God what a fall, the fall, as it were; my woes serious enough to desire Prosac (I’ll elaborate later), lacking prosaic skills, I’m remiss in answering your wonderful letter, and you’re probably wondering if the reply got lost in the mail—one reason why I’m writing to you on the computer—I learned to make copies of everything in Russia. (My laptop computer blew up (as did my truck) this fall—the mother-board—it’s working by sheer luck at this point, as long as I don’t unplug it. When the batteries go, I have to find another laptop to recharge them). It’s lucky I even got your letter as it was glued to a completely frayed envelope, open on all four sides like two sheets to the wind! If you hadn’t reglued the flap, I’d have gotten what once was an envelope with some stamps on it—is this known as pushing the inside of the envelope out?
My dearest proletariat, I hope you’re surviving well, in spite of everything. Shall I send you a phone so you can wander around looking for a place to hot-wire it to? I was under the impression Poland was slipping off the sexy wrap of communism. . . Well, after Hungary, I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised by Eastern European concepts of reform. All of the former Soviet Bloc is construed of paradoxes. Try Romania, Ukraine, Hungary, and the story’s always the same. Push the inside of that dox out and what’s left? An urge for Ken’s awful Hungarian pear brandy? So what’s the latest commerce in baksheesh besides bad puns? Anything you want from the states? Yes, I would like to hear from you, but, gulp, did you say collect? Hey, with some serious discounts, my Dutch phone bills still run about $50 a call! That’s a lotta zlotii. Hell, one of the reasons why I got this ATT single country plan discount was because you were in Leiden, and then you had to go and move!
So, you don’t live on the street of busy-ness (but I bet Poland’s keeping you busy—lines, shortages, etc.). And yes, before that, Poland was part of Germany before the war (which war, any one of several will do), once Poland was part of itself, more or less. I’m dimly aware of Poland’s centuries-old inability to maintain its borders, and bizarre rites of parliament and kingship succession. Walden Pond? And what of those Lithuanian borders? Six feet under is a good place for the Germans (and my father). That’s great you can trace the origin of those cryptic place names. I was just re-reading Dracula; you know Bram Stoker never went to Hungary? Wagner as in the Nieblunglied? Where’s the dragon and the gold? Sounds like you’re taking long, cold, solitary walks. . . all those coffins, bones and carcasses of dead leaves. . . Since I don’t speak German and missed the significance of Sei uns heilig, I can only say gesundheit and proost! Maybe you can do an underground guidebook to Poland! Har, har!!! No need to apologize for your “hysterical diggings,” I loves ‘em!
How’s the teaching going? I still have to send you the poetry magazines—maybe today, under separate cover. How’s your Polish coming along? Someone said that my poetry is so like the Russian soul in voice and vision. I squawked, But I’m Irish! Maybe the Russkogo yezik is no longer, shall we say, popular, but I’ve found that my smattering of Russian has saved me upon more than one occasion—in Hungary, for example, when I desperately needed a train schedule. And in Holland, of all places. I think I told you of the story of the Mauritanian, Sedhu and I conversing in our only common tongue, Russian, while Vins and Moniel chatted in high Dutch, Brabantese, German, French & English. . . talk about polyglot!
At Poetry International, don’t ask me how, but I was simultaneously translating from Russian into Spanish—forgoing English completely. The Russian poets, Dmitri Prigov (I published him in Soviet Poetry Since Glasnost) and Ilya Kutek wanted to talk to the Mexican poets; no one else was around. I admit conversation was pretty limited. This Hungarian gypsy poet, Karoli Barri, and I managed to get by on some Russian. I always find myself apologizing for speaking in the tongue of the oppressor, but when it comes down to it, English is equally the tongue of the oppressor.
Joyce had the right idea to use the language of the enemy against the enemy. If the Cromwellian hadn’t been so successful, would Irish literature be available to the English-speaking world? Imagine no Yeats, no Swift, no Synge, no Joyce. . . Have you (or Doreen) seen any productions of Brian Freel? I understand Dancing at Lugnasa was fabulous. Someone recommended his play, Translations to me; I’ve yet to read them.
I bet you were going through a bit of general insanity in leaving Leiden—but having to move from the place where you and Doreen once lived is, perhaps, the best way to go forward. The only way out is through?
