Clark Coolidge is unquestionably among the finest and most legendary American poets of our time. Initially (and still) a jazz drummer, he has been writing poetry of relentless search and experimentation since the 1960s, a poetry that has been cutting edge both sonically and visually: his earlier work took a radical approach to the concrete poem, the shape of the text on the page, while his later work seems to be more informed by the practice of improvisation – in the words of Eliot Weinberger: “an inexhaustible writer capable of taking a subject, any subject, and improvising endless bebop glissandos around it.” The concerns of shape and sound organically merge with the vast field of his attentions, maybe most importantly his training as a geologist – Stone, thus, being the fundamental metaphor for the concrete thingness of the poetic text. Jack Kerouac being a guiding spirit of sorts, improvised composition and performance are other major parts of the work. From an early statement of his own:  

“As Stein has most clearly & accurately indicated, Words have a universe of qualities other than those of descriptive relation: Hardness, Density, Sound-Shape, Vector-Force, & Degrees of Transparency / Opacity. I am attempting to peer through the lines into this possible WordArt Landscape, work within it & return with Wordscapes, WordObjects to light & refresh the mind so currently overloaded with centuries of medial Language-Tape.”

His recently published To the Cold Heart, from which we have selected the following poems, is not in itself a recent composition but dates back to 1990. In a way it is informed by the years the poet spent in the Berkshires. On the other hand, it is “a translation in the loosest sense” of the classic Cold Mountain poems by the Tang dynasty madcap poet-hermit Hanshan. In that sense, it is an improvisation informed by an intense poetic dialogue, a procedure typical to Coolidge. It also struck us as a fascinating middle path between concise concreteness and relentless improvising – both central features of his work. And there are stones aplenty!

Likeable the path that turns to me 
but the bucket has dropped, no tracks 
gulfs lap each other, rises pile 
no one has knowledge 
the damp things on all planes
air through trunks in press 
if I threaten to slip I ask 
what’s never quite here yet keeps 
coming back

*

I’ve kept no track of the Olympian 
disc 
far from March and its horses 
styles that wait 
do you object? 
I’d rather be bothered by stars 
than same clouds 
that hold to a house that isn’t

*

Use the amethyst vizor for the veiled towns 
a moment of time for the once formed 
now entering your own hill 
you will not allow the center 
one to be dreaded

*

The same as a repeat the moment’s now 
the tone to not include enough mesh 
for a match, as it goes and you play with it 
go on, go by, reach the hand 
where the lands meet a bread’s first crusts 
I would miss the mirror with my gold

*

Inside the pearl of jade swings a perfect mind 
does it stray, does it hie from apex? 
the shades all show me where to store my shoes

*

Singing stone, the ankle moss 
the average ridge 
the must of a short hand 
but the candy will roll off the ledge 
the answer poison its followers

*

Don’t go on, stone 
permission in its rank stalls 
I gather in sheafs the smells 
the all-of-mind waffling tunes 
and the soil comes up thin 
the buried shine 
the caving walls

*

Repeat after monk, berate 
the cape dropped from peak after march 
all in numbers of, stallions fall 
I can’t call up 
from the pear board in dream 
turned out new what I called 
whatever, no matter

*

I’d make myself amazed 
by yellow any yellow 
that tastes

*

The cigarettes are emptied by dawn 
would roll a rope up if I were short 
it’s a laugh, and a half 
the sense to be learned additional 
getting off the loafs and running 
rocks through the streams

* 

Could I only sing to you 
but later, and yet 
falling heads precede
drained dreams

*

I don’t know what you intend to 
but me 
there is a whistling past 
the page I just left

*

Here the darkness is green 
the savage are ready 
the roads lead till 
and never is in time 
but never is time enough

*

I then raced out and found the way 
was light, apology for the space accompanying 
if there is no one, then no one 
no place from which 
but still one 
goes it

*

Went back naming everything in its trill 
avoids the bulk of things after 
years in a handful, the nights 
the days the nights 
tend to tremble in weather 
whichever wind its weights

*

In the center of the tin 
duck 
makes off with 
my starry avenue

*

The body of the one 
drops apart 
other receivers dial blank 
it’s on the one hand 
this cut of the slowing moon 
go wild with roses

*

House when 
and then gate when 
the dogs stop 
in tune and arrive 
I sell the shucks 
around me, mend the wine 
follow the furling of 
entrance

*

Seen in the street styles 
gone rabbits of the haunt 
stone of their shoes 
I made a heart of 
splayed among the savage 
tapered flaunts of lone 
slim bruise

*

If the name is known the freight 
will depart along with 
we stroll and never budge a nerve 
the hand shoved through the hand and 
turned away

*

Fluid in a hollow handle 
we make flee, green brush 
mosquito staves, youths 
array bronze, bold and wheeze 
in an honest stroke there 
depend electrical news

*

Put out upon a box to the sea 
an open dive made to warning 
labyrinthine batch and hole 
cover we put back on, shirtless 
and framing which 
the glad ones meet hands
washing aloud without a wish

*

What if I said 
I will never 
talk to stone 
brush grown to a golden 
edge needs sing all night 
who care? 
an Alladin to manage 
from his sill a lamp 
of string

*

Gold from old once spotted 
returns 
not 
I haven’t got you 
air enough to get away 
beyond 
make me, the temple of thing 
says, of stone

*

Gnaw on my return, prolong dog 
shooed out on husks and chrome 
belly standard, where’s our meeting 
how many torn the dale 
in which the lake, the toe, my word 
final 
the going haunted of furled in shade

*

Deep in the sum up of red animals
soaped from sun loose as cherry backing 
round things stir the churl in his out chair 
porch bracken wind tin on formish loan 
cheers are made 
to be heard from a reach height 
the novel blinks at its ends in red 
its tassles write in mine

*

The lantern burns twigs to its integers 
all up, not light 
its matter 
from the bottom glass 
raising of this we all swing 
till no cap 
and night

*

Get it, then blank it 
hide it, then plunk the sly 
it’s wisteria pin fool that laughter 
pocket biter and the fall from witness 
stub it then stand 
to the port and glare

*

A dizziness of granites clogs your dull hastes 
brown as a highway marker, as shouted in trim 
the dogs will bury your skull though task it be 
and doubled up as treble cable sun to moon 
through cash patio reaches of your earthen mind 
report

*

Report you dense and truly, those masts 
or do they fold in gremlin and cover your eyes? 
I raise a crown, found it auto loud in my furls 
is this engagement toupee cement frown radiance? 
I had to hand this soap back, pearl repaid in fools

A conversation between Clark Coolidge and Parker Menzimer regarding To the Cold Heart, the Chinese poet Hanshan who inspired it, and much else, can be read here.