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Friday, April 9, 2021

What is Poetry? (insert after reading first poem of those chosen for April 7)

 This was the precursor to Abby Murray's poem, Introduction to Poetry: 

It's been two weeks of brutal violence and shootings and by all means I should not be feeling hopeful. How many people are dead now, who were alive at the beginning of the month, who also planned on having time to themselves later, when work quieted down, when the kids were back in school, when a symptom improved, when they could finally see someone they missed, when the car was fixed, when a bill was paid off? How much does all that hope weigh when it's suddenly ripped from so many people and dropped on the ground?

I don't know. But I can feel it, and so can you, so it must be heavy. And unwieldy too, I don't know how to hold it and move forward, it's like trying to walk for miles with an armful of rocks.

And yet. My mom went to the grocery store on Wednesday, nervous as so many of us are now, to be in a country where guns and the violent reign, and she came home with a few daffodils bunched together in a rubber band. They just looked so good, she said. They're in a glass bottle in front of me as I write this, and I can smell them waking up, getting to work, filling the room.

An anthology of poems called How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope was released on Tuesday, and because I'd pre-ordered it, it arrived on Tuesday afternoon. It is wonderful. Small. Soft, colorful cover of reds and yellows and browns. A couple of the poets in it are too syrupy for me but most of them speak straight into the bloodstream in a way that balances the bitter, the savory, and the sweet. Ross Gay, Jane Hirshfield, January Gill O'Neil, Joy Harjo, Molly Fisk, Terry Kirby Erickson.

When Mae comes home from school and plays in the corner with her bin of Legos, I can hear her singing in Spanish while I write. She pauses to pick two stubborn bricks apart and I can hear her baby-breathing, the exhale kids have that echoes the way they breathed as newborns, concentrated and intent. If moments can be too good, they are these.

And I wrote four poems this week.  When  does that happen? It is getting a little easier to type and although I still can't extend my arm all the way I can send emails for almost an hour before needing to put a bag of hot rice on my elbow.

Spring is crashing into us and we are carrying the hope of those taken from their families. It is bright yellow and blooming and real and it needs us to take it with us wherever we are going and there is no time for strategy.

The poem below is from a prompt from my Monday group. I have been surrounded by good poems all week, and I was asked last Friday in a workshop what poetry is.


And we hear Mae's Spanish in the second line, (perhaps -- I looked up to return and to begin and in all the multiple possibilities, indeed, the verb dar does work for both)...

And why not make up meanings from ancient times, throw in some biblical "honey" with the an undertone of "expensive", reflecting a contemporary American obsession with money.

And just in case you didn't believe that poetry can mean "star that moves"... wiki will soon correct you:

"The word Dhrupad is derived from DHRUVA the steadfast evening star that moves through our galaxy and PADA meaning poetry." and you will learn about the connection to ancient devotional music.

From concrete, Abby moves on to metaphoric... and whether you want to prove that "thirst" (title of play by Eugene O'Neill)  is what  some people call poetry, pronouncing it "persistent cat" or "honest disease"(or amuse yourself by reading Jeffry O'Neill https://www.jstor.org/stable/374060?seq=1)

yes, however you explore everything ever written, spoken to understand POETRY... we are in agreement: 

Poetry is what it is, and isn't.  A Nope and Welcome Home.

Now that we're buttered up and having fun, pretending we know all the history referred to, although largely clueless, we would like to believe there is some language that can mean "begin" and  that sounds like "return" in another... We are given a front row seat to observe an exercise in creating... and how creative invention loves to dress up what some want to believe is "historical" fact.

The desire to believe in something actual, the suspicion of pretense of fact, the delight of an unexpected surprise such as "daffodils win" (mother's gift which helps her daughter poet hold up the heaviness of the world..." -- that tricky act of grabbing horns of a dilemma on an actual raging bull (metaphorically and metonymically ) with all its ambiguous paradox is both target (skin) and craft (arrow for that bull's eye)... I love that the poem ends on flame. 

 

Thursday, April 1, 2021

March 31

Dawn - Rita Dove

ars Pasifika - by Craig Santos Perez to hear Craig Santos Perez read his poem: are pacifika  https://dcs.megaphone.fm/POETS8737071724.mp3?key=72bb030cc5a7add3c823656cfb3977e3

I am the Apsara’s daughter by Sokunthary Svay  

From Blossoms -- Li-Young Lee

The Weight of Sweetness by Li-Young Lee 

What the Paint Can Do - Kitty Jospé

Palm Sunday by Malcolm Guite

CRIMINAL JUSTICE HAIKU SERIES— Lisa Nichols


sent as extra: 


La suavecita by Lupe Mendez

Chrysalis  - M.J. Iuppa

Another Shade of Yellow -- M.J. Iuppa

**

Further sharings: 

the Apsara dance Marna mentioned is a YouTube called Apsara Dance Royal Ballet of Cambodia Tola Chap.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JkpXEPfxql0


 the book Bernie mentioned about rain: Rain: A Natural and Cultural History by Cynthia Barnett  (Author)


Poetry is both a genealogical tattoo and a guerrilla archive.