I bet you were going through a bit of general insanity in leaving Leiden—but having to move from the place where you and Doreen once lived is, perhaps, the best way to go forward. The only way out is through?
I wish to apologize to you; I was terribly embarrassed by the way Vins was acting so boorish (to use a Dutch/English word) when you came to visit—as you know he’s an old, old friend, and yes, we were lovers (but not in love, if I may be so bold as to make the distinction) the summer before, but this time something had changed in both of us; it wasn’t a happy visit.
Though I love the time I’ve spent in Holland, and I’d like to be able to go back upon occasion, at this point, it would be foolhardy of me to stay with Vins. What does it mean when someone doesn’t want you, but doesn’t want anyone else to love you either? Maybe I’ve been lucky, or naive in the past, but this kind of jealousy has never before entered into the equation of love and friendship.
I’m feeling a little shell-shocked; wonder if I’ll ever fall in love again—a little lust here, a little intrigue there, but not that deep, abiding love I know exists. I guess I’m still recovering from love gone wrong—a man whom I thought was going to be it. We even talked of marriage; John Oliver Simon hit 45, and ran off with a 19-year-old student of ours.
No need to face Hamlet’s rhetorical question just yet, Richard. Like poor Yorik, the corpses of our hearts are buried in the past. I like to think of the heart, like cats, as having nine lives. I face a similar dilemma, I know I’m not the ordinary woman. My talents are my curse. I do not lack for intrigue, I seem to attract crazy, impoverished men who want me but are threatened by my talents, and/or have no visible means of support!
No need to face Hamlet’s rhetorical question just yet, Richard. Like poor Yorik, the corpses of our hearts are buried in the past. I like to think of the heart, like cats, as having nine lives. I face a similar dilemma, I know I’m not the ordinary woman. My talents are my curse. I do not lack for intrigue, I seem to attract crazy, impoverished men who want me but are threatened by my talents, and/or have no visible means of support!
Like Marcel (from Amsterdam) who came to visit me this fall on his way to Guatemala, and stayed three months.
Or Valera, the Russian singer who spoke no English but wanted to marry me. I believe there is someone out there for me—blind faith? Though I want a lot: physical and emotional attraction, creativity, and intellegence, I find the intellect to be more erotic than just another pretty face.
There are worse banishments than teaching English in Lower Silesia. All I can say is the journey is always within and for the self, and the relationship is not just with others; or the troubles will follow you to the ends of the earth like the hounds of hell.
One thing that those sailors never mentioned was the running, what it did to them. We are always at sea with our emotions-we’re taught to place and categorize everything, and when it refuses to be contained within those artificial borders, we’re at a loss, and don’t know how to proceed.
The river of oude vijn is not deep enough to drown sorrow, eventually you have to come up for air. My father was one of the drowned. I think of the beckoning arm of captain Ahab, as Moby Dick swam to the briny depths.
To digress, I was the product of a divorce, my father said if he couldn’t have custody of me, he’d have nothing to do with me. And very nearly kept his promise—except for when I was in my early teens and 20’s. Dec. 12th, he died, the day after his birthday, and as in life, in death, his heart failed him. I was notified Dec. 22 by the Public Administration of San Francisco. I buried him the 28th, and meanwhile I found out he had money all this time, but my name wasn’t beneficiary on the accounts.
To digress, I was the product of a divorce, my father said if he couldn’t have custody of me, he’d have nothing to do with me. And very nearly kept his promise—except for when I was in my early teens and 20’s. Dec. 12th, he died, the day after his birthday, and as in life, in death, his heart failed him. I was notified Dec. 22 by the Public Administration of San Francisco. I buried him the 28th, and meanwhile I found out he had money all this time, but my name wasn’t beneficiary on the accounts.
Some sleuthing, I discovered that after retirement (he was a streetsweeper) he spent his mornings at the church, then, the local bar—a serious alcoholic. More family background: my mother was crazy (I won’t go into that here, suffice to say she is manic-depressive; the joys of lithium hadn’t been discovered when I was a child), I had a happy childhood, raised by my Irish grandmother, who raised 8 kids before my half-brother and I.
