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A Winter Day on Grape Creek Road
Friday, December 11, 2009 IV.12.2. This is a shorter than usual post, but I'm worn out by the Christmas mania all around, despite everything I do to avoid it and didn't want to do any more. Short, but still with some pretty good stuff for your literary entertainment. A word about the photos this week - I took a drive in the hill country a couple of days ago, a short run up to Fredericksburg for my quarterly ration of Koch Kasse (German cooked cheese), liverwurst, and dried beef sausage. Found me an interesting road on the way back, Grape Creek Road, to be exact, a winding little thing that follows the creek through the hills to a quarry, paved at first, then caliche, then, toward the end, more holes than road. I took pictures along the way, stark winter pictures with little color, and decided to fool around with them to enhance the stark wintriness of the images. I also tried for an effect that would remind me, and maybe you, of the hand-tinted photos that were popular early in the last century, black and white pictures with just a hint of color. I can't know if it works on the blog until I get it posted. Some of tho photos worked pretty good on Photobucket and some didn't work at all. Oh well. Here's what i have this week on the poetry side of the business. Florida The Orange The Key Lime Gary Blankenship Road Cherita Me my cat looks like Charles Laughton Annamayya Temple songs Gary Blankenship Write Cherita Me boots, no saddle Gary Blankenship Cherita Too Cyra S. Dumitru Mary's Midwife Me hoping we will be true Gary Blankenship Cherita: Memorial for the Lakewood Officers Sapphire My Father's Silence (or, Last Night He Heard Two Poets - One Korean, One African American Me astonished by the cold Charles Bukowski simple kindness a good try, all proper credentials are needed to join Me about round Yang Wan-Li Drinking at Night Eating Frost to Sober Up I Sit Lazily All Day Because My Feet Hurt In the Gorge: We Encounter Wind Me islands  I know several "Here and Now" readers are from Florida, so here's to them, three poems by Campbell McGrath from his book Florida Poems, published in 2002 by HarperCollins. McGrath's previous collections include Capitalism, American Noise, Spring Comes to Chicago and Road Atlas. Among other awards, he has received the Kingsley Tufts Prize and fellowships from the Guggenheim and MacArthur Foundations. He teaches in the creative writing program at Florida International University in Miami. Florida Paradise must resemble this realm of clouds, birds and flowers! Red woodpecker in the royal palm: so too in that forum shall trees uphold the firmament! Mockingbird in the neighbor's garden, wild green parrot in the grapefruit tree: twisted of years, stretching its scaly neck across the hedge, strange to know this branch has grown precisely thus to yield its shapely fruit unto my hand! So shall the limbs of that eternal orchard be laden! Hibiscus, ixora, alamanda, oleander: so shall every flower be given voice! There too, below, the billows of the sea: above, the reefs of dawn and sunset, thunderheads risen like the fists of immortals, celestial cumulus like the bearers of something immense held dangling. Perfume of jasmine, egret in moonlight, trade wind through the jacaranda: nor night shall mast their glory, nor darkness still the turmoil of our senses. The Orange Gone to swim after walking the boys to school. Overcast morning, midweek, off-season, few souls to brave the warm, storm-tossed waves, not wild but rough for this tranquil coast. Swimming now. In rhythm, arm over arm, let the ocean buoy the body and the legs work little, wave overhead, crash and roll with it, breathe, stretch and build, windmill, climb the foam. Breathe, breathe. Traveling downwind I make good time and spot the marker by which I know to halt and forge my way ashore. Who am I to question the current? Surely this is peace abiding. Walking back along the beach I mark the signs of erosion, bide the usual flotsam of seagrass and fan coral, a float from somebody's fishing boat, crusted with sponge and barnacles, and them I find the orange. Single irradiant sphere on the sand, tide-washed, glistening as if new born, golden orb , miraculous ur-fruit, in all that sweep of horizon the only point of color. Cross-legged on my towel I let the juice course and mingle with the film of salt on my lips and the sand in my beard as I steadily peel and eat it. Considering the ancient lineage of this fruit the long history of its dispersal around the globe on currents of animal and human migration, and in light of the importance of the citrus industry to the state of Florida, I will not claim it was the best and sweetest orange in the world, though it was, o great salt water of eternity, o strange and bountiful orchard. The Key Lime Curiously yellow hand-grenade of flavor; Molotov cocktail for a revolution against the bland.  