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    Peter C. Fernbach The Blooming Void 9781935402916 "Peter’s inimitable voice emanates from within a place of acumen, and intelligent wisdom. His masterful pieces move from resonant, to pensive and address everything from hegemony, to a dying fish. One must not put himself halfway into this author’s work, but rather immerse himself as his words demand an astute audience. I will leave you in the hands of the author: “May all/ That we think well today/ Not deceive us and turn/ Malignant tomorrow/ May all morphology be, in the end, benevolent” (My Hands). —Aaron Thomas, Professor of English, Erie Community College From the title poem, a paean to Joyce’s Ulysses, to “Mean,” a discourse on deconstruction, to the moving, understated, “I Woke with a Start,” to “Trying”: “our overfed cyborg children/ Who don’t know the difference between/ A noun and a reason for being,” the poems in Peter’s collection bubble with energy and wisdom, a rare combination anywhere. There is an interesting fusion in these poems of human warmth, cool reason, and a disdain for the fear and shallowness that births oppression, and the wondrous within the quotidian. Metaphysical yet playful, Fernbach’s collection percolates with a love for the strange beauty of language, and therefore, life. What more can we ask of a poet. —Dr. Stuart Bartow, Professor of English, Adirondack Community College To a class in Postmodern Poetry, Peter Fernbach wrote, “I like … poking into the dark corners of the mind and thought in general.” In The Blooming Void he enacts this. From a “sea of maroon”; from the “sludge” of a polluted world; from the genesis of a “Fruit Fly in Pile of Dirty Laundry”: from these and more emerges “a contrivance of mind” that may result in “A[n] [imperfect] human attempt/At control and understanding,” but, [imperfect] or not, what else have we? “These words allow me/To step outside/The interminable flux of time” so that we may eventually “find release from the tyranny of [‘things’].” So his Void shoots forth the blossom of love, and he offers us the bouquet: “A better world:/Peace, love./Can you/Believe it?” —Dr. David Landrey, Professor of English, Buffalo State College " Peter Fernbach, Assistant Professor of English at Adirondack Community College, is concerned, lately, with the transformative and liberating effects of poetry on the unconscious mind, especially of those who are still impressionable and exploding with exuberance and possibility. He thinks that poetry, as an art, and also as an epistemological approach, is undervalued in our increasingly semiotic culture; the ways of knowing that are provided by and through poesis are progressively being choked out in favor of a simplistic empiricism that allows for none of the nuance of the mystifying reality of which we are all a part. Therefore, most of all, he invites you to read.

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    The Blooming Void by Peter C. Fernbach Book Preview

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    Peter C. Fernbach The Blooming Void 9781935402916 "Peter’s inimitable voice emanates from within a place of acumen, and intelligent wisdom. His masterful pieces move from resonant, to pensive and address everything from hegemony, to a dying fish. One must not put himself halfway into this author’s work, but rather immerse himself as his words demand an astute audience. I will leave you in the hands of the author: “May all/ That we think well today/ Not deceive us and turn/ Malignant tomorrow/ May all morphology be, in the end, benevolent” (My Hands). —Aaron Thomas, Professor of English, Erie Community College From the title poem, a paean to Joyce’s Ulysses, to “Mean,” a discourse on deconstruction, to the moving, understated, “I Woke with a Start,” to “Trying”: “our overfed cyborg children/ Who don’t know the difference between/ A noun and a reason for being,” the poems in Peter’s collection bubble with energy and wisdom, a rare combination anywhere. There is an interesting fusion in these poems of human warmth, cool reason, and a disdain for the fear and shallowness that births oppression, and the wondrous within the quotidian. Metaphysical yet playful, Fernbach’s collection percolates with a love for the strange beauty of language, and therefore, life. What more can we ask of a poet. —Dr. Stuart Bartow, Professor of English, Adirondack Community College To a class in Postmodern Poetry, Peter Fernbach wrote, “I like … poking into the dark corners of the mind and thought in general.” In The Blooming Void he enacts this. From a “sea of maroon”; from the “sludge” of a polluted world; from the genesis of a “Fruit Fly in Pile of Dirty Laundry”: from these and more emerges “a contrivance of mind” that may result in “A[n] [imperfect] human attempt/At control and understanding,” but, [imperfect] or not, what else have we? “These words allow me/To step outside/The interminable flux of time” so that we may eventually “find release from the tyranny of [‘things’].” So his Void shoots forth the blossom of love, and he offers us the bouquet: “A better world:/Peace, love./Can you/Believe it?” —Dr. David Landrey, Professor of English, Buffalo State College " Peter Fernbach, Assistant Professor of English at Adirondack Community College, is concerned, lately, with the transformative and liberating effects of poetry on the unconscious mind, especially of those who are still impressionable and exploding with exuberance and possibility. He thinks that poetry, as an art, and also as an epistemological approach, is undervalued in our increasingly semiotic culture; the ways of knowing that are provided by and through poesis are progressively being choked out in favor of a simplistic empiricism that allows for none of the nuance of the mystifying reality of which we are all a part. Therefore, most of all, he invites you to read.

