Objects

by Russell Atkins

Atkins's third book, Objects, was one of the Hearse Chapbooks edited by E. V. Griffith, and published by his Hearse Press. Cover illustration by Ben Tibbs.

18 pages, Chapbook

First published January 1, 1963

About the author

Russell Atkins is a musician, playwright, and poet from Cleveland, Ohio, known primarily for his contributions to American avant garde poetry. Trained as a musician and visual artist, Atkins studied at Cleveland College, Cleveland Music School Settlement, Cleveland Institute of Music, Karamu House, and Cleveland School of Art.

His plays The Abortionist and The Corpse debuted in 1954. Following this, he founded Free Lance, A Magazine of Poetry and Prose in 1950 with his friend, Adelaide Simon, with the first issue containing an introduction by Langston Hughes. It attracted writers from all over the world, leading the now-defunct Black World to call it "the only Black literary magazine of national importance in existence." In 1959 Free Lance Press began publishing books. Free Lance was under Atkins leadership for more than two decades, and allowed Atkins to correspond with writers from across the country.

Atkins was one of the first concrete poets in the United States. Concrete poetry is a term for visual or shape poetry, in which the words on the page are arranged in such a way as to enhance a poem's meaning. He was also an innovator in poetic drama. [wikipedia]

Reviews

[M.W.P.M. · Rating 4 out of 5]

OBJECTS ON A TABLE

It is flat's streak that attacks
the hollow of lapse

Of alarm like takes you
and finally, a whirl slur
Whereto?

Over the way is half Janet
Nearby, dusk-struck
trembling of up
in fact

and a precious shadow
crumbles to ash
and distances
at once, everything's hopelessly white
and flung



PRELUDE: DAWN

Foul! I mean insidious, spectral
(although portentous all)

in a number of houses shown an early light
(the most dismal kind of light
save one lit when someone is very ill
and expected to fail at night)

up having drunk of the cup
shade up, clock set, I
went into the portentous all,
which was insidious and spectral

in a number of houses that faint light
(that most dismal kind of light)
went out by day, and someone ill
I thought, had failed at night,
and the insidious, spectral
would ear away with someone's funeral.



FOUR OF A FALL

A lavatory. I waited. A dare of a mirror
Quivered with light. ("They're waiting for 
me" I thought "the old dears at the hearths.")
I said hesitating "Ten o'clock, Ed."
I stood and thought of conditions
And of a conversation with Ethel.
(Ethel was Ed's girl friend.)
I had said to her "This business, life,
Terribly exaggerated--."
 a low sigh
from behind. I went and I
tried the door (my whisper
"what in th' ! ! are you doing?
"--a(shit
"--hurry about it, will you?"

He remained silently in; I was weary.
He came out very long after.
Our eyes thundered together, his "junk" full.
He was extinguished in a way,
But gave me a succession of brilliant replies.
We departed as the toilets pounded.

(2)
One night of a mass of harsh sky
I went with him through deaths, wine, sex.
A "profound" tree let Last's beauty
Funerally fall. It was autumn.
There it was dead dark, of full slut.
Night houses poured their prowl.
He leaned to err. "You are tendrils."
I remember I said to him "Dead near a wall."

That night I stopped him and I said "Listen
A moment--let me tell you:
You will never live it. Alas!
It is a Niagara of falls
To men that persist, headlong over.
Turn an ear like warriors who hear
The trumpet of a truce.
Come upon the suddenly sheer.
The merciless incessant underneath,
Forth from it a persuasive horn
Bays to the desperate
Then who can help?

(3)
One day visiting him as we effected a trip
To some authoritative cure, I said to him
In at the door "Hurry, will you?
Agitated, the outstretch of his arm.
His face an unassembled horror
On the bed. "But lemme tell ya, I ain't sick!
I said "We want an authoritative cure."
He rose, his limp over a chair. "I'm straight!
He said. And disgorged billious black.

He was one night grim statued at my door.
He came to sell. One in the grey
Who took the lamps down, laid in wait,
Spider'd across, adder'd among.
It turned to storm, a mad tear up. 
An ominous of rain shuddered from a banged sky.
A flight of lightnings
Swift'd terribly across.

Within I said "I never will inflict upon myself
That punishment you bear."
He said it made bright dawns in dark of a winter,
Smoothed the harsh, cleared the blear.
Did I--(he faltered)--want to--?
No! I told him. He fierced up.
I said "So you would tomb up me!

(4)
A rush of miserabled diseased leaves!
Some gasped terrific trees
Skeleton'd after and left that white Medusa
Stone hideous above, ringed in her mist adders.
The expanse of the eternally buried we passed slow.

This night he had peddled his asps.
And we were walking among murdered leaves. 
He paused. I said "What are you waiting for?
He said "Show me about Ethel."
"Who would want you addicted? You've lost her!"
He became violently utter
And he droned "Be Ethel to me."

A moment violently stark
 it fled--with it
 I



NIGHT AND A DISTANT CHURCH

Forward abrupt up
the mmm mm
wind mm m
 mmm
upon
the mm mm
wind mm m
 mmm
winto the mm wind
rain now and again
the mm wind

 ells
b
 ell s
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Read the full text here: eclipsearchive.org