Gary Blankenship, our friend from Washington state, introduced a new poetry form to those of us on the Blueline Forums House of 30. It's called a "Cherita," a Malay word meaning story or tale. The form consists of three stanzas, the first, one line, with a narrative focus, the second, two lines, imagistic, and the third, three lines, suggestive. Gary has done four so far, included here in this week's post. Here's the first one. Road Cherita the highway ahead disappears my eyes unable to distinguish headlight from white line old age night vision tired eyes collide  My old cat is breaking me up again. my cat looks like Charles Laughton my old cat looks like Charles Laughton in that Witness for the Prosecution movie, especially during her dramatic protestations when she wakes up enough to discover her food dish is empty - same quivering jowls same fierce glare from beneath stormy brow - though it is true that cat has only one eye and one eye can glare much more fiercely than two, giving her dramatic advantage over Laughton, an advantage undone by her willingness to forgive and forget all when allowed to curl up on my lap, something which Laughton would never do - but still she does pretty darn good for a cat  For a change of pace, here are several temple poems by Annamayya from a collection of his daily homages to god of the hilltop shrine of Tirupati in South India, Venkatesvara-Vishnu. The collection is titled God of the Hill, published by the Oxford University Press in 2005. Annamayya, who lived in the shrine in the fifteenth century composed a song every day and late in his life, or shortly after his death, thirteen thousand of the poems were inscribed on copper plates and stored in a special vault in the temple. This number is said to be only about half of his total output. The poems, in Telugu, one of the classical languages of south India, were meant to be sung, although the precise original manner of singing has long fallen into disuse. The poems saved via the copper plates are divided into two types, the metaphysical and, the majority, the erotic, dealing in great detail with the god's love life. These are usually meant to be sung by a female voice. The metaphysical poems, by contrast, are meant to be sung in the poet's voice, first person, and deal with his sense of himself as an agonized, turbulent human being in relation to his god. The poems were translated into English by Veldcheru Narayana Rao and David Shulman. The songs are untitled. ~~~~~ I'm so happy I chose to marry you. You're a big man now. What can I say? You're a skilled lover, and you're only one man. But your affairs are counted by the million. If I look at your bed, I see sixteen thousand women. I can't know your mystery. What can I say? If you really want to, you can put a woman on your chest? or ask her to sit on your head. If I open your door, there are cow-girls all over. I can't win. What can I say? If you lie down, you're Govindaraja. If you stand up, you're the god on the hill. Two women are always at your feet. Among all of them, you cared for me. What can I say? ~~~~~ These marks of black musk on her lips, red as buds, what are they but letters of love sent by our friend to her lover? Her eyes the eyes of a cakora bird, why are they red in the corners? Think it over, my friends: what is it but the blood still staining the long glances that pierced her beloved after she drew them from his body back to her eyes? What are they but letters of love? How is it that this woman's breasts show so bright through her sari? Can't you guess my friends? It's the rays from the crescents left by the nails of her lover, rays luminous as moonlight on a summer night? What are they but letters of love? What are these graces, these pearls raining down her cheeks? Can't you imagine, friends? What could they be but beads of sweat left on her gentle face by the god on the hill when he pressed too hard, frantic in love? What are they but letters of love? ~~~~~ The loveliness of this woman can't be measured. Think abut it, my friends. Her long black hair flows like night. Her face is brilliant as the sun. Night and day have lined up front to back. Think about it. Her breasts so high, Her waist as thin as empty space - hills and sky are upside down. Think about it. Her hands hold the shoulders of the god on the hill and his hands cover her breasts: branch and vines intertwined. Think about it. ~~~~~ Why learn more? Why read books? The mind never learns to rest. An ignoramus reads and reads, and his greed is compounded with interest. When a blind dog goes to the market, what it gets is the stick. Why learn more? If you go around blaming god, you'll never know his mind. If you don't give yourself to the god on the hill, your mind will never be free. Why learn more?  