We didn’t name it poverty, but her meager pension, $220 a month to pay exorbitant land taxes and to feed us didn’t go far in Marin County. (The Prop. 13 Jarvis-Gann initiative that rolled property taxes back didn’t happen until 1976.) I was a expert in not talking about my family, because my own family experiences had no parallel among my peers. To shorten the story, we went on welfare and I was ashamed. Thank god the Summer of Love, and the hippies came about, who could tell what was what? The ’50s values washed away.
So, my father died, I’m sole heir and next of kin, responsible for his estate, and to cover his shame, he left $100,000 to a drinking buddy he didn’t even know all that well—outside of the estate (two cars, a jaguar xj with a chevy engine, and a volvo sports car) my inheritance. I can’t help but think what I would’ve done with the money. It’s been difficult in getting work (I’ve gotten some, all’s not lost), this, at a time when everyone in education is saying how marvelous my programs are, and that I’m such a gifted teacher, blah, blah, blah. . . but the bottom line is, that the state of California’s broke, economists say, due to that same old Prop. 13.
I need a new career (my Masters); that money is like a siren-call, and I don’t want to be tied to that carcass. Lawyers won’t take the case, not because it isn’t just, but because there’s not enough profit in it for them. I might have to spend $50,000 I haven’t got in order to get, at best, $25,000. Other than the unfairness of it all, I keep thinking there’s a moral buried somewhere in this story, and I’m just too daft to figure it out.
Today is better than yesterday, sunshine, after rain. It washed away the pun of the cat’s investigative paw prints off the hood of the jaguar. A glimmer reaching into the place where the concept of soul dwells; today is the first day I’ve had the initiative to do those things that must be done, pay bills, answer letters, meet my father’s friends tonight to find out what kind of man he really was.
Today is better than yesterday, sunshine, after rain. It washed away the pun of the cat’s investigative paw prints off the hood of the jaguar. A glimmer reaching into the place where the concept of soul dwells; today is the first day I’ve had the initiative to do those things that must be done, pay bills, answer letters, meet my father’s friends tonight to find out what kind of man he really was.
It’s so strange to me to have to be out in the open about all of this, but I can’t keep it inside. There’s a creature called the sea cucumber, who when threatened, literally vomits his stomach out to fool the hunters. I’m used to keeping the shame of family secrets buried, but to do so requires a psychic death, and I’m not willing to be a victim.
On some obtuse level I am reminded of when I went to Russia to see Malevich’s paintings, but none were available to the public, though Glasnost was in full swing. Malevich may have been reinstated but his paintings remained in the basements of the Russian State, and the Tretyakov museums. (Moscow’s Tretyakov is where the statue of Swords into Ploughshares is).
Why, because it was easier to go with the system than to change it, though the means to do it was there. I couldn’t understand the Russian psyche, and the posters that stood in place for the real art didn’t fill the need, they didn’t satisfy the hunger for what was real.
Paradoxically, there was a time when I fell in love with the paintings by Matisse and Gauguin (or so I thought) until I saw the real paintings at the Hermitage in Petersburg. They were raw, the pigments different—I was shocked until I realized it wasn’t a question of like/dislike; I was using the wrong vocabulary, but the rawness, the power, direct source/link, versus the glossed over second generation candy-colored posters.
The original paintings had the ability to move me to tears. So here I am, excavating the basements of the self, uncovering old pieces of art amid the debris, the source materia is preferable to the illusion of artifice. I am alive, my father gave me life, I am restoring something of myself to myself. The Spanish saying, The best revenge is living well, we are among the living; dare I say, it’s our duty to make the most of it?
I can’t imagine you living in Poland for the rest of your life, I’m not sure where your journey will take you, but certainly Poland is grist for the mill. You may be one of the lucky ones—maybe Doreen will realize your worthiness, come back to you, but you know what they say of sow’s ears. It’s hard to make any enlightening comments because I’ve never met her. All I can respond to is what I know about you.
I can’t imagine you living in Poland for the rest of your life, I’m not sure where your journey will take you, but certainly Poland is grist for the mill. You may be one of the lucky ones—maybe Doreen will realize your worthiness, come back to you, but you know what they say of sow’s ears. It’s hard to make any enlightening comments because I’ve never met her. All I can respond to is what I know about you.
