Showing posts with label Mark West School. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mark West School. Show all posts

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Me and Dana Teen Lomax CPITS

Me and Dana Teen Lomax, Presidio, David Sibbit's office, CPITS event

CPITS workshop on pocket poems. She won the lavender. It looks like a pot plant.

Dana was my CPITS protégée, I trained her during the 1980s at Mark West School in Santa Rosa, where I had my California Arts Council grants. Poet-teaching became her life's work. Though I've trained many CPITS poets, if I had only one person to choose to pay it forward, it would be Dana.

added 4/24/2016

Monday, February 27, 1989

TELEVISION

TELEVISION

I have nothing more to work at 
than to make silvery images.
Flickering horizons. Imagined vertigo.
I have nothing more to do than sift icons.
I make sense of random patterns and snow.
They occupy the space in front of me 
in perfect obeisance. My body is a temple.
A life without complications, Alberto said.
They worry about all the stories inside me 
they wish were theirs. I play out 
visions over and over 
as if there were no future, no history.
Though I cannot offer them anything real, 
my seeds are broadcast beyond the living rooms 
of their minds and out into the universe 
where only the stars can decode the signals.

2/27/1989 
Mark West School

STRAWBERRY POT

STRAWBERRY POT

In this span of curved earth 
baptized by fire,
my many breasted hands 
hold the soil, empty as night.
But I dream of strawberries 
and the wisdom of cobwebs.
Each small spider, 
each half moon, 
is a repeated pattern 
where fishers crack me open 
to reveal an empty vessel—
the earth-stain, and the water stain.
Without the tempering of fire 
I dissolve and melt back into earth 
after the first rain.
As it is, the stones know me as kin.
The enduring plains and relentless sun 
brings me back to myself. 
The passing of days are but fleeting.
My hunger is for the cycles 
of the earth, again and again.

2/27/89

STEPLADDER

STEPLADDER

I am silvery horizons
distant lakes
a step between
horizon and sky.
From the bowels of the earth 
miners wrested me from soil 
where I journey 
to assumable heights.
I am below your feet 
and I raise you a little closer 
to the sky.

2/27/1989

STEPLADDER, ii 

From the bowels of the earth 
men have pulled you up 
from bauxite and bass rock 
to place me beneath your feet 
to raise you a little closer to the sky. 
I am silvery horizons, 
an arch, distant lakes, a mirage, 
a bridge to lift you up like a bird 
to dizzying new heights 
bringing you a little closer to God,
to yourself, one small step at a time.

3/89?

FAN l, FAN ll

FAN I

Three blades gather dust inside a silver cage
where, in summer, yellow yarn flutters 
like  suspended birds
& the bones that hold me up to air have no body.
The cord, a tunnel for riversóturbines
churning and grinding, spitting out air.

FAN II

Out of orbit, three blades, 
a trinity of air.
Water-smoothed stones
gather the dust of time and neglect
inside the silver cage.
In deep summer, yellow string flutters
like yellow tropical fish called tang
against the current.
The bones that hold me up 
are not corporal.
Turbines churn and grind
shoving the air forward into day
& nothing more.
My inspiration, vocal
I speak of the air
& rotate like the planets.

2/27/89

Wednesday, November 16, 1988

Teaching journal, 11/15 Stephan Torre, guest artist

11/16 yesterday Steve Torre was my guest artist and we had a good time. He taught three classes. His board work on revision is good. As it turns out he’s moving to Jenner on December 1 so he will be a Sonoma county poet. Where he’ll live will make it difficult to get CPITS work nearby with Susan and Mike working the coast. He’s moving here with his on again off again girlfriend, Carol of several years one more to go.

I think he too has a self image of being impossible to live with. In many ways he is like John. I can see he wants it to work out. The easy friendship we have is still there, but the buzz and spark of last March has gone underground, thank God. We went out and got drunk on Chardonnay at Cricklewood and ate sautéed mushrooms and nachos for dinner. I have a splitting headache this morning.