And now, a second cherita by Gary Blankenship. Write, Cherita The voice in Levi commercials demands We party until the sun rises unable to find notes we wrote with a dry pen The garbage truck late leaves recycling bins for raccoons and stray dogs  Don't wear boots anymore. As a diabetic, I grew concerned about being slipped into the fire two feet shorter than normal. boots, no saddle never was a cowboy but did wear boots most of my adult life, always owned two pair of dress boots one black and one brown worn depending on the color suit i was wearing that day one pair of not-dress-up boots, that were the dress-up-pair last replaced and one pair of work-outside-in-the-rough boots, the-not-dress-up boots in their final incarnation - never paid more than $100 for a pair of boots, no fancy stitching, no alligator or lizard or emu or boa constrictor, just your basic plain old cow-wear, and all were beneficiaries of multiple visits to the shoe repair elf as they made their way through their various lives from boardroom to muddy field - well-traveled were my boots when finally discarded - now i've been to run-of-the mill shopping mall boot stores with boots on their shelves with $3,000 to $4,000 price tags and have never figured out why people with that much money to spend on basic footwear would spend it on ready-made off-the-shelf boots when there are so many master-craftsmen in the business of custom boot-making in South Texas, cobblers to presidents and kings who would custom-create a one-of-a kind pair of boots made precisely to the buyer's feet for half that price - has to be some kind of deviant mental or moral condition is the way i see it from my perch in the $100 boot section  Here's the third cherita from Gary Blankenship. Cherita Too The definition of insanity The dog lunged when she tried to pet him. Tomorrow, he will lunge like he did the day before. Cowbirds invade the robin's nest. Crows sing out of tune.  The next poem is by Cyra S. Dumitru from her book Listening to Light, an investigation of religious figures in a more modern personal light. Even though not a christian myself, I thought the movie, "Last Temptation of Christ," was a profound and moving evocation of that religion's belief in the dual nature of Christ and the sacrfice he finally chose to make, while many of believers saw it as blasphemy. It makes me wonder how they would view this poem, which, to my mind, brings a strong human element to the event that is the focus of this season. Mary's Midwife You might like to think the birth was spotless as the conception. It was a baptism of water and blood. Instead of crowning, the baby tried to come feet first. I reached inside Mary and turned him around. On that cold night, we had no fire, just the warmth radiating from cows and sheep. While outside a great star filled the heavens we had no windows either, just cracks in the barn wall where light trickled in. Gusts of wind blew out our lantern. Joseph plugged the biggest crack with his own woolen cloak then returned to rubbing Mary's neck, back. Her eyes shone like two moons burning with a sad knowing. But most of all, I remember, how cushioned only by clean straw Mary rode the hours of waves with hardly a moan. How she reached for that child when he landed squalling, skin patchy with her blood. The moment she held him he stopped crying, looked straight at her, opened his huge hands.  Here's a view contrary to those of many I know. hoping we will be true in 1968, flying in from Peshawar in a DC-3 that struggled to top the peaks of the Hindu Kush i remember my first sight of Kabul, a green oasis in the middle of dirt brown mountains traveling through the city to our temporary AID residence was liked we had jumped ahead several centuries during our flight from Pakistan's Northwest Frontier, a mixed jump it was, true, to a city with poets and intellectuals and bookstores downtown and a zoo and museum, while camels rested on the roadside a city center of low-rise, mostly wooden structures, except for the Spirazan Hotel, where westerners could go to the top floor where whiskey was served and Hank Williams was played by a traveling band of booted Filipino cowboys - a gathering place for Americans, Russians, UN aid workers and anyone else with a thirst and a non-critical love of cowboy music on the mountain side surrounding the city, another city of terraced mud-brick homes where the keepers of tradition lived, where a thousand years of Afghan history still lived and was sustained, a benevolent king governing loosely through a system of consensus and widely dispersed power a pleasant place to be where foreigners could walk the streets under tall leafy trees, eating from round loaves of sweet nann bought from street corner vendors, could listen to children in their uniforms as they walk too and from their schools, singing in high sweet voices, Americans greeted everywhere by smiles and friendly, open faces - these were the good days, before wars and occupation by foreign forces, before the murderous rule of warlords, before free thought and centuries of culture were erased by the religion of fanatics and