Literary road dogs and Alligator Creek

Sunday - last day - Georgia to Florida

Forget Kerouac and Cassady. Perhaps, they were never really all that anyway. For this five day drive from Portland, Oregon to Florida's gulf coast, Rilke, Odysseus Elytis, Roy DeG., Galway Kinnell and Billy Collins have been our literary traveling companions. I should say Billy McCollins because, for all his admittedly delightful surprise poetic twist endings, and being a former Poet Laureate of the United States, Billy really is the Rod McKuen of the hour. Sorry Billy, but you know it's true. Anyway, their company has been, in turns, painful (Billy's same-ie sameness), lofty (Odysseus's romantic Greek modernism), electrifying (Rilke), heartbreaking (Galway) and delightful (Roy DeG.).

M. Lee, Roy DeG. & me in K.C.

When we got to Florida we turned off I-75 to gas up and found ourselves in an alternate Elmore Leonard universe and stopping at the Sarasota Trader Joe's we entered the alternate universe of "ageless" women sporting every implant known to modern and primitive man plus some double, perhaps triple, implants and lifts known only to aliens and Jersey surgeons before which we could only stand in jaw-dropped awe.

Monday - home - Alligator Creek

The old place looks good. Since we were here last, Frida Kahlo's pineapple palm was (finally) pruned. There was even a young squirrel in it this morning eating a nut! Surely, she is one of Frida's descendants. And, wonder upon wonder, Sonny Boy still lives with his parents across the street. He's been out in the screen porch all morning expounding to his mother about the fat epidemic, environment disasters, jail, death, work (which he does not) and a variety of other subjects as flocks of white ibises fly over the twittering, splashing mangroves on their way to the beach. In the last year, we've spent more time on Alligator Creek than "home" in Nevada. It's comforting to see that something of the world as it was still lives there.

Yellow Shoes

I posted a new poem at AnnaSadhorse the other day. Well, it's not new. I wrote it in 1988 for Lawson Inada, Oregon's poet laureate from 2006 to 2010. I was taking a writing for publication class from him at the time. One day I was wearing yellow shoes, ankle boots actually, and had my feet up on the chair in front of me. Lawson was talking, walking back and forth in front of the blackboard, when suddenly he grabbed one of my feet, held it up and told me to write a poem about yellow shoes and bring it to class the next day. So I did and here it is.

Lines Past Death

I sat with my Uncle all day the day he died. That was Saturday, February 1, 1992. These poems greeted me when I brought his ashes home to Southern Oregon a few days later. He had mailed them to me from Portland the day before he died, Friday, January 31. In the accompanying letter he  wrote, “All I need is a chance at a new peace”. He died the next evening with me sitting by his side, our faces touching, breathing together. I’ve taken the liberty of calling this collection, “LINES PAST DEATH”.

LINES PAST DEATH

The two were dressed in black, in what seemed like rented clothes.  They went to the man in the next stall, be still, is all I could do.  The man had died.  They took him away on a palette covered with a royal maroon cover and deposited him in a long station wagon.  So he passed his time, in a setting of principles.  No more to be seen.  Only the rented costume comes to mind as I write.  THAT was a fancy way to leave his guest.  Like a disappearance. 


#2

evergreen and birch trees and a small bed of roses…low evergreen shrubs and a lawn on either side of an entrance walk.  Crows scan the higher branches and frighten other birds.  The distance cold alerts one and the winter sun tries to subdue the body’s alarm.  Still, it is day, and we have the whole affect of nature to subdues us    and bring peace.


WINTER

A stalwart, winter day,
seen through the vibran
escapade of voices,
leaves me to wonder at the meaning left behind.
enlivening the shadow of this,
puts the mind at ease.
Where the January sun causes
steam to rise from the grass,
enfeebling cold fingers more.
To move is a mundane project
of prospects made whole
by the failing man seeking
to encase the situation
into something respective to itself.
Cold out, he said and felt in his pocket for the next phrase.
Only metal sounds and the body thrusts viably to taste the cold air
circulating on its tattered edge.