I try to describe and embody this in my work by employing collage, ethnographic, visual, and documentary techniques. This is combined with lyric, multilingual, and polyphonic narrative devices and structures. My goal is to make visible the seams, fragments, paradoxes, complexities, and indeterminacies of being from an unincorporated territory. My hope is that the reader will gather the materials and harvest their deeper meanings.

I interweave my own intimate subjectivity with larger forces. Moreover I tell the stories of my own family not only to value and memorialize their stories, but also to show that their experiences matter. To me, this personalizes the history and politics. In terms of craft, I usually don’t aim for “balance”; instead, I aim for dynamic and profound juxtapositions.

"For me, poetry is a vessel—a canoe—that carries our stories, myths, creation stories, genealogies, histories, memories, kin, foods, traumas, hopes, and dreams. Poetry is navigational chant, song map, constellation of words, and wave patterns that help us journey through our past, present, and future. Poetry is prayer and elegy, protest and critique, truth and manifesto. Poetry is a love letter and mahalo circle. Poetry is an archive, document(ary), and library of voices. Poetry is place-based and planetary, migratory and rooted, archipelagic and oceanic. Poetry is hybrid, polyphonic, and multispecies. Poetry is laughter and trickster. Poetry is like the ocean: it has no end, only unknown depths, contracting waves, and dilating horizons."


Nutshell:

Dawn:  Thank you to Joyce for sharing this poem... it allows us to feel a second chance as real...

the welcome relief of starting again afresh.  We picked up on the quirkiness of time:  "If you don't look back, // (line and stanza break) the future never happens."  The link of "prodigal" and smell of biscuits--

and perhaps a return to a more innocent childhood of looking up at the sky to make stories out of clouds

with the sense that anything is possible.  


ars pacifica: I went out of order from what was sent.  (This was poem #4).  Although Bernie read it beautifully slowly, respecting the wide spaces between the worlds... Craig Santos Perez reads it even more

slowly: https://dcs.megaphone.fm/POETS8737071724.mp3?key=72bb030cc5a7add3c823656cfb3977e3

"If you can write the ocean, you can never be silenced".  We could feel the level of the water rising...

how the paddle of your tongue appears, like a savior.  Lori wrote before hearing Rose-Marie's quote shared above about his "ars poetica" "Steer the ship with word"... Yes!  Prayer, elegy... and meditation

enriched by the research (note: kudos for Elaine whose name now is synonymous with "delving deeper").


I am the Apsara's Dance: See Marna's share of the ballet for the spirit of this spirit woman of sky/cloud. 

We can hear the bells... I didn't mean to put the men in the group on the spot to ask how they respond to this female "copying the image"... the poem resonates on many levels-- as does "sea of milk".  Lori shared the sweetness of the image and scent of orange blossom she is privileged to experience with her son.

A sense of sacred sensuality...


The Weight of Sweetness:  we discussed at length this word "weight" -- both a term of measurement as well as an indicator of emotional gravitas.  We cannot know sweet without struggle... and what is this sweetness that remains in memory?  Li-Young Lee sketches a light philosophical introduction... allows us

to puzzle over choosing three of four "gravities"... proceeds to painting an image of peach... like a video,

from its weight bending the branch to snapping off to rest in your palm... (Ah!  David H. explained that

luscious feel... that ultimate experience of tasting a ripe peach... which inspired Bernie to echo with a similar eureka of tasting a perfectly ripe strawberry)... Back to the poem... third stanza sets the scenario...

the tender gesture of the father moving a green leaf, "fallen like a kiss", leading us to the 4th stanza and

an almost unexpected weight... hugging those peaches, trying to keep up with his father.  The sounds

support the breathless "f's" -- the sibilance of s, sh, weave in to flavor the memory just as delicately sensuous....


From Blossoms:  pick by Jan.    She was struck by the emotional impact, the beauty, the sensuous quality

as were we.   A companion piece to the other... "O to take what we love inside" now

understood in a deeper way... not just "jubilance of peace" -- but this sense of impossible -- how blossom

is so transformed to fruit... a sense of ashes to ashes, and yet this joy, gathering weight as it is repeated

three times, weightless as wing.


What the Paint Can Do:  Van Gogh does in paint, what Li-Young Lee does with words.  A portrait is

more than physical ressemblance.  As Van G. said, "paintings have a life of their own that derives from

the painter's soul".  His yellow in the hat, stands for the sun... the energy and vitality of delivered by...

paint.


Palm Sunday:  Thank you June for sharing this... and the context of how it soothed you as you struggled to write a poem about the nameless man burned alive by two teens... How words and crowds and easy feelings are no enough to fix large problems.  What surface flourish do we apply... no human being is

spared from some form of "self-interest, fearful guardedness, hardness of hard" -- the barricades that

hide a dreadful emptiness... The last line is a strong call to invite us to participate more fully.


Criminal Justice Haiku Series: This criticism of Rochester, NY is just one such way of participating...

It was powerful to have 10 different voices read the 10 haiku.




