Showing posts with label Bay Area Generations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bay Area Generations. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Bay Area Generations reading 42 at the Bellevue Hotel, Oakland, photos



John Oliver Simon began his worldly travels in 1942, from the red diaper bullpen of New York City, to scribing poem-broadsides to sell on Telegraph Avenue. While at Cal, he was active in the Free Speech Movement; he read with Michael McClure, Gary Snyder, Lew Welch and Kenneth Rexroth. Since 1971, he has taught poetry to kids, with California Poets in the Schools, where he has passed the poetry baton onto his granddaughter. In the 1980s, he began translating poets from Mexico to the farthest corners of Latin America. He picked up an NEA translation fellowship along the way. And the City of Berkeley honored him for his 50-year-contribution to arts and culture, proclaiming January 20, 2015, as "John Oliver Simon Day."  —Maureen Hurley

 Maureen Hurley emerged in 1952 from the ravine that trickles from the bloody green wordstreams of Eire out of the poverty creeks on the backside of Tamalpais where her mother hung out for a thousand years in the No Name Bar with Jack Kerouac and Bob Kaufman. Schooled in her craft with California Poets in the Schools, she has carried her lyre from Chernobyl to Lake Titicaca. She holds an MA in creative writing from San Francisco State and has been awarded eight California Arts Council artist in residence grants. She lives in Oakland.   —John Oliver Simon

Google Photos link

Monday, February 13, 2017

Bay Area Generations, Edition #42, The Bellevue Club, Oakland, Maureen Hurley & John Oliver Simon


We are very grateful to invite you to be a part of Bay Area Generations at The Bellevue Club, Oakland on Monday, February 27, 2017.
We would like you to read the following pieces:

STILL LIFE WITH DEAD BIRD (Maureen Hurley)
LETTER TO COLM TÓIBÍN (Maureen Hurley)
I WAS TEN (Maureen Hurley)

Pablo (John Oliver Simon)
Mama Skunk (John Oliver Simon)
After Rilke (John Oliver Simon)

Day of The Show
Your Reader arrival time - 6:45pm
Writer's mixer (at the bar) - 6:30pm
Doors open for seating - 7 p.m.
Reading starts - 7:30 p.m.

We invite you to arrive early so that you may meet your fellow readers and then we can review our reading procedures for the show.

We provide you a complimentary "souvenir" chapbook of the entire show, and there will also be a small number of copies available for purchase at a nominal cost.

Sales Table You are welcome to bring your own products to sell at the book table: books, chapbooks, cds, broadsides.

Guests We hope that you invite friends and colleagues to hear you read! We are unable to offer comps. We do ask that all attendees, other than readers, donate $7.00 admission (or $10.00 with a souvenir chapbook), which helps to offset our costs.

Directions The Bellevue Club, Oakland is located in Oakland at 525 Bellevue Ave., Oakland, CA, right on beautiful Lake Merritt. It's walkable from BART (19 St.). The Bellevue Club has a full bar and offers a sumptuous view of the Lake. Map:https://goo.gl/maps/pjv7KpvvWv62

We are happy that you will be participating in this event and look forward to a memorable evening with your work.

Sincerely,

Sarah Kobrinsky, Guest Curator
Sherry Wilson + Amos White, Board Curators

Bay Area Generations
A Reading Series for the Ages
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BOARD OF DIRECTORS
Sandra Wassilie, Co-Founder & Chair
Amos White, President
Gina Goldblatt, Secretary
Sherry Wilson, Treasurer
Charles Kruger, Emeritus & Co-Founder

Bay Area Generations is a 501(c)3 nonprofit. Tax ID #47-2973129

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

I WAS TEN (a birthday poem of sorts)

I WAS TEN

I was ten. The meal complete.
Some two score and more of relatives
leaned back in their chairs, comatose.
The long table was cleared, 

the turkey carcass in the soup pot, 
salt and luck poured onto the spilled wine lakes  
that bled out on mended Irish linen cloths.
The cutlery and cut glass sang staccato arias
in the kitchen. Stacks of dessert plates

clattered and leaned in wild abandon. 
The teakettle screamed its siren call.
Amber whiskey sloshed into cups and mugs.
I waited in eager anticipation
for the entrance of the cake—
the cake that I surely knew was mine... 

Would it be chocolate?
Please let it be chocolate 

with chocolaty frosting.
Not mint. Real chocolate frosting.
But they brought in the pies.
No cake, no candles. Pumpkin pies.
I was ten. I combusted into tears.
My mother slapped her forehead
saying, OhmyGod, it's her birthday.
Everyone cooing, we'll make it up

at Christmas. Never happened. 
Story of my life.

11/22/2016 
Bay Area Generations #42
2/2017


Sunday, April 10, 2016

LETTER TO COLM TÓIBÍN


Colm Tóibín, it's come to this;
a neighbor, madly in love with
the wandering road of your writing,
rang my doorbell, asking me
how to pronounce your name,
which led to an Irish linguistics course
on aspects of hidden vowels,
slender consonants, síneadh fadas,
and diminutive endings. The reason
for the shh! in my cousin Sinéad's name.
How Hebrew and Irish, despite everything,
carry the hunger of the shark-toothed sound.
And how the final -ín in Máirín, and Tóibín
are but small endearments, like cailín.
Why say the ó and not the i, she asked.
I explained the role of the fada, the haloed ó—
she got more than she bargained for,
as we wandered from the story of Brooklyn,
on how to say Saoirse, to the The Testament 
of Mary, who, despite everything, did not believe. 
What my neighbor really wanted to know
was how the syllabic dove was nestled
within the folds of your name, and Iona's naomh.
But we are also bound by testament of cold iron,
our grandparents smuggled guns to Eniscorthy.
My neighbor got a discourse on the uprising,
and hidden pocket vowels within bol-g and fil-um, 
as my grannie would say. The anaptyctic mediator
smuggling vowels and proverbial bullets
across borders. This béarla
we hold in common.

4/10/2016

Bay Area Generations #42
2/2017

SILENT HAICHES
DEEP NOVEMBER
FOUND POEMS FROM THE IRISH
Hurley: Sea Tide

Monday, January 18, 2016

STILL LIFE WITH DEAD BIRD

"Little Sister!" he cried out. "Thank you for guiding us here. Thank you for taking care of us all this way. Wherever we go we will remember your kindness. We shall wear your feathers when you give them to us. We will hold your people in regard and tell our people always to treat you well…" The Flicker flew up into the air, flashing the gold beneath her wings one last time, and then flew back into the forest. —Ted Andrews
I found a rare yellow-shafted flicker
arranged on my doorstep,
perhaps it was a thoughtful gift
from the neighborhood cats,
perhaps not, but it was so beautiful
nestled in that blue woven rag rug,
I couldn't bear to let it go, or bury it.
I took photos of it, I drew it,
and called it Still Life with Dead Bird.
I thought of Wayne Thiebaud's pastries
and kept that bird deep in my freezer,
wrapped in tinfoil and night.
And whenever I needed solace
I took it out of the freezer
to admire its golden beauty.
It shone like sunrise, I kept it on ice
for decades, in a cabin I later abandoned,
along with the interrupted dreams of a writer's life.
I wonder what the neighbors thought
when they found it covered with hoarfrost?

1/18/2016
Bay Area Generations #42
2/2017