Edward Mycue's first book,
Damage Within the Community, published in 1973, was selected by
Library Journal as one of the ten best poetry books of that year.
"Reading through
small magazines-"those little magazines that died to make verse
free," Gertrude Stein called them-one comes across the name
"Edward Mycue" quite often, and always with pleasure. Mycue's
poems are invariably interesting and alluring, imaginative, sometimes
baffling: wonderful work." Jack Foley, The Alsop Review
Continuing this review,
Jack Foley writes - "Mycue's poems hold us in a kind of meditative
openness which constantly admits to its own difficulties. At the same
time, they deliberately "educate" us:
"educates-leads-out." The word "education," with its
root in the Latin "educere," is one which Mycue has considered
at some length. In a 1978 essay, "Methodology as a Theory of
Sequence," Mycue writes,
[Educere is] said to be
the word our word for education comes from-and the dryad (a wood
nymph, whose life is bound-up with the life of her tree) is very like,
to me, the idea of education: education, the word and its root educere
(if it really is the root): not that it teach, but that it lead- out
what is already there. As if the whole history of our species
and its development is continually present in every further person and
that maybe the role of education is to lead-out the history of
ourselves. And the way educere was pronounced I liked,
too: not like ed-u-kay-shun but like ay-duke-uh-ray. Great sound for a
great meaning.
Damage
Within the Community
(Panjandrum Press 1973)
Selected by Library Journal as one of the ten
best poetry books of the year
North Texas State University
Lowell Fellow at Boston
University
Macdowell Colony Fellow
Taught American Literature
at International Peoples College
(Elsinore, Denmark).
http://www.dirosapreserve.org/lectures/poetspainters.shtml
From 4-26 January 2003 Edward's poetry was featured in a Painters and
Poets exhibition (with his partner Richard Steger) at the di Rosa
Preserve, 5200 Carneros Highway, Napa, CA
http://www.ruebella.co.uk
"Ed Mycue, our man in San Francisco, packs enough energy into his
poems to light up the Golden Gate Bridge for a month." -
editors, Rue Bella magazine. You can read and listen to several of
his poems on their site.
http://www.sacredgroundscafe.com/poetry/edwardmycue.html
Sacred Grounds Café, San Francisco - from the archive of poets.
http://www.alsopreview.com/foley/jfmycue.html
Review of Ed Mycue's Because We Speak The Same Language
(Spectacular Diseases Press) by Jack Foley.
http://www.staceys.com/favorites/archives/stafffaves-ed.html
"Each month, we ask one employee to tell us about their ten favorite
books. This list is no holds barred -- any genre, any size -- whatever
they really want to talk about. The only restriction is that the books
still be in print so that we can help you find them if they sound good. A
published poet and mainstay of the San Francisco literary scene, Edward
Mycue is always ready with a fascinating story about the writers he has
known and whose work has made a difference in his life. This month he
shared a few of these thoughts, reminiscences, and recommendations for
Stacey's customers."
http://nova.kemsu.ru/biorus/mycue.html
Edward Mycue's page on Syberia Nova Kultura - poem found on http://nova.kemsu.ru/texts/musye.html
http://bostonreview.mit.edu/BR27.2/mycue.html
"13th Street Is Not Called 13th Street. It's Called Baughman"
poem in Boston Review
http://www.minotaurpress.com/bsi8/063.htm
Thoughts on Writing Poems (from e-mails to Louisa Solano in connection
with judging a poetry contest for the Grolier Poetry Prize, 2002),
published on the web by Minotaur Press.
Song
from: Night
Boats, 1999
At night your strange heart
is music learned in love where moonmilk
is silence. San Francisco,
these are your rites. At your feet
are your children, a deep-pile
garnet rug, broken bisque porcelain
writing our histories on your
lymph that like your promise once
calf-white is now memory-tongued,
eggshell-thin, raving for healing
this desperate geography. Your
skies plum-colored, your boats
oarless bob in the marmalade waves.
Get washed you blind, handsome
city. Your harbor has a stone in
its mouth. A wingless buzzing
rises in grey fusion. This weather
mounts a holocaust song, red, full
like the hope-ruby with its rue and rage.
Now we are old linoleum, littered, torn and
we fight the sunset
climbing our blue humming.
From the 'BUMPS' series of poems
100. A PIECE OF ICE
IS ABOUT MELTING
BEFORE YOU KNOW IT
ABOUT LOST STRENGTH
WHITE STEAM AND A BRIEF
MEMORY OF HURRY.
55. BUMPS
BOYS ADMIRED OTHER
BOYS'
MUSCLES. GIRLS OTHER GIRLS'
BREASTS. BOTH WANTED THE
BUMPS. WANTED TO SWELL-UP,
GROW-UP, TO BE SOMEBODY
BIGGER, beautiful, BUMPY.
BUMPS MEANT POWER, ROCK 'N
SEX, WHITE TEETH, wheels,
DRINKING BOOZE FROM PAPER BAGS,
LIFTED ARMS AND pecs ALL BUMPY.
114. SCAR HUNT
SINCE THEY SPOKE THE
SAME LANGUAGE ALL THE PEOPLE UNDERSTOOD
ONEANOTHER AS A FAMILY WHO WANDERED LOOKING FOR A LAND TO LIKE. WHEN
THEY
FOUND IT THEY BEGAN TO CHANGE IT INTO A GREAT CITY WITH DECORATED
WALLS,
COURTYARDS AND A TOWER TO MAKE THEM FAMOUS EVEN TO TODAY A PROUD
PEOPLE WHO
OVERSTROVE BECOMING COUPLED WITH A CURSE OF VOICES LIKE A TEEN
GHETTO OF
MUSICDANCINGHUMMING PRESS-ME-TO-YOU TUNE HELPHELPHELPHELP AND
LETMEALONE LET
ME ALONE EVERYTHING TODAY ADJUSTMENT ENACTMENT OLDCARSNOISE.
NOW. SO TIME'S
ROUGH FINGERS PRINTED THEM OUT LIKE A STATISTIC OF DEFECTS WHEN THE
WHOLE
SYSTEM WENT PIANO.
100. A PIECE OF ICE
IS ABOUT MELTING
BEFORE YOU KNOW IT
ABOUT LOST STRENGTH
WHITE STEAM AND A BRIEF
MEMORY OF HURRY.
43. A MAN CAME OUT
OF A TREE
A MAN CAME OUT OF A
TREE,
SHE TUGGED ON HIS COAT.
SHE CHASED.
HE SAID HE DIDN'T TOUCH HER, TRIED
TO DODGE,
THEN THE HORSE,
A BIG BEAUTIFUL HORSE
IN THE DREAM CAME AGAINST HIM
CROUCHING HIS HANDSOMENESS
AGAINST HIS CHEST.
HE KEPT TRYING, FAILING
TO UNLATCH
THE DOOR AT HIS BACK.
YES, HE SAID, IT WAS
A DREAM, BUT THE HORSE,
SO BIG AND HANDSOME,
FRIGHTENED ME.
I WAS AFRAID
HE WOULD CRUSH ME INTO HIM.
SO, HE SAID, SIR, PLEASE
DON'T OPEN THE DOOR.
75. MEMORIES: steam
IS WHAT YOU WANT
MEMORIES TO BE
INSTEAD OF BEING SUCH A MIXED BAG
OF HIPS AND MAGNETS AND DEAD CATS.
(© Edward Mycue)
|
|