I do know the first time I met you in 1992—even though you talked incessantly about Doreen—I saw it was over. I mentioned it to Ken, who, of course, denied it. It sounds like she doesn’t know who she is, that she is sheltered, perhaps a bit spoiled, and terribly young for her age—both emotionally and in life experiences. You may have been a teacher model to her, and, alas, the student must always leave the teacher. I will resist adding any puns about violins here. I wish you luck and love; Valentine’s Day is at hand. Carpe deim!
P.S. Which # is the fax? 011-48-74-786-95; 786-94, or 789-69? I assume the last one? What days are you at the college so I can coordinate a fax? For obvious reasons I didn’t fax this letter—even if you say no one can understand English! I’m getting a stand-alone fax soon. Meanwhile, Fax me at El Molino Pharmacy (707) 887-0106 (no cover letter—I pay $1 per page. Put my name & # on top.
from THE REVIEW OF FOREIGN REVIEWS , ROMANIA LITERATURA 5-21 Dec. 1993, POETRY UNITES THE WORLD by Dr. Andrei Bantas
BUCHAREST—From the Pacific Coast, California, there comes to us a cultural surprise and exceptional reading: a poetry magazine—or rather a tabloid review, like our weeklies. It is not a mere publication meant to convey to readers the latest production of American poets (as many other poetry reviews do) but an entirely uncommon one: a sort of Secolul XX (the 20th century) of the Romanians, yet devoted to poetry alone, in order to spread publications which the public has few opportunities to know.
The first issue of Uniting the World Through Poetry (UWP) is devoted to Soviet Poetry Since Glasnost, a 24-page tabloid, with a similar format to our Romania Literatura, is full of translations from Arabov, Slepynin, Lubenski, Soloviov, Kulle and many others—verses written in the last six or seven years. With the decoration of the journals—or perhaps it’s pop-art—with press clippings, photos, collages, and vignettes, an entire page is devoted to a poem of Oleg Slepynin’s, printed in the shape of a cross, with the title buried in the center: SYNCHRONIC. Some general data, with a short excursion into history, and with substantial topicalization, are offered in the essay entitled, “A Poet in Russia is more than a Poet” by the Ukrainian poet of Armenian descent, Oleg Atbashian (who, with UWP editor, Maureen Hurley, did most of the translations).
The general presentation of the themes and aims of the review is made by the two UWP editors, Herman Berlandt and Maureen Hurley. Berlandt is chairman of the National Poetry Association, and editor of Poetry: USA, a quarterly, and after more than 30 lectures on this very theme of uniting the world through poetry, he decided to publish these international anthologies with Maureen Hurley (an educator, graphic designer, photographer, and writer, with poems translated into Spanish and Russian. She is an initiator of an international conference of writers for the 30th anniversary of California Poets in the Schools (CPITS), tenatively scheduled in San Francisco, in October 1994. An earlier CPITS conference, (the 25th) was joined by more than 150 poets from the U.S. and Mexico.)
The second issue of the review is entitled Mother Earth, with the same internationalist motto as the subtitle “Let the voice of the poet be heard throughout the world”. These 24 pages bring together (in translation, or in the English original) the voices of poets from Bulgaria, China, Poland, Hungary, Holland, Macedonia, India, Pakistan, Italy, Israel, Greece, Great Britain, Argentina, Japan, Korea, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Nigeria, Estonia, Lithuania, Slovenia, Serbia, Croatia, Russia, and—surprise—Romania: Geo Dumitrescu (translated by the late Dan Dutescu with post-translation by Maureen Hurley) and Ana Blandiana (translated by Andrea Deletant and Brenda Walker, as well as by Andrei Bantas, also with Maureen Hurley). They are accompanied by fine engravings by Victor Brauner and a Romanian stamp.
In the third issue—devoted to East European poetry, Romanian poetry (including Valeriu Matei of Moldova) is represented in over three pages by the same Geo Dumitrescu and Ana Blandiana as well as Nichita Stanescu, Maria Banus, Nina Cassian, Daniela Crasnaru, Carolina Ilica, and Mircea Dinescu. The translators are the same, with the addition of poet Fleur Adcock, the version being reproduced mainly from Silent Voices: an Anthology of Contemporary Romanian Women Poets, published by Brenda Walker and Andrea Deletant in Britain about 5 years ago (when they also published Mircea Dinescu’s Exile on a Peppercorn—their persons and books were proscribed in Romania—but well-received in Bulgaria!)
