Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Any Morning


Any Morning


Just lying on the couch and being happy.
Only humming a little, that quiet sound
in your head.
Trouble is busy elsewhere
at the moment, it has so much
to do in the world.

People who might judge
are mostly asleep.
They can't monitor you
all the time, and sometimes
they forget.
When dawn flows over the hedge
you can get up and act busy.

Little corners like this,
pieces of Heaven left lying around,
can be picked up and saved.
People won't even see that you
have them, they are so light
and easy to hide.

Later in the day you can act
like the others.
You can shake your head.
You can frown.


William Stafford

Posted over on William Stafford Broadsides

To Shuman Heink


To Shuman Heink


Too near the heart, the lullaby, too near,
the strains of it trolls one melting,
twisting strains; you should not sing
the song for us to hear,
for pains it soothes away
bring sadder pains.

The pulse of sorrow vibrates all alone,
and when the grandeur of the voice
that's gone
reflects an instant in the shaking tone,
when sudden memories to light are drawn.

You love has been so great,
your life so long, that feeling in your
voice is like a dart, and when you
think far back and sing the song,
you stab too near the heart,
too near the heart.


William Stafford

Posted over on William Stafford Broadsides

You Reading This, Be Ready


Painting by Verna Marie Campbell



You Reading This, Be Ready


Starting here,
what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers,
what softened sound from outside
fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift
for the world than the breathing
respect than you carry wherever
you go right now?
Are you waiting for time to show
you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here,
lift this new glimpse that you found;
carry into evening all that you want
from this day.
This interval you spent reading
or hearing this,
keep it for life.

What can anyone give you greater
than now, starting here,
right in this room,
when you turn around?


William Stafford

Posted over on William Stafford Broadsides

Note


"Like feathers in the wind" by Karen Amaro



Note


straw, feathers, dust--
little things

but if they all go away,
that's the way the wind goes.


William Stafford

Posted over on William Stafford Broadsides

Earth Dweller


"Kansas Farm" woodcut by bergen studios.



Earth Dweller


It was all the clods at once become
precious; and it was the barn,
and the shed, and the windmill,
my hands, the crack Arlie made in
the ax handle; oh, let me stay
here humbly, forgotten, to rejoice
in it all; let the sun causally
rise and set.
If I have not found the right place,
teach me; for, somewhere inside,
the clods are valuted mansions,
lines through the barn sing
for the saints forever, the shed
and windmill rear so glorious
the sun shudders like a gong.

Now I know why people worship,
carry around magic emblems,
wake up talking dreams
they teach to their children;
the world speaks.
The world speaks everything to us.
It is our only friend.


William Stafford

Posted over on William Stafford Broadsides

Becket



This morning I got a case of "Becket" on my mind. The film, released in 1964, really impressed me and influenced my later decision to become a professional actor. Never has Richard Burton been better, and it comes close to being Peter O'Toole's best work too. It took 30 years to make it to VHS, and 40 years to make to DVD. It will always stand tall, in the top ten Historical films ever made; at least on my list.
While in college in 1965, I was in a production of MURDER IN THE CATHEDRAL. The head of the English Department took the role of Becket, and played him like a capote-clone; but Burton kept echoing in my head, with his blue eyes burrowing into my soul.
Burton as Becket saying, "Where honor should me, in me, there is just a void."

Glenn Buttkus

T.S. Eliot called it "Murder in the Cathedral." Jean Anouilh called it "Becket." Shakespeare would have called it "Henry II."



'Becket' (1964)

Director: Peter Glenville
Writer: Jean Anouilh (play), Edward Anhalt (screenplay)
Cast:
Richard Burton: Thomas Becket
Peter O’Toole: King Henry II
John Gielgud: King Louis VII of France
Pamela Brown: Queen Eleanor of Aquitane
Donald Wolfit: Bishop Folliot
Sian Phillips: Gwendolen
Felix Aylmer: Archbishop of Canterbury



By any name, in any season, the epic struggle between a 12th-century English king and a courtier-turned-conscience of his realm makes for a majestic movie, currently -- and thankfully -- being re-released for the first time in 40-plus years.
The time: less than a century after the Norman conquest. The problem: high-spirited Henry II (Peter O'Toole) is having trouble with still-restive Saxons and church officials. Of great aid in both matters is his beloved drinking-and-wenching pal, Thomas Becket (Richard Burton), a wiser and cooler head than Henry's crowned one. When the troublesome Archbishop of Canterbury finally does him the favor of dying, Henry's bright idea for his replacement is Becket, a confidant loyal to Henry, not Rome.

