Item description for Nature Lovers by Charles Potts...
This is a hard-hitting yet soundly poetic collection of poems that sings as much as it stings. It is filled with poems of wit and satire, politics and ecology.
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Est. Packaging Dimensions: Length: 9.05" Width: 5.99" Height: 0.25" Weight: 0.22 lbs.
Release Date Jun 1, 2000
Publisher Pleasure Boat Studio
ISBN 1929355041 ISBN13 9781929355044
Availability 0 units.
More About Charles Potts
Charles Potts emerged as a counter-culture poet in Berkeley in 1968, challenging the liberal consensus of his day in his volume "Little Lord Shiva" (1968) and calling for a poetry of intellectual precision. While continuing his poetic production, Potts documented his Berkeley experience in the two-volume prose account "Valga Krusa" (1977), written in Salt Lake City. He moved to Walla Walla, Washington in 1978, where he continued to study the relationship between language, causality, and politics. West End Press produced a selection of his writings, "The Portable Potts", in 2005.
Charles Potts is also an important literary publisher and cultural organizer. He founded the magazine "Litmus" in Seattle and Litmus, Inc. in Salt Lake City, publishing eighteen books there in the 1970s. In 1996 he founded Tsunami, Inc. in Walla Walla, published the magazine "The Temple" for six years, and continues to support The Temple Bookstore.
Reviews - What do customers think about Nature Lovers?
Mountain Man Oct 11, 2000
I met Charles Potts in 1970. I was living in Minneapolis and was starting a writing workshop, so I took the unusual tack of tacking postcard notices around in the West Bank neighborhood. No one locally ever contacted me about the postcards. But a visitor to Minneapolis, in the visage of a bona fide bearded beat poet from the west, who was passing through Minnesota in his microbus on a poetry tour of America, found himself, as poets do, standing and copying a stranger's phone number from a telephone pole. Charles Potts called and asked to visit me. We huddled as equals, drank iced tea, sized up one another's poetics, and agreed to stay in touch.
We have been friends ever since. Good friends. I sometimes feel Charlie knows what is in my heart better, and respects it more, than I myself do.
Charles was vastly more advanced than I was. He, even in his twenties, knew who he was, knew how the world worked, and knew what he wanted to do. I'm still working on all three. Talking to him, and corresponding later, I felt I was communing directly with the wild prophetic side of American poetry.
Most poetry I read in the early 70s was elliptical as all get-out, dreamy, posey, and mainly about the self's deep interest in itself. Charlie was doing something nearly the opposite. You could feel the gravel under his poems -- they were roughcut, fearless, and unfailingly straight about what they wanted to say. You didn't wonder what psychic level Charlie was writing from (8? 13? lingerie and notions?) any more than you'd wonder what level a gun pointed at your darkest suspicions and prejudices was on. Even when his poems were funny they were dead-on serious, like Lenny Bruce on a good night. I had to be reminded he was a youngest, not an oldest child, because of that quality of gravitas.
Anyway, on to the poems in Nature Lovers. Charlie wrote these poems in 1989, under the influence of his study in the field of Neuro Linguistic Programming, and readings in the microstructure of cognition. The title is a tip-off to Charlie's ragged irony -- because it is impossible for humans to truly love nature, because we are helplessly separated from it by language and consciousness -- the makings of poetry itself. "I go way back with writers who identify themselves with nature," he writes in an afterword. "Wordsworth, for the mystifying and mystical unity to be fond there; Menzu (Mencius) for his insistence that the entire state has to operate in obeisance to natural law; and Lucretius, who said poets should never lose the power to irritate."
Each poem is a meditation, or an editorial cartoon, about some aspect of nature. Listen to the fussy cadence and the caustic syllogistics, and tell me you don't hear the unmistakable ring of Menzu in the following:
"He died of natural causes."
How many times have you relaxed while reading
That sanguine phrase and paused to wonder:
What causes would not be natural?
