Showing posts with label Herman Berlandt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Herman Berlandt. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 14, 2020
I never did finish Herman Berlandt’s memorial blog
Another year steamrollers by and I am reminded, with the help of Facebook Memories, that I never did write that blog tribute to Herman Berlandt who died May 15, 2017. I didn’t hear about his death until July, by chance, but I managed to get myself to his memorial service. So this month becomes an annual tribute month in my mind’s eye.
I was far too overwhelmed at the time to fully process Herman’s passing, but I did manage to create a blog for him, called Herman Berlandt, Poet on the Brink of the Mesa from a collection of papers I had gathered from his cabin in the winter of 2018. I also always meant to scan all the photos from our time together for National Poetry Association as well (I was staff photographer)—still on the back burner of the to-do list.
I always meant to go back and add to the blog, finish the big scan job of his papers that I had begun in January, 2019, but I never found the time, my own life was in such upheaval, first, my ex, John Oliver Simon had died, then I was suddenly homeless, living on the run—a 20+ year relationship had ended badly, and now here we are, July 2020. We are all firmly entrenched at one home or another, with nowhere to go. Now I have the time to finish my task, but no material to scan. I assume Bolinas is still closed to outsiders. I hope that Patrick Flynn is OK, and still holding down the home front, and that the cabin still stands. Otherwise, now would be a perfect time to finish the job.
This is a time of closure, completing the undone tasks of one’s lifetime. Facing extinction is a hell of a motivator.
The 2019 blog (which I’m sure no one has even seen)
Herman Berlandt, Poet on the Brink of the Mesa
and my placeholder un-tribute to Herman form 2017
Sunday, July 16, 2017
Herman Berlandt Memorial, Bolinas
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| Ilka meant July 16. |
Herman Berlandt, who founded San Francisco's National Poetry Week, and the Beat Museum, was an integral part of the SF poetry scene, and a dear friend of mine, who was instrumental in my development of poetic voice, will be remembered this Sunday at The Bolinas Community Center. During the 1990s, I was co-editor of Mother Earth News, and primary layout artist, typist, researcher for the regional issues. Our first issue, Soviet Poetry since Glasnost, led to Eastern European Poetry, then African Poetry, until we covered all the continents—a massive undertaking. With Jack Foley, we were also co-producing Poetry: USA as well on the local front. When the African issue reached one of our co-editors in Africa, he said everybody was so excited in the post office, that they had a massive impromptu reading right there in the post office....from a Facebook post...
Note been: I never did write that tribute, I was too overwhelmed, then, the following year, my own life was tossed into catastrophic upheaval with the breakup of a 20-something-year relationship. I was homeless, drifting, for a time, but I did manage to create a blog for him, Herman Berlandt, Poet on the Brink of the Mesa, from a collection of papers I had gathered from his cabin in 2018. I scanned clippings from the memorial binder in his cabin and created a blog for him in January, 2019. I always meant to go back and add to it, finish the job, but I never found the time, and now here we are, July 2020, with nowhere to go. I have the time, but no material to scan.
Meanwhile, check out my blog posts on Soviet poetry since Glasnost, the periodical we made for National Poetry week that launched Mother Earth News.
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Poet role call, National Poetry Week poster from 1993
Blast from the past: National Poetry Week readings, 1993. Wonder where some of these folks are: Herman Berlandt is still on the Mesa. I visited Herman about 3 years ago and he has alcohol-related dementia, barely remembered me. Scary. Vernon Edgar looks in on him, takes care of him. Blind leading the blind. They seem to be enjoying life.
Last I heard. Julia Vinograd is still on the Avenue. She read at Watershed. Zoravia Bettiol moved back to Brazil; she may or may not still be with us. Robert Hunter, Mel C. Thompson, where are youse? David Fisher disappeared ages ago. I fear the worst. Last letter I sent was marked Return to Sender. What makes me especially sad is that I lost track of David and then couldn't find him again. I did several internet searches. Nada. Only to find he was alive all this time, only to find that he died this year. Sheesh! As Donna Champion said, Sometimes people retreat into their own lives, leaving past lives to the wind.
Bruce Isaacson said: Mel C. Thompson walks the earth! Made recent books by Deborah Fruchey and Nancy Depper, both excellent. All those found on the Facebook, but not Eli Coppola or Sparrow 13 who just doesn't compute. Dominique Lowell I think is walking Detroit, Laura Conway walks Prague. Always wondered about Judy Grahn whose great A Woman is Talking to Death haunts mind still. Juan Felipe Herrera was walking Las Vegas recently and that was great treat. Maureen--what a line up! People don't know story of Herman Berlandt & Nat'l Poetry Week, they should.
I said, Wow. Blast from the past, or what Bruce? Fantastic roll call. I am relieved to know that Robert Hunter & Judy Grahn are still with us. Piri Thomas passed on. Sparrow 13 is on FB with a different name. I've got proof sheets from these readings. I just need a good negative scanner. Sad to hear about Piri Thomas. I really liked Piri.
I just met Pasha DeSaix yesterday at Whitman McGowan's memorial! All this time I thought she was a man. LOL. We're now FB friends. She knew my mom, and said she was just thinking of her a few days ago. I told her that she had given my mom a n audio tape, Leonard Cohen's 10 New Songs, and after my mother died, I played it incessantly. Thanked her for the unintended gift from so many years ago. Then she sent me a photo of my mom taken months before her death. The universe offering such strange gifts.
I had wild frenetic dreams all last night, I think Whitman was very much with us yesterday at the memorial. He was certainly in my head. I gave up on trying to sleep. Middle Aged Dub...
Whitman McGowan's joined Vampyr Mike Kassel, Joie Cook, Piri Thomas and David Fisher for that great open poetry reading in the sky. What a grand open mike list that must be. Wonder who's emcee?
From a Facebook post.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The New Zamizdat
OK, I must admit that I'm mesmerized by the new Blogger stats tool—in a shiny packratty sort of way. I am endlessly fascinated that I can now view what pieces are being read—how many readers, and what countries. Positively mind-blowing.
First, writing is a lonely business. Audience is a whole other hemisphere. Then there's the old saw: Who do you write for? Who are your readers? The publish or perish paradigm took off its kid cloves and flexed its knuckles and whistled, "hey kid 'comere!" when blogging was invented. Shades of Marshall McLuhan's Global Village.
I come from the American school of Samizdat or, rather, Tamizdat tradition. No, tamizdat is not a typo—as one well-intending publisher tried to correct one of my posts.
This is the underground tradition in which Soviet poetry (and secret texts including copies of Bibles) were painstakenly reproduced—and distributed, underground. I met one of Osip Mandelstahm's samizdat publishers in Leningrad, held a fragile copy in my hands—knowing that people risked their lives preserving his poetry. Mandelstahm & Blok's chapbooks still reeked of rancid printer's ink decades later.
Then there was the Leningrad Rock Opera singer Valera (aka Valery / Valeriy) Stupachenko - Валерий Ступаченко (who I did not marry because he loved his dead wife and God more than me—who could compete with that?) Valera treasured his dog-eared carbon-paper Bible. Cherished possessions from a time when religious worship too was illegal.
First, writing is a lonely business. Audience is a whole other hemisphere. Then there's the old saw: Who do you write for? Who are your readers? The publish or perish paradigm took off its kid cloves and flexed its knuckles and whistled, "hey kid 'comere!" when blogging was invented. Shades of Marshall McLuhan's Global Village.
I come from the American school of Samizdat or, rather, Tamizdat tradition. No, tamizdat is not a typo—as one well-intending publisher tried to correct one of my posts.
Russian samizdat, from samo- (self) + izdatelstvo (publishing house), from izdat (to publish). Coined facetiously on the model of Gosizdat (State Publishing House). (from AWAD)Soviet samizdat was a form of illegal self-publishing in a seriously limited edition format, using ten layers of carbon paper plus ten sheets of clean paper—and an upright manual typewriter replete with a print ribbon you had to re-ink by hand. Typing through that many layers of paper was a real bitch. Weak ring finger strength equaled blurred "e"s in final copies. And pity the poor sot who was gifted copy #10—it was a bitch to the tenth power to read.
This is the underground tradition in which Soviet poetry (and secret texts including copies of Bibles) were painstakenly reproduced—and distributed, underground. I met one of Osip Mandelstahm's samizdat publishers in Leningrad, held a fragile copy in my hands—knowing that people risked their lives preserving his poetry. Mandelstahm & Blok's chapbooks still reeked of rancid printer's ink decades later.
Then there was the Leningrad Rock Opera singer Valera (aka Valery / Valeriy) Stupachenko - Валерий Ступаченко (who I did not marry because he loved his dead wife and God more than me—who could compete with that?) Valera treasured his dog-eared carbon-paper Bible. Cherished possessions from a time when religious worship too was illegal.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Letter to Charles McGeehan
Dear Bertaijn & Charles—Happy Holidays!
It’s been raining steadily for a week, a slow, gentle rain, drumming fingers of rain on the moss-green scalp of my cabin roof nestled beneath live oaks. I’m cozily curled up in bed with the flu, playing with my computer.
It’s been raining steadily for a week, a slow, gentle rain, drumming fingers of rain on the moss-green scalp of my cabin roof nestled beneath live oaks. I’m cozily curled up in bed with the flu, playing with my computer.
There are flash flood warnings in Northern California, Oregon and Washington and record feet of snow has fallen in the mountains. I’ve been lax about writing to anyone since I’ve been back home. A kind of lethargy creeps over me. I do what’s necessary, read, and little else. Perhaps hibernation. . . Of course, it doesn’t help that I have an injured wrist.
Right before I left Amsterdam, I got into a bicycle accident. As I was returning home to Linde Voûte’s on Oetgenstraat from Westerpark, some idiot took a curved wrought-iron flower trellis (the arch that goes over a gate) out of the back of his double-parked car on Prinsengracht (near Utrechtstraat), and swung it in front of me, cutting my right hand.
Right before I left Amsterdam, I got into a bicycle accident. As I was returning home to Linde Voûte’s on Oetgenstraat from Westerpark, some idiot took a curved wrought-iron flower trellis (the arch that goes over a gate) out of the back of his double-parked car on Prinsengracht (near Utrechtstraat), and swung it in front of me, cutting my right hand.
I tried to protect my face but smashed into a parked car, bruising my left wrist when I hit the back windshield. It was either smash into a parked car or fly into the canal—which would you choose? It was raining, and the bike’s brakes were no good on wet cobblestone & brick.
Anyway, I’ve been ignoring my wrist for the past 2 months—until it hurt so badly (I was smashing a clove of garlic with the flat of a knife; the little bones in my wrist made a crunching sound like potato crisps!). I finally went to the doctor who put it into a splint to rest it—a bad sprain.
I’m slowly typing (two-fingered pecking) this letter wearing my stupid wrist brace—which looks (& is beginning to smell) like an old gym shoe, and as winter’s chill creeps in, my bones ache (snow in the Sierras); injuries don’t heal quite as fast as they used to.
I’m finally finished with my Breytenbach essay on translation. I can’t believe it took me so long to write it, but I didn’t have the background or knowledge necessary to quickly write something.
I’m finally finished with my Breytenbach essay on translation. I can’t believe it took me so long to write it, but I didn’t have the background or knowledge necessary to quickly write something.
Besides, if I knew what I was going to write about, I wouldn’t write at all. What’s the point? The essay & footnotes is nearly 10,000 words (verbose), and it was very difficult for me. It’s long overdue, I hope J.L van Schaik Publishers (South Africa) will still use it!
It’s hard to say exactly how I’ve been wasting my time as I’m never idle. You know how it is, the life of a writer is a proverbial black hole. In Autumn I never have much ($) work: I’m teaching a poetry class to children, ages 6-8; I finished 3 “Elderhostel” classes (California history, poetry, art, etc.) to 60+ year-olds—and my strangest job yet—was as a naturalist leading a group of businessmen on a day hike to the headlands near Sausalito (& the Golden Gate Bridge) last Friday (probably when I caught this cold).
