BIBLIOTHECA INVISIBILIS has really taken off (and we still want your participation!). Participating writers/artists, to date, include Gary Barwin, Tom Beckett, Gregory Betts, John Bloomberg-Rissman, John Cage, Emmy Catedral, Craig Conley, Giles Goodland, Halvard Johnson, Marton Koppany, Angelo R. Lacuesta, Nick Montfort, Jessica Smith, Stephanie Strickland, Jose Garcia Villa, Erin Virgil and Dan Waber. More are in the pipeline, so visit often!
I cite those names above because the project is not about me. And, yet, to my surprise I find that I have five entries in it -- five projects that involve the Invisible. But no wonder I thought of this project -- I was attuned to it in the first place!
Then, there's the invisible-because-it-has-yet-to-be-created book that's supposed to emanate from my BLURBED BOOK PROJECT! You should click on the link as this was/is one of the most hilarious projects I'd ever conceived! I've nearly emptied the wine cellar so far trying to write this book. So far, unsuccessful! But I've got decades to go ...!
And, speaking of Footnote Poems, here's what they looked like published on the book -- basically a near-empty blank page except for brief footnotes edging the bottom of each page:
By leaving the page mostly blank, the foonotes are designed to encourage the reader to inscribe on them. The reader(s) would inscribe text (poems, stories, whatever) which presumably contain material that would be aptly footnoted by the printed footnote-poem on the bottom of the page. The late poet/writer Rochelle Ratner had used my Footnote Poems in a writing workshop she led at a senior citizens' center somewhere in New York.
One Footnote Poem series, "Footnotes to 'The Virgin's Knot' by Holly Payne" is comprised of footnotes including the ten below:
Ah! To understand hands like Fazil Husmu Daglarca!
I share the above because I'd like to share Aileen Ibardaloza's reactions to the footnotes. The number beside each title below corresponds to the numbered footnotes above. Thanks Aileen!
After Eileen Tabios’ “Footnotes to ‘The Virgin’s
Knot’ by Holly Payne”
By Aileen Ibardaloza
“To
my dear
and
unhappy wife,”
he
wrote (for
he married
her
and
died the
same day).
Dulce
extranjera,
pity your
bared,
bleeding feet.
The Bridegroom II
Taimis
walked the
aisle with
the
ashes
of her
love’s
letters sewn
into
the hem
of her
gown.
The father
placed his bid and waited. If it is accepted, then he wins his daughter’s dowry— a magical rug woven by a virgin, “the
knots so strong they could hold the dead”, or a virgin bride. The father
believed in his heart that this rug, unlike any other, could answer prayers
(such as male offspring for his daughter, prosperity for his future
son-in-law). He continued to feed the tespih through his fingers for to be a
worthy supplicant is to exalt, and to exalt is to possess humility in
repetition.
A prayer for a virgin’s heart for a virgin’s
knot.
The shadow
of the minaret stretches as the father prepares to lead the call to prayer.
Hattusa
fell in the 12th century BC.
The “Sea
Peoples” of Danube flourished in Asia Minor.
Phrygia
ruled west central Anatolia until 7th century BC.
Gordius, a
Phrygian king, tied a knot with no free ends.
Untie the knot and rule all of Asia, according to prophecy.
Alexander
cut the knot with a sword in 334 BC.
Behold, a
twist: Cynane unties the unknotted loop, which is to say, the misfortune of
topologies is invariance, the absence of notion.
Delicate
and familiar is
the secret
language
of hands.
There is, for
instance,
the piña, (un)spoken
by the
weavers
of Aklan.
Nu shu,
by the
wives of ancient
China.
Chope,
by the
grandmothers
of Punjab.
Nakis,
by the
women of Anatolia.
Soft, wispy,
red and endless,
is the sum
of their symbols.
The
quivered touch, stitch
by stitch,
meant, simply,
this: I
live, unimagined.
Matchmaker,
matchmaker
in
forty days
remember
to
make my
child a
match.
Untie
his knots,
spread his
robe,
wrap
his arm.
Seat her,
greet
her,
find a
jester.
Unveil her.
“Do you
love me?” he asked.
And how
could she have said no,
here,
where the olive trees grow.
He spoke
of love like sea and sky
colliding,
like bodies turning to water,
the dust
foregone. There is only water,
and what
floats on it, love by love,
between
Rome and Carthage.
And him on
it. And her. Of course,
it
happened a long time ago. Who remembers
the mass
of green? what evokes
in the
wind? But he creates her over
and over,
as she closes her eyes,
over and
over, to the horizons.
My old
same hides
her face
behind a fan
as she
gazes at her
plate
filled with Dragon shrimp
and
Phoenix feet, at
her cup
filled with
joyful
wine, at her feet
in lotus
shoes. I reach
for a
plum, ever
slighter
than a peach,
and regard
the
tao of
laotongs.
And when
she saw him, she took her veil and covered herself, for such an act is not only
proper, but also necessary in marking her bounds.
He then
brought her into his tent, and she became his wife.
And he loved her.
The
fecundity of mattresses derives from what lies on top. In a word, weight.
“You can
get married in Gibraltar near Spain” then “Come to John and Yoko's honeymoon: a
bed-in” (room 702 Amsterdam Hotel). Wear pyjamas (or a bag), talk in bed for a
week, try “to get some peace”.
What do
you see here? Long black hair redolent with lemon balm. In a word, need.
How
lovely, splendidly wrapped
in the red
and golden
yellow bagh
of the
trousseau.
In
Gurmukhi script is
a name.
One
bride is
covered, the
other one
concealed.
First, she
ate her
sweetmeats,
then she
placed the
first stitch.
Longing is
homespun,
a name,
embroidered golden
yellow on
red.