He had to drive to Inverness last night and sleep on a musty futon, no stove. I hope he made it OK. We talked of teaching, poetry, past, relationships, more poetry, ideal mates, dreams, poetry and ex lovers, poetry poetry poetry. I should’ve offered him for some floor space to sleep, but I was afraid he would take it the wrong way, and so I said nothing.

From the first time I saw him I wanted to get to know him, The Sinker, Navarro Journal made me set up and really listen. I was drawn to him and that was in Cazadero two summers ago.

In March he was my guest artist for two days so I’ve only seen him four times and we’ve had numerous telephone conversations. Yet I feel I know him so well that he is a friend for life. You can meet so many people in a lifetime. And how many fall into that intimate wisdom so quickly? Sexual attraction plays a large part, sure, but it’s the attraction of the minds that’s even more compelling, even more sexy.

I sure had a crush on him last March. Actually I’m glad we’ve moved onto the friendship stage without acting on the other. Too complicated. I could’ve acted upon the other level any time last year but I was with John and I can’t get into this multiple partners thing. Now, I am free, all the rebound is they say and Steve is is taken. C’est la vie. That’s OK too I feel that our friendship will continue to grow anyway.

We were talking about futures. He said who knows? Maybe this time next year, I’ll be married. I see a lot of myself in him. He says I need a strong feisty women who won’t let me walk all over her with my ego. Someone to keep me in line. In that way he is a lot like John. I always called it the frying pan approach. John is a taurus, a bull. Steve is an Aquarius, all hot air. Well, I told him I was his boss lady as far as CPITS was concerned and he laughed.

He’s really on the fringes of CPITS and does short one to five session visit gigs. He needs a long 10 to 30 session residency. He says he prefers to teach adults at Mendocino community college. I don’t know what he’s going to do for work in Jenner. He still on disability from his accident.

It’s so refreshing writing poems as he teaches classes I always love the new voices that come through. See In Tikal

Monday, June 1, 1987

INTERVIEW WITH MAUREEN HURLEY At Mark West School


Q: How did you first get interested in poetry and art?
I'll answer the art question first. When I was about four years old, I remember watching my mother design Christmas cards. With a pen and colored ink, she was able to make black squiggles on a piece of white
paper into broken glass Christmas balls under the tree. I drew ever since I can remember. I loved art. I had trouble learning in school but I always got A's in art. Later, after I graduated from college, I became interested in poetry because when I wasn't doing art, I was writing down my feelings. I didn't even know it was the beginnings of a poetic career until many years later when I took a poetry class. I HATED poetry in grade school. It was so BORING—it always rhymed and it wasn't about things that were interesting—like feelings.

Q: Do you enjoy teaching kids poetry and art?
Of course! That's why I'm here! I <3 it.

Q: Would you make this your professional job?
This IS my professional job. I was chosen from many other artists across the state of California to work with students because I am a professional artist. I was judged by my experience working with kids
and by my artwork.

Q: Did you like poetry as a child?
I think I already answered that, I liked to sing. Songs often rhyme. But I liked the melody, not the words. Whenever there was poetry in a novel I was reading, I used to skip over that part. I think now, it's
because the poetry was old-fashioned and I couldn't get into what the author was trying to say. Because it wasn't accessible—like Olde English! To read poetry one needs to slow down and try to imagine the
poet telling them the poem, it wasn't until I went to hear a famous poet Gary Snyder read at College of Marin one dark, stormy night (before most of you were born} that I said, I could do that! And then
I found out how hard it was to write. I'm still learning—even from you guys!

Q: Are you thinking of a big success with selling the books at the Crafts Faire?
You Bet! And all the money will go to having an artist come and work with you next year. Most kids don't ever get to work with an artist so it's important to show that you support having art in school. So buy
lots of little books. We have one-of-a-kind art masterpieces designed by 5th and 6th graders, blank books and beautiful hand-colored Christmas cards by students. But, I would love to work here again in
the future because I think the kids, the teachers and school community are TOPS and I've been to a lot of schools so I know Mark West is a great school.
.
Q: Have you ever done a booth before? If so, what were you selling?
Do flea markets count? Once I sold all my friend's clothes because she was too shy. I've also sold calligraphy at crafts faires.