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    Peter C. Fernbach The Blooming Void 9781935402916 "Peter’s inimitable voice emanates from within a place of acumen, and intelligent wisdom. His masterful pieces move from resonant, to pensive and address everything from hegemony, to a dying fish. One must not put himself halfway into this author’s work, but rather immerse himself as his words demand an astute audience. I will leave you in the hands of the author: “May all/ That we think well today/ Not deceive us and turn/ Malignant tomorrow/ May all morphology be, in the end, benevolent” (My Hands). —Aaron Thomas, Professor of English, Erie Community College From the title poem, a paean to Joyce’s Ulysses, to “Mean,” a discourse on deconstruction, to the moving, understated, “I Woke with a Start,” to “Trying”: “our overfed cyborg children/ Who don’t know the difference between/ A noun and a reason for being,” the poems in Peter’s collection bubble with energy and wisdom, a rare combination anywhere. There is an interesting fusion in these poems of human warmth, cool reason, and a disdain for the fear and shallowness that births oppression, and the wondrous within the quotidian. Metaphysical yet playful, Fernbach’s collection percolates with a love for the strange beauty of language, and therefore, life. What more can we ask of a poet. —Dr. Stuart Bartow, Professor of English, Adirondack Community College To a class in Postmodern Poetry, Peter Fernbach wrote, “I like … poking into the dark corners of the mind and thought in general.” In The Blooming Void he enacts this. From a “sea of maroon”; from the “sludge” of a polluted world; from the genesis of a “Fruit Fly in Pile of Dirty Laundry”: from these and more emerges “a contrivance of mind” that may result in “A[n] [imperfect] human attempt/At control and understanding,” but, [imperfect] or not, what else have we? “These words allow me/To step outside/The interminable flux of time” so that we may eventually “find release from the tyranny of [‘things’].” So his Void shoots forth the blossom of love, and he offers us the bouquet: “A better world:/Peace, love./Can you/Believe it?” —Dr. David Landrey, Professor of English, Buffalo State College " Peter Fernbach, Assistant Professor of English at Adirondack Community College, is concerned, lately, with the transformative and liberating effects of poetry on the unconscious mind, especially of those who are still impressionable and exploding with exuberance and possibility. He thinks that poetry, as an art, and also as an epistemological approach, is undervalued in our increasingly semiotic culture; the ways of knowing that are provided by and through poesis are progressively being choked out in favor of a simplistic empiricism that allows for none of the nuance of the mystifying reality of which we are all a part. Therefore, most of all, he invites you to read.

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    The Blooming Void by Peter C. Fernbach Book Preview