Thursday, March 25, 2021

Poems for March 24


Miracles & Wonder by Alicia Hoffman

Sempre Forte  by Alicia Hoffman

Letter to My Great, Great Grandchild  by J.P. Grasser

Reapers by Jean Toomer

Rock Me, Mercy  by  Yusuf Komunyakaa                     

Easter, 1916 by W. B. Yeats


Nutshell summary:


Miracles & Wonder It was a pleasure to welcome back Alicia who read us two poems.  The title of the first, she explained, 

came from a Paul Simon song, from Graceland.  She collects words and phrases... which then find themselves into her poems without any preconceived plan.  I loved how the poem started out

with a "mission"-- and several people picked up on where the combination of daily news and the body's equipment led:  "I have no remedy for living".  The language continues to mesmerize (viz. "cabinetry of the brain" as opposed to the expected "chemistry"; the "storage drawer for petrichor") shifting into military mode, to "march into the day as inventory commander, sight supervisor -- with this mission:

to witness the astonishing.  The delight of the poem continues, reaffirming that wonder does indeed

exist... along with the wonder that will confront any disbelief, that we exist.

We all agreed how wonderful it is to have a word like petrichor-- that such a word exists... that poetry provides us with a manner of gifts, not least of which is the way words, well-managed, help shape our attitudes towards what might be routine, help us feel anchored to something miraculous.  


Sempre Forte: From the beginning epigraph to the metaphorical understanding behind a singular snowflake in a white field... the poems leads us through a meditation on significance... and an almost

antithetical response to "insignificance":  love it all, place no blame -- and the inescapable clamor

if the speaker of the poem indeed  (echoing the avalanche in the epigram) succeeds in the plan "to clash like a cymbal's clang into the landscape."

As if...(paradox with self: "as if crashing can ever be weighed by the brain's dull architecture" as if... 

(back to the snow crystal sliding onto this blank canvas) holding a moral code.

Refreshing images, beautiful pacing of the couplets, starting with the reference to music as silence between the notes, ending with "fleck of notation on the sheet of a score".  The Title's latin, "always strong", as musical direction.  Alicia mentioned how she couldn't remember how she came up with it,

a refreshing confirmation that sometimes things just happen and we can't remember, or perhaps do not know why.


Letter to my Great, Great Grandchild:  I mentioned Peter Jemison and his work now on display at the MAG, and the Seneca belief in being good caretakers and stewards to leave the Earth in as good a condition as we can for those not yet born 7 generations hence... We need to recognize the struggle between "progress" and the price paid for it... The poem's tone starts with a term of endearment, 

a gentle confession of what has gone wrong... with the lens of future generations.  Ice... dumped out... --

but then, think about what went into making it... and how natural ice is disappearing at the poles, and our disrespect of water. How dancing went on even in times of war... names of animals only preserved by cars named after them... the real dog and the plastic dish... the line break on "playing/dead".  All these details sift through the  couplets, small windows through which to view a long list.  The light irony illuminates

disaster in a way no lecture can deliver...


Reapers: Written in 1923, you hear the sound of steel... watch its use... the silent repeating, the accidental

murder of the rat... the way everything goes on.  Hard not to think of human life .  Who's next? How will 

it happen?  The use of sounds, repeated words; alliteration reinforces the multiple dimensions of  this short 8 line poem.  Perhaps the two parts allude to time, and  initial bl in black couples with blood, bleed, blade,

oh... uh... the squeal of ee, in the rhymed lines... n's shifting to d's... the end... and who's the next arbitrary (and unsuspecting) rat?


Rock Me, Mercy:  hearing Komunyaaka read this... with a beautiful pacing, as if loaded with silence between the lines... The River stones... the listening, the silence... the waiting... and finally he spoke it,

Mercy... please, rock me.


Our group was struck dumb.  We gave ourselves time to individually  review our own shock at the Sandy Hook School killing... and this past year, this past week... but in the comfort of each other's presence.

In essence, we are all walking each other home.  We spoke of how our need for connection has turned into a demand as we are pulled to be aware of everything...  of how we

have dealt with over a year of pandemic,  how we witness, survive. 


Recommendations: 

David Attenborough discusses humanity's impact on nature and the actions we can take to save the planet in A Life on our Planet.







Thursday, March 18, 2021

Poems for March 17

 Two Countries — by Naomi Shihab Nye

Making Peace by Denise Levertov

Wind’s Eye by Lynn Caldwell

If You Knew  by Ruth Muskrat Bronson

Last Words  by Rita Dove 

Day-Old Widow Poem  by C.D.Wright

Turner  by Maurice Manning 

Aphorisms:  Antonio Porchia 

Where do you go 


Nutshell:

Two Countries:  The title allows the reader to ponder, as did the group, on what metaphor is contained in "countries".

It led me to ask if "skin" could also be a metaphor for something larger... which started the discussion on the properties of skin as the largest organ in the body, capable of absorbing the atmosphere, receptive, responsive to touch.  Skin regenerates,

indeed, "heals over the scarred place"-- and like the Ishmael Reed poem last week, it was refreshing to use the word "skin" without referring to color, caste.   Indeed, we all felt like one of the blind men touching different parts of an elephant...  

Two countries should be the self and other... or territories within a self, or time present and time past.  We discussed travel,

as a way to bridge how to we learn from experience, and so much more.  This is one of those brilliant poems, which invites

multiple angles... the importance of touch in old age; the importance of observing (noticing that feather in lines 3-6)... the hope that actual physical countries like Palestine and Israel might one day allow a universal love that allows one "to breathe

in two countries."


“Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs—
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music lest it should not find
An echo in another's mind,
While the touch of Nature's art
Harmonizes heart to heart.”

-- Percy Bysse Shelley


Making Peace:  What is involved with "making" of peace, and what has this to do with poetry?  Everything!

Levertov allows us to imagine what we must do first -- her alliterative p's : peace (like a) poem;  

r's: revoking reaffirmation; profit/power; peace a presence seen to give an outline.  The word "sentence" 

is both grammatical (that grammar of justice, syntax of mutual aid,) and also the fate, the judgement handed

down of how we live our lives.  If we do not slow down to balance the weight of actions and words as instruments that guide us... indeed, as David brought up in Wordsworth, "The world is too much with us"... and we will be caught in behaviors that lead to war.  The poem allows a much bigger vision of peace as a way of life... an energy field, a cadence, not just

the absence of war, and so much more intense.


Wind's Eye:  What is wind? What is Eye?  Window (which the author's note tells us is Old Norse for wind's eye).

This poem invites a meditative approach to perception...which leads to far greater abstractions than "wind" or sight,

 what is "closedshut"  and how to open. ( I see the word "hut"  in the combined "closedshut" used twice, first with doors, then followed by a line break, open.)

Glass-sharp, a bit like a kenning (two words making a descriptive metaphorical noun)-- gives a sense of keen, incisive action of wind.  What does the mind's eye see?  Is Wind's Eye an all-being God?  Carolyn brought up the importance of color--

that the mention of green is the first time we can "see the light" -- "my eye // blowing open" . 


Last Words:  read by Rita Dove... we loved the images...and the build up to the penultimate stanza, "Let the end come". 

Jan commented that she defines grace: it is what is unsought, underserved, perhaps inconvenient, but definitely not something we control, and often unexpected.  We loved also the delightful end in italics... Who is saying this?  It doesn't matter, but addresses what we all feel... we know death will come, don't like to think about, and if we do, it's nice to

know we aren't the only ones to chide ourselves for doing so.


Day-Old Widow Poem:  This was Kathy's pick. It's one of those poems which indeed changes the way we look at those fractions of moments when everything changes.  The title sets the time, scene... but the poem drops in as if a small

piece of the memory of how the husband died.  There is no punctuation... no beginning, no end.  The stop in the middle of the first line... "he smiles as if..."

with no ellipses, no clue, no indication that he is no longer breathing.  Later, in the fifth line, the same kind of 

un-accented stop:  a book/ drops to the floor... 

the poem doesn't say the wife calls out... merely, simply stated.  No answer. perhaps a book dropped, she thought she heard it.

and she knew, before she knew...  The poem is visceral... none of us had trouble visualizing.  It gives me shivers.


Turner: A beautiful ekphrastic poem -- but more than that.  A meditation on time... where the word becomes like a mesmerizing chant.  Bernie used "unbroken, hallucinatory fog" to describe the feeling of being wrapped in this blurry,

scene.  The painting is an anchor... The difference of the pause in the voice, "timeless... in.. time" as opposed to "capture time in time"... what is timeless... what is time?  We are arrested -- this capture of vivid aliveness paused... and arrive at the final word, silence.


Aphorisms: Speaking of time... did not have time to discuss them.

 




 

Thursday, March 11, 2021

March 10

 

Would You Be White or Black?  by Amit Dahiyabadshah

The Word in My Nomadic Ear  by Amit Dahiyabadshah

Prayer for Words by N. Scott Momaday 

The Man Whose Voice Has Been Taken From His Throat by Naomi Shihab Nye 

I am here because somebody survived by Cornelius Eady 

Skin Tight  by Ishmael Reed 



I had invited Amit Dahiyabadshah to attend today and we started the session with his two poems. 

His presence made this one of the most memorable and enjoyable sessions we have ever had. 

He stayed for the rest of the session and lent such depth to the discussion bringing up such ideas as how as poets, we only write half a poem. The other half comes from the listener. You only need 2,000 words in English to write a novel, read a book, but for poems, you want to choose words that are accessible, and give a desire to want to read them again. His definition of a good poem: You hear it, and want to buy the book in which it appears!

If there is resonance, the poem really comes alive. Certainly Amit creates this as he reads. It is so fun to have the “text” in front of our eyes, and yet see how he modifies the poem as he reads… picking up on the energy of the audience. Everyone present was thoroughly enchanted by him and by his poetry. With zoom, having a poet reading from New Delhi (11 hours time difference, so 11 pm his time when we started at noon) is possible.

(see below more information about Amit.)  You can hear his voice in this link: https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=Amit+Dahiyabadshah (thank you to John W.!)

Although he says he has more "luck than talent" both the written version and oral delivery of his poems confirm that his poems are the sort that indeed  make you want to go out and buy the book and recording that contain them.  (His definition of a good poem).


