{"id":378,"date":"2024-03-02T13:43:48","date_gmt":"2024-03-02T19:43:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/rainmountainpress.com\/wordpress\/?post_type=product&#038;p=378"},"modified":"2025-09-05T12:14:06","modified_gmt":"2025-09-05T17:14:06","slug":"blue-dwarf","status":"publish","type":"product","link":"https:\/\/rainmountainpress.com\/wordpress\/product\/blue-dwarf","title":{"rendered":"Blue Dwarf"},"content":{"rendered":"<h3>by Karl Gluck<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<style>\r\n\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t#tab_container_377 {\r\n\toverflow:hidden;\r\n\tdisplay:block;\r\n\twidth:100%;\r\n\tborder:0px solid #ddd;\r\n\tmargin-bottom:30px;\r\n\t}\r\n\r\n#tab_container_377 .tab-content{\r\n\tpadding:20px;\r\n\tborder: 1px solid #e6e2cc !important;\r\n\tmargin-top: 0px;\r\n\tbackground-color:#fffbe5 !important;\r\n\tcolor: #000000 !important;\r\n\tfont-size:16px !important;\r\n\tfont-family: Open Sans !important;\r\n\t\r\n\t\tborder: 1px solid #e6e2cc !important;\r\n\t}\r\n#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs {\r\n    border-bottom: 0px solid #ddd;\r\n}\r\n#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li.active > a, #tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li.active > a:hover, #tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li.active > a:focus {\r\n\tcolor: #000000 !important;\r\n\tcursor: default;\r\n\tbackground-color: #fffbe5 !important;\r\n\tborder: 1px solid #e6e2cc !important;\r\n}\r\n\r\n#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li > a {\r\n    margin-right: 0px !important; \r\n    line-height: 1.42857143 !important;\r\n    border: 1px solid #ece8d2 !important;\r\n    border-radius: 0px 0px 0 0 !important; \r\n\tbackground-color: #fffbe5 !important;\r\n\tcolor: #000000 !important;\r\n\tpadding: 15px 18px 15px 18px !important;\r\n\ttext-decoration: none !important;\r\n\tfont-size: 14px !important;\r\n\ttext-align:center !important;\r\n\tfont-family: Open Sans !important;\r\n}\r\n#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li > a:focus {\r\noutline: 0px !important;\r\n}\r\n\r\n#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li > a:before {\r\n\tdisplay:none !important;\r\n}\r\n#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li > a:after {\r\n\tdisplay:none !important ;\r\n}\r\n#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li{\r\npadding:0px !important ;\r\nmargin:0px;\r\n}\r\n\r\n#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li > a:hover , #tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li > a:focus {\r\n    color: #000000 !important;\r\n    background-color: #fffbe5 !important;\r\n\tborder: 1px solid #ece8d2 !important;\r\n\t\r\n}\r\n#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li > a .fa{\r\n\r\nmargin-right:5px !important;\r\n\r\nmargin-left:5px !important;\r\n\r\n\r\n}\r\n\r\n\t\t#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs a{\r\n\t\t\tbackground-image: none;\r\n\t\t\tbackground-position: 0 0;\r\n\t\t\tbackground-repeat: repeat-x;\r\n\t\t}\r\n\t\t\t\r\n\r\n\r\n#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li {\r\n    float: left;\r\n    margin-bottom: -1px !important;\r\n\tmargin-right:0px !important; \r\n}\r\n\r\n\r\n#tab_container_377 .tab-content{\r\noverflow:hidden !important;\r\n}\r\n\r\n\r\n@media (min-width: 769px) {\r\n\r\n\t#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li{\r\n\t\tfloat:left !important ;\r\n\t\t\t\tmargin-right:-1px !important;\r\n\t\t\t\t\t}\r\n\t#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs{\r\n\t\tfloat:none !important;\r\n\t\tmargin:0px !important;\r\n\t}\r\n\r\n\t#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li {\r\n\t\t\t\t\r\n\t}\r\n\t#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav{\r\n\t\t\t}\r\n\r\n}\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n@media (max-width: 768px) {\r\n\t#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li {\r\n\t\t\t\t\r\n\t}\r\n\t#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav{\r\n\t\t\t}\r\n}\r\n\r\n\r\n\t.wpsm_nav-tabs li:before{\r\n\t\tdisplay:none !important;\r\n\t}\r\n\r\n\t@media (max-width: 768px) {\r\n\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t.wpsm_nav-tabs{\r\n\t\t\tmargin-left:0px !important;\r\n\t\t\tmargin-right:0px !important; \r\n\t\t\t\r\n\t\t}\r\n\t\t\t\t#tab_container_377 .wpsm_nav-tabs > li{\r\n\t\t\tfloat:none !important;\r\n\t\t}\r\n\t\t\t\r\n\t}\t\t\t\t<\/style>\r\n\t\t\t\t<div