Maatstaf. Jaargang 24

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De plastic zak

Joe Frimpong, Poet from Pakistan

The Universe

The time is always: now

Hey there, Motherfucker -

Enclosed 6 poems, already Pakistani classics: poet - what's that?; toilet training; the prostituted overcoat; in my country and hare krishna in amsterdam + you'd better believe it.

I could also send you my little laurelcollection, hideous puffs, critiques, proclaiming and annunciating me; but such things are only unrequited self-love. And besides, they are in my language and you would never believe I didn't make up such glowing orbs of praise. Anyway, be that as it may - and it always is, I ‘submit’ these songs which have peopled my lone universe. I advise you not to reject me, I have done some things.

Hoping your English is adequate,

Joe Frimpong, Poet from Pakistan

At the Hotel Brouwer, Amsterdam Centrum December 25, 1975

My dear friend Theo Satrap,

No doubt you may be flummoxed by my epistle in which I have hurled some words at you with perhaps too rudely plain high spirits, but really that is merely Pa and Ma of creation, the superflux of ‘perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart’ as divinely huge and sweet old Shakes may or may not have said, or I just did (I don't remember) - we poets sometimes are in a kind of neurosthenic huff, losing ourselves so much in work, working so hard to try to hear the brief mysterious words which are the great silk-twist wings of old Pegasus beating as that golden winged horse (which also has a golden asshole) drags us through a stark, beautiful landscape which we create. I am sure you will agree, & excuse me for having no time to be polite, addressing you in the dutifully amiable and habitually docile ways all those flunkeys around you do, (though secretly sneering in all their obsequious condescencion) - such people; such people as could never write such poems as the six (6) I sent you last week.

By the way, how did you like these poems?

In any case I shall send you more soon; & promise to be your pen-pal ad-infinitum. I am sure you are a very interesting and adequate editor, my dear Sontrip.

Hope you are flourishing, your fast-friend, Joe (frimpong)

ps How do you like my new type-write ribbon?

The Do-It-Yourself Face-Lifting Co.

Everywhere you look

New York City, December, year's death-day

Dear Ratrap,

The cruelty of indifference!

Still not one word from you about the poems I sent almost two weeks ago. Could wait no longer to postpone yearly trip following winter-harvest of my poetic crops in the New Land, many readings. Ah, how I love to hear the dirty tremulo of their cash-registers! In good old American cats and dogs can understand.

Yesterday visited Pleasantville, home of ubiquitous Reader's Digest. Tentacular moronization. But - At least they gave me the courtesy of a reply and a tour, although rejecting my songs. (Said I lacked ‘sales impact.’) One editor wants to put me in

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magazine's ‘The Most Unforgettable Character I Have Ever Met’ section, though. He showed me a playroom, where they keep all their money. Has an airshaft just right size for you (leading to roof) to slide down if you where greasy Pakistani. Would love to pop you down any old oubliette! you little Libertine -

All yours, in Unpleasantville -

un-Forgettable Joe F.

b.v. Uitgeverij De Arbeiderspers Singel 262, Amsterdam c

Mr. Raphael Rudnik

Sarphatipark 109

amsterdam

Onze ref: t/s-n

toestel: 18

datum: 5 jan. 1976

Dear Raphael,

The original of the enclosed doggerel I recently sent to our beloved friend frimpong, at the address in the usa, known to you and me. My insolent lines, of course, are meant as an answer to the nasty postcard he deemed funny to send to me, on which he also tried to blacken the reputation of readers digest, that stronghold of good literature.

As ever, yours sincerely

Theo Sontrop

Enclosure: Ode to Frimpong

Ode to Frimpong

Oh, Frimpong, better than my ways protective
I manifest my nauseous invective:
You are a stupid coloured louse who'd
better work, lazy blind bat, pet
of white women, bard of the Indian dung.
Why don't you simply pull your dong?
What recently you wrote about the Digest
(for Readers, and those not the slightest)
I have immediately forwarded
to cia, and they will card it.
A copy of this I send to Rudnik,
that fast and city-slicker poetnik.

Hotel Brouer, Feb 14

Dear Theo S!

So, you will do my bloody blooming poems! And may many of the solmen sonstipated-looking unlively Sontropes of this country be the better for it - and even many more big blond legs beat their way to this troubled delicatessen of a hotel, I'm in room 6, open all night! Pak-power! Pak hem! Ha. - I am very glad you have not treated me as a dark step-child of your Northern race... ladies, and gentlemen.

Perhaps now that you have accepted the poems, some life-information is necessary for understanding them: born 1947 near Lahore and educated there, too in Russian economics, was radical until I met The Moose (The Muse), and left off dreaming of revenge against all eunuch-bankers of capitalistic world. Instead came into conflict with ill-natured sheep and fern-collector of academic and literary world... with the first of my terribly human and tough Songs to The Moose, which was called poet - what's that? You have it, and also title poem of my second book: toilet training. I simply had to do these scrofulous things of a magically minimal sort to... enrage them, - it did, my name scratched from my mailbox, lots of threats, shit in my hat in restaurant (old Pak kind of angry pride expressed this way, would take pages to explain the arcane pedantry of this reaction) - I will not speak of what happened, or all the Great Troubles. Bestial grief. I have carefully kept myself from knowing, in England at the time, the sad realities.

But all that is another tale, for another time. This is a happy day, your acceptance letter is a handshake that means happiness. Even the

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Hotel looks good, for as our old Pakish saying says: ‘Every nest is beautiful’.

I end with the only two imperatives for us, my happy brother-in-the-art Sontrop (please excuse me if I have your name wrongly) -: Write. Love.

To,

Joe Frimpong, Friend

ps What is this Plastic Sack you are selling me in? Is it anything like those strange contraceptives sold here? (In my part of my country, lemon rinds suffice). By the way, if you are interested in buying my impressions of your Netherland - I will write them, on the slightest provocation! jf.

Poet - What's That?

You, who each day unleash unload a cemetery of stinking brown
snakes from your ass, and will be carrion squalor for all-unloving,
death in the ground, someday - you dare ask me: ‘Poet - what's that?’

Toilet Training

A poem
Should not
mean
but pee

The Prostituted Overcoat

George, once
I had a coat. I had a coat once, George -
a coat...
with a velvet collar.

You Better Believe It

To believe
is to
make believe.

Hare Krishna in Amsterdam

from: Weird Dutch Religions

Walking around turning their cheese-mills
With their grey girls, faking their peace-frills -
You irritate us, lice of the Lowlands.
Go, man, go, work and plow lands.

In My Country

Burst suns of pleasure.
Black carloads of oblivion.
Mettlesome music of hooves.
Light splitting fruit like a spear...
Turns into bone and brains and blood;
With a wild kissing laugh,
Embracing fire with wings of fire!