It’s hard to say exactly how I’ve been wasting my time as I’m never idle. You know how it is, the life of a writer is a proverbial black hole. In Autumn I never have much ($) work: I’m teaching a poetry class to children, ages 6-8; I finished 3 “Elderhostel” classes (California history, poetry, art, etc.) to 60+ year-olds—and my strangest job yet—was as a naturalist leading a group of businessmen on a day hike to the headlands near Sausalito (& the Golden Gate Bridge) last Friday (probably when I caught this cold).
Did Paul Evans do another issue of ORAL magazine? Charles, you haven’t sent me the second batch of poems that I typeset—you were going to proof them, remember? As soon as I get them, I’ll make corrections ASAP and send you a clean copy of all that I’ve typeset so we can see where the “holes” are.
Herman got a letter from Guillermo Gelacio, & some photos. Guillermo was concerned with, among other things, Herman’s general sloppiness in the Asian issue. I’ve tried to tell him to take care, he’s losing credibility.
A good thing we’re near the end of the project. He’s truly incorrigable, and becoming worse with time, impossible to work with. I want to make sure we get our issue together soon so send the corrected poems.
Here’s a letter fragment I never sent:
Here’s a letter fragment I never sent:
19 Sept., 1996 (midnight insomnia) Home, I am—and after a week of sunshine, I need dark shades—unused as I am to so much concentrated light. The weather’s turning cold. Fingernail moon (and a total eclipse on the 26th—the last one of the millenium—which I doubt you’ll even see, Dutch weather being what it is.
Still suffering from acute jetlag, tunnel vision & disorientation by late afternoon is typical (for 6 pm is really 3 am—and I wonder why I have no appetite for dinner!).
Driving is excruciating (asleep at the wheel is a virtual reality). My cousin Dave’s having the same symptoms. We may have jumped into this culture/time zone but the bio-rhythms aren’t yet shifting.
He said “I have to keep moving around, flapping my arms, just to keep awake at work.” I laughed at the idea of Dave flapping his wings in an airplane hangar with all those dismantled planes.
At a lively Brazilian party in San Francisco, I made the mistake of sitting alone on the couch for a few minutes. My eyes may have been open, but that’s all. I couldn’t even speak, let alone understand the Brazilians’ Spanish (who speak with a Portuguese accent).
I drove Herman Berlandt & his girlfriend, Verona home to Novato, literally cross-eyed, thinking “I’ll never make it home” and slept on their couch. They say it takes a minimum of 1 day of suffering for each time zone.
I remember how it took me weeks to recover from Russia. How long will I suffer this time? Someone said that in a Concorde jet, you travel so fast, you arrive before you leave—earlier, that is, in New York than when you leave Paris! Where’s Einstein when you need him?
My cousin Sínead (Dave’s sister) and I went huckleberrying last weekend out at our secret spot on a hill near Tomales Bay, where we used to go with my grandmother. (They’re like tiny blueberries with 50 times the flavor.)
My cousin Sínead (Dave’s sister) and I went huckleberrying last weekend out at our secret spot on a hill near Tomales Bay, where we used to go with my grandmother. (They’re like tiny blueberries with 50 times the flavor.)
From the isthmus, we could see Point Reyes in the distance, like a comma against the shining sea, separating Drake’s Bay from the raging Pacific—a misnamed ocean.
Offshore fog rising up like a vast wall where tiny fishing boats disappeared into its maws, made me think of the painter, Turner. The pine forest took a beating from last year’s severe storms—so many uprooted trees met an abrupt end—we used them as aerial pathways up the hillsides.
Since it’s all part of the Point Reyes National Seashore, we’re not supposed to gather anything—even huckleberries, so I stole an antler. We were hiding from the rangers but we had Sínead’s 22-month-old nephew, Séan to lug through the undergrowth. I had the odd sensation we were re-enacting an age-old ritual, gathering berries before the fall—no matter that our skin is white, not red.
My aunt will make pies and ice cream, our teeth will be indigo-stained for days (like my fingers). How Pictish! The berries are so labor-intensive (cleaning takes longer than picking) we make jokes, compare them to caviar. (We went to an equinox party at Albert Straus's—a local ranch and made gallons of huckleberry ice cream).
I spent my flight over the Atlantic being terribly sleepy but wide awake with fear. Unfortunately my airplane dessert had hazelnut filling in it, tho they said it was jam. . . and I had to take antihistimines, the stewardesses coming by periodically to see if I was still breathing. I was trying to figure out a place where I could hide to inject myself with adrenaline, if it came to that.
I spent my flight over the Atlantic being terribly sleepy but wide awake with fear. Unfortunately my airplane dessert had hazelnut filling in it, tho they said it was jam. . . and I had to take antihistimines, the stewardesses coming by periodically to see if I was still breathing. I was trying to figure out a place where I could hide to inject myself with adrenaline, if it came to that.
I’m such a coward around needles and every muscle in your body contracts at once on adrenaline. The one time I had to take it, I could hear my scull crack as every muscle in my scalp went into shrinkwrap overdrive! Zip!
What struck me most about returning home is the sharp, aromatic odor of bay laurel, poison oak pollen, and sun-burnt hay, flavored with the acrid, thirsty dust—the smell of late summer making me nostalgic (like Proust and his madelines?).
What struck me most about returning home is the sharp, aromatic odor of bay laurel, poison oak pollen, and sun-burnt hay, flavored with the acrid, thirsty dust—the smell of late summer making me nostalgic (like Proust and his madelines?).
Seeing all the lovely, steep hillsides against a cerulean sky, cloaked in tawny blond oatgrasses like sleeping lions, and the thick green-black oaks roiling in their crotches—so sexual, it surprises me anew each time I return.
I’ll never forget how the mirrored San Francisco Bay and Mt. Tamalpias (our Mt. Fuji-san) from the fire-ravaged Oakland hills takes my breath away. The Sonoma-Marin Coast Miwok Indian word for the shining golden gate, Yulupa.
All that’s left of the Bay Area Ohlone Indians’ stories of this landscape is: Dancing on the brink of the world.
I love this landscape, but not the culture. I hate the vacuous American loudness, the lack of body awareness, the shallow chrome and Formica existence, the urban sprawl. . . the ultimate loneliness. I try to be somewhat tolerant, but I guess it’s not within my nature. And so I am alone, dancing on the brink of I know not what.
My 2nd night home, I was invited to a Sebastopol Arts Council meeting for the promotion of poetry in west Sonoma County, and I felt so jaded. “Been there, done that. Got the shirt. . .”
My 2nd night home, I was invited to a Sebastopol Arts Council meeting for the promotion of poetry in west Sonoma County, and I felt so jaded. “Been there, done that. Got the shirt. . .”
Guess I should be glad poetry is so “in” but it just makes me bad-tempered and ornery—especially when they dream big, and haven’t a clue as to what goes on in putting on reading series and workshops, wanting more volunteer labor to make it happen. . .and I’ve got that shirt too—in several sizes. (And it’s got bloody holes in it by now!).
It feels a bit like a mausoleum here, in this poetry mecca of the world (and in my cabin too). I know I’ll grow used to it soon enough.
It feels a bit like a mausoleum here, in this poetry mecca of the world (and in my cabin too). I know I’ll grow used to it soon enough.
I saw a bizarre English movie, The Draughtsman’s Contract, by Peter Greenaway, the director of The Cook, the Thief, his Wife and her Lover. At the end there were all these Dutch references—someone speaking Dutch which I could almost understand. It had the peculiar effect of making me homesick for the wrong country.
They say you always leave a part of yourself behind when you travel. Does that mean there’s less of me returning home each time I go away? (Heminway said: Travel broadens the mind. Writing broadens the ass. I write standing up.)
I’ve got to find a new home for our poetry reading series—book 20+ readers thru Dec. & do a newsletter /mailing on my own (done!). I’ve got a few 2-day teaching jobs with Elderhostel (open university for retired folks) in Oct. One on creativity and the arts, the other on early California history—I’ve got to start cramming the info. in soon. It takes me a while to re-establish those kinds of facts—I teach through telling lively stories and anecdotes—otherwise my elderly “students” will fall asleep.
* * * * * * *
Charles, today’s the anniversary of day President Kennedy was shot. The proverbial question: what were you doing, where were you? (Not on the grassy knoll, I presume!)
I’ve got to find a new home for our poetry reading series—book 20+ readers thru Dec. & do a newsletter /mailing on my own (done!). I’ve got a few 2-day teaching jobs with Elderhostel (open university for retired folks) in Oct. One on creativity and the arts, the other on early California history—I’ve got to start cramming the info. in soon. It takes me a while to re-establish those kinds of facts—I teach through telling lively stories and anecdotes—otherwise my elderly “students” will fall asleep.
* * * * * * *
Charles, today’s the anniversary of day President Kennedy was shot. The proverbial question: what were you doing, where were you? (Not on the grassy knoll, I presume!)
I was in 3rd grade, sick with a flu (like today), sitting with my grandmother with my feet propped on the warm sides of the stove firebox (we have a gas stove with a wood burner for heat in Forest Knolls—not that newfangled modern heating!
Bertaijn, my Grandmother’s house in Forest Knolls reminds me so much of your wonderful farm house in Rogny! Thank you again so much for inviting us, it was a highlight of my summer). Actually, she was sitting by the stove, I was wallowing around on the floor in my quilted robe like a red and yellow paisley dust-walrus. It was a dreary day, much like today.
My aunt Canice’s husband Bill (Dave’s father—they were staying with us a while. At one time or another, my grandmother’s house was a second home (a flophouse?) for three of her four daughters in various incarnations of distress).
My aunt Canice’s husband Bill (Dave’s father—they were staying with us a while. At one time or another, my grandmother’s house was a second home (a flophouse?) for three of her four daughters in various incarnations of distress).
Bill Dinsmore (a sloppy drunk) came bursting through the front door, mid-afternoon—full of news. He was so excited, I mistook it for joyousness or frivolity. “The President’s been shot!” he shreiked. In retrospect, I think it was merely excitement and shock enhanced by the booze.
My grandmother’s reaction of anguish (she who had buried a husband, a son and several brothers and sisters by this time), such a bizarre foil to my uncle’s giggling, I didn’t know what to think, only that Kennedy was akin to being a relative in our household. The Irish Catholics have elevated him to secular sainthood.
When visiting my relatives in Ireland in 1973, I was struck by how every house had its altar niche with Jesus and/or Mary (rarely Joseph) and Kennedy illuminated by a (red) votive candle. The sacred heart. Later, in 1989, when I visited Peru, it was like being in Ireland—Kennedy’s half-mast eyes blankly stared out at me from every niche. What do the dead still see from the eyes of photographs?
Of course, lots of controversial stories about Kennedy have surfaced since then. But, regardless of his politics and womanizing, he truly represented something as intangible as hope to so many oppressed peoples the world over.
When visiting my relatives in Ireland in 1973, I was struck by how every house had its altar niche with Jesus and/or Mary (rarely Joseph) and Kennedy illuminated by a (red) votive candle. The sacred heart. Later, in 1989, when I visited Peru, it was like being in Ireland—Kennedy’s half-mast eyes blankly stared out at me from every niche. What do the dead still see from the eyes of photographs?
Of course, lots of controversial stories about Kennedy have surfaced since then. But, regardless of his politics and womanizing, he truly represented something as intangible as hope to so many oppressed peoples the world over.
I can’t think of another American president that had that kind of global impact. Certainly not the Rosevelts, nor Eisenhower (course I wasn’t really politically savvy yet—born in 1952). Clinton’s been compared to Kennedy—but that’s a joke. Clinton couldn’t even fill the shadows of the soles of Kennedy’s feet. Still, I wonder, what would our perception of Kennedy been like if he’d run for office now, more than 25 years after his death; how would the world view him now?