id=\"tab_container_377\" >\r\n\t \r\n\t\t\t\t\t<ul class=\"wpsm_nav wpsm_nav-tabs\" role=\"tablist\" id=\"myTab_377\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<li role=\"presentation\"  class=\"active\"  onclick=\"do_resize()\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<a href=\"#tabs_desc_377_1\" aria-controls=\"tabs_desc_377_1\" role=\"tab\" data-toggle=\"tab\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<span>Overview<\/span>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/a>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/li>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<li role=\"presentation\"  onclick=\"do_resize()\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<a href=\"#tabs_desc_377_2\" aria-controls=\"tabs_desc_377_2\" role=\"tab\" data-toggle=\"tab\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<span>Excerpts<\/span>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/a>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/li>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<li role=\"presentation\"  onclick=\"do_resize()\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<a href=\"#tabs_desc_377_3\" aria-controls=\"tabs_desc_377_3\" role=\"tab\" data-toggle=\"tab\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<span>Tribute to the Author<\/span>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/a>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/li>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t <\/ul>\r\n\r\n\t\t\t\t\t  <!-- Tab panes -->\r\n\t\t\t\t\t  <div class=\"tab-content\" id=\"tab-content_377\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t <div role=\"tabpanel\" class=\"tab-pane  in active \" id=\"tabs_desc_377_1\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<p style=\"text-align: left\">This book illuminates an archetypal struggle whose stakes are nothing less than life and death: the ceaseless quest by any means possible to enter into a higher, more ecstatic realm of being than quotidian reality will accommodate. Yet glimpses and intuitions of a greater realm leave the figures in these poems all the more unable to subsist in the temporal world we inhabit. A dream-vision atop the Buddhist mountain of paradise culminates in the realization that \u201cImmortality was killing me,\u201d while a moment of seeming \u201cperfection\u201d immediately becomes a near-death experience from a drug overdose. This pattern, which turns up in foundational literature from Genesis and <em>Paradise Lost<\/em>\u00a0to the Icarus story, informs\u00a0<em>Blue Dwarf<\/em>\u00a0in myriad forms. This is the work of a\u00a0<em>poete maudit<\/em>, embarked on a quest that cannot end in the type of triumph he aspires to. Yet this book illuminates the plight of all of us who wonder, with Hamlet, \u201cWhat should such creatures as I do, crawling between earth and heaven.\u201d Along the way Gluck gives us dream-like visionary moments like the following: \u201cTowards dawn I swim like a whale \/ floating through white clouds \/ in a sky of quartz that stretches \/ to the bottom of the ocean ... \/ over Spanish ruins \/ I watch the birth of whales.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<p style=\"text-align: right\">\u2014Andrew Kaufman, author of\u00a0<em>Both Sides of the Niger<\/em> and <em>The Rwanda Poems<\/em><\/p>\r\n<p style=\"text-align: left\">Karl Gluck\u2019s\u00a0<em>Blue Dwarf<\/em> is a study in dichotomies. In matter-of fact, mostly uncomplicated but subtly sophisticated straight forward language, Gluck\u2019s world is one in which disparities and dissimilar elements quietly coexist\u2014a world in which life accommodates itself. \u201cImmortality was killing me,\u201d the poet writes. In another poem, this curious conceit: \u201cI am very small inside \/ and do not think \/ I could walk on water.\u201d Then, without missing a beat: \u201cor walk up to you in a bar \/ to ask you to dance.\u201d Characterized by an underlying decency, Gluck looks the world in the eye, even as others might feel compelled to look away. At the end of \u201cProtests\u201d Gluck describes a monk self-immolating: \u201cJust before his eyes grow black, \/ the flames turn as yellow as the skin \/ of the only girl he ever made love to, \/ and the fire stings, \/ like the abbot\u2019s cane the day after.\u201d In Gluck\u2019s world, life is unimaginable but manageable.