Will Durst flyer signed

Like the returning salmon

Like the returning salmon, I only feel at ease when I return to my natal watershed. The  moment I cross the rise over the Tomales Bay Watershed I know I am home. The farmlands rise up to greet me like an old friend. Without judgement, without frame, the convolutions of road, space and time take me back to a place when anything was possible, even love.

D8C8AD, OR BEIGE BY ANY OTHER NAME

D8C8AD, OR BEIGE BY ANY OTHER NAME

A photo of a small green bird, and a series of color swatches. A chic fashion statement of sorts. But nowhere on that bird is that particular color beige, for example. Call it bone, as in bone-dead, because sometimes defining colors or what the eye sees, does not precisely fit the rigid structure as defined by Pantone color charts—D8C8AD. It is the imprecise nature of the variabilities of colors that graces that wild canary’s flanks that gives it depth and it both delights and surprises the eye with endless possibility.

3/27/19

PEN THEFT

PEN THEFT

It evolved into something like this:
She loved purple, and so by default,
all purple pens laying about were hers.
No matter that they weren’t. The siren call.
She absconded with the lot. They were like candy.
No pen was safe from her covetous nature.
Relentless as the sea. To her way of thinking:
Possessiveness was nine-tenths of the law.
Or something like that. Or that’s how she rationalized it.
With purple pen in hand, she was always at the ready
for what may, or may not, come.
Better to ask permission after the fact, than not, she thought,
knowing that the answer was always stacked.
She was well armed and at the ready.
By default, she was his Girl Friday,
even though it was not in the job description.
In the process, he, who hoarded his pens
in every possible color, had to relinquish control
of the purple pens, it was payback time
for all the pens he had stolen from his sister, the writer.
Some pens were tinted with the garish mauveine of analine dye,
an accident involving the synthesis of quinine for malaria,
that forever changed the painter’s palette,
and all the colors addressing the modern world—
not to mention mosquitoes.
Other pens were infused with a touch of the poet’s
secret midnight ink with impossible names
such as aubergine, amethyst or tanzanite.
She never knew what those dark pens
would want to say, or would want to draw, next.
Not to mention the uncharted territories.
She held them up to her ear, and like seashells,
they whispered unintelligible secrets
that were more often than not—lost in translation
on the long and arduous journey
from ear to hand to paper, or prayer,
bypassing that relentless censor, the brain.
She gave them free rein. They whispered nonsensical terms,
like blood diamonds, or high mass, and other raiments of desire.
Ultimately it was about truth. Any truth would do.
Or perhaps it was a case of free reign, because
purple was the color of royalty, after all.
It was sort of like channeling those Roddy Doyle
Facebook dialogues. Nonsensical premises
with sensical endings drowning their sorrows over a pint.
You could almost see the premises flocking
just around the corners of the mind’s eye.
She couldn’t help herself, stealing those pens.
Because purple is the color of forgiveness.
after all.

3/27/19

KILLING THE CAT

KILLING THE CAT

Cat wants in and out at the same time
But she is stuck on the stoop of indecision.
Coming and going are one thing to her.
She doesn’t differentiate, however,
she is merely exorcising her rights—
like Schrödinger’s cat. Ah, the variables of physics.
She complains. Looks up at me as if it’s my fault.
We stand in the doorway, frozen in time. And wait.
Maybe we are the thought experiment in action.
This room, this door. This moment in time
caught in the crosshairs. Not the cat—
who is neither dead nor alive,
depending upon your perspective.
And yes, boxes may have been involved.
If I think of her in the box, then, she is dead.
If I don’t, then, she she is alive. Either. Or.
What’s so ironic is that she’s not even my cat.
We wait, contemplate the vagaries of air.
Measure the depths of sky.
And close the door.

3/25/15
rev. 3/25/19
Published in Spectrum 24 August 2020

Dear Deer (Deirdre) of the Sorrows (photo)

Dear deer of the Sorrows. Last night she recognized the sound of my car and then refused to move. Nearly a head-on collision. Nearly the end for her. Right in front of the church too. Where is that young buck Naoise when you need him?

Photo is from 2018. Deirdre the deer is a little hussy, has twins every year without fail. She pops down the roses as if they were cotton candy—much to the chagrin of my cousin Sinead. Doesn’t even savor them. (Her cheekiness finally got the best of her, later in the year, now she hobbles from a run-in with a car, her latest set of twins dutifully mincing along behind her.)

Feral Friday commute

My somewhat feral Friday morning routine—get up before the crack of dawn, watch the mist rising in Nicasio Valley, listen to the cows, like a cat I sneak out of the house before my cousin Dave gets home from working nights at United—he doesn’t know I’m crashing in Sean’s abandoned bedroom— it’s a race to beat the clock. At least I’m no longer on the couch, the house is coming apart at the seams— literally. Where I’ve been staying in Sebastopol is too far from my teaching job in Berkeley. I make tea in a flask, pack out all my things, pour myself into the car, after scraping off frost, navigate icy backroads, through Lucas Valley, pick up Wi-Fi at Big Rock, the only place I can get a signal on my iPad, check the mail and FB, wait for sunrise over San Pablo Bay (none today, only fog and rain), finish off my tea, then head down the hill to outsmart the madness of the freeway and the commute frenzy of the big cities across the bay. I do all this in order to teach kids poetry.