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    BlazeVOX [books]
    Peter C. Fernbach The Blooming Void 9781935402916 "Peter’s inimitable voice emanates from within a place of acumen, and intelligent wisdom. His masterful pieces move from resonant, to pensive and address everything from hegemony, to a dying fish. One must not put himself halfway into this author’s work, but rather immerse himself as his words demand an astute audience. I will leave you in the hands of the author: “May all/ That we think well today/ Not deceive us and turn/ Malignant tomorrow/ May all morphology be, in the end, benevolent” (My Hands). —Aaron Thomas, Professor of English, Erie Community College From the title poem, a paean to Joyce’s Ulysses, to “Mean,” a discourse on deconstruction, to the moving, understated, “I Woke with a Start,” to “Trying”: “our overfed cyborg children/ Who don’t know the difference between/ A noun and a reason for being,” the poems in Peter’s collection bubble with energy and wisdom, a rare combination anywhere. There is an interesting fusion in these poems of human warmth, cool reason, and a disdain for the fear and shallowness that births oppression, and the wondrous within the quotidian. Metaphysical yet playful, Fernbach’s collection percolates with a love for the strange beauty of language, and therefore, life. What more can we ask of a poet. —Dr. Stuart Bartow, Professor of English, Adirondack Community College To a class in Postmodern Poetry, Peter Fernbach wrote, “I like … poking into the dark corners of the mind and thought in general.” In The Blooming Void he enacts this. From a “sea of maroon”; from the “sludge” of a polluted world; from the genesis of a “Fruit Fly in Pile of Dirty Laundry”: from these and more emerges “a contrivance of mind” that may result in “A[n] [imperfect] human attempt/At control and understanding,” but, [imperfect] or not, what else have we? “These words allow me/To step outside/The interminable flux of time” so that we may eventually “find release from the tyranny of [‘things’].” So his Void shoots forth the blossom of love, and he offers us the bouquet: “A better world:/Peace, love./Can you/Believe it?” —Dr. David Landrey, Professor of English, Buffalo State College " Peter Fernbach, Assistant Professor of English at Adirondack Community College, is concerned, lately, with the transformative and liberating effects of poetry on the unconscious mind, especially of those who are still impressionable and exploding with exuberance and possibility. He thinks that poetry, as an art, and also as an epistemological approach, is undervalued in our increasingly semiotic culture; the ways of knowing that are provided by and through poesis are progressively being choked out in favor of a simplistic empiricism that allows for none of the nuance of the mystifying reality of which we are all a part. Therefore, most of all, he invites you to read.

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    of 16

    The Blooming Void

    Peter C. Fernbach

    BlazeVOX [books]
    Buffalo, New York

    The Blooming Void by Peter C. Fernbach Copyright 2010 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Book design by Geoffrey Gatza First Edition ISBN: 9781935402916 Library of Congress Control Number 2009941032 BlazeVOX [books] 303 Bedford Ave Buffalo, NY 14216 Editor@blazevox.org

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    These Words These words allow me To step outside The interminable flux of time And say the things I should have said: Render indelible The meanings that passed ephemeral, Like a breeze over an ocean current, Or like the waves Of temporarily squashed air That got away from me, Losing power even as they were born, Before they could become solid, mature meaning. These words commit me to paper, And transubstantiate The flesh, and the blood And the soft, flashing orchestral arrangement Of neural networks That comprise this naked humans Seat of discourse. These words, locked in time, And away from the wasting elements, Away from the valley of follies and missteps That frame my past, are a tribute, Not just to should have and could be But to the salvation of the moment: The insustainable you and I. Let us now find release from the tyranny of things Our own bloody pasts, unthinkable futures And suffer out the truth In a moment of shared silence.

    The Blooming Void: Reading Ulysses in Clemens Hall A lack Of punctuation is A sensuous airy expression Openness Like Mollys eight sentences Modern mans closest glimpse at Eternity And natural process She said looking out the window Look everything is green its spring Spontaneous spring Gods gift to man I feel so beautiful at present A lack of punctuation Lends a certain ambiguity Like the poem is the readers Rather than the writers creation Isnt it funny how the pronoun it Can refer to a nonentity like lack And how anything can mean everything Or everything anything My soul seeks connection In disparate words phrases meanings I want to scream in the flux Forever adapt to the new And therefore recognize the eternal In each new thing

    10

    Its sexy this undoing of punctuation Like a void that must be filled A vacuum Like Mollys ethos or pathos It reflects or refracts emotion Understated Like me in jeans And in that understatement Wrapped up like a present This undressing of words Impels the reader to sink into The text And engage in a creative act of co-authoring The gift of creation The most brilliant Present

    11

    We Read with a Difference We read with a difference You and I. My lens has been colored in a hue Divergent from yours And the thoughts we bring to each word Create varied meaning As we smash our opinions together Like pin-balls Creating new coordinates of diversity, Perhaps Casting light on previously unlit terrain Or Synthesizing a new slant of light On some aged topic. And when we retire again to our repose We can see that the light has changed And there is another shade That we hadnt seen before.

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    Mean Meaning lives in language And if meaning is nothing but a contrivance Of mind Then Id rather live there anyways. The mirror of words is always A dirty gem, A sloppy human attempt At control and understanding Like every revolution: Always born, always briefly thrashing And always failing eventually. But through the extremes of human Language and thought we arrive at A mean that works, for a time, Until it is time For another upheaval. By deconstructing a bicycle We understand its working parts But we dont leave it, useless Disassembled about the floor. Likewise, language is torn apart Cleaned inside and out Looked at from a distance, rethought And finally re-established in another form. And through these flawed revolutions And approximated binary oppositions We find, not a reason to disperse with purpose, But a territory for meaning and identity A place, above all, to be.