<\/p>\r\n<p style=\"text-align: right\">\u2014Allen Brafman, author of\u00a0<em>Everywhere I Look I Am Never There<\/em><\/p>\r\n<p style=\"text-align: left\"><strong>Karl D. Gluck<\/strong>\u00a0studied Russian and Chinese language and literature in college. Fluent in both languages, he worked as a translator and job developer in an organization that helped Russian and Chinese Americans in finding work. Raised in Florida he made New York City his home and flourished here. Writing under the pseudonym Altan Ogniedov he published his collection\u00a0<em>Phantasmagoria<\/em>. His work appeared in several magazines among them,\u00a0<em>Ignite, The New Press, Open Mike: An Albany Anthology, Skidrow Penthouse<\/em>\u00a0and\u00a0<em>Rattapallax<\/em>. He was the father of one daughter, Vivian, named after Vivienne Haigh-Wood Eliot.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t <\/div>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t <div role=\"tabpanel\" class=\"tab-pane \" id=\"tabs_desc_377_2\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<P><strong>Mandala<\/strong><BR>\r\n<BR>\r\n(In 1991, the Year of Tibet, monks in New York City created a mandala, an intricate diagram of their vision of the world in colored sand over a period of two weeks. When it was done, they dumped it into the East River.)<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThey put the temple here,<BR>\r\nNext to the cemetery.<BR>\r\nThey put the school by the forest,<BR>\r\nNext to the temple,<BR>\r\nNext to the school,<BR>\r\nNext to the cemetery.<BR>\r\nLife was serious but not too heavy.<BR>\r\nThe feeling was hard to describe.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThen the hammer fell.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nOnly pictures remain:<BR>\r\nSoldiers, guns to enemies\u2019 heads.<BR>\r\nBullet gone, blood following.<BR>\r\nThe world dies,<BR>\r\nthe dead haunt their killers.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThey put the temple here,<BR>\r\nUnder the eighteen levels of heaven,<BR>\r\nIn sand blue the color of passion.<BR>\r\nThey put the cemetery here,<BR>\r\nYellow the color of worms.<BR>\r\nThe school, the stream,<BR>\r\nRed the color of anger<BR>\r\nAnd so on.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThe world they made is dead,<BR>\r\nSlipping into a polluted river,<BR>\r\nThe monks in robes of cotton<BR>\r\nTorn apart, sewn together.<BR>\r\nA rainbow of sand<BR>\r\nFloats on the river.<BR>\r\nLong live the world.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThe beautiful Technicolor world<BR>\r\nOf blue, red, yellow, black,<BR>\r\nOur thangka tapestry world,<BR>\r\nHanging on some god\u2019s wall.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThe higher power\u2019s coffee-table<BR>\r\nBoard-game world,<BR>\r\nOf smiling corncob people,<BR>\r\nToothpick and pipe cleaner buildings,<BR>\r\nLaughter hanging in the air.<BR>\r\nCarried away by crabs.<BR>\r\nDispersed by currents.<BR>\r\nAn offering to fish.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThe world is dead.<BR>\r\nBeads of sweat form<BR>\r\nOn tropical conference room foreheads.<BR>\r\nA bottle of tear gas breaks a window.<BR>\r\nA distant God puzzled<BR>\r\nOver two negatives that won\u2019t come up positive.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThe world is dead,<BR>\r\nThe stream pollutes,<BR>\r\nThe temple empty,<BR>\r\nThe school children sleep.<BR>\r\nA woman moans in childbirth.<BR>\r\nA moment of pain, exhausted smiles.<BR>\r\nHer baby screams,<BR>\r\nOpen mouth hungry,<BR>\r\nScared of the taste on her tongue.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThe world is dead.<BR>\r\nLong live the world.<\/P>\r\n\r\n<hr \/>\r\n\r\n<P><strong>Faith, Lonely<\/strong><BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nLeaves God<BR>\r\nnameless,<BR>\r\nworships everything,<BR>\r\nmakes incense from Tumbleweeds.<BR>\r\nTurns your house into her candle,<BR>\r\nyour heart into your match.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nShe wanders<BR>\r\nwith a ball bearing rosary,<BR>\r\nsprays the air with chintamani<BR>\r\nand turns rusted steel into lapis lazuli.<BR>\r\nSwamped by the cries of brothers and sisters,<BR>\r\nnoble sons and daughters, surrounded<BR>\r\nby dirt, concrete and brown grass\u2014<BR>\r\nshe can smell it dying.<BR>\r\nHer eyes have long ago glazed over<BR>\r\nfrom her solar flashbulb mind\u2019s eye glow.<BR>\r\nShe believes she can build paradise.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nTells herself<BR>\r\nall she needs is discipline.