SUMI-E haiku

SUMI-E

In a small clay bowl,
black carbon ink dreams the final song
of trees into being.

3/17/19

UKIYO-E SUMI DREAMS

In a small clay bowl,
black carbon ink dreams the final song
of trees into being.

3/17/19

Shout out from Sharon Doubiago on the publication of Hard Country

I wasn’t expecting a Facebook shout-out from poet Sharon Doubiago, for triggering the events for the publication of Hard Country. But, thanks.

Sharon Doubiago wrote to John Crawford:

“In 1980 two poet friends, Maureen Hurley and I think Leonard Cirino took my manuscript Hard Country, to Meridel LeSueur who was teaching at the annual 2-week poetry symposium in Port Townsend Washington. Copper Canyon Press of Pt. Townsend had enthusiastically accepted it but now was making sexual demands "or no publication." I took my ms from him. Meridel said "I've waited all my life for this book and before I die I'm going to get it published." And she did by taking the ms. to John Crawford of West End Press. Upon reading it he accepted it. Thus began my publishing career (which, as with some of my longtime poet friends as good as any of the superstars, might not have ever happened—writing poetry and getting published are 2 entirely different—in many ways contradictory—endeavors). West End was in Minneapolis as was Meridel. John was wonderful. He founded his press in the West End bar across the street from Columbia University in New York where Jack Kerouac, et al, had hung out and subsequently poets, writers and students. John was a great human being of great integrity and subsequently a great publisher. He never, not even slight hints, demanded what Copper Canyon had. Nor did he require extensive rewriting, changes or cuts to my 264-page poem. Instead he created a 6 female poets committee as editors. An issue rose about the Native American poems in Hard Country, whether a poem about the history of the U.S. by a "white woman" was politically incorrect. It was the great poet, the Native American Joy Harjo, who gave the okay. While in the publication process John came to San Francisco to meet with me, took me to the Basque Hotel/Restaurant in the alley across from what is now the Beatnik Museum, and over dinner educated me in the contemporary political Basque situation. Most awesomely he took me to the Marina apartment of the great poet George Oppen and wife. At least twice he brought me to Minneapolis, for final proofing and readings. He shared with me in several visits and letters his disastrous marriage with a Southern California woman named Sharon. He warned me to never take personally any confusion he might make with my name! He told me this several times! When published he made great connections and readings for Hard Country. When West End moved to Albuquerque he published a second edition. I last saw him there. He picked me up at Margaret Randall’s house and took me to his house which was packed with boxes of West End’s other publications. When he retired West End he sent me the remaining Hard Country copies at no cost to me. In publishing Hard Country he made possible all the rest of my life, all my further publications.  He made possible my poet’s life. He made possible the hope of a great America.  Thank you, mucho gracias, merci beaucoup, shukrin  John Crawford, Love Sharon (the one who loves you).”

https://www.facebook.com/547040818/posts/10156315981285819/

Wild birds

Wild Birds

There were always unnamed rituals to be upheld. The sisters saved up their hair from the comb and each spring they’d place their old hair out on the bushes for the wild birds to build their nests. In this way they were connected to the air. The birds imprinted on their scent, and circled of them like a halo. Like Saint Brigid. Yes. In this way they were all connected.

3/7/19

There were always unnamed rituals to be upheld. 

The sisters saved up their hair from the comb 

and each spring they’d place their old hair 

out on the bushes for the wild birds to build their nests. 

In this way they were connected to the air. 

The birds imprinted on their scent, 

and circled of them like a halo. Like Saint Brigid. Yes. 

In this way they were all connected.

Fat Tueday, Pancake Night

Yes, it’s Fat Tuesday! Pancake night, that’s what’s for dinner. My granny always made crêpes and stuffed them with cottage cheese, sour cream, sugar, and lemon with zest. Erwan Bouchina’s son, Antoine’s lonely crêpe pan was put to good use. No buckwheat flour though. They’re quite filling with the stuffing. I can handle about two, and I’m done. Laissez les bons temps rouler! 

• NOTE: THIS POST ALONG WITH 12 OTHER POSTS WAS ERRONEOUSLY REMOVED BY BLOGGER FOR VIOLATING COMMUNITY STANDARDS ON 5/14/21. It was reinstated as a draft the next day. I am still pissed off.

Atmospheric river

The atmospheric river is back. Rain rain rain rain. Hope the backroads will be open tomorrow. Localized flooding this afternoon—the Laguna is back, full force. Perfect Storm.

TRUE BLUE

He said—I wanna be in a rock ‘n’ roll band.
She said—But honey, you gotta accessorize.
So he strapped on an electric blue guitar
and strutted down the street in style.

3/1/19