Highly valuing these new tokens of appreciation offered by foreign publishers and translators of Romanian poetry (I happen to know of the financial efforts made by these two English women and the editors of UWP), I am taking the liberty of asking two rhetorical questions: What are we doing for ourselves and for our poets, for our literature, as a whole? Suppose I rounded off my anthology of 20th century poets (Like Diamonds in Coal, Asleep, Minerva Publishers, 1985) with poems formerly banned by censorship as well as with those of Romanian poets abroad, who would publish it? (today, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. . . .?
Noon: Thurs. August 18, 1994. Forestville, CA USA
Well wrichard, you wreally said to write; will you accept a binary faxsimile (or faxmetaphor) instead? Been meaning to answer your last postcard but have been bogged down with details. This year my work was so sporadic, I had to take any contracts that came through—wouldn’t you know it, a job every few weeks. Yuck. Been teaching mostly art (my degrees are in painting & drawing; it seems so strange to re-enter that world. But that’s where the money is. No one wants to hire a poet these days; artists, yes. . . How’s your job, developed any black lung lately?
I almost went to Prague for a writers’ workshop to present the Mother Earth Journal; Herman Berlandt (did you meet him in Leiden?) went in my place. I just haven’t earned enough money this year to warrant any travel, and so, am going crazy—which happens when I stay in America for any length of time. Up to the last minute I held fantasies of getting a cheap flight to Prague, and was wondering how I’d contact you in Poland—I wanted to get a visit in.
In between jobs I’m editing the latest issue of Mother Earth magazine (Latin American focus), and producing a weekly poetry & prose series at the Johnny Otis Cabaret in Sebastopol (remember the r & b song, “Hand Jive”? Otis is the one who made it famous.) Am doing a series of lectures for Elder Hostel (senior citizen classes) right now, and am up to my ears in California pre-history, and history.
Also am preparing for California Poets in the Schools first ever international conference in Oct.—some of my M. E./ Poetry International contacts are coming! Marianne Larsen form Denmark, Maria van Daalen form Groningen, etc.
Just talked to Vins, he’s been working every day, all over the NL! Eindhoven, the Hague, & a village near Zandfoort/Castricum. Guess he’s keeping the railroad in business. Says he’s up by 4 am, & doesn’t return till late. In other words, his Ph.D. thesis has come to a standstill, & he’s totally fried.
Did you ever meet my friend Marcel Koops from Prinsengracht? Enroute to Guatemala, he came for a visit (and stayed nearly 3 months—through my father’s funeral, etc.,) then went to Chiapas just as the uprising was happening. Seems Central America is a bit rough for traveling these days. Whatever happened to your friend Karel’s sister who went to Guatemala? We had a few conversations/letters, and I haven’t heard from her since.
So, how’s the beer in Polska? Miss Leiden at all? Another friend was in Vilnius last month—I think it’s the American invasion of Eastern Europe. An Irish friend is working in Czech rep.; I’m in the process of applying for an Irish passport: there may be some work through her organization. Herman’s friend’s daughter is “Girl Friday” for Havel’s wife. Apparently there’s a housing shortage in Prague, so they live in a castle. Tough life.
Have you read any poems by Ioanna Veronika Warwick? She left Poland at 17, and is becoming fairly well-known here—grants & awards (I know she also publishes in Poland—by the way, how’s your Polish coming along?) If I remember correctly, you also speak Dutch & Lithuanian—any linguistic connection between Lithuanian & Polish?
P.S. Which # is the fax? 011-48-74-786-95; 786-94, or 789-69? I assume the last one? What days are you at the college so I can coordinate a fax? For obvious reasons I didn’t fax this letter—even if you say no one can understand English! I’m getting a stand-alone fax soon. Meanwhile, Fax me at El Molino Pharmacy (707) 887-0106 (no cover letter—I pay $1 per page. Put my name & # on top.
from THE REVIEW OF FOREIGN REVIEWS , ROMANIA LITERATURA 5-21 Dec. 1993, POETRY UNITES THE WORLD by Dr. Andrei Bantas
BUCHAREST—From the Pacific Coast, California, there comes to us a cultural surprise and exceptional reading: a poetry magazine—or rather a tabloid review, like our weeklies. It is not a mere publication meant to convey to readers the latest production of American poets (as many other poetry reviews do) but an entirely uncommon one: a sort of Secolul XX (the 20th century) of the Romanians, yet devoted to poetry alone, in order to spread publications which the public has few opportunities to know.