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nShe doesn\u2019t need your God,<BR>\r\nyour Jesus, your Allah.<BR>\r\nShe\u2019s gone beyond Buddha.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nShe draws symbols in the sand,<BR>\r\nexplains her visions to passersby,<BR>\r\nmassages their auras.<BR>\r\nThey call her insane.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThey throw her out, beat her up,<BR>\r\nscratch the blisters from her skin.<BR>\r\nShe takes another turn on her ball bearings,<BR>\r\npraying to herself.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nShe needs more compassion.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nShe tries to smile, puts on her black,<BR>\r\nsits silent and covers herself<BR>\r\nwith words in chalk like,<BR>\r\n\u201cI REFUSE.\u201d<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nAll she needs is a dose of patience.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nFaith, lonely, walks the streets,<BR>\r\nknowing she\u2019s in for a long trip.<BR>\r\nMaybe thick soles are all she needs.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nMost of all she needs to need,<BR>\r\nshe\u2019s sick of needing,<BR>\r\nbut she walks on.<\/P>\r\n\r\n<hr \/>\r\n\r\n<P><strong>Goodbye<\/strong><BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nAll my words have gone out<BR>\r\nlike fireflies and porchlights,<BR>\r\nmy daughter home now,<BR>\r\nlong past midnight.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nAll my words have burned,<BR>\r\ncarborated, exhausted into grey,<BR>\r\nnoxious monoxide clouds,<BR>\r\nleaving me coasting down<BR>\r\na long desert hill<BR>\r\ninto hell-hot oblivion.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nAnd again I stumble upon the end: red ink<BR>\r\nwar blood all spilt out<BR>\r\nto thankless lovers, fianc\u00e9es,<BR>\r\nand my poor grand aunt stuck in Minnesota,<BR>\r\nmailboxes flapping in a dust storm.<BR>\r\nI have learned to live long<BR>\r\non the river of silence<BR>\r\nI now send to you.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nAn ocean of thought dried up.<BR>\r\nNow that the waves have stopped,<BR>\r\nno longer gulping the sting of salt fumes,<BR>\r\nmy feet can now grip bottom.<BR>\r\nDead Sea, farewell, rest in peace.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nEvery page has turned to ash,<BR>\r\nstirred by the breeze of slamming doors.<BR>\r\nThe telephone so silent now,<BR>\r\na dry pole struck by lightning outside.<BR>\r\nHopeful, free of humid,<BR>\r\nmoldy, unsolved arguments.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nForgive me friends, relatives,<BR>\r\nlovers gone awry (no need to cry),<BR>\r\neverything's depleted:<BR>\r\nBig Bang, pinwheel, orgasm,<BR>\r\nfireworks done, petered away,<BR>\r\ncome and gone, over and out.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nAll my words have gone out.<BR>\r\nTen thousand stinging arrows<BR>\r\nfall harmless, null and void.<BR>\r\nAnd God has gone back to former purity<BR>\r\nto what it was, before the Word was born.<\/P>\r\n\r\n<hr \/>\r\n\r\n<P><strong>Vigil<\/strong><BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThe sound of the desperate, meticulous<BR>\r\nbookkeeper in the pale, dusty office<BR>\r\none floor above me cuts well into the night.<BR>\r\nSweaty brow twitching,<BR>\r\nflooded by rows and columns,<BR>\r\na fat blunt pencil is all he\u2019s got<BR>\r\nto drag through red and black.<BR>\r\nThe obnoxious chatter of an ancient adding machine<BR>\r\nbrings up a different total<BR>\r\neach time he pulls the lever<BR>\r\nthat barely fits his hand.<BR>\r\nAt 4:00 a.m. I think I hear<BR>\r\nan illegal alien breathing heavily<BR>\r\non the other side of this wall,<BR>\r\nhand on a pistol and the shadows<BR>\r\nof window blinds crawling over spiderwebs<BR>\r\non the ceiling as unblinking<BR>\r\nheadlights swim by outside.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nAn hour later I am jolted awake<BR>\r\nas a rice farmer collapses<BR>\r\nhalf-way around the world,<BR>\r\nsomewhere in Myanmar or Laos<BR>\r\nexhausted midday with<BR>\r\na baby on her back,<BR>\r\nbaggy pants gray as mud<BR>\r\nin the stinging monsoon<BR>\r\nriddled by the sharp green<BR>\r\nof new sprouts.<BR>\r\n<BR>\r\nThen towards dawn I swim like a whole<BR>\r\nfloating through white clouds<BR>\r\nin a sky of quartz that stretches<BR>\r\nto the bottom of the ocean.