But to the king's chagrin, Becket takes God and the job seriously.

Edward Anhalt took home the 1964 Oscar for best screenplay adaptation for "Becket" and deserved it. His script captures the full power of Anouilh's play, whose language is declaimed by Burton and O'Toole with mesmerizing eloquence.

"I have something far worse than a sin on my conscience," says Henry, with a perfect pause before, "... a mistake."

Few plays have been turned into films with such a love of words intact. Originally produced on Broadway in 1959 with Laurence Olivier as Becket and Anthony Quinn as King Henry, "Becket" contains one significant factual error: Contrary to one of its main plot lines, the real Thomas was a Norman, not a Saxon -- something Anouilh said he discovered only after finishing the play.

But never mind. It brings history to life with magnificent performances by the most exciting actors of the day. Of the two principles, it is O'Toole's dynamic rage rather than Burton's piety that is more riveting. Equally fine in support are John Gielgud as foppish Louis XII of France, along with Martita Hunt as Henry's mother and Pamela Brown as his carping wife Eleanor of Aquitaine, a pair of queens constantly beaten by the king's royal flush.

"Who are you?" shouts the King to his cowering young son.

"Henry III," the boy answers.

"Not YET!" the father retorts, later addressing the boy as "you witless baboon!"

Suffice to say, this is not the most functional of royal families.

"Becket" and its historical circumstances foreshadow the bigger case -- and church-state split -- to come, six Henries later, with another Thomas immortalized in another epic film: Fred Zinnemann's "Man for All Seasons" (1966) would pit Henry VIII against Sir Thomas More. Two years later, "Lion in Winter" (1968) allowed O'Toole to reprise Henry II opposite Katharine Hepburn as a much more formidable Eleanor.

If there's a better British history trilogy than this trio, I can't name it. It's one of many things to thank the much-maligned '60s for.

While we're doling out retro-thanks, let's thank the gorgeous Panavision cinematography of Geoffrey Unsworth for the look of "Becket." The chance to enjoy it on a big screen again (at the Manor) is well worth sharing with your kids. Its 2 1/2 hours fly by, although you'll miss the nicety of an intermission, which was de riguer back in those salad days of its theatrical release.

Director Peter Glenville was a London and New York stage director, whose precious few films included a dull 1967 rendering of Graham Greene's "The Comedians," which inspired Bosley Crowther's shortest, cruelest, funniest-ever review: " 'The Comedians': Ha ha." After notices like that, you could see why Grenville swore off movie-making. But "Becket" is the (one and only) gem in his diadem.

The story's only "weak" point is a matter of historical accuracy: That catalytic issue on which Becket took his stand -- a jurisdictional dispute between ecclesiastical vs. civil court authority -- strikes us as not so terribly compelling in today's world of fast-and-loose creative judicial solutions. Why didn't Henry just declare Becket an anti-crown combatant and let him rot in the Tower of Londtanamo?

Becket and Henry represented nearly identical willfulness on opposite ends of the spectrum. "Humility is the most difficult of the virtues to achieve," wrote T.S. Eliot. "Nothing dies harder than the desire to think well of oneself."

Barry Paris, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette



Memorable Quotes:

Thomas a Becket: God rest his soul.
King Henry II: He will, He will. He'll be much more use to God than he ever was to me.
________________________________________
Thomas a Becket: Honor is a private matter within; it's an idea, and every man has his own version of it.
King Henry II: How gracefully you tell your king to mind his own business.
________________________________________
Empress Matilda: Oh, if I were a man!
King Henry II: Thank God, madam, He gave you breasts! An asset from which I derived not the slightest benefit.
________________________________________
King Henry II: Am I the strongest or am I not?
Thomas a Becket: You are today, but one must never drive one's enemy to despair; it makes him strong. Gentleness is better politics, it saps virility. A good occupational force must never crush. It must corrupt.
________________________________________
King Henry II: Don't be nervous, Bishop. I'm not asking for absolution. I've something far worse than a sin on my conscience: a mistake.
________________________________________
King Henry II: Let us drink, gentlemen. Let us drink, till we roll under the table in vomit and oblivion.
________________________________________
King Henry II: Do you know how much trouble I went through to make you a noble?
Thomas a Becket: Yes, as I recall, you lifted your finger, pointed at me and said, "Thomas Becket, you are noble."
________________________________________
Thomas a Becket: England is a ship. The king is captain of the ship.
King Henry II: That's neat. I like that.
________________________________________
King Henry II: Your body, madam, was a desert that duty forced me to wander in alone. But you have never been a wife to me!
________________________________________
King Henry II: He's read books, you know, it's amazing. He's drunk and wenched his way through London but he's thinking all the time.
________________________________________
King Henry II: So what in most people is morality, in you it's just an exercise in... what's the word?
Thomas a Becket: Aesthetics.
King Henry II: Yes, that's the word. Always "aesthetics."
________________________________________
King Henry II: There. That's the Great Seal of England. Don't lose it; without the seal, there's no more England, and we'll all have to pack up and go back to Normandy.
________________________________________
King Henry II: I'm suddenly very intelligent. It probably comes from making love to that French girl last night.
________________________________________
King Henry II: Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?
________________________________________
King Henry II: [laughing in both amusement and anger] It's funny! It's too funny! Becket is the only intelligent man in my kingdom, and he's against me!
________________________________________
Baron: Becket! You are a liar. You are a traitor!
[draws his sword on Becket]
Thomas a Becket: Sheathe your sword, Morville, before you impale your soul upon it!
________________________________________
King Henry II: Are you mad? You're Chancellor of England; you're mine!
Thomas a Becket: I am also the Archbishop, and you have introduced me to deeper obligations.
________________________________________
Thomas a Becket: Nobility lies in the man, my prince, not in the towel.
________________________________________
Thomas a Becket: Tonight you can do me the honor of christening my forks.
King Henry II: Forks?
Thomas a Becket: Yes, from Florence. New little invention. It's for pronging meat and carrying it to the mouth. It saves you dirtying your fingers.
King Henry II: But then you dirty the fork.
Thomas a Becket: Yes, but it's washable.
King Henry II: So are your fingers. I don't see the point.
________________________________________
King Henry II: Here's my royal foot up your royal buttocks!
________________________________________
Empress Matilda: You have an obsession about him that is unhealthy and unnatural!
________________________________________
King Henry II: [isolating one of his brawling sons from the rest] Which one are you?
Prince Henry: Henry the Third.
King Henry II: NOT YET, SIR!
________________________________________
Thomas a Becket: Here I am, Lord, adorned for Your festivities.
________________________________________
Thomas a Becket: Lord Gilbert, Baron of England by the grace of his majesty, King Henry II, seized upon the person of a priest of the Holy Church and unlawfully did hold him in custody. Furthermore, in the presence of Lord Gilbert, and by his command, his men seized upon this priest when he tried to escape and put him to death. This is the sin of murder and sacrilege. In that Lord Gilbert has rendered no act of contrition or repentance, and is at the moment, at liberty in the land, we do, here and now, separate him from the precious body and blood of Christ, and from the society of all Christians. We exclude him from our Holy Mother Church and all her sacraments, in heaven, or on Earth. We declare him excommunicate and anathema. We cast him into the outer darkness. We judge him damned with the devil and his fallen angels and all the reprobate, to eternal fire and everlasting pain!
[slams candle to the ground]
Monks: [chanting] So be it.
________________________________________
Brother John: I don't mind if I am just a grain of sand in a machine. Because I know by putting more and more grains of sand in a machine, one day it'll come grinding to a stop.
Thomas a Becket: And on that day - what then?
Brother John: Well, we'll have a fine, new, well-oiled machine in the place of the old one. And this time we'll put the Normans into it instead. That's what justice means, doesn't it?
________________________________________
King Henry II: Do you ever think?
Baron: Never, sire! A gentleman has better things to do!
[Henry and the four barons giggle drunkenly]
________________________________________
Thomas a Becket: We must manage the church. One can always come to a sensible little arrangement with God.
King Henry II: Becket, you are a monster.
Thomas a Becket: You flatter me, My Lord.
________________________________________
Thomas a Becket: Yes, we have soldiers disguised in the crowd to encourage enthusiasm.
King Henry II: Why must you destroy all my illusions?
Thomas a Becket: Because you should have none, My Prince.
________________________________________
King Louis VII of France: The King of England and his Ambassadors can drown themselves in what they are impertinent enough to call their English channel.
________________________________________
Thomas a Becket: We are both aware of the delicacy of my position. Let us trust that God will find a solution for it.
________________________________________
Brother John: You betrayed your Saxon race, now you betray God.
Thomas a Becket: Perhaps you will succeed in teaching me humility, it's a virtue I've never really mastered.
________________________________________
King Henry II: The die is cast, Thomas, make the most of it. And if I know you, I'm sure you will.
________________________________________
King Louis VII of France: My dear man, crowned heads are free to play a little game of courtesy, but nations owe one another none.
________________________________________
Thomas a Becket: Oh Lord, how heavy thy honor is to bear.




