The first issue of Uniting the World Through Poetry (UWP) is devoted to Soviet Poetry Since Glasnost, a 24-page tabloid, with a similar format to our Romania Literatura, is full of translations from Arabov, Slepynin, Lubenski, Soloviov, Kulle and many others—verses written in the last six or seven years. With the decoration of the journals—or perhaps it’s pop-art—with press clippings, photos, collages, and vignettes, an entire page is devoted to a poem of Oleg Slepynin’s, printed in the shape of a cross, with the title buried in the center: SYNCHRONIC. Some general data, with a short excursion into history, and with substantial topicalization, are offered in the essay entitled, “A Poet in Russia is more than a Poet” by the Ukrainian poet of Armenian descent, Oleg Atbashian (who, with UWP editor, Maureen Hurley, did most of the translations).
The general presentation of the themes and aims of the review is made by the two UWP editors, Herman Berlandt and Maureen Hurley. Berlandt is chairman of the National Poetry Association, and editor of Poetry: USA, a quarterly, and after more than 30 lectures on this very theme of uniting the world through poetry, he decided to publish these international anthologies with Maureen Hurley (an educator, graphic designer, photographer, and writer, with poems translated into Spanish and Russian. She is an initiator of an international conference of writers for the 30th anniversary of California Poets in the Schools (CPITS), tenatively scheduled in San Francisco, in October 1994. An earlier CPITS conference, (the 25th) was joined by more than 150 poets from the U.S. and Mexico.)
The second issue of the review is entitled Mother Earth, with the same internationalist motto as the subtitle “Let the voice of the poet be heard throughout the world”. These 24 pages bring together (in translation, or in the English original) the voices of poets from Bulgaria, China, Poland, Hungary, Holland, Macedonia, India, Pakistan, Italy, Israel, Greece, Great Britain, Argentina, Japan, Korea, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Nigeria, Estonia, Lithuania, Slovenia, Serbia, Croatia, Russia, and—surprise—Romania: Geo Dumitrescu (translated by the late Dan Dutescu with post-translation by Maureen Hurley) and Ana Blandiana (translated by Andrea Deletant and Brenda Walker, as well as by Andrei Bantas, also with Maureen Hurley). They are accompanied by fine engravings by Victor Brauner and a Romanian stamp.
In the third issue—devoted to East European poetry, Romanian poetry (including Valeriu Matei of Moldova) is represented in over three pages by the same Geo Dumitrescu and Ana Blandiana as well as Nichita Stanescu, Maria Banus, Nina Cassian, Daniela Crasnaru, Carolina Ilica, and Mircea Dinescu. The translators are the same, with the addition of poet Fleur Adcock, the version being reproduced mainly from Silent Voices: an Anthology of Contemporary Romanian Women Poets, published by Brenda Walker and Andrea Deletant in Britain about 5 years ago (when they also published Mircea Dinescu’s Exile on a Peppercorn—their persons and books were proscribed in Romania—but well-received in Bulgaria!)
Highly valuing these new tokens of appreciation offered by foreign publishers and translators of Romanian poetry (I happen to know of the financial efforts made by these two English women and the editors of UWP), I am taking the liberty of asking two rhetorical questions: What are we doing for ourselves and for our poets, for our literature, as a whole? Suppose I rounded off my anthology of 20th century poets (Like Diamonds in Coal, Asleep, Minerva Publishers, 1985) with poems formerly banned by censorship as well as with those of Romanian poets abroad, who would publish it? (today, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. . . .?
Noon: Thurs. August 18, 1994. Forestville, CA USA
Well wrichard, you wreally said to write; will you accept a binary faxsimile (or faxmetaphor) instead? Been meaning to answer your last postcard but have been bogged down with details. This year my work was so sporadic, I had to take any contracts that came through—wouldn’t you know it, a job every few weeks. Yuck. Been teaching mostly art (my degrees are in painting & drawing; it seems so strange to re-enter that world. But that’s where the money is. No one wants to hire a poet these days; artists, yes. . . How’s your job, developed any black lung lately?