<BR>\r\nI see fish die in an anemone\u2019s mouth.<BR>\r\nTickled by the balloon trails<BR>\r\nof diver\u2019s bubbles skimming<BR>\r\nover Spanish ruins,<BR>\r\nI watch the birth of whales<BR>\r\nfar beneath me, grateful for a change.<\/P>\t\t\t\t\t\t <\/div>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t <div role=\"tabpanel\" class=\"tab-pane \" id=\"tabs_desc_377_3\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<p style=\"text-align: center\"><strong>ALL THE MORNINGS OF THE WORLD\r\n(To Karl)<BR>\r\n<\/strong>by Rosalind Palermo Stevenson<\/p>\r\n<p class=\"sm_text\">I begin here because it was New Year\u2019s Eve, the eve of new beginnings, the year was 1992 and we spent that New Year\u2019s Eve together. I don\u2019t remember how it came about that we spent it together \u2013 we were friends, not necessarily ritual New Year\u2019s Eve friends, but at the time we saw each other frequently, shared our writing, talked about our lives. That night you came to my apartment, we most likely ate something, we drank wine, I have polaroid photographs of each of us with a wine glass in our hand. After eating and drinking we went to a film. It was at the Quad Cinema, only a few steps away, the film was\u00a0<em>All the Mornings of the World<\/em>\u00a0based on the book by the French writer Pascal Quignard, and directed by Alain Corneau. For me the film was a profoundly aesthetic experience, for you not so much. We came back to my apartment afterward for another glass of wine and then you went home. I seem to remember the mood of the evening being one of optimism\u2014about our lives, our writing, the future.<\/p>\r\n<p class=\"sm_text\">We met several years earlier than that New Year\u2019s Eve \u2013 sometime in the very late 1980\u2019s \u2013 it was at the one of the open readings in the back room of the cafeteria Windows On The Village located on 6<sup>th<\/sup>\u00a0Avenue and West 11<sup>th<\/sup>\u00a0Street. Windows on the Village later became the restaurant French Roast.<\/p>\r\n<p class=\"sm_text\">You were Altan Ogniedov then. You wrote as Altan Ogniedov. He was what you called your alter ego. It makes me think of the heteronyms of Fernando Pessoa, or more accurately Pessoa\u2019s semi-heteronyms. Semi because while Altan was not you, he did not differ much from you; he was what Pessoa would have called \u201ca mere mutilation of you.\u201d Altan Ogniedov was Russian. It\u2019s true that someone else might claim a Russian alter ego, but Altan Ogniedov was absolute. Karl Gluck had been a student of the Russian language, Russian literature, was fluent in Russian, had a Russian soul which had one day materialized as Altan Ogniedov. You said Altan Ogniedov was born after your disastrous love affair with a woman who lived in Moscow. You also said: \u201cMr. Ogniedov occasionally makes his presence known in Mr. Gluck\u2019s life, forcing him to break into tears at work (as a translator for Russian immigrants and social workers) and at other inopportune moments, as well as occasionally writing a poem in Russian for Mr. Gluck\u2026\u201d<\/p>\r\n<p class=\"sm_text\">Not to be forgotten: You were also fluent in Chinese.<\/p>\r\n<p class=\"sm_text\">We talked about Buddhism. You were a practicing Buddhist. We talked about your family. You always spoke gently about your family. You told me about something you did annually with them, your parents and your brother and sister, it involved being in nature, something with plants, or was it trees, perhaps beekeeping, though I think not beekeeping, I wish I had it better in my mind, but I see you walking in procession on your annual mission together in some forest: your mother, your father, your brother, your sister, you. We talked about your cerebral palsy. You had what is called a mild case; it manifested only in a limp and also in a limpness in the way you used one of your arms. The cerebral palsy had created sadness in your life. You attributed it to your tendency to melancholia.<\/p>\r\n<p class=\"sm_text\">Time passed. We saw each other less. You always sent a Christmas card. Sometimes we talked on the phone. You told me you were unhappy. In your poem \u201cTwo Faces of Insomnia\u201d (written by Altan Ogniedov and included in your first published collection\u00a0<em>Phantasmagoria<\/em>) you say:\u00a0<em>\u201cBecause I have been falling all night\u2026\u201d<\/em>\u00a0You were falling.