Weird to see Fidel Castro on the telly the other night, Knnedy’s embargo from the Bay of Pigs crisis still in effect—we get little news of Cuba. I saw him on a Mexican TV channel—no voice of James Earl Jones sonorously announcing in that rich baritone: This is CNN!
Weird to see Fidel Castro on the telly the other night, Knnedy’s embargo from the Bay of Pigs crisis still in effect—we get little news of Cuba. I saw him on a Mexican TV channel—no voice of James Earl Jones sonorously announcing in that rich baritone: This is CNN!
Charles, remember those radio emergency broadcast tests when we were kids? The piercing tones followed by the announcement, “This is only a test. If it had been a real emergency . . .” and we thought maybe the bomb was gonna drop? They’ve just eliminated them (I was surprised to hear them on the BBC radio broadcast you listen to in the morning). Now there’s new technology, just some computer chirps and clicks.
Charles, happy birthday to you too! I forgot the date, fellow Sagge.; my birthday’s in 2 days. I’ll be 44, or as my grandmother would say: Farty-Faer. Fulla hot air in more ways than one—nasty flubug!
1 Dec. Sun. Well, a friend (a student’s mother) whisked me away to the beautiful tourist town of Carmel-by-the Sea for the weekend, so I turned 44 beneath a full Gemini moon by the Pacific Ocean (we were 2 houses away from the beach, a painter friend of hers rented a house for a full month).
Charles, happy birthday to you too! I forgot the date, fellow Sagge.; my birthday’s in 2 days. I’ll be 44, or as my grandmother would say: Farty-Faer. Fulla hot air in more ways than one—nasty flubug!
1 Dec. Sun. Well, a friend (a student’s mother) whisked me away to the beautiful tourist town of Carmel-by-the Sea for the weekend, so I turned 44 beneath a full Gemini moon by the Pacific Ocean (we were 2 houses away from the beach, a painter friend of hers rented a house for a full month).
I no sooner returned home (Tues.) and left again to spend Thanksgiving in Novato with Herman and Verona (his actress-girlfriend) and her 2 (adult) children, a Brazilian artist (Zoravia), and a Scottish actor (Neal O’Neill from Glasgow in a kilt (I think I’m in love!) played guitar, so we sang for our supper on full stomachs.
Herman said he was going to call you, Charles, but every time we get the urge, we realize the hour you definately would not appreciate. There’s that little matter of time. He said he wrote to you but you never answered. He was worried about you, your health. Please write back to us soon.
My innards are still unhappy, so I spent the weekend back in bed reading after nearly a week of socializing. I’ve been reading more on the Celts—discovered that Laon was a celtic hillfort, and later, an Irish monastary until ca. 1500 to 1700 AD.
My innards are still unhappy, so I spent the weekend back in bed reading after nearly a week of socializing. I’ve been reading more on the Celts—discovered that Laon was a celtic hillfort, and later, an Irish monastary until ca. 1500 to 1700 AD.
My favorite mystery scholar whom I know little about, a founder of many of the continental universities, was Johannes Scottus Eriugena (John, the Irishman b. 810). He taught 25 years at Laon and at the Paris Court School for Charles the Bald (when he wasn’t being accused of heresy—which was often—for his radical doctrine preached the concept of free will.
Note: this was long before Luther was a gleam in his great-grandparents’ eyes). In 486 the Loire was settled by Merovingin Franks, I don’t remember the dates at Marle.
Do you have any information on the Abbey ring, Bertaijn? Suffice to say, there were probably still a few Gauls around—surely the Romans didn’t kill them all? Certainly most of the so-called “Roman’ troops were comprised of conquered Gauls—and with the fresh influx of Irish blood—well it seems to explain why everyone was wearing those Celtic beltbuckles!
The thing is, no other group of people ever accomplished that kind of inlay design work. The Merovingian buckles were pretty crude workmanship though. Let’s all go back to Marle next summer—for a longer stay so I can scout out some history.
Bertaijn, if you need some manual labor, I’ll be your slave. I’m very good at that sort of thing. Plastering, painting, gardening, etc. I’ve done all kinds of hard labor growing up in the country. Guess I’d better learn some French!
Here’s a little story about Eriugena: An emperor (Charles the Bald?) made a playful pun on two similar sounding words in Latin: sottum and scottum, and asked John what’s the difference between a fool and a Scot (Irishman) to which John replied, “Only the table.” (In Latin, of course: Quid distat inter sottum et scottum?).
Here’s a little story about Eriugena: An emperor (Charles the Bald?) made a playful pun on two similar sounding words in Latin: sottum and scottum, and asked John what’s the difference between a fool and a Scot (Irishman) to which John replied, “Only the table.” (In Latin, of course: Quid distat inter sottum et scottum?).
The king must’ve been seated across from the Irishman. I bet he was flabbergasted by the answer—talk about turned tables! But then it is said in our myths, satire was the first art form invented in Ireland.
I found this gem in my friend Vinz’s flat: Adversus stultitiam pugnare nil est laboriusius nulla enim auctonate vinci fatetur nulla ratione suddetor. Which goes something like: nothing is more laborious than to fight against stupidity for it won’t bend to any authority and it won’t be convinced by any reason.
He must have had some very challenging students at Laon! If I don’t send this soon, it’ll be Christmas! Adieu. A’voir! Kisses & hugs!
P.S/ Well Christmas has come (the goose—well, actually, the turkey— is come and gone), and your package sat on the floor waiting for the last of my photos, and though the pieces were assembled, I forgot to mail this, so now I make another feeble attempt before year’s end.
P.S/ Well Christmas has come (the goose—well, actually, the turkey— is come and gone), and your package sat on the floor waiting for the last of my photos, and though the pieces were assembled, I forgot to mail this, so now I make another feeble attempt before year’s end.
When I started this letter it was raining; would you believe it’s still raining! We have flood warnings for tomorrow, the Russian River is to crest at Hacienda Bridge in the afternoon, just 2 miles from my house. The power’s been threatening to go out all day, flickering—we’ve had terrible winds. Small branches falling on my roof and the hood of my truck. In today’s newspaper, a photo of ice skaters in Holland and in the Midwest—South Dakota, I think.
Charles, twice now I’ve tried calling you but no answer. Hope all’s well. I spent Christmas Eve and morning with my cousins Dave and Sinead in Nicasio; Christmas dinner and Boxing Day with Herman & Verona.
Charles, twice now I’ve tried calling you but no answer. Hope all’s well. I spent Christmas Eve and morning with my cousins Dave and Sinead in Nicasio; Christmas dinner and Boxing Day with Herman & Verona.
Herman was given an old Mac computer, I have to find him a printer and a monitor. Did you ever get a better computer? What you really need is a letter quality printer ASAP! Your old computer programs might not be able to run the printer though, nowadays everything has its own special programs.
You really should upgrade your whole system all at once if you can. Surely Anjum can help you? In the past two years there have been so many new chips (Intel, Pentium) invented, that the relatively new computers are now considered “obsolete” and if you can find someone who’s upgrading to a newer system, you should be able to find a deal somewhere.
Since you only need a system for relatively simple wordprocessing and printing, it doesn’t have to be brand-new! You could get by with a small hard drive of 40 MB and 4-8 MB memory, both of which are upgradable. It would be nice to get a fax-modem too, because the telephone is so expensive.
I realize you want an IBM style clone system, and they’re probably much cheaper, but if you should happen to come across a Mac system, Vinz has a Mac LC, and we can give you all the software and fonts you need. IBM’s highly touted Windows ’95 operating system (it runs the machine—you can’t get computers that run solely off program disks anymore) is merely a rip-off of Mac’s operating system invented circa 1989.
I don’t know if Dave’s sent you his photos yet, he’s been meaning to. Dave’s been working long hours on the “swing shift” (getting home at 2 am) in order to “buy” his grandfather’s house—an unscrupulous unrelated cousin managed to get her name included on the will and by California law, if property isn’t specifically bequeathed, it goes to whoever’s on the will. A real mess for him, but at least he’ll eventually own the house in Nicasio.
I don’t know if Dave’s sent you his photos yet, he’s been meaning to. Dave’s been working long hours on the “swing shift” (getting home at 2 am) in order to “buy” his grandfather’s house—an unscrupulous unrelated cousin managed to get her name included on the will and by California law, if property isn’t specifically bequeathed, it goes to whoever’s on the will. A real mess for him, but at least he’ll eventually own the house in Nicasio.
The irony is that his so-called “inheritance” house will cost him about the same as if he were to buy it on the open market! But it’s a sweet old house—fraught with structural problems. That’s why he could relate so well to the problems of your house in France.
(Do you think this is a long enough P.S.? I’m obsessed with filling the entire page with writing, I abhor the blank page in a letter, squeezing in as many words as possible, thinking I’m somehow getting my money’s worth at the Post Office. I know it doesn’t make sense, this obsession of mine, that’s why it’s so difficult for me to write letters—because once I get going I can’t stop! Enough already!!!)
November 22 - to Dec. 31?, 1996
Friday, February 23, 2007
Letter to Niyi Osundare
November 22 - Dec. 30, 1996
Dear Niyi—Happy Winter Holidays/ Solstice to you!
It’s hard to say exactly how I’ve been wasting my time as I’m never idle. Sometimes I think the life of a writer is a proverbial black hole. I’m so relieved to be finished with my Breytenbach essay on translation (enclosed). I can’t believe it took so long to write, but I didn’t have the background or knowledge necessary to quickly write something. If I knew what I was going to write, I wouldn’t write at all. The essay & footnotes (nearly 10,000 words—verbose), very difficult for me. I hope J.L van Schaik Publishers (South Africa) will use it! If you have any comments or additions, I would be most grateful to hear them. I also included a manuscript, since you asked for a book of mine to teach my poems to your students.
* * * * * * *
After the giddiness of Poetry International, and living a few months in Amsterdam, it feels a bit like a mausoleum here in this poetry mecca of the world (in my cabin too). I know I’ll grow used to it soon enough.
Here’s something nostalgic I wrote for a local newspaper:
THE CHRISTMAS WE HAD TWO TREES
The Christmas my grandmother broke with tradition and returned home dragging a bare madrone tree instead of the typical evergreen tree, I was thoroughly scandalized. Already on shaky ground with the thought of Santa Claus squeezing his girth down the stovepipe—no more than my plump Irish grandmother could do—I was convinced it was an unwritten sin NOT to have a real tree. These things Mattered. The world might end if we didn’t stick to the pattern.
The previous Christmas I’d had my Santa logic seriously challenged with multiple Santas ringing bells over black cauldrons on street corners. Then one Santa dragged my onto his lap, I could see his beard was fake so I wet my pants and cried. Early Christmas morning I tripped down the stairs, head over heels, but the sight of the Christmas tree with its multicolored glass bulbs and icicles caught my attention; I forgot to cry. All those presents! Since I was the smallest, I reasoned all the small presents were mine. Bewildered, I stared at a dozen sets of key ring nestled in shredded wrapping paper.
The New Year: we closed up the three-storey Victorian house on California Street with its leaded glass cabinets, mahogany paneling, hidey-holes, fireplaces in every room, and moved to our West Marin summer home with its firebox attached to the Wedgewood stove—our only source of heat. No fireplace chimneys, only a stovepipe the size of my leg. I was newly five and on loan to my grandmother to keep her company: from a bustling household of a baker’s dozen, we were reduced to only two: the aunts and uncles scattered, my parents were divorcing, both my uncle Myles and my grandfather, dead of cancer.
Etched into memory: the indelible image of my grandfather standing at the front door, with suitcase in hand, saying goodbye. Suspicious, I wanted to know exactly where he was you going for Uncle Myles hadn’t returned from the hospital, would never return. I remember an archipelago of freckles set adrift on the bilious sea of his jaundiced skin, his punishment for burning a mole with a cigarette. Later I learned to wrap my mouth around the word “melanoma” and to watch my moles.