I almost went to Prague for a writers’ workshop to present the Mother Earth Journal; Herman Berlandt (did you meet him in Leiden?) went in my place. I just haven’t earned enough money this year to warrant any travel, and so, am going crazy—which happens when I stay in America for any length of time. Up to the last minute I held fantasies of getting a cheap flight to Prague, and was wondering how I’d contact you in Poland—I wanted to get a visit in.
In between jobs I’m editing the latest issue of Mother Earth magazine (Latin American focus), and producing a weekly poetry & prose series at the Johnny Otis Cabaret in Sebastopol (remember the r & b song, “Hand Jive”? Otis is the one who made it famous.) Am doing a series of lectures for Elder Hostel (senior citizen classes) right now, and am up to my ears in California pre-history, and history.
Also am preparing for California Poets in the Schools first ever international conference in Oct.—some of my M. E./ Poetry International contacts are coming! Marianne Larsen form Denmark, Maria van Daalen form Groningen, etc.
Just talked to Vins, he’s been working every day, all over the NL! Eindhoven, the Hague, & a village near Zandfoort/Castricum. Guess he’s keeping the railroad in business. Says he’s up by 4 am, & doesn’t return till late. In other words, his Ph.D. thesis has come to a standstill, & he’s totally fried.
Did you ever meet my friend Marcel Koops from Prinsengracht? Enroute to Guatemala, he came for a visit (and stayed nearly 3 months—through my father’s funeral, etc.,) then went to Chiapas just as the uprising was happening. Seems Central America is a bit rough for traveling these days. Whatever happened to your friend Karel’s sister who went to Guatemala? We had a few conversations/letters, and I haven’t heard from her since.
So, how’s the beer in Polska? Miss Leiden at all? Another friend was in Vilnius last month—I think it’s the American invasion of Eastern Europe. An Irish friend is working in Czech rep.; I’m in the process of applying for an Irish passport: there may be some work through her organization. Herman’s friend’s daughter is “Girl Friday” for Havel’s wife. Apparently there’s a housing shortage in Prague, so they live in a castle. Tough life.
Have you read any poems by Ioanna Veronika Warwick? She left Poland at 17, and is becoming fairly well-known here—grants & awards (I know she also publishes in Poland—by the way, how’s your Polish coming along?) If I remember correctly, you also speak Dutch & Lithuanian—any linguistic connection between Lithuanian & Polish?
To my surprise, I can understand a few words in Polish & Bulgarian because of my gutter-Russian. The Slavic languages that use the English alphabet are easier for me to decode on an extremely rudimentary level, but it’s a slow, inexact process. (We got some poems in Bulgarian. An article about Herman & me—in regards to our journal—appeared in a Bucharest newspaper. Romanian, like a bizarre form of Latin-Italian with Slavonic flourishes.)
Well, all this talk—& my thinking kindly of you on our brief visits in Leiden & Amsterdam, I’m raising a glass of Hungarian Cabernet (Marika) in your honor. (Somehow I thought you were so annoyed with me, that I was uncertain whether or not I should write—after I was over being offended. To say the least, I’m relieved you sent me another postcard.) How about Cabaret Sauvignon for a Yuppie Niteclub?
Is there any such thing as decent Polish wine? Or is that an oxymoron? I found the fabled Georgian wine practically undrinkable in Russia. Sounds like you’ll be gainfully employed next year at Walbrych next year? How many zlotii does it take to fill the piggy bank these days? Did Ken ever write to you? He kept misplacing your address—and would ask me every few months for it. He’s still hung up on the Swiss musician, he saw her at Xmas, & they’re positively writing tomes to each other. So he may be travelling again right now.
Feb. 2, 1997
Well, Richard, me lad,
On the eve of my departure into the wilds of Montana to teach poetry for two weeks in Billings (did I mention I got a reading at Writer’s Voice?) I’ve been having a movie attack, Il Postino, just out in video, and am I waxing sentimental when a whole town breaks out in a metaphor epidemic (or was it the wine?). Do see the movie if you haven’t. We’ve a video store with a great foreign film collection in Sebastopol (5 movies/$5 /5days); my neighbors & I share movies. I just finished up The War of Buttons, an Oirish film about boy gangs that works on both the historic and modern level. It’s rare to find movies that go farther than the storyline originally intended. (It’s not just what we bring to the films, intellectual baggage, or otherwise.)