Ol' Sploggy Rides Again


"Lone Cyclist" by William Bowyer



Ol' Sploggy Rides Again

Yeah, well, Why not.
Decided to do 10 miles
and got distracted again
by roads not traveled.
To make the ride a bit less boring,
I rode around Seward park,
which warmed me up and encouraged me
to drive on on northward.

It was kind of gray and rainy looking,
but I've been wet before.
It started to rain in vero.
So I had a couple miles of that
before it stopped.
When I got back to the dreaded
s-curves on LWB, I said to myself,
what the heck, and rode up anyway.
The road isn't that bad.
Especially after a maple bar
and a cup of Caffe Vito.
Drove on through the raining drive
to the Arboretum, where I took
the high road while they took
the low road;
I don't know if they got there
before me..I mean who are they anyway?

Took the path through the wetlands trail
to MOHAI and noticed a sign
at the museum parking lot that read
"Dont ride bicycles on the wetlands trail."
I seem to be collecting
a bit of a rap sheet, or would be
if I ever got caught.
HA Ha ha hahahaha!

There are OLD bikers,
And there are BOLD bikers
But there are no OLD BOLD bikers.
I didn't fall off.


Doug Palmer September 2009

Angel Island Poems


Angel Island Poems


from Yunte Huang, The Poetics of Error

Written on the walls of the wooden barracks of the detaining station on Angel Island off the coast of San Francisco, Angel Island poems delineate historical trajectories that are in many ways unaccountable in canonical discourses. They belie the pitfalls of teleological History by virtue of their modes of inscription. … I want to look at these poems as examples of tibishi (poetry on the wall), a traditional Chinese form of travel writing that provides an outlet for the large social sector which is denied the right to write history. Seen by its cultural function, tibishi in the case of Angel Island poetry becomes indistinguishable from graffiti, a scriptural practice that is sometimes condemned as vandalism and at other times commissioned as artwork. Not understanding the scriptural economy of these poems has led to a reductive hermeneutics in the hitherto efforts of transcribing, translating, and interpreting them. This kind of hermeneutics may sit well with an economic system that favors productive abstraction and with a political system that recognizes only fully-fledged citizen-subjects, but it lies at odds with what I call the poetics of error. Characterized by misspellings, misattributions, and mistranslations, the poetics of error in these poems has significant linguistic, historical, and cross-cultural implications. Read differently … misspellings spell out linguistic nonconformity and the fictionality of standard orthography, misattributions can be attributed to folk revisions of authorized history and intentional conflations of cultural origins, and mistranslations translate code-switching and heteroglossia. Understood this way, the poetics of error echoes the liminality as well as subversity of the anonymous poets' status in a world delineated by expansionist or nationalist historiography.

[A sampling of poems follows.]

1.
Over a hundred poems are on the walls.
Looking at them, they are all pining
at the delayed progress.

.
2.
There are tens of thousands of poems
composed on these walls.
They are all cries of complaint
and sadness.

.
3.
Let this be an expression of
the torment which fills my belly.
Leave this as a memento
to encourage fellow souls.

.
4.
My fellow villagers seeing this
should take heed and remember,
I write my wild words
to let those after me know.