My grandfather rasped, his soft Irish brogue interrupted by the throat cancer, “to the hospital.” I demanded, “When will you be back?” Startled by the answer of “heaven,” I asked where else it was beside in the vast painted dome of the Star of the Sea church. He pointed up to the clouds grazing the brilliant blue sky and mentioned something of angels. Of course I wanted to come; he’d need someone to blow out his cigar matches there too, I reasoned. They laughed uncomfortably and shuffled their feet. Born on his birthday, a month before Christmas Eve, we were twins separated at birth by 60 years. Incorrigible equals in temper and temperament, I was Grandpa’s little monster: at a tender age, I’d learned some nasty habits from him—to cuss, smoke cigars and drink beer—to the horror of my family. Between tantrums, I wasn’t above snacking on stale cigarette butts or licking match heads.
Uneasily I stood amid a forest of legs watching the stained glass window spill its crimson and green tide onto the black and white tile floor, the known world unraveling at the seams. If I went with my grandfather, would I see my family again? I was relieved when he didn’t ask me along. I wrapped my arms around my grandmother’s leg. I don’t remember my grandfather returning home from the hospital, but he did—only to die New Year’s Eve. The family all returned home from their New Years’ parties early. No one could say exactly why: a premonition. Our last year together as an extended family. Little did we know the loan of myself to my grandmother was to last twenty Christmases until I moved away from home.
Our first Christmas season on our own, I was miffed that my grandmother managed to sneak out of the house undetected on the morning of St. Nicholas’ Day without me (Dec. 6th; Old Saint Nicholas/ Sinterclaus/ Santa Claus is the patron saint of children and sailors). She hiked up the hill with saw in hand, bundled in sweaters, longjohns, and baggy homemade black pants; she returned home the hunter dragging a bare madrone tree, a nest of leaves and twigs in her hair—smelling faintly of Wildroot—she swore by the men’s restorative hair tonic. Not that she was in any danger of going bald with a thick white thatch of hair she trimmed herself in front of the bureau mirror, an audience of Jesus and Mary behind their gilt frames and a crucifix overlooking the unused bureau brush set and a small harbor of bottles—unopened Christmas gifts. She preferred the heady scent of Bushmills. Uisge beatha, she’d say, giggling, water of life, dabbing it behind her ears.
At a loss, I wasn’t prepared to let go of the Christmas Tree symbol too, ever the curmudgeon, I trudged up the ridge in a drizzle and dragged home my own tree: a spindly Douglas fir that was more sprout than tree. We made another cross for the base and the two trees stood side by side, my green tree was far too weak to hold ornaments or lights, the one angel we had kept doing swan-dives off the top. But the red-skinned madrone tree, aglow with its lights, silver glass balls and songbirds, was strong enough to hold up the Christmas angel. Begrudgingly, I climbed up the ladder and placed her at the crown of Grandma’s tree.
In retrospect, her madrone tree was beautiful, but at the time it just didn’t feel right. Only now does the metaphor shine through the branches of that tree, ten years after her death. Resurrecting pieces of the story of Rhiannon’s Birds, we were building a new life, starting with the bones of the tree, the grief shining through the skeletal branches, the red-skinned flesh of madrone, peeling from the heat, revealed the green heartwood beneath, with the promise of the life to come in spring.
* * * * * * *
Dec. 30: When I started this letter over a month ago, it was raining; would you believe it’s still raining! We had two clear days: Christmas eve & day. I think we got our entire 1997 rain allotment in November - December, 1996! We had a flash flood warning (wherever roads and creeks or culverts intersect, the water can rise several feet within minutes because the ground’s so saturated, the rivers so overfull, they can’t carry their payload to the sea.) A major river flood warning for this afternoon: the Russian River is to crest 36 feet above its summer banks at Hacienda Bridge—just 2 miles from my cabin. I’m above 50’; thank god for small favors like mountains. The power’s threatening to go out all day, flickering on and off; my computer’s not a happy camper. We’ve had terrible winds. Small branches falling on my roof and the hood of my truck. Another storm due in New Year’s Eve. Think I’ll practice growing webbed feet and feathers, or build an arc. Luckily the post office is nearby, though I may need a snorkel to get there!
Niyi, I loved that story about you receiving your copy of Mother Earth Journal at the post office in Ibidan, and everyone excitedly passing it around from hand to hand, so that you didn’t even have a copy for yourself. Thank you for telling it to me—for making this journal has truly been a labor of love under adverse circumstances.
Dear Niyi—Happy Winter Holidays/ Solstice to you!
It’s hard to say exactly how I’ve been wasting my time as I’m never idle. Sometimes I think the life of a writer is a proverbial black hole. I’m so relieved to be finished with my Breytenbach essay on translation (enclosed). I can’t believe it took so long to write, but I didn’t have the background or knowledge necessary to quickly write something. If I knew what I was going to write, I wouldn’t write at all. The essay & footnotes (nearly 10,000 words—verbose), very difficult for me. I hope J.L van Schaik Publishers (South Africa) will use it! If you have any comments or additions, I would be most grateful to hear them. I also included a manuscript, since you asked for a book of mine to teach my poems to your students.
Sadly, I can’t seem to get it published in the states. I also included some of my children’s poetry books for you. Niyi, I loved so much of your book on turning 40—I found myself underlining lines and whole passages (& it wasn’t even my book!). Some of it reminds me of the Irish Song of Amergin (enclosed). Did I tell you that in Irish my name means she of the sea—for you named me daughter of the sea. . .
* * * * * * *
After the giddiness of Poetry International, and living a few months in Amsterdam, it feels a bit like a mausoleum here in this poetry mecca of the world (in my cabin too). I know I’ll grow used to it soon enough.
Here’s something nostalgic I wrote for a local newspaper:
THE CHRISTMAS WE HAD TWO TREES
The Christmas my grandmother broke with tradition and returned home dragging a bare madrone tree instead of the typical evergreen tree, I was thoroughly scandalized. Already on shaky ground with the thought of Santa Claus squeezing his girth down the stovepipe—no more than my plump Irish grandmother could do—I was convinced it was an unwritten sin NOT to have a real tree. These things Mattered. The world might end if we didn’t stick to the pattern.
The previous Christmas I’d had my Santa logic seriously challenged with multiple Santas ringing bells over black cauldrons on street corners. Then one Santa dragged my onto his lap, I could see his beard was fake so I wet my pants and cried. Early Christmas morning I tripped down the stairs, head over heels, but the sight of the Christmas tree with its multicolored glass bulbs and icicles caught my attention; I forgot to cry. All those presents! Since I was the smallest, I reasoned all the small presents were mine. Bewildered, I stared at a dozen sets of key ring nestled in shredded wrapping paper.
The New Year: we closed up the three-storey Victorian house on California Street with its leaded glass cabinets, mahogany paneling, hidey-holes, fireplaces in every room, and moved to our West Marin summer home with its firebox attached to the Wedgewood stove—our only source of heat. No fireplace chimneys, only a stovepipe the size of my leg. I was newly five and on loan to my grandmother to keep her company: from a bustling household of a baker’s dozen, we were reduced to only two: the aunts and uncles scattered, my parents were divorcing, both my uncle Myles and my grandfather, dead of cancer.
Etched into memory: the indelible image of my grandfather standing at the front door, with suitcase in hand, saying goodbye. Suspicious, I wanted to know exactly where he was you going for Uncle Myles hadn’t returned from the hospital, would never return. I remember an archipelago of freckles set adrift on the bilious sea of his jaundiced skin, his punishment for burning a mole with a cigarette. Later I learned to wrap my mouth around the word “melanoma” and to watch my moles.
My grandfather rasped, his soft Irish brogue interrupted by the throat cancer, “to the hospital.” I demanded, “When will you be back?” Startled by the answer of “heaven,” I asked where else it was beside in the vast painted dome of the Star of the Sea church. He pointed up to the clouds grazing the brilliant blue sky and mentioned something of angels. Of course I wanted to come; he’d need someone to blow out his cigar matches there too, I reasoned. They laughed uncomfortably and shuffled their feet. Born on his birthday, a month before Christmas Eve, we were twins separated at birth by 60 years. Incorrigible equals in temper and temperament, I was Grandpa’s little monster: at a tender age, I’d learned some nasty habits from him—to cuss, smoke cigars and drink beer—to the horror of my family. Between tantrums, I wasn’t above snacking on stale cigarette butts or licking match heads.
Uneasily I stood amid a forest of legs watching the stained glass window spill its crimson and green tide onto the black and white tile floor, the known world unraveling at the seams. If I went with my grandfather, would I see my family again? I was relieved when he didn’t ask me along. I wrapped my arms around my grandmother’s leg. I don’t remember my grandfather returning home from the hospital, but he did—only to die New Year’s Eve. The family all returned home from their New Years’ parties early. No one could say exactly why: a premonition. Our last year together as an extended family. Little did we know the loan of myself to my grandmother was to last twenty Christmases until I moved away from home.
Our first Christmas season on our own, I was miffed that my grandmother managed to sneak out of the house undetected on the morning of St. Nicholas’ Day without me (Dec. 6th; Old Saint Nicholas/ Sinterclaus/ Santa Claus is the patron saint of children and sailors). She hiked up the hill with saw in hand, bundled in sweaters, longjohns, and baggy homemade black pants; she returned home the hunter dragging a bare madrone tree, a nest of leaves and twigs in her hair—smelling faintly of Wildroot—she swore by the men’s restorative hair tonic. Not that she was in any danger of going bald with a thick white thatch of hair she trimmed herself in front of the bureau mirror, an audience of Jesus and Mary behind their gilt frames and a crucifix overlooking the unused bureau brush set and a small harbor of bottles—unopened Christmas gifts. She preferred the heady scent of Bushmills. Uisge beatha, she’d say, giggling, water of life, dabbing it behind her ears.
At a loss, I wasn’t prepared to let go of the Christmas Tree symbol too, ever the curmudgeon, I trudged up the ridge in a drizzle and dragged home my own tree: a spindly Douglas fir that was more sprout than tree. We made another cross for the base and the two trees stood side by side, my green tree was far too weak to hold ornaments or lights, the one angel we had kept doing swan-dives off the top. But the red-skinned madrone tree, aglow with its lights, silver glass balls and songbirds, was strong enough to hold up the Christmas angel. Begrudgingly, I climbed up the ladder and placed her at the crown of Grandma’s tree.
In retrospect, her madrone tree was beautiful, but at the time it just didn’t feel right. Only now does the metaphor shine through the branches of that tree, ten years after her death. Resurrecting pieces of the story of Rhiannon’s Birds, we were building a new life, starting with the bones of the tree, the grief shining through the skeletal branches, the red-skinned flesh of madrone, peeling from the heat, revealed the green heartwood beneath, with the promise of the life to come in spring.
* * * * * * *
Dec. 30: When I started this letter over a month ago, it was raining; would you believe it’s still raining! We had two clear days: Christmas eve & day. I think we got our entire 1997 rain allotment in November - December, 1996! We had a flash flood warning (wherever roads and creeks or culverts intersect, the water can rise several feet within minutes because the ground’s so saturated, the rivers so overfull, they can’t carry their payload to the sea.) A major river flood warning for this afternoon: the Russian River is to crest 36 feet above its summer banks at Hacienda Bridge—just 2 miles from my cabin. I’m above 50’; thank god for small favors like mountains. The power’s threatening to go out all day, flickering on and off; my computer’s not a happy camper. We’ve had terrible winds. Small branches falling on my roof and the hood of my truck. Another storm due in New Year’s Eve. Think I’ll practice growing webbed feet and feathers, or build an arc. Luckily the post office is nearby, though I may need a snorkel to get there!
Niyi, I loved that story about you receiving your copy of Mother Earth Journal at the post office in Ibidan, and everyone excitedly passing it around from hand to hand, so that you didn’t even have a copy for yourself. Thank you for telling it to me—for making this journal has truly been a labor of love under adverse circumstances.