Car wrecks, overdoses, the fall of Flight DC 10?
Mechanical, pharmaceutical, aeronautical?
If everything is by definition natural,
What's left to experiment on?
Pig out on Haagen Dazs ice cream diet?
Fall down my one-time publisher's nomenclature,
The Empty Elevator Shaft?
Will you pass on a drug bust or a cardiac arrest?
You ask too many questions.
See death of a naturalist, Watch Hermes put Argus to sleep
With an interminable story.
Bored him to death, naturally.
Maybe that is not a "great" poem, but it is great discourse, and poor, loathed poetry desperately needs this sense of engagement, this sense of mental acuity.
But Charlie Potts's poetry is. His oeuvre is immense and intelligent and so keen. Besides some twenty books of poems, he has written harrowing memoirs about going crazy in the 60s, plus a terrific polemic about U.S. politics, How the South Finally Won the Civil War. Plus, he is a noted publisher and editor. His own presses: Litmus, Inc. in the 60s and 70s, and Tsunami, publisher of the great multilingual magazine published on rag paper, The Temple¸ and Pacific Northwestern Spiritual Poetry, one of the most remarkable anthologies of recent decades.
This little book is one of his most striking collections. In it he achieves what every political poet should ache to do, yet so few try -- graft the confusion of the heart to the evidence of our senses. This is no-nonsense poetry from a visionary who long ago stripped the gears off common sense. His best work swirls the spirits of Ginsberg and Ken Kesey and Phil Ochs at their best, and more anciently, the poets Walt Whitman and William Blake, the pamphleteer Tom Paine, and the mountain man Jim Bridger.
Here's a poem which achieves the same kind of connection, with a more gripping lyricism:
The Stream of Consciousness
The stream of consciousness flows
Effortlessly forward like an unfed brain, Given nothing new to think about, Merely rotates in space, the same sounds, Pictures, and sensations in predictable order.
Who will muddy up this stream, Then purge and purify the cluttered tableau Of the extraneous features preventing you From actualizing your ideal self, The way you always wanted to look and sound?
The quicksand of the collective unconsciousness Will tempt you many times With its lurid renditions of quackery images Stories in the millennia of Christian denial, Hallucinated forward at the speed of pain.
Down a lazy river to the polluted sea The flotsam jettisons thoughtlessly along, Contributory to a natural disaster. Throw yourself onto the banks to stimulate Your freeflowing sense of contrary motion.
Let it work on you. Here is a poem about nothing less than the significance and substance of thought -- everything that means meaning to us. He simultaneously reveres the gift and potential of consciousness, while despairing of our ability to leverage it into truth. Like eschatological Emmett Kellys, the best most of us manage is to sweep the spotlight of our own desire into the ashcan as we depart. The language is unflinchingly ambitious, but never pompous or "poetic." In fact, it's fun -- "flotsam jettisons," indeed. Here's a living, thinking head, giving you its best peek at the dynamic that makes us what we are. Hey, poetry isn't supposed to be important.
We think we love nature, says Charles Potts, but nature doesn't love us back. In fact, you'd be smart to keep a close eye on it, because one of these days, nature's going to get you.
Unique poetry of language, images, and mind/heart speaking. Sep 4, 2000
Charles Potts is an experienced poet with more several published works to his credit. Nature Lovers is the latest of his collections and continues to document him as having a unique style and gift for language, images, and speaking to the mind and heart of his reader. The Code Of The Olde West: Get a load of Charlie Coyote,/Hauled before the magistrate by the grammar police/For hunting verbs without a license.//The judge demands to know:/How did you learn the vernacular?/There are correct ways to say the same thing,//Cheap talk from fatigued Sierra Clubbers/Cannot change my mind, your honor./I'm outside the purview of Standard American Englishizers.//Like the taxidermist he will be/If he ever catches anything Stoic,/Sniff this poem and make it snappy naturally./Fill it with linguistic drift.