.
5.
The sea-scape resembles lichen
twisting and turning for a thousand li.
There is no shore to land
and it is difficult to walk.
With a gentle breeze I arrived
at the city thinking all would be so.
At ease, how was one to know
he was to live in a wooden building?

.
6.
The insects chirp outside the four walls.
The inmates often sigh.
Thinking of affairs back home,
Unconscious tears wet my lapel.

.
7.
In January I started to leave for Mexico.
Passage reservations delayed me
until mid-autumn.
I had wholeheartedly counted on
a quick landing at the city,
But the year's almost ending
and I am still here in this building.

.
8.
A building does not have to be tall;
if it has windows, it will be bright.
Island is not far, Angel Island.
Alas, this wooden building disrupts
my travelling schedule.
Paint on the four walls are green,
And green is the grass which surrounds.
It is noisy because
of the many country folk,
And there are watchmen
guarding during the night.
To exert influence, one can use
a square-holed elder brother.
There are children who disturb the ears,
But there are no incoherent sounds
that cause fatigue.
I gaze to the south at the hospital,
And look to the west at the army camp.
This author says,
"What happiness is there in this?"

.
9.
Being idle in the wooden building,
I opened a window.
The morning breeze and bright moon
lingered together.
I reminisce the native village far away,
cut off by clouds and mountains.
On the little island the wailing
of cold, wild geese can be faintly heard.
The hero who has lost his way
can talk meaninglessly of the sword.
The poet at the end of the road
can only ascend a tower.
One should know that when
the country is weak,
the people's spirit dies.
Why else do we come to this place
to be imprisoned?

.
10.
Leaving behind my writing brush
and removing my sword, I came to America.
Who was to know two streams of tears
would flow upon arriving here?
If there comes a day when I will have
attained my ambition and become successful,
I will certainly behead the barbarians
and spare not a single blade of grass.

[Poems relate to the anthology Island: Poetry and History of Chinese Immigrants on Angel Island 1910-1940, edited & translated by Him Mark Lai, Genny Lim, & Judy Yung, University of Washington Press, 1980, 1991. The full version of Yunte Huang’s essay can be found at http://ubu.com/ethno/discourses/huang.pdf & more in his book, Transpacific Imaginations (Harvard University Press, 2008) .]

Posted over on Jerome Rothenberg's blog Poems & Poetics

Through the Dark


Painting by Juan Zhungur



Through the Dark


When I attempt to over reach
with human reason, I cannot hear.
When I remember that I am a spirit
then I have access to eternity.


Joy Harjo

Posted over on Joy Harjo's Adventures in the Last World Blog

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Coronado Heights


Coronado Heights


When we touch the rock,
a little cold shiver begins:
this is the place where Coronado
found that cities of gold are dust,
that the world had led him north beyond
civilization, beyond what was good.

And right down onto this prairie grass
he fell. His helmet tumbled right here.

He smelled the earth and felt the sun
begin to be his friend: he had found
a treasure, the richest city of all.

Wheatfields frame this place today,
a gift: how the riches of Mexico,
the wandering tribes, the golden wind,
all come true for us, bowing
in reverence with Coronado.

William Stafford

Posted over on Kansas Heritage

Prairie Town


Hutchinson, Kansas



Prairie Town


There was a river under First and Main;
the salt mines honeycombed farther down.
A wealth of sun and wind ever so strong
converged on that home town, long gone.

At the north edge
there were the sand hills.
I used to stare for hours
at prairie dogs,
which had their town,
and folded their little paws
to stare beyond their fence
where I was.

River rolling in secret,
salt mines with care
holding your crystals and stillness,
north prairie--
what kind of trip can I make,
with what old friend,
ever to find a town
so widely rich again?

Pioneers, for whom history was walking
through dead grass,
and the main things that happened
were miles and the time of day--
you bilt that town,
and I have let it pass.
Little folded paws, judge me:
I came away.

William Stafford

Posted over on Kansas Heritage

Notes For the Program


Notes for the Program

Just the ordinary days, please.
I wouldn't want them any better.

About the pace of life, it seems best to have
slow, if-I-can-stand-them revelations.

And take this message about the inevitable:
I've decided it's all right if it comes.


William Stafford

Posted over on mrbauld.com

Learning


Learning

A piccolo played, then a drum.
Feet began to come -- a part
of the music. Here came a horse,
clippety clop, away.