evil, twisted minds - the good days before hell on earth descended on people who, from the time of Alexander's passage, had outlived their conquerers I remembered all this last night while listening to the President speak, knowing that twice in the past 30 years we have deserted these good people, having first encouraged them to believe in us, then leaving them behind without a thought when some misadventure or other came to obsess us, hoping, as i listen, that this time we will be true to them and to our word  And now our fourth cherita by Gary Blankenship. I expect those of us at the House of 30 will be seeing more cheritas from Gary and have already seen first attempts by other members. I haven't tried one yet, but will after I work up my confidence. Cherita: Memorial for the Lakewood Officers December 8, 2009 The evil that walks earth infects. A community comes together brothers and sisters, guardians honor the fallen. Not a leaf stirs, not a blade of grass, the silence of broken hearts echoes.  I have a poem now by Sapphire from her book Black Wings & Blind Angels, published by Knopf in 2000. Her poems are rough and raw, even brutal sometimes. I have not read her fiction, but her novel Push was recently made into a movie, Precious, that I have not seen, but have heard a lot about, mostly rave reviews. I had decided to use a poem from Sapphire this week because of all the talk about the movie, and I'm glad I did because, in the doing, I found this poem so different from everything else I've read by her, much truer, more personal, it seems to me. What I've read of her in the past, for all its explosive power, seemed, unlike this, about things observed, not lived. I have respect her poems I have read before, an intellectual, not emotional response. This poem I like very much. My Father's Silence (or, Last Night He Heard Two Poets - One Korean, One African American) The Korean woman reads first & I hear the torn foot of war the bloody footsteps that connect us like jewelry around our necks choking out words, creaking like my father silent in his easy chair. But the photograph talks: "Korea 1950" written on the back; black and white, serrated edges like butterflies. He is tall, thoughtful, in the blood bleached green fatigues of war. A huge tent, the flaps rolled up - a white man back to the camera pounds on the typewriter. Another looks to my father in deference - up, like he never has before in Alabama, Peoria, Mississippi, San Jose - like he never will see again. The tent, the jungle foliage - which are flowers, shrubs & trees to the natives - grow forever in a chair, vinyl - new kinds of plastic crying sounds we never her from a silent father who prides himself on never talkng about the war, wars, there were two. But I hear in the middle of life in the barb wire poem of a sun filled porch they used to drink iced tea upon & look out on their land - I hear my father talking & it is the slow sound of a man who wants to die. The black woman reads next - meat, the kitchen, the Saran Wrap melting dream of garbage floes like we couldn't know then, in 1950, what the aggression would cost us. The true price of napalm rolling through the aisle of America on the wings of a war that didn't make sense, he said. No, he said, silent reactionary man twisting like a big car on the huge Erector Sets that haul automobiles to market, for a moment, a bump in the road, & the vehicle, in its trek from assembly line to grave, rolls off one time unexpectedly gumming the works & a lifetime of petticoats, Goodyear rubber, file cabinets turn channels & he says, No, my sons won't go. And they don't. He sits silent armchair of a newspaper dreaming blood barb wire, the torn integument of the soul mute in Alabama, Peoria, patient in Mississippi, pass for white in San Jose speaks like shrapnel in the retina of a child's eye, the fence he couldn't climb he walks around twenty years later. The dead years stacked up like Melnac plates wrapped in plastic & Styrofoam even though they can't, like him, beak, & the gesture is paralyzed on the fence, he is blind before he can see the other side. In order to die peacefully he would have had to talk about things other than a photograph to his sons. He would have had to ask forgiveness, demand retribution for the stolen snapshot of his soul. Somewhere the wings of a butterfly needed to be rearranged; as it was he walked along the fence the major fold in his brain dividing his days & the nights choking on Saran Wrap with petticoats dark as nuclear winter frozen on the little legs of a tricycle.  