Q: Do you think some of your future work might become famous?
Well, when I was about 12 years old, I remember saying to myself, someday I'll be famous as a writer. And then I said, Don't be ridiculous. Of course, you're not going to be famous. You're going to be an artist, NOT a writer. I think it's possible that some of my work will get fairly well known because I do have a lot of unusual talent. However, talent isn't enough. You have to work hard because your work is what you believe in—even when everyone else says, Give it up. You're no good. That happened to me. If I'd listened to some of my teachers, I'd be doing something safe and boring. But I work very hard and very long hours, many more than if I had a 9-to-5 job. As far as getting famous, it's just a fluke. Being at the right place at the right time with just enough talent or work to convince someone you are famous. That's too fickle. I'd rather have a lot of GOOD work out in the world. Fame is just a large popularity contest.

Q: Do you think the 6th grades will continue to write poems in Jr. High?
You guys better! Actually, I think once writing gets into your blood, it's hard to shake. I know that MWS students at Comstock who took my writing classes are still writing and winning awards. Philip
Bazzano is head of the literary magazine at Comstock. So you'll have friends in high places! Even if you don't write for 10 or 20 years after you leave MWS (poetry & creative fiction) you may wake up one
morning and be a writer again. Once you see the world with the eyes of an artist, you'll always be taking notes on life itself. That's mostly what art is about anyway, being a spy.

Wednesday, January 8, 1986

Three Transliterations from Rilke's Vorgetful

SHADOWS
      —after RIlke

Shadows carry us through the hard times
when the sky falls, and the moon fills
with green leaves like quaking cottonwoods.
With this verdant light comes hope,
clusters of sunlight fill the sky.
Sunlight so bright that it shatters the darkness
into mirrored shards and light surpasses stars
chasing them through eons of space and time;
time which cannot be brought back to itself.
Ah, to catch the world in the palm of the hand.
Shadows dissolve, and the souls of gods
reincarnate in the glistening rivers
which once stood for time indefinite.

1/8/1986

TRANSLITERATIONS
     —from Rilke's Vorgetful

I've been waiting in a frenzy
but underneath the slick exterior
I am the dying wind
falling under the spell of the music of love
while wandering the knotted trails
along the cliffs of the Dingle Peninsula
under the suchness of night
that magic was afoot.
The crenulated turrets teething the wind
are keening, and the red deer stands
frozen in time, the forest slips into the night
and the sun no longer shines.
The well is silent in the storm
and the tall egrets look out to sea like sailors.
One bright glance might let them fall behind,
and the wives without the strength of gazelles
will always gaze into those green trees.

1/8/1986


THE GRIEF OF GREEN LEAVES

When clusters of sunlight
shatter the darkness into fifths
the shadows of the moon
carries us through the hard times.
The moon fills up with green leaves
and time cannot be brought back to itself.
Shadows dissolve and the gods
have reincarnated in the ageless rivers.
With the light comes hope.

1/8/1986
MWS Mrs. Milia's class
added, rev. slightly 3/18
fake translations

Wednesday, April 17, 1985

Letter from Governor Deukmejian; CAC artist in residence























Sorting and scanning old documents, I found this among my grandmother's papers in Dec. 2014. 

I was a CAC artist in residence for 6 years at Mark West School in Santa Rosa. My residency led me to Sacramento to politic for Arts Day, then it led me farther afield with a Sonoma County poetry and art exchange with the USSR in 1989 - 1990. An eye-opener, teaching poetry in the USSR.

This is where it all began. With the meatpacker governor who gutted the CAC and carved up public education in California. You'd never know it from this letter, now would you? He was nice enough in the flesh. I could have liked him except for his priorities: art and politics.

added 12/29/2016