Author: Nada Gordon

skirt artist entertainer ESL teacher poet
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From an article entitledWomen and Jewelry — the Spiritual Dimensions of Ornamentation

“The people of India have expended limitless energy and creativity in the invention of ornaments that celebrate the human body. Adorning the visible, material body, they feel, satisfies a universal longing for the embellishment of its intangible counterpart, namely the human spirit.”

Lots of pretty pictures.

Rationalization? Maybe, but…

Ornament — the act of ornamentation — is supremely meditative.

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body without organs

On the phone to Marianne bemoaning my almost total regression to my self of, say, thirty years ago — to which the colored eggs and cher doll below provide a kind of testament.

Nick tells me it’s just because it’s April and I’m worn out that the last thing I want to think about (much less do) is writing, and that it’s really OK that all I wanna do is wander around looking at stuff and buying Indian jewelry on the net (for a good time check out dmiindia and shopindia for eyefuls of glitter and gorgeousness).

I keep telling myself it’s just a coping strategy.

So I says to Marianne, I says, “I should just go read Foucault. Or better yet Deleuze and Guattari. I mean, what is an egg but a body without organs?”

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“The marriage of words to music, as of music to numbers by the Pythagoreans, constitutes one of the great philosophical preoccupations of ancient India. Words are the vedic yoga: they unite mind and matter. Pure, ecstatic contemplation of phonetic sound

reverberating on the ether in the sacred chant may be compared to the contemplation of geometrical forms and mathematical laws by the Pythagoreans. The Word is God, Number is God — both concepts result in a

kind of intoxication. Only the Pythagorean master can hear the music of the spheres: only the perfected Hindu sage can hear the primordial sound — NADA.

One system exalted numbers, and the other words;

the vital difference is that since words are less pure and abstract than the content-free language of mathematics,

they tend to confine the exxercise of the mental faculties within subjective processes.

….True, Indians became great mathematicians… but it was not numbers which became the key to both power and wisdom, but the Word. One consequence is the widespread tendency of Indians to use language as a form of incantation and exuberant rhetorical flourish on public occasions.

Orators rend the air with verbose declamations more for the pleasure of the sound than for the ideas and facts they may more vaguely desire to express. The audience is swayed by the cadence of sound

as by the music of the classical singer, when the latter uses only phonetic syllables with no significance other than their intrinsic physiological capacity to soothe or exalt the listener.”

— from The Speaking Tree by Richard Lannoy, Oxford Univ. Press, 1971

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MARCH 27

STEPHEN RODEFER and NADA GORDON

Stephen Rodefer is the author of Four Lectures, VILLON by Jean

Calais, Passing Duration, Left Under a Cloud, Mon Canard, and many other notes & tones. He is on the outside of the inside and at the center of whole shebang. Don’t, Miss!

Nada Gordon practices Poetry as Deep Entertainment. She is the author

of V. Imp. (Faux Press), Swoon (Granary Books), Are Not Our Lowing Heifers Sleeker than Night-Swollen Mushrooms? (Spuyten Duyvil), and Foriegnn Bodie (Detour). Her fleeting and contingent musings can be found at http://ululate.blogspot.com.

@ the Bowery Poetry Club

308 BOWERY, JUST NORTH OF HOUSTON

SATURDAYS FROM 4 – 6 PM

$5 admission goes to support the readers

Curated by Dan Machlin & Charles Borkhuis

&&&&&&&&&&&

Join us later for a party for the readers

at Charles Borkhuis’ pad

104 E. 4th St, – D1 (betwn. 1st & 2nd Ave.)

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Springy

Silky hirsute plunge, a mouthed apricot kernelling the loops inside a listless tongue. Its swollen fever mauve as pollen, lit globes of syrup movement spin so fast I’m going to fall off the wonder horse’s magic brainstem again. The pseudo-electric lights there like morays and heart’s heaving blizzard effects a blizzard of cilia and algae struck to a wandering hand — whoops! whoops on the wind, gripping what’s being ridden to starry deeps, strummed as a hinge, thrummed through bilkings and coughs and furtive imagined sacs of milkweed seed.

Boobie water gun

dicky sipping straws

peckertoss

peni-nails

“Do you have milk?” says the pretty ingenue to the jockey erect on his teed, spine as straight as desire is a ruse for life as it can only be lived e to make throaty signals to drummers covered with almond powder and farfisas swirling on the pendulous sac. Fish eggs! Fish eggs! Flickering lustre! The strudel’s on the bottom and the pie in your hair, nipping at the flared lips of the stallions sensibilities. Woo! Woo! Woowee! Empurplement. The short lives of lilies and their saffron stamens — oops — I got it all over my nipple again in the broad distance I call “gentle” or “glorious” or “I really shouldn’t jinx it” depending on my lord’s mood, his apple-y stomach stroked with gel like something burned from the inside out: spilled milk, spilled milk, spilled milk. Nandi the cow lies down on the rose petal, the houri emerges in musky garments, pink and blue birds flutter in mating.

Mr America Walking Pecker

dickyboppers

strawberry pulsabath

dick through the head

Spring! Kiss me, sweet William, bright orange egg, flicker, flicker, little snail, flared out like adrenaline rubbed all over with lanolin and fur. Sparking crevices and full bursting to a droop. Sea of mung, ornamental pepper, weigh down the bee-loud trellis with your frabjous jamjar hand!

koochie pencil sharpener

amazing growing pecker — from wee wee to whopper!