We are such wusses here in South Texas when it comes to cold weather. We huddle up like eskimos in their igloos in weather that would send other people from other places out to the park in muscle shirts and cutoffs to play softball. astonished by the cold those of us born and raised in lands were days are hot and nights are warm are always astonished by the year's first winter cold, stepping out our front door into the dark of an early winter morning, stepping into a cold that seems universal, cold that stretches from the dirt beneath our feet to the furthest star we can see - a transformed universe we see, cold as the meat locker at the grocery store where we earned our first wages - it just doesn't seem reasonable that the world all around could ever be as cold as that locker, with beef quarters hanging from hooks in the ceiling, chicken frozen in boxes on icy shelves growing up in a world where cold has a cost per kilowatt hour, we can't help wondering, who's paying the bill for all this cold  Haven't done any Bukowski lately, so here he is, Charles Bukowski, from his book The Flash of Lightning Behind the Mountain, another in the series of what seems like dozens of books published since his death. A hugely prolific writer during his lifetime, he seems to have left a full library of unpublished work at his death. Along with all his great poems about the life of a drunk, a philanderer, a brawler, a gambler, he also gave us insight (and a lot of hope for a late-blooming poet like me) into the life of a poet. Such as this one. simple kindness every now and then towards 3 a.m. and well into the second bottle a poem will arrive and I'll read it and immediately attach to it that dirty word - immortal. well, we all know that in this world now that immortality can be a very brief experience or in the long run: non-existent. still, it's nice to play with dreams of immortality and I set the poem aside in a special place and go on with the others - to find that poem again in the morning read it and without hesitation tear it up. it was nowhere near immortal then or now - just a drunken piece of sentimental trash. the best thing about self- rejection is that it saves the obnoxious duty from being somebody else's problem. And, always, there's the drunk and the unreliable lover as well. good try, all did I fail those fragile tulips? I think back over my checkered past remembering all the ladies I've known who at the beginning of the affair were already discouraged and un- happy because of their miserable previous experiences with other men. I was considered just another stop along the way and maybe I was and maybe I wasn't. the ladies had long been used and mis- used while undoubtedly adding their share of abuse to the mix. they were always chary at first and the affairs were much like reading an old newspaper over and over again (the obituary or help-wanted sections) or it was like listening to a familiar song too often recalled and sung again until the melody and words became blurred. their real needs were obscured by their fears and I always arrived too late with too little. yet sometimes there were moments however brief when kindness and laughter came breaking through only to quickly dissolve into the same inevitable dark despair. did I fail those fragile tulips? I can't think of any one of those ladies I'd rather not have known no matter what stories they tell of me now as they edge again into the lives of new-found lovers. proper credentials are needed to join I keep meeting people, I am introduced to to them at various gatherings and either sooner or later I am told smugly that this lady or that gentleman (all of them young and fresh of face, essentially untouched by life) has given up drinking; that they all have had a very difficult time of late but now (and the NOW is what irritates me) all of them are pleased and proud to have finally overcome all that alcoholic nonsense. I could puke on their feeble victory. I started drinking at the age of eleven after I discovered a wine cellar in the basement of a boyhood friend and since then I have done jail time on 15 or occasions, had 4 D.U.I's, have lost 20 or 30 terrible jobs, have been battered and left for dead in several skid row alleys, have been twice hospitalized and have experienced numberless wild and suicidal adventures. I have been drinking, with gusto, for 54 years and intend to continue to do so. and now I am introduced to these young, blithe, slender, unscathed, delicate creatures who claim to have vanquished the dreaded evil of drink! what is true, of course, is that they have never really experienced anything - they have just dabbled and they have just dipped in a toe, they have only pretended to really drink. with them, it's like saying that they have escaped hell-fire by blowing out a candle. it takes real effort and many years to get damn good at anything even being a drunk, and once more I've never met one of these reformed drunks yet who was any better for being sober.  