My mother said, "Don't run --
the army is after someone
other than us. If you stay
you'll learn our enemy."

Then he came, the speaker. He stood
in the square. He told us who
to hate. I watched my mother's face,
its quiet. "That's him," she said.


William Stafford

Posted over on mrbauld.com

Charades


Charades

Willows in the wind act out "afraid."
Rocks make the sound for "nothing."
Both of those I am as a person.

My father served for the concept "Gone."
My mother was perfect for "Whine."
And their son, that's me, "Defiant."

Willow, rock, mother, father,
behold what you made: "Maybe."


William Stafford

Posted over on mrbauld.com

Vacation


Vacation

One scene as I bow to pour her coffee: --

Three Indians in the scouring drouth
huddle at a grave scooped in the gravel,
lean to the wind as our train goes by.
Someone is gone.
There is dust on everything in Nevada.

I pour the cream.


William Stafford

Posted over on mrbauld.com

This is the Field


Painting by John Hall



This is the field

This is the field
where the battle did not happen,
where the unknown soldier did not die.
This is the field where grass joined hands,
where no monument stands,
and the only heroic thing is the sky.

Birds fly here without a sound,
unfolding their wings across the open.
No people killed--or were killed--
on this ground
hallowed by neglect and an air so tame
that people celebrate it
by forgetting its name.

William Stafford

Posted over on mrbauld.com

Monday, September 28, 2009

Freedom


Freedom

Freedom is not following a river.
Freedom is following a river
though, if you want to.

It is deciding now by what happens now.
It is knowing that luck makes a difference.

No leader is free; no follower is free--
the rest of us can often be free.
Most of the world are living by
creeds too odd, chancy, and habit-forming
to be worth arguing about by reason.

If you are oppressed, wake up about
four in the morning; most places
you can usually be free some of the time
if you wake up before other people.


William Stafford

Posted over on mrbauld.com

Our Kind


Our Kind


Our mother knew our worth-
not much. To her, success
was not being noticed at all.
"If we can stay out of jail,"
she said, "God will be proud of us."

"Not worth a row of pins,"
she said, when we looked at the album:
"Grandpa?-ridiculous."
Her hearing was bad, and that
was good: "None of us ever says much."

She sent us forth equipped
for our kind of world, a world of
our betters, in a nation so strong
its greatest claim is no boast,
its leaders telling us all, "Be proud"-

But over their shoulders, God and
our mother, signaling: "Ridiculous."


William Stafford

Posted over on Mrbauld.com

A Story That Could Be True


A Story That Could Be True


If you were exchanged in the cradle
and your real mother died
without ever telling the story
then no one knows your name,
and somewhere in the world
your father is lost and needs you
but you are far away.

He can never find
how true you are, how ready.
When the great wind comes
and the robberies of the rain
you stand on the corner shivering.
The people who go by--
you wonder at their calm.

They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
"Who are you really, wanderer?"--
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
"Maybe I'm a king."


William Stafford

Posted over on Break Out of the Box


William Stafford, Going Over to Your Place: Poems for Each Other (Selected by Paul B. Janeczko, Bradbury Press, New York)

The Western Films of Henry Fonda

Henry Fonda, along with his pal, James Stewart, helped to create a more naturalistic form of acting. Like Spencer Tracy, one could not catch them acting. Fonda in his 50 year career did several historical films and (18) Westerns; some of them classics. They were as follows:

JESSE JAMES (1939)
DRUMS ALONG THE MOHAWK (1939)
THE RETURN OF FRANK JAMES (1940)
THE OX-BOW INCIDENT (1943)
MY DARLING CLEMENTINE (1946)
FORT APACHE (1948)
THE TIN STAR (1957)
WARLOCK (1959)
THE DEPUTY (1959-61) TV series running 76 episodes.
HOW THE WEST WAS WON (1965)
THE ROUNDERS (1965)
BIG HAND FOR THE LITTLE LADY (1966)
WELCOME TO HARD TIMES (1967)
FIRECREEK (1968)
ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST (1968)
THE CHEYENNE SOCIAL CLUB (1970)
THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN (1970)
MY NAME IS NOBODY (1973)

I found some great images of his films, over 100 of them. Enjoy.

Glenn Buttkus