me more feeling than the others, me with more ashes in my retina than the others. Me with endless vacations at wrong seas.