I still have to write to Tanure Ojaide, Tayo Olafioye and Frank Chipasula—I’m so behind on my correspondences—my parents and uncle died within the year 3 years ago, and I’ve let a lot of things slide. The African issue is the last issue I designed; the Latin American issue I typeset, but didn’t do paste-up, Herman Berlandt did. (Going to Poetry International was my first big venture out into the world as an orphan!) I’m so glad to have personally met you after reading and publishing your work.
Tayo was recommended to contact us by you? or possibly Syl Cheney-Coker, I don’t remember who. . . and imagine our surprise when we found out that he was teaching at the local college in Santa Rosa! A message from us for poetry traveled to Africa, then boomeranged back to our very front porch! Small world. Tanure got a residency at the Marin Headlands and we all (& Herman) had dinner together.
I can’t remember how Frank was contacted—I’ve never met him though we’ve corresponded and talked over the phone a few times. Kofi Anwoor was in the area at the time—so many connections effortlessly fell into place it was truly magical. Now that I’ve actually finished this letter (and it’s 1:30 AM, and officially Dec. 31), I realize I don’t even have your address. I hope 1997 will bring you prosperity and joy & that we may meet again soon.
Wednesday, October 8, 2003
IN PRAISE OF THE GRAPE
in vino veritas/ in praise of the grape
—An occasional poem for the Coppola Niebaum Cafe, 10/8/2003
It was on one of those achingly clear days in Fall, like today,
when the coastal ridges bezel the sky into lapis lazuli.
Because the harvest is in from the fields,
long nights of roulette with the weather are done.
Indian Summer has again sweetalked the grape into honey,
and coastal fog suckled up the river canyons at night
has teased that hot, sweet passion of sun and stone
into a diaphanous gown of noble rot and bloom
so that we may freely dance under the Hunter’s Moon.
Kirkegaard said the spirit of occasion recorded in the mind
is an indelible distillation of watery particles of memory—
like the generosity of wine shipped round the Horn.
On the long journey from vineyard dust to the delta of tongue,
we toast that struggle towards civilization: we raise our glasses
to the murals of Las Caux, to the pharaoh’s last offering,
we celebrate the miracle of water into wine, where, under a Tuscan sun,
Caesar’s Gaulish legions drowned solace at the bottom of amphorae,
where Cortez and Columbus decreed wine to grace the New World,
and an army of padres marched north to the tabula rasa of golden Califia
with their precious cuttings for the sacrament of the altar chalice,
where a Hungarian Count Haraszthy, slipped the first zinfandel
into the sweet Mayacama soil, opening her bounteous vein...
We toast the past with this fine wine, older than recorded history,
yet as young as the next harvest, into the poetics of the dream
Where we hold to the party line: In Vino Veritas,
because there will always be poetry, to be sure,
and not only fine conversation steeped in wine,
where we swirl the stem to observe the other
between veiled sheets of glycerin
cascading into a slow waterfall of desire.
And there will be eloquent speeches—
not to be made, except in vino,
and no truth to be uttered here,
excepting that which is in vino—
where wine is a defense of truth,
and truth, a defense of wine.
—An occasional poem for the Coppola Niebaum Cafe, 10/8/2003
It was on one of those achingly clear days in Fall, like today,
when the coastal ridges bezel the sky into lapis lazuli.
Because the harvest is in from the fields,
long nights of roulette with the weather are done.
Indian Summer has again sweetalked the grape into honey,
and coastal fog suckled up the river canyons at night
has teased that hot, sweet passion of sun and stone
into a diaphanous gown of noble rot and bloom
so that we may freely dance under the Hunter’s Moon.
Kirkegaard said the spirit of occasion recorded in the mind
is an indelible distillation of watery particles of memory—
like the generosity of wine shipped round the Horn.
On the long journey from vineyard dust to the delta of tongue,
we toast that struggle towards civilization: we raise our glasses
to the murals of Las Caux, to the pharaoh’s last offering,
we celebrate the miracle of water into wine, where, under a Tuscan sun,
Caesar’s Gaulish legions drowned solace at the bottom of amphorae,
where Cortez and Columbus decreed wine to grace the New World,
and an army of padres marched north to the tabula rasa of golden Califia
with their precious cuttings for the sacrament of the altar chalice,
where a Hungarian Count Haraszthy, slipped the first zinfandel
into the sweet Mayacama soil, opening her bounteous vein...
We toast the past with this fine wine, older than recorded history,
yet as young as the next harvest, into the poetics of the dream
Where we hold to the party line: In Vino Veritas,
because there will always be poetry, to be sure,
and not only fine conversation steeped in wine,
where we swirl the stem to observe the other
between veiled sheets of glycerin
cascading into a slow waterfall of desire.
And there will be eloquent speeches—
not to be made, except in vino,
and no truth to be uttered here,
excepting that which is in vino—
where wine is a defense of truth,
and truth, a defense of wine.
10/8/2003
"In Praise of the Grape" at Francis Ford Coppola's cafe, Oct 10 (MIA p2)
Hi All,
This is just to say that there will be a poetry reading/bash, "In Praise of the Grape" at Carmen and Francis Ford Coppola's cafe @ 619-something* on Kearney St. across from City Lights Bookstore in Northbeach at the confluence of Columbus, and Jack Kerouac Lane, on Friday, Oct 10th, from 3 to 5:30 PM-ish.
According to poetry event organizer, Herman Berlandt, grandfather of the poetry-film genre, who founded the National Poetry Association nearly 30 years ago in SF, and in 2002, the International Poetry Museum, —Francis Ford Coppola himself will attend the annual baccanalia*-as he has done so in the past.
I am at present combing thru my work for something appropriate to read as I'm a featured reader...it's been literally years since I attended the last vintage grape stomping event, but it was, um, intoxicating, as vaguely recall.. truth be known...
When the ancient Romans were having a party, they'd shout IN VINO VERITAS. Come down and praise the harvest by raising a poem and a glass or two of vino with us and maybe you'll find some truth or your future ex-muse at the bottom of it.
Maureen Hurley (he did not attend, but his uncle Carmen who was tending bar, was a gem. He kept my glass more than half full.)
PS: For more information on the International Poetry Museum, or "Mother Earth Journal" (I was co-editor for years), call Herman Berlandt, (415) 868-8865. Uniting the World Press, PO Box 886, Bolinas, CA, 94924 or email him at: info@intemationalpoetrymuseum.org http://www.nationalpoetry.org/npa/mother.html
PPS: *If you absolutely need the address, email me back and when I get it, l'll send it to you...otherwise, just stagger into every bar and cafe near City Lights until you find it... -MH
IN VINO VERITAS (THE BANQUET) -Kierkegaard
It was on one of the last days in July, at ten o'clock in the evening, when the participants in that banquet assembled together. Date and year I have forgotten;... The "spirit of the occasion" and whatever impressions are recorded in one's mind under that heading, concerns only one's recollections; and just as generous wine gains in flavor by passing the Equator, because of the evaporation of its watery particles, likewise does recollection gain by getting rid of the watery particles of memory; and yet recollection becomes as little a mere figment of the imagination by this process as does the generous wine...
...The motto of the Party had been given by him as: In Vino Veritas, because there was to be speaking, to be sure, and not only conversation; but the speeches were not to be made except in vino, and no truth was to be uttered there excepting that which is in vino--when the wine is a defense of the truth and the truth a defense of the wine.
IN VINO VERITAS Reflections on a Glass of Wine —James B. Sanders
The silver-haired gentleman gazed at his glass of rare old Chambertin so hard and long that the young American gustatory finally asked, "What do you see?"
Continuing to swirl and stare at the brick-red liquid, the venerable wine sage replied, "When I look at a wine of this one's quality, charm and provenance, I get a glimpse of the best of man and his struggle through civilization…
It was on one of the last days in July, at ten o'clock in the evening, when the participants in that banquet assembled together. Date and year I have forgotten;... The "spirit of the occasion" and whatever impressions are recorded in one's mind under that heading, concerns only one's recollections; and just as generous wine gains in flavor by passing the Equator, because of the evaporation of its watery particles, likewise does recollection gain by getting rid of the watery particles of memory; and yet recollection becomes as little a mere figment of the imagination by this process as does the generous wine...
...The motto of the Party had been given by him as: In Vino Veritas, because there was to be speaking, to be sure, and not only conversation; but the speeches were not to be made except in vino, and no truth was to be uttered there excepting that which is in vino--when the wine is a defense of the truth and the truth a defense of the wine.
IN VINO VERITAS Reflections on a Glass of Wine —James B. Sanders
The silver-haired gentleman gazed at his glass of rare old Chambertin so hard and long that the young American gustatory finally asked, "What do you see?"
Continuing to swirl and stare at the brick-red liquid, the venerable wine sage replied, "When I look at a wine of this one's quality, charm and provenance, I get a glimpse of the best of man and his struggle through civilization…
Missing the last page
The Bacchantes -Euripides, 410 B.C.E
O hallowed haunts in Crete, that saw Zeus born, where Corybantes with crested helms devised for me in their grotto the rounded timbrel of ox-hide, mingling Bacchic minstrelsy with the shrill sweet accents of the Phrygian flute, a gift bestowed by them on mother Rhea, to add its crash of music to the Bacchantes' shouts of joy; but frantic satyrs won it from the mother-goddess for their own, and added it to their dances in festivals, which gladden the heart of Dionysus, each third recurrent year.
Oh! happy that votary, when from the hurrying revel-rout he sinks to earth, in his holy robe of fawnskin, chasing the goat to drink its blood, a banquet sweet of flesh uncooked, as he hastes to Phrygia's or to Libya's hills; while in the van the Broman god exults with cries of Evoe. With milk and wine and streams of luscious honey flows the earth, and Syrian incense smokes.
While the Bacchant holding in his hand a blazing torch of pine uplifted on his wand waves it, as he speeds along, rousing wandering votaries, and as he waves it cries aloud with wanton tresses tossing in the breeze; and thus to crown the revelry, he raises loud his voice, "On, on, ye Bacchanals, pride of Tmolus with its rills of gold I to the sound of the booming drum, chanting in joyous strains the praises of your joyous god with Phrygian accents lifted high, what time the holy lute with sweet complaining note invites you to your hallowed sport, according well with feet that hurry wildly to the hills; like a colt that gambols at its mother's side in the pasture, with gladsome heart each Bacchante bounds along.
10/8/03
My occasional poem for the occasion
Sunday, June 20, 1999
Preparing for the Summer Solstice
Father’s Day and Verona's birthday, the actress as Lady MacBeth, cannot distinguish between stagelight and perfumed sky; she weeps for the death of her 60 years. The day burns lust-red. We raise champagne glasses and read poetry to the sky. The guest proves this on film for posterity.
A young Peruvian offers an armload of long-stemmed red roses to the actress. I pin a rose to his lapel and come to understand that brief moment of bronzed youth is disguised as a name. We compare ages. Sing the old songs to keep from falling off the earth, recreating the words that dreamed us into being. Verona blows out the candles. We run naked into the sea at sunset.
Floating in the chill depths below the Mesa, we look back at the North American plate. Mt. Tamalpais, place of my conception. Nothing came between my mother and father: this is why I exist. The moon slides over the water. Bioluminescence scribes itself upon the waves. Our tongues answer the ocean.
The suicides of Bolinas: literary invention proscribing reality. A woman boasts she was the last one to speak to Brautigan. I think of Lew going off into the forest. No heroes, words failed them. Sick to death of the intertextual “I”, I vowed not to write about love, and so, became mute; but the poetic Left has sacrificed the author. We need a new altar for the new millennium.
Afraid of the nunneries, I was a deliberately bad child. I collected an insurance of venial sins—white lies—to keep back that abiding fear of God’s prison gate. I thought “zounds” came from the slurring of “God’s wounds.” As did “swoon.” Wounded, we’ve lost the group art of oral tradition. Blame St. Augustine, the first man to read without moving his lips.
