Jim Christy is a widely-published author and visual artist who has
exhibited his artwork throughout the world. His poetry has been
published in numerous literary journals and magazines.
This Cockeyed World (Guernica Editions, 2013) is his 30th published book. His previous poetry collection,
Marimba Forever, was also published by Guernica Editions in 2010.
For more information, visit Jim Christy at his
website.
The following poems are excerpts from
This Cockeyed World by Jim Christy, copyright © 2013 by Guernica Editions. Used with permission from the publisher.
This Cockeyed World
Red brick houses burst from the snow
Like boutonnieres from lapels
Of your white, cashmere benny.
You were here once in the same snows
At the house on Gothic Avenue. We
Rode taxis to pharmacies clear
To Parliament for Benze-Dex
Nasal inhalers that you crushed
Into Rye and Sevens. Yesterday, I
Repeated stories you told me:
About the tap-dancing cuckold
And the man who fell in love
With a trolley car. They laughed
At the coffee shop, here on a planet
Still turning. A new kind of scene
Where even an old rounder such
As you has a place in a corner, however
Remote, of the World Wide Web. World
Where jazz is deader than
The Diving Horse, every co-ed
Has a tattoo and dope fiends have
Taken over middle management.
So sleep the long sleep,
Your junkie bones meal
For Jersey rats.
Greenberg’s Drugstore
He looked like he should be
In the aisle with the toys, his
Head lower than the top shelf
Teddybears. Then you saw the liver
Spots peeking through his thinning
Hair, Greenberg, an old baby regarding
You through Barney Google glasses,
Spraying you like a cracked garden hose.
I drove his Volkswagen van, first one
I’d ever seen, 4-speed standard.
Greenberg’s in green across the sides.
His assistant was named Jim, a
Japanese druggist who claimed to be
Hawaiian, the war over only sixteen
Years. His hair was like a neglected
Lawn in a forgotten neighbourhood
In a science-fiction film where
The flora is all black. He didn’t
Like me. I must have resembled hillbilly
Yokohoma occupiers. Soon it was
Mutual.
I did like making deliveries for measle-ly
Children, hapless hypochondriacs and Mrs.
Entwhistle. First day, I held out the white
Bag with the receipt stapled across
The fold, she reached out and grabbed
My zipper instead. She was old, probably
Forty but smelled good. She did something
With the tip of her tongue that, not
Surprisingly, I’d never experienced
(still haven’t). Two days a week,
I’d park the van out front of her
house – mail box on a wagon wheel
In a bed of geraniums, garden gnome,
He resembled Mr. Greenberg, guarding
The door – She always asked if
I had some medicine for her. She
Took to wearing dark red lipstick,
And always wanted two doses.
Back at the store, Greenberg took to calling
Me Little Jim and the fake Hawaiian Big Jim.
But I was tall enough to look down on his
Abandoned crew cut. He told the boss that
I looked at girlie magazines when I should
Be stocking shelves. It wasn’t true. I’d
Think of Mrs. Entwhistle, and didn’t need
Magazines. The last time he told Greenberg,
I overheard and demanded it wasn’t true.
“Little Jim, you say Big Jim is lying?” –
And I said he was. He had to let me go
Because he couldn’t have any animosity
But I could tell he believed me.
I couldn’t very well go to Mrs. Entwhistle’s
House without the delivery van though I got
As far as the wagon wheel one time
But was brought up short by the look
On the garden gnome’s face. The lady
Of the house would have to
Get her medicine
From somebody else.
Tiger Man
That Mess-with-me at-your-peril, -Bud
Look, malevolent twinkle in cracker eyes, as
If he knew what would happen if you did.
Coming into second like a maniac pilot
Landing on a jungle strip, top leg
At forty-five Degrees, filed spikes sparkling
In the sun of red dirt, green grass day games:
My first god – Ty Cobb. The greatest
There’d ever been or ever will be. Top
Of the list in all categories from
Bases to bastards. Hero, too; running
Down Detroit streetcars to pull off hooligans
Who’d mugged old ladies, and he left
Them bleeding on the pavement. Made
A million off a cocaine-laced soft drink.