VARY AND VARIANCE

sit well – and sleep well,
‘til all these things stand still.
The existentialist needs somewhere to go.
incidental to the truth.  how depressing =
stay. and see if you like yourself.
cold are the winds of January.
grey, dull forces of winter, cleansing of the topical mind;
male and female appear to take away the body of summer.
You go – I’ll stay, adrift are crows, caw-ing in the twilight.


ONE BRIEF INSTANT OF GRACE

After some few weeks of silence, I long to show the contour of such meanings as could survive a hallway of elders and a nursing home; lunch.  The fittest apothegm means to be oneself elsewhere, and neglect to conclude what this does.

Leave the tray a while.

Why eat all the time


~John Chance, 1992

Note: The word "vibran" is Haitian creole for "stirring".
_____________________________________________

Then and Now

The photo is from an album my mother wanted with her on her death bed. She is the girl sitting on the dock. I wrote this poem for her. Today is the 35th anniversary of her death.

New old poem

I posted a new poem at annasadhorse tonight, Epitaph. This makes 27 to date that I've posted there. As with the others, this one is not new, just new to the site. I wrote it 25 years ago. I've never submitted it anywhere but I read it on the radio and at poetry readings. I was living in Ashland, Oregon at the time, a theater town and good place for poets. It's where I founded SkyRiver Press, but that's another story and it's late.

Tulips

"Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river....."
(excerpt from "Tulips" by Sylvia Plath)

This via Buzzfeed via Brain Pickings. Sylvia Plath reading her poem "Tulips".


I did not realize she was also an artist.

Open mic night

The SpokenWordParis open poetry mic at Au Chat Noir last Monday was really excellent. I'm always an outsider at these things but I read whenever I can wherever I go and, in my opinion, the quality of writing at this event was among the best of any I've participated in. And the presentations were good. Even the poems read in other languages were interesting. And unlike London's Poetry Unplugged,which makes people pay a suck ass cover charge to read, SpokenWord Paris is free for all.

So, if you find yourself in Paris looking for a place to read, or listen, to poetry I highly recommend this event. Not only was the work excellent, but people were friendly and unpretentious. Our friend Karen enjoyed the evening, as did M. Lee which is saying something. Generally, to hear him talk, you'd think a rat had gnawed his earlobe off at one of these things.

European tour

I'm leaving in a few minutes for Au Chat Noir for the Spoken Word Paris open mic. It just occurred to me that tonight, combined with the five minute read I did at the Poetry Cafe in London, and now plus the five minutes tonight, in the world of poetry, this amounts to an official European tour. Okay then.

Poetry Unplugged

I finally got around to reading at Poetry Unplugged, the weekly open mic night at the Poetry Society's Poetry Cafe. Very good group. Friendly. Enthusiastic. Ten years running. London is a poetry friendly place. Once again, I think it's the difference in history. England has a grand history with some very great poetry while the US, well, we just don't have much history at all so, when it comes to poetry, not much to refer to or venerate. And West Coast poetry, especially Beat poetry which I inherited, was a lot about discovering there even was a world beyond America and protesting America's ignorance of it. Anyway, sadly not much time to write these days, even this blog. Time to hit the Tube, which does by the way, include poetry. Thank you London.

New Madhuban

Going through papers on my desk this afternoon, I came across some things I wrote years ago that I'd been thinking about, and forgetting to, do something with. As you might guess, I wrote it during a particularly difficult time in my life. Anyway, I'm posting an excerpt here and at Anna Sadhorse.