Nutshell:

Would you be white or black:  The subtle transformation from the drunk's question are you white or black to "would you", rephrased with a layer of politesse, brings the particular story to the larger question about how we think about skin color.  Indeed, India with thousands of languages and dialects, also has a population of  "thousands of shades of human skin".  His brilliant metaphor does not chide Americans for the  "cold emptiness of black and white".  He simply, and quite aptly compares our emotional landscape to an infinite and permanent state of a winter woods.  What a contrast with the opening adjectives that describe a range of emotions that respond  to the question:  skin color is not a question of black and white nature!  His mind went blank, a word repeated nine times...supported by these adjectives:  surprised, mystified, unnamed, shamed, curious, furious.


The word in my Nomadic Ear:  Here, the verb to denote the action of the "pen" is caravans... with the delightful metaphor of the "wisdom: the journey's wage  upon the ivory prayer bead trail" . This pen which traces across the desert page, the fruit and shade of chosen words... captures the possibilities of written words comparing them to night stars impaled on Black Buck horns... the pleasure of the sounds of "crescent curve of moon,

sand dune", acacia thorn, Urdu-born... wetness in the ink... pause to think...


He explained the image of the spiral horns of the Black Buck (but did not go into the poaching-- you might enjoy this article. https://www.indiatoday.in/education-today/gk-current-affairs/story/blackbuck-facts-and-why-they-are-endangered-html-1205359-2018-04-05


John echoed another version of characteristics of languages: "sniffing and tasting of French; the sun-soaked Italian, the growl of Spanish, etc."  Just like people "looking but not seeing", for language,

we are often insensitive to the tone, culture, layered implications that go far beyond the mere word.  

Amit not only paints a sketch of such possibilities, but illustrates how words come alive "making a sweet bridge while crossing between two people".  


This was the poem I heard at the open mic and just had to see in print.  We can thank this poem, 

for prompting me to contact Amit -- leading to the pleasure of his visit in person on zoom.


Prayer for words: This poem brought up much discussion about Native Americans and how cruelly their traditions were silenced.  The title gives a sacred overtone to this eloquently-expressed and sensory-filled poem which encapsulates a Navajo world view of creation, the sense of the Great Spirit infusing all of nature. 

Amit asked about the chokecherry, and case in point about details: it is sour, (echoing the bitterness), but also used for medicinal purposes.  


The Man Whose Voice Has Been Taken From His Throat:  to continue the theme of silencing... 

The violent title, which carries into the first line... which in turn, describes a living, still articulate in gesture albeit voiceless, man.   The first word on the first line "remains" associates with the noun

for dead body as well as the verb, of what continues on, what is left (echoed 4 stanzas later "he speaks to the shadow/of leaves). Such eloquent images are in each couplet, each like a self-contained fragment.

I could imagine the shape of Mexico like a question mark... and we thought of the metaphorical implications as well as the Spanish upside-down question mark used at the beginning of clauses that pose a question. 

https://blog.rosettastone.com/whats-up-with-the-upside-down-question-mark/

We spoke of dual cultures, the history of Mexico... Aztecs, Spaniards, Americans... how the violence continues... how people survive... and we all live on "ill-gotten gains". 

Amit shared an anecdote about visiting Pennsylvania:  He was following Wissahickon creek

on Tulpehocken street what the Indians called "The Trail of Turtles" -- and on this now paved trail, he saw a solitary turtle making its journey to the river on the asphalt!  A perfect segue to the next poem.


"I am here because somebody survived".    I couldn't find the quote, or "On Meditation" by Mahogany Brown referenced in the epigraph.  What a graphic, surrealistic version of survival!  The sounds reinforce the meaning.  In particular, the play of goon/fool/cartoon.


Skin Tight: Listen to this recording to hear how Ishmael Reed slows down, accentuates certain words and for the overall tone.  https://player.fm/series/poem-a-day/ishmael-reed-skin-tight


What a view of the human condition!  Comments included  humorous and yet "irreverence struck into the heart".  The clichĂ©s used with skin coupled with the personification of all the parts of the body do not bring up the issue of racism, skin color, and yet, it feels clear.  As Amit mentioned, a poet only writes half of the poem -- the listener completes the other half.  He shared his comments about what the brain does, and doesn't use in our perceptions.  (see below in note:  "Skilled Observation for Dynamic Perception"-- often our "looking" is only skin-deep... we don't see the whole person.)


The discussion included paradox as central to the human condition (take paradox out of any country, and nothing would be left...)

Amit shared his view that the last 100 years have been the most peaceful -- in spite of the two world wars-- that before, wars could eradicate 50% of a society.  We discussed politicians, caste...



More about Amit: 

  I happened to meet Amit through John Roche and Jules Nyquist’s Kaktus reading in an open mic.  He read the  fabulous poem, The word in my Nomadic Ear,  at the open mic and so I contacted him… and we started corresponding.
He believes that the real and sustainable change will come from having more poets and more poetry writing in an accessible way about sustainable change… you can hear him read here:
He has  published 20 collections -- his 21st  "Unsquaring the Circle - The Poetry of Amit Dahiyabadshah" is under print and being sold by booking in advance @ $25 U.S.D excluding actual postage.
His  signature poem ( available on Youtube) The Last Will of the Tiger  is on NDTV with Amitabh Bachhan has helped the channel raise over a half million dollars to help save the tiger.