<\/p>\r\n<p class=\"sm_text\">But then something happened and I heard you sounding happy. It was the birth of Vivian. Your daughter. I remember your voice when you talked about her. You said she did the Buddhist prostrations with you. She was what, two years old, three, when you bowed to the Buddha together? I have been thinking lately, when I think of life and being human, what it means for a person to know they are loved by a parent. Vivian can know without question that you loved her absolutely.<\/p>\r\n<p class=\"sm_text\">The last time I saw you it was three years before you died. You had come to my reading. The next day you sent me \u201cThe Vivian Poems.\u201d You wrote this note to me in your email when you sent them:<\/p>\r\n\r\n<blockquote class=\"sm_text\"><em>Yes, I know #5 needs some re-working, but not now. At one point, I was planning on writing a whole book of Vivi poems. My life is not over yet, though. I hope I may still get to that.<\/em><\/blockquote>\r\n<p class=\"sm_text\">I am thinking again of the night we went to see the film\u00a0<em>All the Mornings of the World<\/em>. In the French\u00a0<em>Tous les Matins du Monde<\/em>. At the end of the film, and in Pascal Quignard\u2019s novel, the title is extended, explained, as spoken by the character Marais: \u201cTous les matins du monde sont sans retour\u2026 (all the mornings of the world would never return).\u201d<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t <\/div>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t <\/div>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t \r\n\t\t\t\t <\/div>\r\n <script>\r\n\t\tjQuery(function () {\r\n\t\t\tjQuery('#myTab_377 a:first').tab('show')\r\n\t\t});\r\n\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\tjQuery(function(){\r\n\t\t\tvar b=\"fadeIn\";\r\n\t\t\tvar c;\r\n\t\t\tvar a;\r\n\t\t\td(jQuery(\"#myTab_377 a\"),jQuery(\"#tab-content_377\"));function d(e,f,g){\r\n\t\t\t\te.click(function(i){\r\n\t\t\t\t\ti.preventDefault();\r\n\t\t\t\t\tjQuery(this).tab(\"show\");\r\n\t\t\t\t\tvar h=jQuery(this).data(\"easein\");\r\n\t\t\t\t\tif(c){c.removeClass(a);}\r\n\t\t\t\t\tif(h){f.find(\"div.active\").addClass(\"animated \"+h);a=h;}\r\n\t\t\t\t\telse{if(g){f.find(\"div.active\").addClass(\"animated \"+g);a=g;}else{f.find(\"div.active\").addClass(\"animated \"+b);a=b;}}c=f.find(\"div.active\");\r\n\t\t\t\t});\r\n\t\t\t}\r\n\t\t});\r\n\t\t\r\n\r\n\t\tfunction do_resize(){\r\n\r\n\t\t\tvar width=jQuery( '.tab-content .tab-pane iframe' ).width();\r\n\t\t\tvar height=jQuery( '.tab-content .tab-pane iframe' ).height();\r\n\r\n\t\t\tvar toggleSize = true;\r\n\t\t\tjQuery('iframe').animate({\r\n\t\t\t    width: toggleSize ? width : 640,\r\n\t\t\t    height: toggleSize ? height : 360\r\n\t\t\t  }, 250);\r\n\r\n\t\t\t  toggleSize = !toggleSize;\r\n\t\t}\r\n\r\n\r\n\t<\/script>\r\n\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>by Karl Gluck<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":379,"template":"","meta":[],"product_brand":[],"product_cat":[28],"product_tag":[34],"class_list":{"0":"post-378","1":"product","2":"type-product","3":"status-publish","4":"has-post-thumbnail","6":"product_cat-poetry","7":"product_tag-karl-gluck","9":"first","10":"instock","11":"shipping-taxable","12":"purchasable","13":"product-type-simple"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/rainmountainpress.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/product\/378","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/rainmountainpress.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/product"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/rainmountainpress.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/product"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rainmountainpress.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/379"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/rainmountainpress.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=378"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"product_brand","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rainmountainpress.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/product_brand?post=378"},{"taxonomy":"product_cat","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rainmountainpress.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/product_cat?post=378"},{"taxonomy":"product_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rainmountainpress.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/product_tag?post=378"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}