New Madhuban
West Virginia


this forest,    
planted for a loaf of bread
and a dollar a day, 
is a solemn place
the hill it has taken possession of
drops sharply
to a holler     too steep for pasture
a place where small skeletons   slowly turn to stone
this is a good place to be alone

the sun seldom finds entry to this grove
is a stranger here     off his path  
from a world that does not exist
his probing beams
only deepen the darkness
and threaten to ignite the brittle trees

one may only be here carefully    
this forest has no need of company
birds know it   they do not nest
or sing among its spiney branches
there is no undergrowth   
nothing pierces the needle mat

and the pines themselves
have shed their lower branches
becoming heartless    
pitch steeped trunks with shattered limbs
they offer no place to rest
who comes here must stand alone
who comes here to dream must dream
indifferent as the dead


asha
West Virginia, 1975 - Excerpt from Sunday Feast

Trees were planted in this area during America's Great Depression of the 1930's as part the New Deal.

Submissions Update,12.11

To date, of the six poems I submitted in October, two have been rejected (with comments), two remain unanswered (I'm assuming rejected) and two were accepted. After the first of the year, I'll send out more. 

'Road's Eye View', a poem I wrote in Mexico a few years ago, was recently accepted by Sein und Werden for publication in their January online issue dedicated to Futurism. Sein und Werden features work that is "experimental, non-genre, erotica, horror, philosophical, noir, crime, hard-boiled, surreal" so cool. The deep night voices from that seaside swamp found roost.

Last Day of November and Submissions Update

Welcome to the last day of November 2011.

I am reluctant to see the month pass as it means that the very fine photo calendar of Baby Leo's first year is coming to an end. At this point Baby Leo is well into year two and goes by the moniker Mister Leo. That's all good but god it goes fast! Anyway, good morning or, as they say in Norwegian, God Morgen!

Last night we returned home from Oregon where we spent Thanksgiving. Of course the 7 o'clock Magpie was at the Bird Park bright and early for breakfast...as always. And, as always, the rest of the charm did not show up. It generally takes them a couple of days to figure out that I'm back. She and her mate gobbled up as much as they could and then spend the rest of the morning stashing the remaining peanuts and kibbles around the yard for later. I think of her as a magpie genius, which is quite a compliment given that magpies are already, not only one of the smartest birds, but also among the most intelligent of all animals. Among other talents, they are the first non-mammals proven to recognize themselves in the mirror. Facial recognition is a big deal, especially for birds. When we were kids, my brother's blue parakeet Chi-chi, may he rest in peace, spent an awful lot of time cooing and nibbling his tiny mirror. Clearly, the little dummy believed his girlfriend was the two-dimensional floating head in the glass. Whether or not Chi-chi's relationship in anyway resembles online obsessions will remain a discussion for another day.

In other news, I just learned that Pele, one of the poems I submitted in October to The Fine Line, was accepted and will be included in its upcoming fourth issue. It's a digital publication so unfortunately no complimentary copy but they do post a free download of each issue should anyone care to print one out. Not me but I do appreciate the recognition. And to their credit they accept reprints, which I consider god damn enlightened. So, now Pele has been published twice, once in Skidrow Penthouse, which is a print publication and does pay with copy, and now in The Fine Line.

How to avoid meaningful work and meaningless despair

In case you happen to be doing NaNoWriMo this year, Paula over at Lite Motifs has posted a list of things you can do to avoid working on your project. Her suggestions are very useful, not only for NaNoers, but for anyone wanting to distract themselves from pressing and important work. And, as distraction is my special area of expertise, I felt compelled to add a couple of ideas to her list. They work. I myself managed to waste today's precious last hour of daylight drudging them up and writing this post.

For starters, try this zippy but soothing video of guys getting left behind when the International Space Station reboosts. Then watch and re-watch it again and again and again for, you know, as many times as you can stand it.

And if you still need more, because if you're looking for more you've already watch an ungodly number of cat videos, there are always surfer dog videos. I include them as a special homage to dear little Bella the happy dog, recently departed. Surfer dog videos are like popcorn. You mindlessly want more, even during times of deep despair when life is slipping through your fingers and you are crushed by an overwhelming sense of meaningless tedium and you are least able to remember when you last had even one fleeting second of fun.

More surfer dog videos.