Amit might mention some of the TEDx bio below in passing, but is very humble and has a great sense of humor.
His parents were freedom fighters…and he comes from a village he says is for farmers and soldiers, 140 km from New Delhi.  Farming is being ousted by real estate, rather as it is in our American surburban landscape. For 25 years, he has supported himself through poetry.  He elaborated the prime difference between "educated" and "literate" explaining his theory about "Skilled Observation for Dynamic Perception".  He grew up with a language which is not written, happened to learn English from two peace corps people, learned how to write in two languages.  His understanding is deeper than book learning, because he
is curious, and his way of looking sees quite deeply.  As he put it, most people sacrifice curiosity for comfort; everybody can look, but their perception is "skin deep."


Amit Dahiyabadshah has been recognised as Poet Laureate of the Senior Environment Corps Center in The Park G. Town Philadelphia and As Poet In Residence of the Global Constitution Forum Philadelphia. He's the founder of the poetry movement, Delhi Poetree which has been featured on BBC world service and NDTV and also in the premium print media in both news papers and magazines. Coverage of DelhiPoetree events and poets is more than twenty times the media coverage of all other poetry groups combined. He is a successful working Poet and his efforts working methods are a revelation to other poets in finding dignity and empowerment as successful promoters of poetry in general and their own works in particular. He is the author of Seven collections of Poetry of which the latest is America In A Brown Eye. His book for children entitled Murugan's Trees is being Translated into 23 languages.


Friday, March 5, 2021

March 3



The pennycandystore beyond the El by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The world is a beautiful place  by Lawrence Ferlinghetti https://twitter.com/dusttodigital/status/1364424169983782913?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Etweet

A Coney Island of the Mind  by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (part 1) https://voetica.com/voetica.php?collection=2&poet=881&poem=7507

The Subject of Retreat by Yona Harvey

Tulips  by Sylvia Plath (poem from 1962, reprinted in February 2021 by the New Yorker)

ABC by Robert Pinsky

Lament  by Eric Rounds (Delivered in person!  Thank you Eric)


Nutshell:

 Ferlinghetti:

This week, to honor the passing of Ferlinghetti, three poems… You can hear him reciting a few lines from A Coney Island of the Mind in this NPR podcast: https://one.npr.org/?sharedMediaId=375206219:970672354&utm_source=npr_newsletter&utm_medium=email&utm_content=20210224&utm_term=5199753&utm_campaign=news&utm_id=53441583&orgid=

 

How much poetry changed focus thanks to his views on the role of poetry… which brings us to a medley of other poems both old and new, poets familiar and unknown.


We discussed the magic of Ferlinghetti --  the visual presentation, his voice, hearing his mastery of alliterations and rhyme

...   seamless transitions that link surprises with enjambments, and linear steps... In a word, Terrific!  and such fun --even if the polarities end up as in "The world is a beautiful place" with the smiling mortician... Yes... he engages us to pay attention to wonderful things in the second part of "The world is a beautiful place".. and yet we also get the message of amusing ourselves to death. (cf. Neil Postman: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amusing_Ourselves_to_Death


Coney Island of the mind has yet another brilliance... creating a world through Goya's unbearable paintings, in a few words, where sound, meaning do the work... make us want to know more.

We noted how in this poem, he moves deliberately, slowly in a complex web of distinctions... the electric shock effect of the word "exactly" in the brilliant phrase,  of seeing the people of the world, "exactly at the moment when they first attained the title of "suffering humanity".  No one speaks this way.  And you can't paraphrase the poem.  As David noted, our discussion gave insight into us.  


June provided this quote: “A poem should rise to ecstasy somewhere between speech and song. Poetry is a voice of dissent against the waste of words and the mad plethora of print. Poetry is what exists between the lines. Poetry is made with the syllables of dreams.” (Ferlinghetti)


I forget who provided this  one: "Poetry is the insurgent knock on the door of the unknown"

Much has been written:  Goya gives overview of disasters of war: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Disasters_of_War

 

Ferlinghetti… + art: https://www.theartnewspaper.com/interview/i-learned-a-lot-from-goya-an-interview-with-the-poet-and-artist-lawrence-ferlinghetti

 

full poem read by Ferlinghetti: https://owlcation.com/humanities/Ferlinghettis-In-Goyas-Greatest-Scenes-We-Seem


Yona Harvey:  This poem, hard on the heels of Ferlinghetti, produced a lot of discussion.  Bernie quoted the Sherlock Holmes phrase, "There are elements" -- but most felt challenged without clear direction, as if the poem were unfinished.  Our discussion was more about us, as readers, than about the poem. We value clarity..  We felt the poem didn't stand on its own and  the note, compounded the difficulty of seeing how routine, a snowstorm and domestic abuse made an accessible poem. 

 

The problem with poems “turning into themselves” is that only those who are on the same page and want to spend a lot of time pondering what possibilities of meaning are there.

I wonder if the poet, Yona Harvey, knows about Hermetics.  She says in her note that she is combining a snowstorm, which feels routine in Pittsburgh in Winter with domestic abuse, “collapsing those thoughts into one space”.  

There were “clues” but the group was challenged and the discussion revealed more about the readers and their need to value clarity, than finding keys to feeling what the poet was exploring.