The slow sibilance of speech went underground, the death of the spoken word. The monastery scriptoriums fell silent. The esophagus interred in the sarcophagus; subterranean words devoured the silvered sleep of bones. My father died silent in winter, alone on his birthday. A stranger by choice, his heart failed him. Word of his death restores something of my father to me.
We bring in summer, talk about ancestors. The names we carry into the future. Pegasus wheels across the sky. Orion no longer hunts. The Bear dances. A name spoken, a gift crusades into the west. I want a dragon constellation for the dragonslayer. A name place where eagles come to land. Like a cloistered lady-in-waiting, I swoon from the scent of kisses. Orpheus’s tongue in our ears. Other than ourselves, we have little to offer; no talismans or silk scarves. The enduring song of the storm approaches.
At the end of the millennium, protocol demands we exchange sexual pedigrees. The dread acronym: subtext and context. I weep for the extinction of spontaneity. Dress code: who’s got the raincoat? No longer embarrassed, I come prepared for any storm, though months may pass without sign of precipitation. Except it could be any century.
Wounded, we heal a little of ourselves on this raft, ride the transitory night to completion. We don’t take issue with futures, take no prisoners. Only small translucent sacks flung in the midden heap for some future archaeologist to contemplate. Donning my habit, I celebrate the longest day, my vows clearly written—protean words spilling onto the page.
1999, revised 2000
Tuesday, July 16, 1996
Amsterdam Journal: editing poems for Mother Earth Journal 7/16
16 July Tuesday
I marvel at Paul's brain, the way he's able to write verse on short notice. For the Winston Kingdom intro, which is a small book that I'm to be included in, we mentioned we met there last night, but a band was booked. So did we.
We wandered into the red light district looking for a broojie or roll, which I never did find. He said. Look, I could have gone home and made you a sandwich by now. We settled for bread and coffee at the hostel and edited poems.
I was having trouble with choosing Kathy Pemberton's poems because they're inverse. Interestingly, he chose poems similar to what I had chosen and neither of us could find a poem by Ann Gartland that worked.
Yesterday I typeset 26 poems and did 4 and a 1/2 rough translation of Anna Torres's poems. I'm beginning to suspect Charles is very uneven with his translations. I did compare some of his translations with my rough ones and approximately 80% of the translation holds up and then he goes and does something lazy, or screwy.
When I get to Enrique's poems. however, there were a few that escaped my red pen. Editors pen. Sloppy, sloppy language. For every typeset poem, I rejected another. These poems have been culled by Charles and Herman already. And while I checled most of the typeset ones, the ones that got past my security aren't terribly strong. There are some good ones. But mostly it's just run-of-the-mill poetry.
Again. Charles's taste is to uneven and we haven't a common denominator as to what is good. He is too caught up in politics, and chooses the message over the poem. I choose th poem over the message. And I worry about some of his Dutch translations as well. Paul's never seen one to compare and says what are you seeing translated seems good. Okay if it works in English, we will take it.
Earlier I had called up Paul asking him if he would look at those two files and help me choose the better one. Both of us had put in a long day's work translating and typesetting the poems. Oh Maureen, hi, he answered, genuinely glad to hear from me, though he sounded a bit surprised. I don't know why we talk, we see each other every few days. I'd have it every day if I could, for he makes me feel good.
On Saturday there was a shifting away from lust on both our parts, because it was was getting too dangerous. We're still in the Platonic mode but just barely there is a deeper intimacy in the way we sit and talk. The problem is we are forced into rushing things and once it happens the other side the intangible friendships take a bruising or are squelched, only to resurface later to play a pivotal part in the universe. The uneasiness that too soon follows.
Yes, we are running out of time, soon I will need to go home, and maybe we will never become lovers, and that's okay too. I didn't think it's only me imagining this deeper connection but he is so much younger than I, with his life experience. So I tend to appreciate what is rare from the previous experience and disappointments.
Midnight's the Witching hour in Amsterdam if one depends upon public transportation. The last tram was in as we walked to the center central-station. I quickly hugged him and turned to run and he wasn't expecting it and so it was a bit of a tangle of arms and bikes and legs. Without thinking I kissed him on the neck and ran to get my trolley, and then I was mortified, thinking now he'll spook for sure. Though we have a date at the library this afternoon, we'll see.
All the way home I was grinning, feeling a bit silly and embarrassed, the beer made me impetuous. But I hug and kiss most of my friends goodbye: Jan, Vince, Charles even Bertaijn and Annabel Torres whom I hardly know so I know him so much better than any of them. Except Vins and Jan. Oh well, I'm not going to worry about it. It's his problem if there is one. He called and said we're to meet at 4 PM in the library, and sounded fine. All that worry for nothing.
I marvel at Paul's brain, the way he's able to write verse on short notice. For the Winston Kingdom intro, which is a small book that I'm to be included in, we mentioned we met there last night, but a band was booked. So did we.
We wandered into the red light district looking for a broojie or roll, which I never did find. He said. Look, I could have gone home and made you a sandwich by now. We settled for bread and coffee at the hostel and edited poems.
I was having trouble with choosing Kathy Pemberton's poems because they're inverse. Interestingly, he chose poems similar to what I had chosen and neither of us could find a poem by Ann Gartland that worked.
Yesterday I typeset 26 poems and did 4 and a 1/2 rough translation of Anna Torres's poems. I'm beginning to suspect Charles is very uneven with his translations. I did compare some of his translations with my rough ones and approximately 80% of the translation holds up and then he goes and does something lazy, or screwy.
When I get to Enrique's poems. however, there were a few that escaped my red pen. Editors pen. Sloppy, sloppy language. For every typeset poem, I rejected another. These poems have been culled by Charles and Herman already. And while I checled most of the typeset ones, the ones that got past my security aren't terribly strong. There are some good ones. But mostly it's just run-of-the-mill poetry.
Again. Charles's taste is to uneven and we haven't a common denominator as to what is good. He is too caught up in politics, and chooses the message over the poem. I choose th poem over the message. And I worry about some of his Dutch translations as well. Paul's never seen one to compare and says what are you seeing translated seems good. Okay if it works in English, we will take it.
Earlier I had called up Paul asking him if he would look at those two files and help me choose the better one. Both of us had put in a long day's work translating and typesetting the poems. Oh Maureen, hi, he answered, genuinely glad to hear from me, though he sounded a bit surprised. I don't know why we talk, we see each other every few days. I'd have it every day if I could, for he makes me feel good.
On Saturday there was a shifting away from lust on both our parts, because it was was getting too dangerous. We're still in the Platonic mode but just barely there is a deeper intimacy in the way we sit and talk. The problem is we are forced into rushing things and once it happens the other side the intangible friendships take a bruising or are squelched, only to resurface later to play a pivotal part in the universe. The uneasiness that too soon follows.
Yes, we are running out of time, soon I will need to go home, and maybe we will never become lovers, and that's okay too. I didn't think it's only me imagining this deeper connection but he is so much younger than I, with his life experience. So I tend to appreciate what is rare from the previous experience and disappointments.
Midnight's the Witching hour in Amsterdam if one depends upon public transportation. The last tram was in as we walked to the center central-station. I quickly hugged him and turned to run and he wasn't expecting it and so it was a bit of a tangle of arms and bikes and legs. Without thinking I kissed him on the neck and ran to get my trolley, and then I was mortified, thinking now he'll spook for sure. Though we have a date at the library this afternoon, we'll see.
All the way home I was grinning, feeling a bit silly and embarrassed, the beer made me impetuous. But I hug and kiss most of my friends goodbye: Jan, Vince, Charles even Bertaijn and Annabel Torres whom I hardly know so I know him so much better than any of them. Except Vins and Jan. Oh well, I'm not going to worry about it. It's his problem if there is one. He called and said we're to meet at 4 PM in the library, and sounded fine. All that worry for nothing.
Thursday, July 11, 1996
Amsterdam Journal: La Diaspora poets
La Diaspora poets and exiled expatriates.
Today I met with Colombian poet, Annabel Torres at the Café Français. I am collecting poems in translation for our Poets in Exile issue for Herman Berlandt.
I had trouble with waking up as Vins came over about 12 AM and didn't leave until 6 AM. Earlier I had fixed dinner for Paul Evans and had some wine. And he's on painkillers for an extracted wisdom teeth and can't drink. He did have one small glass however.
With Vins drinking coffee, I decided on some wine, but it wasn't until the last glass, that he joined me, and we got pretty snookered talking of philosophy and dialectical models. If a butterfly flapping its wings over Mexico causes a storm in China, you damn well better kill the butterfly, glibs Vins.
We tease and punt, catching up on three years, a long absence. It's odd how we can't stop talking. Beneath it all, we are truly friends. I propose to him that we make a bilingual poetry book to use his translations.
Annabel Torres says that translators get paid 80 guilders an hour, and they're only allowed to work 40 minutes at a time. And she said the simultaneous translation with two other people is the hardest kind of translation to do. And I thought of my stint translating for Waldo and Robert, I thought my head was going to explode.
People say Vins' translations of my poems are very good and this pleases him. He gets little feedback from the world. Especially with these translations. Sometimes I think he would like to do more of it. We got in a good visit. Cause and effect equals synthesis. And something on dialectics.
Earlier I was floating on air, grinning away because of Waldo's postcard, running errands because Paul was going to be here at 6 PM. Paul brought a huge whipped cream cake with fruit. I don't think anyone's ever done that for me, brought me a cake. And we had dinner, salad, couscous and steak. Moving the table around until it suited us. I think we're looking more and more into each other's eyes, and I find his presence hard to shake after he leaves.
Unfortunately I have no control when I dream of him, and here I am trying to be like an older sister, because he's only 30, and I'm 43. I think nothing of being a man 13 years my senior. But the other way around is a whole 'nother paradigm. It's a bit more ticklish and we're such an ageist society. I keep telling myself there's nothing going on, like with Waldo. Yeah, right. Or, I'm just imagining things. A fertile, overactive imagination.
Come to find out it wasn't quite so. There's a bit of a titillation going on. I'm feeling torn, entertaining two men in rapid succession like that, but Waldo's married, and gone, so the letters and flirtation are for the long-term memory banks. We will see where it goes, if anywhere. We're mates, Paul calls me a good bloke, I call him dude.
And with Paul, ach! the model is similar. We see each other every two or three days. I'm to go to his place on Saturday. Nothing untoward happens, or will it. We went for a long walk after dinner to Ouderkirk aan de Amstel, a village tower on the Amstel River, near Amstelveen, talking about everything under the sun. Especially the Celtic stuff.
Paul tells me how to pronounce Welsh words, and reads me his poem in a low voice, lounging on the bed. We are frozen in time. I just wanted to lie down with him, so easily seduced by love poems.
I typed up one poem on the computer for the upcoming exile issue. And he had to go to Jacek Nichs's birthday party at 10, but stayed until 11 PM anyway. I suppose I could've gone with him, but I really wasn't up for it, and didn't know if that would be pushing my luck. Sleep is not overrated.
Today I met with Colombian poet, Annabel Torres at the Café Français. I am collecting poems in translation for our Poets in Exile issue for Herman Berlandt.
I had trouble with waking up as Vins came over about 12 AM and didn't leave until 6 AM. Earlier I had fixed dinner for Paul Evans and had some wine. And he's on painkillers for an extracted wisdom teeth and can't drink. He did have one small glass however.
With Vins drinking coffee, I decided on some wine, but it wasn't until the last glass, that he joined me, and we got pretty snookered talking of philosophy and dialectical models. If a butterfly flapping its wings over Mexico causes a storm in China, you damn well better kill the butterfly, glibs Vins.
We tease and punt, catching up on three years, a long absence. It's odd how we can't stop talking. Beneath it all, we are truly friends. I propose to him that we make a bilingual poetry book to use his translations.
Annabel Torres says that translators get paid 80 guilders an hour, and they're only allowed to work 40 minutes at a time. And she said the simultaneous translation with two other people is the hardest kind of translation to do. And I thought of my stint translating for Waldo and Robert, I thought my head was going to explode.