We just got back from Southern Oregon. We were there to attend a going away party for a longtime friend who is moving to Portland which is located far far away at the other end of the state. About 150 people showed up. It was very nice. Everybody loves him. He's a sweet guy. And we saw lots of old friends. After the slideshow, whoever wanted to shared at the mic and the event took a decided turn, becoming more a memorial than farewell roast. The fact is, he is dying. Everybody knows it. Nobody mentioned it but most of us realized we will probably never see him again. Life. We are now entering the part where, one by one, we begin leaving the stage.

And I got a rejection (with comments) from The Fine Line, one of the magazines to which I recently submitted poems. In case you're wondering, a rejection with comments is preferable to getting a rejection without one. I submitted two poems to this particular magazine. The other is still "in progress".

My tree

I spent most of the day in Ashland today, my old home town and place I raised my children. It rained and even the melancholy of the rain was comforting. After lunch with a friend, I got coffee at Bloomsbury Books and waited until it was time to pick up another friend and take him to Fight Night at my in-laws... pizza, cake, ice cream and boxing. It's a tradition, Fight Night.

My tree today

I also visited my tree today. To some degree I measure my life by this tree, or at least my life since that Easter Sunday some 25 years ago when I sat under it and and experienced a "moment of truth". My tree lives in Lithia Park and, at the time, was just big enough to sit under and shelter me from the passing world from which I felt so estranged. Ever since that day, and even though we moved to Nevada, I visit it occasionally to see how it's doing. At this point, it is one of my oldest friends.

Unfortunately, my tree stands at the edge of a playground so its early years were especially hard. Kids can be brutal to young trees, grabbing and breaking branches but, in spite of all that, it is a lucky tree. It also grows close to Lithia Creek and the sloping bank has, for the most part, protected it from the children. Otherwise, I think they would have mauled it to death by now or at least mutilated and dwarfed it.

For several years it looked so sickly I was afraid it would die. Perhaps it took awhile for the roots to reach the creek. And one year I discovered that the top of its trunk had somehow broken over and died. It hung down black and bare into the lower branches. That was a desperate time. I was afraid the gardeners might cut the tree down but, like I said, it is a very lucky tree. Instead they have pruned it back to health. These days, it is looking really good, even with the new forked top. It seems shorter and bushier than normal but it is still growing upward. That's the important thing. Today I saw that the gardeners have pruned away some of its lower branches, the ones facing the playground. I am guessing that is so people can more easily sit in its shelter. It is a very accommodating tree.

Lithia Park's official photo

(That's my tree on the left peeking through
the autumn leaves from the other side of the bridge.)

And my tree was there when I released the remains of my uncle, John Chance, into the snow melt rage of Lithia Creek. The shocking wild flash of ashes turned the creek suddenly white, lingered a moment in the flow as though they didn't want to go, then vanished. My tree holds the memory for me. It's what friends do.

From Beatitude Magazine

Midnight notes along the way

Blue lantern on San Pablo Ave.

After the memorial last Sunday we stayed in the Bay Area a couple more days so Monday night I read poetry at an open mic in Berkeley. It's a weekly event hosted by Poetry Express at the Priya restaurant. I read there last spring. They are a good bunch of friendly, open-minded dedicated writers and it was nice to be back even though I didn't talk to anyone, just read and when it was over, left. I dedicated my reading to Philip. We're in Oregon now. We were going to return to Nevada in the morning but a new storm changed our plans. Looks like we'll be here until at least Sunday.

What's so funny...

...about peace, love and understanding?

Yard birds

I (heart) Florida cranes

...which, in a round about way, reminds me of this little treasure Mr. Lee included on a Valentine card he made for me one year.

(UPDATE: Seems these birds are actually herons. (blush) Anyway, I heart cranes, herons, vultures, cockroaches. You name it. Life is cool.) Now on to the poem...

The Heart

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.