But received jeers not Ruthian cheers.
And that’s the guy I wanted to be
Just like. Aped his style and moves but
Was neither bad enough nor good
Enough. Couldn’t ever deal
With the curves thrown at me. My
Record notable not for hits but
Misses. When there were spikes
Women were wearing them
And the money I never made
Was the file that sharpened them.
I stumbled on the basepaths, fell
For the hidden ball trick, balked
At responsibilities, and if I ever stole
A single heart it was surely
Unintentional.
Interview:
TTQ – What inspired you to start writing poetry and who were some of your early influences or mentors?
Jim Christy – I wasn't one of those precocious kids who was writing
poetry, or anything else, at eight years of age. I didn't write anything
until I was twenty-years-old. The first thing I published was a spoof
of bocce ball. I must have started trying to write poems not long after
but it was a few years before I showed them to anyone or sent them out.
But when I did, much to my surprise, plenty of them were accepted. Then
in the late Seventies, Four Humours Press of Winnipeg published a small
book of them called
Palatine Cat. My influences were probably
more musical than literary. I met a guy named Charlie Leeds, twenty-two
years older than me who I still consider the best poet I have ever
encountered. Thing is, he was really a musician. See my poem to him in
the Guernica anthology,
Poet to Poet.
TTQ – You wrote a book about American poet Charles Bukowski The Buk Book: Musings About Charles Bukowski
(ECW Press, 1997). How much of an impact has Bukowski's poetry had on
your own work and what was it you most admired about him? Did you ever
get a chance to meet him or attend one his readings?
Jim Christy – Bukowski is funny and he could detect the bullshit in
others and in life as it is and was. I corresponded with him but we
never met. He may turn out to be the major influence on the poetry of
his time, for better or worse. He put a light on people and a way of
living that had so far escaped literature but no less important because
of that. He showed that the subject matter of poetry is universal, not
confined to the campus or the suburbs or the small towns. In baseball,
he would be the designated hitter who only bats .188 but every once in a
great while hits one so far out of the park that it is still up there
somewhere. One never really knows who is an influence but I think a
genuine "influence" is a writer who encourages you to write. So in that
sense Bukowski is an influence although he is far from being my
favourite writer. Critics will point out some things one has in common
with another one and act as if they've discovered an "influence" --by
which they mean someone you try to write like or emulate. So Bukowski
lived in rooming houses, therefore…But most writers and critics never
lived in a rooming house or knocked around or read anything by anyone
other than Bukowski who lived in a rooming house, so if they know the
name of one person that did, they'll compare you to that person.
TTQ – You were born and raised in the ghetto section of South
Philadelphia, lived in New York City and San Francisco, before moving to
Canada in 1968, and you became a Canadian citizen in 1974. Tell me
about growing up in South Philly and what motivated you to move to
Canada?
Jim Christy – South Philadelphia is a section of Philadelphia that for
decades was an Italian enclave, most of the residents having come from
Molise and Calabria. My people came from Molise; my real last name is
Christinzio. The Democratic Party controlled that part of Philadelphia
and there were Certain People who controlled the Democratic Party and,
hence, the neighbourhoods. Curiously enough there was virtually no crime
in the neighbourhoods and woe unto anyone who committed a crime. The
exception was the people who appeared in shiny Buicks with guns inside
their coats. They didn't shoot kids, however, so you were safe within
your territory. You were not safe if you left it. South Philadelphia
produced gangsters, singers, boxers and regular working stiffs. I'm the
only writer I've ever heard of who was raised there. If there is another
one, I'd like to meet him or her, and we can have a couple of Schlitz
beers together and tell each other sad stories of the neighbourhoods. I
left the United States because I was opposed to the War in Vietnam and
the racial situation and just about everything else about the country.
TTQ – How would you best describe your latest collection of poetry This Cockeyed World (Guernica Editions, 2013), and what message are you hoping your readers will take away with them after reading the book?