People say Vins' translations of my poems are very good and this pleases him. He gets little feedback from the world. Especially with these translations. Sometimes I think he would like to do more of it. We got in a good visit. Cause and effect equals synthesis. And something on dialectics.
Earlier I was floating on air, grinning away because of Waldo's postcard, running errands because Paul was going to be here at 6 PM. Paul brought a huge whipped cream cake with fruit. I don't think anyone's ever done that for me, brought me a cake. And we had dinner, salad, couscous and steak. Moving the table around until it suited us. I think we're looking more and more into each other's eyes, and I find his presence hard to shake after he leaves.
Unfortunately I have no control when I dream of him, and here I am trying to be like an older sister, because he's only 30, and I'm 43. I think nothing of being a man 13 years my senior. But the other way around is a whole 'nother paradigm. It's a bit more ticklish and we're such an ageist society. I keep telling myself there's nothing going on, like with Waldo. Yeah, right. Or, I'm just imagining things. A fertile, overactive imagination.
Come to find out it wasn't quite so. There's a bit of a titillation going on. I'm feeling torn, entertaining two men in rapid succession like that, but Waldo's married, and gone, so the letters and flirtation are for the long-term memory banks. We will see where it goes, if anywhere. We're mates, Paul calls me a good bloke, I call him dude.
And with Paul, ach! the model is similar. We see each other every two or three days. I'm to go to his place on Saturday. Nothing untoward happens, or will it. We went for a long walk after dinner to Ouderkirk aan de Amstel, a village tower on the Amstel River, near Amstelveen, talking about everything under the sun. Especially the Celtic stuff.
Paul tells me how to pronounce Welsh words, and reads me his poem in a low voice, lounging on the bed. We are frozen in time. I just wanted to lie down with him, so easily seduced by love poems.
I typed up one poem on the computer for the upcoming exile issue. And he had to go to Jacek Nichs's birthday party at 10, but stayed until 11 PM anyway. I suppose I could've gone with him, but I really wasn't up for it, and didn't know if that would be pushing my luck. Sleep is not overrated.
Wednesday, July 10, 1996
Amsterdam Journal: time slips away, Charles McGeehan's flat 7/10
10 July
How time slips away from me. I'm feeling guilty because there is always so much to do, and I'm not trying to accomplish it. Yesterday, I stayed at home, nursing my period. Such bad cramps. I had to soak in the tub at 3 AM to relieve the pain. My cousin Sinead called from Petaluma, she has an international line at work. She said to go out on the day trips and don't let the time fritter away.
I've been in Holland nearly a month now, and I have done very little by way of touristing. And I was so busy with Poetry International the first two weeks, I was truly exhausted by the time I got to Charles McGeehan's flat.
Charles is Bert Schierbeek's official translator. And then not having a physical space to sleep, was truly distressing. Charles lives in complete and utter chaos. Every room in the house is filled with paper, and there are tiny rabbit warrens where you can move from room to room. A lot of my time was spent in making his place habitable. Herman was right at home here. Neither have any domestic skills.
But I have limits. I literally slept mid-book stacks and made my bed with blankets on top of boxes of poetry. I was pretty busy during the first week at Charles's flat making some semblance of order out of decades of chaos. If we weren't on the ground floor, we'd be in danger of capsizing. Perhaps because Charles has had brain surgery, is why he's so chaotic. But Herman has no excuse.
Moving here was the first respite I've had in months and months. What did you do when you are truly tired, and need a rest? And too tired to rest? Fill it with things to occupy your time? Or catch up? My heavy periods didn't help. You're supposed to do things on vacation. I'm merely existing, living Dutch, as I always have, whenever I come here. My morning ritual of Dowe Egberts espresso, and wafer-thin slices of ouda Amsterdam cheese on dark bread toast sustains me.
Still so much to do. Visit Wim Hofman in Vlissingen, Maya/Maija in Almeer, and Jan Bogaerts in Liessel. I'm still not sure if we're going to France with Bertaijn, Bert's sister, and Charles' ex-wife, next weekend. A part of me is waiting for Waldo to call, dammit.
I still want to go museum-ing here and in Rotterdam. I gravitate towards museums the way others visit pubs or clubs. I still want to visit Leiden and Utrecht and Gouda. Groeningen is out as Maria van Daalen is teaching in Iowa.
I need to finish my translation article on Breyten Breytenbach and I need to also find an Afrikaans dictionary in order to finish my translations of Breytenbach's work. I am writing an article on Poetry International for Poetry Flash, perhaps interview Martin Mooij and Jules Deelder, the Night Mayor of Rotterdam, for it truly is the end of an era.
I'm hurt because Vins hasn't called me, or Marcel Koops, or Jan Bogaerts, for that matter—so much for old friends. I’ve been here a month. I guess it’s better that I’m staying with Charles after all.
How time slips away from me. I'm feeling guilty because there is always so much to do, and I'm not trying to accomplish it. Yesterday, I stayed at home, nursing my period. Such bad cramps. I had to soak in the tub at 3 AM to relieve the pain. My cousin Sinead called from Petaluma, she has an international line at work. She said to go out on the day trips and don't let the time fritter away.
I've been in Holland nearly a month now, and I have done very little by way of touristing. And I was so busy with Poetry International the first two weeks, I was truly exhausted by the time I got to Charles McGeehan's flat.
Charles is Bert Schierbeek's official translator. And then not having a physical space to sleep, was truly distressing. Charles lives in complete and utter chaos. Every room in the house is filled with paper, and there are tiny rabbit warrens where you can move from room to room. A lot of my time was spent in making his place habitable. Herman was right at home here. Neither have any domestic skills.
But I have limits. I literally slept mid-book stacks and made my bed with blankets on top of boxes of poetry. I was pretty busy during the first week at Charles's flat making some semblance of order out of decades of chaos. If we weren't on the ground floor, we'd be in danger of capsizing. Perhaps because Charles has had brain surgery, is why he's so chaotic. But Herman has no excuse.
Moving here was the first respite I've had in months and months. What did you do when you are truly tired, and need a rest? And too tired to rest? Fill it with things to occupy your time? Or catch up? My heavy periods didn't help. You're supposed to do things on vacation. I'm merely existing, living Dutch, as I always have, whenever I come here. My morning ritual of Dowe Egberts espresso, and wafer-thin slices of ouda Amsterdam cheese on dark bread toast sustains me.
Still so much to do. Visit Wim Hofman in Vlissingen, Maya/Maija in Almeer, and Jan Bogaerts in Liessel. I'm still not sure if we're going to France with Bertaijn, Bert's sister, and Charles' ex-wife, next weekend. A part of me is waiting for Waldo to call, dammit.
I still want to go museum-ing here and in Rotterdam. I gravitate towards museums the way others visit pubs or clubs. I still want to visit Leiden and Utrecht and Gouda. Groeningen is out as Maria van Daalen is teaching in Iowa.
I need to finish my translation article on Breyten Breytenbach and I need to also find an Afrikaans dictionary in order to finish my translations of Breytenbach's work. I am writing an article on Poetry International for Poetry Flash, perhaps interview Martin Mooij and Jules Deelder, the Night Mayor of Rotterdam, for it truly is the end of an era.
I'm hurt because Vins hasn't called me, or Marcel Koops, or Jan Bogaerts, for that matter—so much for old friends. I’ve been here a month. I guess it’s better that I’m staying with Charles after all.
Sunday, July 7, 1996
Amsterdam Journal: Sarphatistraat 7/7
7/7 1996 Amsterdam, Sarphatistraat
Ah, what I've always dreamed about, a balcony with full morning sun. Sunday morning, little traffic. A sea of rucksacks and well-wheeled luggage clatters over the cobblestones like the hooves of cart horses. The next wave of tourists from Japan has arrived.
Ah, what I've always dreamed about, a balcony with full morning sun. Sunday morning, little traffic. A sea of rucksacks and well-wheeled luggage clatters over the cobblestones like the hooves of cart horses. The next wave of tourists from Japan has arrived.
I'm house/cat-sitting at Dave Hansen's flat, a few doors down from Adam and Eve Avenue on the F17 tram line, a low-budget hotel, of course.
First sunny day in Amsterdam. What to do?
Somewhere someone is whistling a Nat King Cole song, a full deep-throated whistle. Okay to listen to outdoors that is. Not like Herman Berlant's thin reedy trill that drives me crazy within seconds. On my own, shall I wander through this wonderland alone? Play Misty for Me becomes my instructions for the day. After a shower, I find the sun has nearly abandoned me again.
I was awaken by cramps at 7 AM, not enough sleep. I worked on a letter to Waldo Rojas in Spanish most of the night. It takes so long to write a letter in a language not my own, when I have to look up every fifth word for spelling.
Herman commented about a woman who learned in several languages by having lovers from different countries.Yes, well, one is motivated in a different way than in school.
As I mended my flowered dress, I got my first phone call from a Welsh poet Paul Evans, wanting to go out for coffee at the Café Winkler at 2 PM. I'm going mad from sirens and trams, the incessant city noises are so irritating. Sarphatistraat, at the intersection of three different tramlines is noisy. And the woodpigeons are eating the cat food.
At Charles McGeehan's house, it was quiet, but living in that chaos was more than I could bear. I am glad to be out of that place.
Sunshine to the east, Stornes clouds to the west. Seagulls over the Amstel River portend a storm, or so they say. Paul tells me that gull is a Cornish word. His lilt is so different than the Irish, but definitely related. He didn't grow up speaking Welsh and so he's not got all the cadence.
A sudden squall turns the wheel of the day into night.
Friday, June 21, 1996
OPEN POETRY WINSTON KINGDOM
WINSTON KINGDOM
&
OPEN POETRY
by JACEK NICHS
present:
Monday, 21 June I996. 22.00 hours
(from Poetry International, Rotterdam):
POETRY FILMS & VIDEOS
FROM THE WORLD’S LARGEST COLLECTION
HERMAN BERLANDT (USA)
Editor-in-chief of Mother Earth International Poetry Journal, San Francisco
+ POETRY READING BY
MAUREEN HURLEY (USA)
co-editor
concept: Charles McGeehan
Monday, 02 July1[996. 22. 00 hours
&
HERB WHARTON (AUSTRALIA)
a prominent Aboriginal writer, essayist and poet
"One of the most important Black texts..a creative work of
significance... enthralling "
(Mudrooroo about ’Unbranded', a novel published in 1992)
"Herb Wharton - a voice and presence in Australia "
{Seamus Heaney about 'Cattle Camp ', a novel published in 1993)
concept: Scott Rollins
OPEN POETRY WINSTON KINGDOM
EVERY MONDAY 22.00 HOURS
THE MEETING POINT FOR STREAMS & CURRENTS
IN INTERNATIONAL POETRY
open microphone + free entry
Warmoesstraat 127
Amsterdam
Warmoesstraat 127
Amsterdam
Wednesday, April 10, 1996
Bolinas journal: Catullus and the Celts
Last night Patrick Flynn and I got royally stinkingly drunk, like true Celts, we polished off a bottle of wine each, the bottles night before had less effect. I've been on a Celtic reading binge. The Celtic mythology dictionary I read from cover to cover.
Finding that Virgil and Catullus were probably Celts, Gaulish citizens of the Roman empire, was a shock. My grandmother always claimed that much of Western civilization owed its origin to the Celts, and she was right.
The night before I had dreamed that Patrick and I were making love but he turned into a living skeleton but with flesh. He so gaunt. I remember being open to him and he ignored me twice. Then I lay down on his bed and he lay down next to me and I realize it all wasn't one-sided, but there was so little to his kisses. I woke up before anything much happened. Thankfully.
Herman came over yesterday and we went on one of our famous little hikes. Last night Patrick came over to join us. We had a late dinner and for dessert, we read Catullus. Herman and I reading two translation versions of the same poem in tandem. It was quite bawdy indeed.