I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

-Hart Crane

Baby watch IV

The baby is now a full week "late". If she/he doesn't come by next Sunday, the doctor will induce labor. Unfortunately, we had to leave today as did Yasna and Vinko, Anita's sister and brother. They, and their mother, came all the way from Norway for the birth but, though she will stay a few more weeks, they were out of time. Bummer. Of course, what matters is that everything goes well and the baby is healthy but damn. We all really wanted to be there.

Mr. Lee and I made it to Elko Nevada this evening after 12 hours on the road and are spending the night at the Motel 6. It's a nasty place. The sheets are rumpled with hairs on them left from the last occupants or series of occupants. Who knows how many people have slept on them before us? Lovely, eh?

On the upside, I finished reading the Pisan Cantos aloud this afternoon as we drove south through Idaho on Hwy 93. At the same time we were roughly due west of Hailey, Pound's birthplace. Coincidence?

Excerpt from Ezra Pound's "Pisan Cantos," section LXXXI, read by the poet

"What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs or is it of none?
First came the seen, then thus the palpable Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee"

Poetry: lost & found

I was dinking around online this morning, yeah searching for myself. So what? Who hasn't? Geeze.... the voices in my head are so rude! Anyway, I came up with this. I had not only forgotten I'd written it, I'd forgotten about the blog I posted it on (IndieWriters) and the google group of the same name. Well, I actually haven't forgotten about the google group of the same name. It just made for better sentence flow to add that. I haven't forgotten about the group but I never go there. But I'm not giving it up. It's a good and appropriate name, one I thoroughly identify with but it joins a host of other online entities I have launched and abandoned, space junk, ephemeral moons sharing my orbit. In my mind's eye they are covered with glittering space dust, a pretty sight out here where earth night fades into deep space.

Excerpt from an unfinished, unnamed collection

Reconstruction

One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. I've written it before on countless scraps of paper. One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. Forgive me. It is composed of a seemingly endless succession of beginnings. The original order of the words has been lost. I rely on you to supply the details. One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. Forgive me. The original has been lost but I promise to stay true to its drift. That is not a matter of memory. It is a matter of being. One world at, one word at a time. Forgive me. The original version of this story does not exist. One word, one sentence at a time, this is its drift. This is the drift. The notes are scattered. No. Not scattered. The notes were never collected. Jotted. Scribbled. On scraps, in notebooks, on flaps. They have never been collected. They have seldom been re-read. Or read. The words, disjointed, have been set down and abandon. No, not abandon. There is much thinking between them, the phrases, the paragraph and elimination of words. And ideas. "Why?" I am telling a story. Build the house. Paint it later. And later still introduce the particulars. Each letter reverberates but ... I digress.

asha

Spoken Views

Here are a few photos from the Spoken Views event in Reno the other night. I read just fine. I know how to deliver a line. I don't shirk. I don't mumble. It's just that lowering the page and talking directly to the audience freaks me out. Always has and I've been doing this for years. Reading in public almost invariability increases my sense of isolation. I'm a very shy person. People who know me might argue that but, in fact, I am seldom comfortable in public.

So this time I picked a poem that has two voices and promised myself I'd ask someone to read with me. The regulars at Spoken Views are very competent performers. Many, I reasoned, can easily do a cold read so maybe I can just ask for a volunteer at the beginning of my set? That way I don't have to actually talk to anyone beforehand. I've only been once before, and I'm older than most, but what the hell? They claim they welcome "readers from all walks of life, young & old". I decided to take 'm at their word.

As it went, the kid sitting next to me struck up a conversation before the show started. It was his first time at Spoken Views and, though he wrote poetry, he'd never read in public. I asked if he'd like to read with me. It seemed like the right thing to do. He said "sure". That's him in the tangerine colored shirt. Gabino. Really nice guy.

In all, I read three poems. Gabino joined me for the final one. He did great. A real champ. I still pretty much panicked once I got on stage but I doubt anyone noticed and guarantee no one cared. Of course, I obsessed well into the next day about how I could have better introduced our little one minute ad hoc multi-voiced experiment. Next time...