Jim Christy – The message is that it's a sad and beautiful world, funny and tragic, too. I'd say that
This Cockeyed World
celebrates life; it's a song of life although perhaps in a different
key than the usual tune. That's what I want someone to take away.
TTQ – How arduous was the editing process for This Cockeyed World, and helped you get through and how important was their input in completing the book?
Jim Christy – The editing process was not arduous at all; it consisted
of Michael Mirolla asking of one poem, "Why did you change rhythms in
this passage?" -- And I answered, "Because the narrator stops looking
out the window and gets on the train and the new passage is written to
the rhythm of the train." -- Michael, replied, "Oh."
TTQ – What do you anticipate our cockeyed world being like a decade or two from now and do you see yourself right there on the front lines?
Jim Christy – I hope the world is still around a decade or two from now.
I hope I'm still around. I think unless we wake up we're in serious
trouble. We are rapidly fouling our nest beyond the point of clean-up
and creating a virtual world comprised of an -- to borrow a word big in
my youth -- "alienated" population. Also, in North America, it's an
infantilized population. In Canada, the work of our so-called creative
writers usually doesn't provide an antidote to this situation. You can't
turn to them for help or succor or to meet someone who could be a
friend. Or, at least, I can't. It's basically an insulated, bourgeois
literature. There is absolutely no daring, no chances being taken. There
are not enough exceptions.
TTQ – In your opinion, what constitutes a great poem?
Jim Christy – A great poem is one that delivers a blow that you never see coming.
TTQ – You’re also an accomplished visual artist and have
exhibited your work throughout the world. Tell me about your artwork and
to what degree does it influence your writing or vice versa?
Jim Christy – The visual art and the writing come from the same place
but I'd say the two go in different directions to wind up in similar
territory. The great thing about making the art, mostly sculpture and
assemblage, is that you don't have to worry about explaining things.
Also, making the art is more fun and when you hang out with artists they
don't gripe but mainly talk about materials.
TTQ – What words of advice would you give to young aspiring writers and artists?
Jim Christy – I would not give advice to young and aspiring writers for
fear that they would take it and hold me responsible. I am an old-time
writer who used to sit in front of a big old typewriter and make noise
way into the night. Then I'd put the results in an envelope, mail it
away and wait for a response. But I did not approach the Underwood until
I had something to say to it, and I found what I had to say by
circulating among mean women and animals and seeing what life was about.
So if my heart was doing the talking, it would tell aspiring writers to
go and take a look around. You don't have to cover a war or live among
Indians in the Amazon, like I did but do SOMETHING. But, see, that would
only be from my heart. My head would advise "Go to university and
pursue a degree in creative writing; better yet get a Master's while
you're at it and just to be SAFE. Then hobnob, network, hook into social
media, join the Union, tweet, get a Facebook page and you're bound to
make it (make what?).”
TTQ – What’s next for Jim Christy?
Jim Christy – What’s next? I'm ready for a big adventure or a new
career, even. I'm open to suggestions. Also, I plan to drive from the
Beaufort Sea to the tip of Tierra del Fuego, hopefully in a Nissan Juke.
In the meantime, more poems, more sculptures.
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Hi Joe,
Well done! First step almost in place ...
My friend Sylvia gave me the heads-up about your column today. We both save our 7 or so 'free' monthly visits to The Star so we can enjoy your columns. Terry Barker (from the tribute to Ray at Runnymede Library) was at a poetry gig with George E. C. in the little east end park at Taylor's Creek Ravine a few weeks ago. Lots of stuff in the works promoting CanPoets. Following is a posting about the Quattro book launch on Ray's birthday (suspect you may already be in the know & attending). Also we're doing a tribute book on Milt, ACORNucopia, with Mosaic Press. Can't remember offhand if you've sent a piece for that?
All well here ... but let's keep those kids healthy in the park so they can look after us in our dotage : )
peace & poetry power!
Chris ... & Chase Wrffffffffffffffffffffffff!
p.s. in August I posted a comment under your column, & the process ate up all of my monthly allotment of free visits to The Star ... arrggggggghhhh
you might suggest to the-powers-that-be that postings not count against free visits
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