I remember Patrick's eyes widening in surprise, saying, This is 2000-year-old smut. And we all laughed and shrieked and finished off the night with Lucretius and Propertius. What was on their minds? I'd say there was a little more than flirting going on just in the retelling of our drinking exploits from the night before.
We drank each other under the table. And we polished off a bottle of wine with our curry chicken. After dessert, Patrick said, I wish I had some cognac. So I whipped out my flask of Hennessey's and we proceeded to drain the contents dry, staggering across the Mesa into ditches looking for the comet. They were friendly ditches, and kept to themselves, they didn't intrude upon us.
Patrick said to Herman, Never go out looking for comets after drinking brandy with Maureen. And I said why,? Nothing happened, did it? He said, True we didn't even see the comet.
On a roll, we rigged up the tape recorder and listened to Irish and Breton music (tapes I had in my truck) into the wee hours by candlelight. The delight of candles?
Perhaps my comments carried a little more double entendre than his, they were soon glossed over by our reading of Catullus aloud. Certainly a little more flourish was added in the recounting of our evening. We were having a real Celtic Renaissance, eating, drinking, telling tall stories, reciting poetry, and listening to music.
I've been reading my Celtic books all week long. A pleasant interlude in Bolinas where nothing happens and all is possible.
I'm interested in Patrick, and Herman's always interested in me. But truth to tell it's just spring, the hormones are returning to tease the blood. Today I will leave and nothing will have come of it, just the possibility of another daydream.
Patrick was saying as we talked about canning and cordial making, that he misses not having a wife, all those things that families do, winter food preparation which no one does anymore. Herman says, We will all be one family. I add, Yes and you can both be my wives.
Patrick begins to object, laughs, and says, Yes, I guess we are all a little bit like that already. He, who brings me dinners unannounced late at night. This flirtation, if it is one, will probably go no farther than it already has. Herman says Marian, Patrick's sometimes girlfriend, and he have a part-time arrangement. Ok?
I went out on the rowboat this morning, the first time this year. We chained it up with a lock. But kids took it out last year and it got a cracked edge and it leaks a bit more than it used to. The tide was going out, a brisk wind, and we rowed up Bolinas Creek until we ran aground in the mudflats.
Herman told me that Victor diSuvero was in town last week from Tesuque, NM, to read love poetry at Macy's, of all places. His wife has a new perfume out, Poême. I had to laugh because we had noted that it came out in April, which is National Poetry Month. Little did I know that this major perfume would have a connection with a poet that I knew.
Herman says Victor's wife made all her money on horses, and now she invents perfume based on the narcotic odor of Blue Himalayan poppies, and hallucinogenic desert datura. I was expecting Herman to say that she invented a perfume that smells like horse sweat or something, not to be named after poetry. Poême indeed.
Monday, April 8, 1996
Bolinas Journal: Easter Monday
I kept saying in my sleep they forgot about Eochaid. What about him? As if saying his name a millenia after his death would resurrect him. (Eochaid means horse).
I slept long and hard, perhaps nine hours, I haven't been able to do that in ages. I was glad to be free of the oak pollen dusting my roof, I can at least breathe a little more fully, escaping the itching eyes. Perhaps that is why I dream so hard. Who is Eochaid Feidlech, the high king of Ulster, and why is he haunting my dreams? This is what comes of reading about the ancient Celts until all hours.
How many years has it been since I took that anthropology class at SF State? 20 years ago, and it's just now jelling? Though much has come to light since 1976, I'm still reading an anthropology book published in 1957, working backwards from the skeptics, and tempering the work of new age nonsense, and wannabes, with a more enduring science.
Herman brings me a cup of coffee. Verona's a little miffed that I had barged in last night, but I didn't want them to think I was a robber. We catch up on gossip Saturday's River of Words event was a six-hour marathon success.
A San Francisco six-year-old won the national poetry contest. It was about sun and clouds and Susan Sibbit was his poetry teacher. I guess none of my kids placed. Poet Laureate Bob Hass is doing a good job, says Herman.
Now I am more fully able to comprehend the information on the Celts now that I've walked the ancient shores and have swum in the Danube, and visited the museums of Europe, and Eastern Europe and Russia. It all comes into play, what I recognized as Celtic place names, in other languages. I don't understand the many languages of the museums I visited, but art only needs the language of the eye to find recognition.
To think I have been to Bohemia, the Russian steps, the Ukraine, finding artifacts that spoke to me of my own culture. Connections to the Caucuses, and the Pontic Steppes. Horsemen of the steppes, wagon burials, Bosnia, reference to the Scythians and the Cimmerians begin to fall into place.
I am a surviving member of the Celtic nations, having something in common with Native Americans, folk customs nearly lost, due to repression by the Anglo world. Always, we come back to the horses as central to our culture.
And the horseman who came from the East to destroyed Gimbutas' matrilineal culture? Now I must read of this too. Do our ancestral memories contain the memory of treks across the steppes, on tarpaulins in southern Russia, Indo-European warriors from the Asiatics steppes?
Sunday, February 11, 1996
At Paul Mariah's memorial reading
2/11 1996
Undated fragment:
Noni Howard said that I had a poem in The Parnassus of World Poets, which one? The day she told me that Paul Mariah died.
Undated fragment:
Noni Howard said that I had a poem in The Parnassus of World Poets, which one? The day she told me that Paul Mariah died.
Wednesday, November 8, 1995
Letter to Carol Cullar, Editor, Maverick Press/Terrapin
Maverick
Press/Terrapin
I loved the poems you sent me, I’d love to see more. . . are you a sister voice in the dark? I often feel my personal obsession as materia prima isn’t currently popular or acceptable in the publishing world, but it’s the angst/grist for my mill/who I am. If I’d a listened tae my teachers, my vision/voice wouldn’t exist. If only I could get a book published. . . I keep sending my MS out to contests, often placing as a runner up, to no avail. Still no book in sight. It makes me doubt my work. Your continued support of my writing (and a “Pushcart” nomination!) gives me reason/courage to submit/publish.
Sincerely,
Maureen Hurley
BIO: Maureen Hurley lives in Forestville, near the redwoods along the Russian River, in northern California. Her poems have appeared in Maverick Press’s Paisano, Culebra! and numerous journals and anthologies including Atomic Ghost, & Hermit Kingdom. Poetry awards include Negative Capability, Chester H. Jones, Kalliopea, National Writers’ Union, National Federation of State Poetry Societies, and two regional NEA fellowships. “Feeding the Minotaur” grapples with the unconscious dendritic history buried within her personal mythopoetics.
Carol
Cullar, Editor,
Rt.
2, Box 4915
Eagle
Pass, TX 78852
Nov. 8, 1995
Dear
Carol,
I’m
deeply honored to be included in another issue of Maverick/Terrapin. On the
latest flyer, a stamped note, “need bio for upcoming issue” had me scrambling through my notes
as to what poem, “Feeding the Minotaur”; during the interim, I’ve made some
small word changes which I’ve highlighted, but I suspect you’ve already gone to
press, since it’s already November. No matter. !No te preocupes!
I’m
slowly crawling out of the morass of two year’s worth of significant deaths—my
parents & an uncle—all within a year’s span (not to mention a bad
relationship), has left me virtually speechless/wordless. . . so this publication
means more to me than you can imagine. It reminds me of my duty: I am
still writer despite all my
stripped down illusions.
The
Mother Earth Journal: Latin American issue came out in a slightly different
format—I was too busy grieving to do layout, so Herman Berlandt finished it (to
the best of his abilities). I’m very attached to good layout, etc., so I’m not
happy with it visually. He used several of your woodcarvings. They look great.
Did he send you a copy?
Sincerely,
Maureen Hurley
BIO: Maureen Hurley lives in Forestville, near the redwoods along the Russian River, in northern California. Her poems have appeared in Maverick Press’s Paisano, Culebra! and numerous journals and anthologies including Atomic Ghost, & Hermit Kingdom. Poetry awards include Negative Capability, Chester H. Jones, Kalliopea, National Writers’ Union, National Federation of State Poetry Societies, and two regional NEA fellowships. “Feeding the Minotaur” grapples with the unconscious dendritic history buried within her personal mythopoetics.
Saturday, October 14, 1995
Inverness Fire
I haven't had a chance to write in my journal since I came back from the Mendocino Woodlands. I came home to the big Inverness fire and to O.J. Simpson's acquittal. There was little news to be had in the deep woods, but on Tuesday we did get the news of O.J. Simpson. The woods couldn't filter that injustice out, it was so atrocious.
Meanwhile 12,000 acres of Bishop Pine went up in smoke as the Pope gave mass in the pouring New Jersey rain, drenched believers filling the football field.
Last night I went to a party with Verona Seiter and Herman Berlandt at Zoravia Bettoil's flat in Pacific Heights, she is a Brazilian artist. Full moon over the San Francisco Bay took our breath away. A magical night.
We danced the samba, the lambada, with the Latin American ex-pats. Zoravia said I can move my hips like no other. I am flattered. I guess. She said that she thought that she could gyrate and flick her pelvis, until she saw me in action. She said every man's eyes were glued to my hips. I was wearing the ruffled tea dress from my 25th high school reunion, which helped. The Brazilian Consul wanted more than just a dance in the moonlight.
That complement coming from a Brazilian from São Paulo is a compliment indeed, but then I had reason to move like that. The more I hurt inside, the harder I danced, rejected by my neighbor Sonny and his latest skank, Pat. Because of them I am somewhat homeless, she is now living with him, invading my space with her negative energy. I can't be at my home anymore. This is why I danced so hard.
Herman and I snuck off to Bolinas on Sunday. And I tried to find out if my friends were burned out. At the American Red Cross in Point Reyes, I find Stephen Torre's name on the roster. The fire left his house standing, miraculously, since it stands atop Drakeview Estates Road, at the ridgeline. His neighbor, Van Morrison, lost everything. His place burned to the ground. Even the gold and platinum records. Bob Hamilton and I once almost bought the lot next to Van's place but there was no water.
Steve's house was listed as habitable but he did not show up for the Russian River Writers' Guild Monday night reading, nor did Kathy Evans. Oh well. I called her to see why she didn't show up for her reading, and she's having a hit histamine reaction to the world, and to the smoke. I give her the allergic saga, how works the immune system.
Meanwhile, Steve is in British Columbia thinking he has no home. I tell her it's still standing. Kathy can't believe it. Stress levels threaten to undo us all. No way to reach Steve.
Anyway, to catch up on things, last Sunday afternoon, Herman and I hiked from RCA Beach to Palomarin Beach. There were very few people on the trail. We didn't realize we had hiked so far north.
Behind the roped off area, was the fire zone. The park rangers were quite surprised to see us, saying we'd hike to a fair distance. The park is closed as the trees are still sizzling. And looters have invaded, making their mark. There are cops everywhere. The rangers rifle, a symbol for martial law.
We can't see the fire, but my voice begins to hurt by nightfall. We hiked up one creek to a waterfall. Herman, for all his 72 years, is surprisingly agile. He continues to remind me of my grandmother. How odd. How we used to go on long hikes and adventures without any real preplanning. They just happen.
Herman too likes this spontaneous approach to dailiness, we are invincible. We spend Sunday night in his cabin on the Mesa. A nice dinner of salmon and couscous. I always take it upon myself to cook most meals, treating Herman. I suspect Verona does the same, but I like to cook for him. Maybe it's the female thing. He purchases most of the food and does the dishes, so it's a decent exchange.
I've been managing to keep away from home because of Sonny. Which means my life is changing. I don't have my home anchor anymore. Sonny's son Nathan hardly ever visits anymore and wonders why I'm never home. I explain, it's not forever. Yesterday Nathan's mother, Cindy, came to get him, leaving Sonny and Pat alone, and I growl.
I've taken to flipping him off whenever they drive by. Safe within the walls of my tiny cabin, I'm living between two places—my cabin, and my truck, my bags are always packed. Bolinas is my refuge, it's becoming my new home, and I am on fire, raging against betrayal, and the injustice of it all.
Friday, September 15, 1995
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