I’ve a friend, an actress who gives me tickets for dress rehearsal, I’ve become an impromptu critic, observing the mechanics behind the staging of the play. I rather like it.
Well, all this talk—& my thinking kindly of you on our brief visits in Leiden & Amsterdam, I’m raising a glass of Hungarian Cabernet (Marika) in your honor. (Somehow I thought you were so annoyed with me, that I was uncertain whether or not I should write—after I was over being offended. To say the least, I’m relieved you sent me another postcard.) How about Cabaret Sauvignon for a Yuppie Niteclub?
Is there any such thing as decent Polish wine? Or is that an oxymoron? I found the fabled Georgian wine practically undrinkable in Russia. Sounds like you’ll be gainfully employed next year at Walbrych next year? How many zlotii does it take to fill the piggy bank these days? Did Ken ever write to you? He kept misplacing your address—and would ask me every few months for it. He’s still hung up on the Swiss musician, he saw her at Xmas, & they’re positively writing tomes to each other. So he may be travelling again right now.
Feb. 2, 1997
Well, Richard, me lad,
On the eve of my departure into the wilds of Montana to teach poetry for two weeks in Billings (did I mention I got a reading at Writer’s Voice?) I’ve been having a movie attack, Il Postino, just out in video, and am I waxing sentimental when a whole town breaks out in a metaphor epidemic (or was it the wine?). Do see the movie if you haven’t. We’ve a video store with a great foreign film collection in Sebastopol (5 movies/$5 /5days); my neighbors & I share movies. I just finished up The War of Buttons, an Oirish film about boy gangs that works on both the historic and modern level. It’s rare to find movies that go farther than the storyline originally intended. (It’s not just what we bring to the films, intellectual baggage, or otherwise.)
I’ve a friend, an actress who gives me tickets for dress rehearsal, I’ve become an impromptu critic, observing the mechanics behind the staging of the play. I rather like it.
A three-person play, Questions of Mercy, about choice of euthanasia, two veteran guild actors as husband and wife (my friend) blew the Marin Community Playhouse favorite “son” off the stage, his lines lacking in rhythm. . . I chastized the playwright for his tin ear, who in turn blamed the actor’s delivery, commending me on my poet’s ear. I dunno, the “son” had credentials—he’s a favorite at Broderbund software, his voice is used on many computer games. Wherein lies the problem that disappoints me, the script or the delivery?
But, then I’m battling with another notion that most actors (or people) can’t read poetry—not that his lines were poetic, more like pathetic. I thought of all those stars reading Neruda badly for a commemorative record of Il Postino. ACK ACK ACK! I was trying to pinpoint exactly what was so annoying, Alastair Reid’s translations, the actor’s lack of rhythm, what? I think it goes deeper, the conviction behind the words, a paradox, because actors are supposed to make the lines of a play come alive. Can you shed any light on the subject? Do you have any involvment with the theater in Poland? Or are you content with teaching?
You’ve been on my mind the past few days, I’ve found myself answering your letter mentally in my head at odd moments. Pity Poland’s so far off, I’m wishing we could stop off at the pub, raise a jar or two. . .someday soon, yes? Your letter redolent of tobacco, an odd intersection of memory a cross purposes with time.
You’ve been on my mind the past few days, I’ve found myself answering your letter mentally in my head at odd moments. Pity Poland’s so far off, I’m wishing we could stop off at the pub, raise a jar or two. . .someday soon, yes? Your letter redolent of tobacco, an odd intersection of memory a cross purposes with time.
For me, Leiden still carries your memory, I had no heart to revisit it this last time, for I would want to go down Papengracht to see if you’re home. Why does memory do that, trick us, make us nostalgic for a fleeting moment in time, years ago, in a pub with pretensions of grandeur (Corinthian columns?) filled with the blue odure of tobacco—the moment indelible, though I can’t stand cigarette smoke, I withstood it, for . . .how do I say it, time stood still, no past or future, no mechanizations.
Sometimes that happens to me, a chance encounter becomes a tableau and I don’t know why, and I am attached to reality enough to wonder what the significance is, and the beauty of it, there isn’t any. Just Proust’s madelines.
(rest of letter is lost).
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