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    Teaching Public School Do you see what I see as a thirty three year old English teacher, at a public school in the city Whose number doesnt matter: Aged enough to see beyond Romance, and young enough to believe in life? Rapture comes with the certainty and Finality of death - the knowledge Of defiant play: HA, I AM alive In this eternal now, and death itself, shot dead. This is what the students say With laughter rather than words. This living moment, of children who do Not know decay, is taken as given. In my classroom we pontificate On Hamlet and the implications Of mythic Dionysus, and, yes, Mr. Cruz The play resembles Romeo and Juliet In that they die for what they believe in. Was he mad or just playing, Mr. Liber? And in the few idle moments before The bell, the group in back with all new labels Laughs about the kid from class/ Gunned down/ deserved it Know who did/ shut up/ class/ punk ass/ gun you down They holler again, not knowing that they cant, Like a god Put themselves back together again.

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    So, Ill re-create the story of my student Who sat in the fourth row, near the wall And had a laugh that shattered all-space The ineluctable modality Of the audible: pre-figuring profound Metamorphoses in the currents of life And the facts on the books. Ill write the Story of the kid with the big mouth Who didnt know boundaries, and hopefully Heard his own expansive voice, or at least felt no pain As he departed forever into silence.

    15

    Difference of Opinion: Reading Stephen Dunn with Carl Dennis I have many flaws But I do not chronicle them, Dilate upon them, and publish them for the public Like Stephen Dunn. I am suffering the pangs of pragmatism in a garden of airy dreams: Not always a romantic adventure, That much is true. But I have a different take on art. Dali conceived art as Sh*tting At light speed To understand my admiration, follow my logic: Art is bequeathed from bodies The world exists . . . it becomes, it passes away . . .its excrements are its food Art is our sustenance, Let it be full of energy. Stephens voice is monotone, brown, Imploding and taking rather than exploding and giving. Or perhaps there is a shadow of myself Reflected in the page That I am too weak to acknowledge.

    16

    In Response to Sam Harris and Daniel Dennett How holy is this scienceHallowed in thy arts Caress mine ears again with your refrain: The holy chemicals in the brain. Tell me your truth; how we expire only to be born again, In the eyes, ears, arms, oceans of tomorrow With nothing but that wholly gluttonous ego. How holy is this science? How sensuous is this scienceHallowed in thy arts Direct again mine wavering mind To the proper point of reference: Those sacred chemical compounds of bliss So long mistaken For nebulous love.

    17

    Dedalus Dedalus, old artificer It is indeed a complex labyrinth Youve built. A shifty set of signs Built upon the rock Of many dead men And much dead wood. Stricken idol, You are staring at me through your creation, Trans-substantiated through this book. Brother poet youre no ghost, Consubstantial with your own creation, Youre real and present. A jaded Youths sanctity Crushed with sin And misfortune Fallen into disgrace With the eyes of men. You flew like eager Greek youth Impaled yourself on failure Rose again like a home rule sun And in my hand I hold your body Your blood. But genius wills its own fall. Metempsychosis recurs again and again And again how could you learn about the telephonic Umbilical cords going back to Eve If you hadnt closed your eyes and seen? The cannibals and Lestrygonians are out Will eat us all So we may be cured of time and rotting teeth.

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    Soon may we walk Through Phoenix Park Bearing softly our ashplants Grinning about riddles.

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    Forest Lawn: June 16, 1972 There was a crack on the grave Where the water seeped in and froze Winter after cold, ugly winter. And I was outraged at the audacity Of this nature Who never knew your nature. I seethed with impotent rage At things Ill never change And wept cold, silent thoughts That no one in this world will ever hear. Your life is no secret and your end still a wound; The bleeding hasnt stopped though the blood is long dried. A clot that generations have fought and will fight to forge A silent war in the dominion of a few A few that knew you; And knew You meant no harm. Its a wound that cant heal For its a wound made of absence. A want that cant be filled We love you for want of your presence. We are two strange oceans that wont ever meet On nurturing terms that could have been On terms that most would understand Know, I understand. Long have I longed for release And loathed my pitiful means And envied your escaping, knowing its not mine. Lord knows I hope to see you at the end.

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    The grave casts a shadow But shade is not enough To shelter from the rain Or grow new miracles. May you rest in the peace you sought. There was a crack on the grave Where the water seeped in and froze Winter after cold, ugly winter. And I was outraged. There was a crack on your grave And I was outraged.

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