And here's another piece that started with something in the Times Tuesday Science section, though it is not, I think, what they had in mind. about round like shadows in the dark, round is everywhere though usually unseen - circles, regular or rough, nature's perfect form, a line never ending - find the place where the earth begins, find the place where the sun and stars begin, the place where their perfect roundness ends - the circle of life a line unbroken never ending, a circle of circles intertwining all other forms are death, endings like the sharp cornered box they put you in the sharp cornered hole where your soul and heart are boxed forever pulled from the circle to end in rot  Next, I have several verses by Sung Dynasty poet Yang Wan-Li from a collection of his work, Heaven My Blanket, Earth My Pillow, published in 2004 by White Pine Press. The Sung Dynasty was a relatively brief period during China's long history, beginning in 1126 and ending when the Mongols overthrew the Sung in 1279 to establish their own Yuan dynasty. Born in the same year as the Sung Dynasty was established, Yang lived the relatively uneventful life of a scholar-bureaucrat, moving from one post to the other until he retired in 1192, declining several subsequent requests to return to service, finally dying in 1206. Yang is known as "the colloquial poet," writing in direct and unadorned language about the everyday aspects of life as well as greater themes. I like the way these poems take me to strange and wonderful places, strange and wonderful, yet so common place and real I feel like I'm returning to a place I've already been. The poems were translated by Jonathan Chaves. Drinking at Night I drink alone in my cold study, huddled close to the brazier. The wine is fresh - just strained this evening. The candle is short - left over from last night. I chew on a piece of sugar cane as big as a rafter and eat tangerines sweeter than honey. When the wine takes effect, a poem comes to me; I grope for my brush, but I'm too high to write it down. Eating Frost to Sober Up Hung over from last night's wine - my chest is heavy, my stomach upset. Below the railing on Peony Bank I break off a ball of frost and roll it down my tongue. I Sit Lazily All Day Because My Feet Hurt For three or four years my eyes have been hazy, and my hair has turned to snow; yet I've somehow managed to get along. But now my feet hurt and I can't walk; I stay home all day, sitting like a Zen monk! I drop my fan beside the desk, but I'm too lazy to pick it up; I try reading by the window, but I can't get anywhere. People envy the immortals because they can fly; for me, an immortal is a man who can walk. Rising From a Nap at Noon How can you stay awake all day? At noon I think of taking a nap. My bamboo bed has been warmed by the sun; I toss and turn but cannot fall asleep. So I get up, scratch my white head, and walk around the verandah a hundred times. Just as I'm feeling most depressed a strange thing happens to me - a breeze blows through the northern door and past the southern window, past the southern window, wafting to me the fragrance of young orchids. Cooled by the breeze, this old man feels refreshed, as if he had returned life. But in the future, at times like this, will the breeze come again? In the Gorge: We Encounter Wind Our boat is becalmed in the middle of the river - the mountains are silent and gloomy at sunset. Suddenly a clap of thunder sounds in the darkening sky and the trees along the shore begin to sway. A powerful wind blows in from the southern sea and sweeps angrily through the gorge. The sailors cheer; the great drum is beaten. One man flies to the top of the mainmast, As the sail unfurls I pull my hands into my sleeves and watch ripples like goose feathers swirl by in the water.  We finish up this week with this poem. I'm satisfied with most of what I write, and, if I'm not, I just say "what the hell" and set out to write another one. Every once in a while though, I do something that I really, really like. Like this one. islands no man is an island, said Stevenson but that is not true for we are all islands mysterious and remote and while some may plumb our shores none ever sees the bedrock of us - thus it is, alone on the fearsome sea we must abide, awaiting the the cataclysmic shift that set us all apart to come again to heal our birth-separation, to bring us back to the wholeness of all, to be again the sea and not an island on it  Two weeks until Christmas. May you all be cheery and bright and stuff. I'll be back next week, but not certain about the week after. Nobody's going to be reading "Here and Now" the week between Christmas and New Year's anyway, any work to put it out seems a waste. I'm calling a conference of my senior advisors to discuss this. In fact, they're all in a circle around me, ready to begin discussions now, two dogs and three cats. It depends, I guess, on whether or not I get bored and start looking for something to do. As usual, everything here remains the property of whoever created it. The stuff I created is available to anyone who wants it. I am allen itz, owner and producer of the blog. If you find anything here you don't like, you can contact me to complain. But you have to find me first. |
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