Sylvia Plath:  We could have spent two hours on each stanza... Some saw the tulips as cut flowers... their energy killed... others as tulips in a pot... but however, none of us will look at tulips quite the same way... or consider whether flowers are welcome at a hospital bedside... Ken suggested this biography of Sylvia: Red Comet: https://www.amazon.com/Red-Comet-Short-Blazing-Sylvia-ebook/dp/B083RZ5MKG

This poem, perhaps a prelude to her suicide, reveals tulips as one more thing to deal with... Perhaps the poem has too much metaphor... but that does not reduce the fact that the poem allows us to feel her anguish.

Emily was reminded of this poem:  

 https://poets.org/poet/corrinne-clegg-hales?mc_cid=e641712ef7&mc_eid=d22ada811b


Eric Rounds

We were honored to have Eric, a local poet, join us.  Amazing how an "ABC" poem can create 16th century trumpets...  and creates an entire drama for this bee... We discussed the title, the spirit of fun in the poem... how the story of this "inseminator, kinetic lancer, opulent pollinator" is told, with a sense of regret missing its  "urgent virtue" and zeal. 

This skillful elegy was inspired by started with ABC... where you hear the letters "a bee ceases", 

however, the good energy is not betrayed by the abecedarian form.  


More references:

Stephanie Burt: Don't read poetry

see this review: https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/dont-read-poetry-is-a-literary-manual-for-the-instagram-era/2019/05/30/365a35f8-821f-11e9-95a9-e2c830afe24f_story.html

 

Friendly review: https://kenyonreview.org/reviews/dont-read-poetry-by-stephanie-burt-738439/


Bill Heyen:  

His poem: Poetics of Hiroshima

http://behindthelinespoetry.blogspot.com/2013/08/a-poetics-of-hiroshima-by-william-heyen.html

 Bill Heyen’s reading: 

https://youtu.be/77I9llY3S84


Thursday, February 25, 2021

February 24

  

Self Portrait as retratos de cosas locas y de locos (stolen) by Patricia Spears Jones

for Papo Colo

The Wall by Anita Endrezze (Yaqui)

Shaking Hands by Pádraig Ă“ Team

Breath by Adrian Rice

Sometimes by Herman Hesse (translated by Robert Bly) (paired with Crow in Shadow, by Peter Jemison)

Barter by Sara Teasdale

His Master's Voice by Carl Phillips

Rejection Letter to a January Crocus


We will start with Bernie's poem from last week, "Medina on the Mississippi.

What hats do we wear and how does this reflect who we are?

And if you painted portraits of crazy things, crazy people, what would you paint?  Perhaps graffiti on a wall... and what walls do you face?  If only we could just shake hands and move on... understand that the breath blown into balloons will also come out when their time is up... and wonder about questions, barter for answers... look at what is called "truth"... well... and why not write a poem about it, hope that eventually, some ragged remains will struggle up after winter to be reconsidered.


Ken Nash highly recommended this movie, Mango Dreams -- wonderful movie and skillful telling of the horrible repercussions of the Partition…the power of memory, bonding through story… Ken's summary: A Hindu doctor with dementia and a Muslim auto rickshaw driver form an unlikely  friendship as they cross India in search of the doctor's childhood home.  Issues of loss, denial and division mix with cherished memories, sacrifice and respect.  

On Netflix. 


** 

Nutshell: 2/24

 

Medina: Bernie opened the meeting with his poem, written in 2006, which he remembered after discussing “Healing Improvisations of Hair”  by Jay Wright https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42740/the-healing-improvisation-of-hair discussed Feb. 10.  As Wright puts it in his poem…

How like joy to come upon me

in remembering a head of hair…

Indeed, Bernie’s perspective of the back of heads, leads to a deeper truth of our human condition but he adds a sacred overtone.  Hegira (Islam marking of year 1 of the Muslim calendar, in tribute to Muhammad’s exodus from Mecca to Medina) becomes a shared experience on a 21st century airplane traveling to Mississippi. (Indeed, unbeknownst to Bernie, there is a Medinah, MS with a Musliim community in it!)  The hair is “bondaged”, and we are given strong visuals of hair do’s, caps… The ending is hopeful, with a yearning to imagine unity despite our individual hats, hair, selves. The mention of a possible shepherd in charge of all is comforting indeed.  From the poet: As I recall I noticed the heads and hair, and that big head moved me to associations, so the Medici. And then I think it was seeing the rows and columns of us all on th4e plane that made me think of those large Islamic prayer gatherings. I'm uncertain of all the connections, but I made a connection from Muslims to Mohammed's flight to Medina, which I was familiar with in a general way, paralleling our literal flight heading onward, and then took off - so to speak - from there.  

Looking at it now, I wonder if Medina also grew from Medici and the M's in Meridian, my destination, and Mississippi.  I know I've always liked the sound of that title, and the title definitely came last, after the poem had formed, not the other way around.

 

Self-Portrait: One intriguing question that came up was how to read the poem without its note. 

Certainly the poem itself is filled with lovely brushstrokes of alliterations, repetitions, sounds of words, like a painting.  The four stanzas appeal to our senses giving a visceral feel both to something universal like the pandemic which touches us all and the more personal portrayal of the poet’s friend and the trigger of their meeting on Mercer Street in early 2019. We had the sense of a mosaic, not yet assembled.  The final stanza reminded Emily of Leonard Cohen, 

and many recalled the passage in the Bible about Elijah and the “still small voice” as conscience. https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1%20Kings%2019%3A11-13&version=NKJV

 

 

The Wall:  Adjectives for this poem:  fabulous!  amazing!  powerful!  Jan brought up the trauma that a wall creates, and how the poem ressembled the horror of the story of the India/Pakistan partition in Mango Dreams.  Memories spackled together, build, like the semi-random-seeming possibilities of what one could use to make a wall.  A touch of humor makes the distress and devastation inherent bearable.  (avocado seeds as Aztec testicles! choices of “adobe or ghosts” next to lego or bubble wrap; wallets on life support; the bigly block party; xocoatl motar, etc. ) 

A touch of surrealism to offset the seriousness such as “Dreams will be terrorists” and the memories of what was.   The poet’s father is Yaqui , and I put that next to her name, as 

she writes from her experience as a Native American woman.  Like the previous poem, a mosaic— but in this case of congruent angles of stories that are part of the border. 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/anita-endrezze

 

Shaking Hands: to listen:   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4psKIf-_fi0

Pádraig reads the poem at 2:20 but tells the background in those first two minutes.

We loved the anaphora of Because, which also feels like the reasoning behind the unspoken question is larger than just the Irish troubles, or the examples given in the poem.  Susan mentioned how it felt like a proclamation and Bernie and Jan remarked on the ressemblance to the tolling of a bell.   Particularly in this time of pandemic, it is a timely poem.  How will we deal with each other when we can touch again? Shake hands?  How do we convey empathy, good will without the basic courtesy of the handshake or this metaphor for whatever cultural touch it represents?

 

Breath:  The Guardian gives a nice summary — but out group picked up on death/breath/womb-tomb of the idea of breath entering a balloon… We picked up on his reading, which didn’t give space between the tercets, which give an air of a children’s story.  We could sense the personality of the father, admired the seamless way his mock-cursing transforms to the balloons mockingly bobbing about… The wife’s anger at his death… her love for this man… the violent burst of life-giving air she receives… A touch surreal, and works without the story.  Elaine told the tragic story of a father-to-be blown up preparing a prop for a  “reveal party”. https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/new-york-state-father-be-killed-when-gender-reveal-prop-n1258554

This too could be made into poem.  We reminisced about how we remember… how if a casserole is left over, made the person who passed away… how this becomes a “rite” part

of the memorial.

My mistake about the story behind the poem (go to minute 43):  He and his wife Molly had gone to Walmarts to pick up bread and milk (and Adrian says, “never underestimate the temple that is Walmart— I’ve had so many poems inspired by this place…”  The story is that a working class couple with some children were at the checkout, and the kids were crying for some expensive helium balloons.  Adrian told them, ah… you’ll be missing out on all the fun — get a packet of 100 of them and ask your Da’ to blow them up — it will kill him, and give him a squeaky voice…”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZxE3QejLas&feature=youtu.be

He reads it at minute 44:44

This is one of his poems that came to him sitting on a porch —what he calls “a secret poetry machine”.  All it took was remembering this incident after writing the title and immediately the first stanza comes to mind. 

 

Sometimes: I found the original German, a rhymed translation and link to the Bly here: http://www.ayearofbeinghere.com/2014/10/hermann-hesse-sometimes.html

With the Bly translation, which lacks rhyme, we still had a sense of a unified treatment of feeling fortified by the images.  It is an enigmatic poem.  What are the questions asked?  We as readers cannot participate in the reply, but rather must seek our own questions, join in the universal conversation with "soul" in this way.  I shared the link to a work of art by Peter Jemison, Crow in the Shadow http://magart.rochester.edu/objects-1/info/24389

 paired with this poem for the docents at the Memorial Art Gallery.

 

Barter: An older form poem, beautifully crafted… … and  we are reminded as well, it is quite a privileged perspective.  It had been recited for the teen Poetry Outloud competition by Sofia de Bitetto.

In her recitation it felt that she latched onto the infinite optimism of the poem.  The speaker, arguably, could "have" nothing.  life's loveliness is in nature and experience, interpersonal connections.  yes, one is urged to "spend" without limit on this loveliness, but therein lies the barter. one is not spending their trust fund on it, but rather "all [they] have been, or could be."  

 

 

His Master’s Voice: The image of the RCA Victor  [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nipper]

 came to mind, as well as possibly a slave recalling a master… perhaps doing something he regretted to another slave…

The ambiguity, and impossibility of knowing the details allowed us to look at the message about truth.  We enjoyed the language — that “dust-bath thing” of “indistinguishable brown birds”,

the “fake-looking posture of half collapse” of those bedraggled dahlias… and the heat (compared to the way facts behave with a “truth more difficult/to touch than usual) haloing… —

the style, language, overlay of images ending with the sea anemones rooted in something we cannot see, all adds to an elusive experience.  Well, in case you don’t get it… go back to the beginning… honesty as bruising and bruisable… and perhaps you too will go back to making

your inventory… 

 

rejection letter: Perfect metaphor all writers understand, expressed in a delightful, heart-warming manner.