Driving back from the hospital, I couldn't help but think of Dave Evans, realizing he's dead and no longer living on Evan Street. Kristine and the new baby. Was it the arrival of the baby who killed Dave in the end? Born into this world with a heart problems, and the irony of Dave dying within months of his birth from a heart attack. Circular file. Kris is keeping mum about the inevitable questions that arise. Did I put in my foot in my mouth telling Dave's daughter, Lee, that her father had had a vasectomy? I thought everyone knew. And Kris saying: God had different plans for us. He sure did. More than we bargained for. But that's the way it is with the capricious gods. Be careful of what you wish for. And now she's a widow. My heart aches for her. And for the baby. And for Lee who has no one to help her shoulder this burden of grief.
Showing posts with label Napa State Hospital. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Napa State Hospital. Show all posts
Thursday, February 18, 1988
Napa Journal notes for a poem never written, ROADMAPS
The morning brings a bright false spring. I swerve, angrily yell at the older man and two women stuffed into the cab of a late model dodge, my truck is held captive as they dawdle down the road. They turn off at the cemetery and I am kin to their sorrow and the joy of the day. The essence of early spring, promises of new renewal and with this little brush with death, I am reminded of my own grandmother, my uncles at Holy Cross Cemetery, an acropolis so large, one needs to consult a road map to find kin. Lee Evans says she still wants to pick up the phone to call her father and I must admit I have the same urges. I confess MaBell could make a fortune. The energy to write a poem is so fragile that you begin by blowing on embers to start a flame, but if you fan too hard or in the wrong place there is no fire, no flame, just the urge to create something that never materialized, leaving a vacuous feeling in the brain. The mountains’ hard silhouette, a knife the throat of the sky, blooming mustard so yellow the sun drowns in the Valley of the Moon.
2/18/1988
Letter to my Napa State Hospital Poetry Students, 2 /18/1988
Letter to my Napa State Hospital Poetry Students
Castles in the Sky Poetry Reading and Book Signing
This is for Liebel, the one-legged, who remembered the poetry of Nazim Hikmet, who thought the T-12 group poem was good. Liebel who also thought our duet poem was also very good, Liebel who wanted to send copies of the poems out to all his friends. Did I have some stamps? Would I mail them for him?
This is for wall-eyed Cecil who came down to earth long enough to read his poem to the group.
This is for Mike who, after 14 years, finally has a new pair of glasses—trifocals—who said he didn't know if he still knew how to read, who like to read his poems out loud to everyone he met.
Ned who's still writing, said that got some love poems published and he proudly told me that they even took some of his earlier work too. No matter that it's a vanity press, costing him $40 a copy for the book. Why should I destroy his pleasure? Would I buy a copy, he asks. Ned, who set his poems to music, all of them, is reading his own poems and other inmates' works.
I learn that Liebel said some books of his poems are coming out – from the words of Bonnie and Brooke, the only two that showed up from his group. I wish more people had come. We signed poetry books and we wish each other well. The patients are wanting to work with me again. We faced the tenuousness of goodbye.
Bonnie tells me that Marcus is out of Napa and living in San Francisco. I have a moment of uneasiness, hoping men who murder their mothers keep it in the family, so to speak. But he is a good writer. I wish him well.
So many on the inside, so many on the outside. Who will survive in either place?
Patricia felt the patients really enjoyed the workshops. She begins to play her broken record complaint about the staff. I gently derail her by saying, we can't make the staff over. But with promises of future work, we part. We both know it won't happen.
I confess to the patients how I was terrified to come here and work with them. I came away pleased with what I had learned about madness, myself, and my own work. I came away with far more that I gave. Everybody so open and vulnerable. Such is the soul of poetry.
It was interesting to be able to compare the adult Napa State Hospital patients' experiences with the high school boys this morning. They have no idea how much freedom they have. Or how good they have it.
The teacher keeps repeating how they have low skills (say it enough and they will believe you). But none of them are anywhere near as disabled as the Napa State Hospital crew. Poets who rose to the challenge and opened their hearts to poetry.
I marvel at how much closer to poetry the Napa State Hospital inmates are than these out-of-control teenagers—some of whom will eventually wind up here too. Their spirits having failed, their veins filled with drugs, their bodies will become a shell, not a home.
This much I can't tell them. They will need to work it out for themselves. I wish them well. And am on my way down the long road home for the last time...long shadows in the canyons.
2 /18/1988 (I think)
Wednesday, February 17, 1988
CHARM FOR ATTRACTING WILD BIRDS
Charm for attracting wild birds:
place the wings of dead birds
carefully on your front doorstep
and wait for the birds to flock to your door.
2/17/88
2/17/88
Thursday, July 23, 1987
BLUE VESSEL
This blue vessel of my heart
is shaking, hollow
before winter crawls out
of the oven of summer.
Parachuted with weights,
there is no more sky
left to hold up the air.
7/23/1987
Napa State Hospital
added 9/2016
Wednesday, July 22, 1987
HOT AIR BALLOON
Like an outrageous sea cousin of the jellyfish
a hot air balloon hovers atop a sea of grape vines
it contracts and expands;
the hissing and snapping of flame
tongues fill the bag with hot air
and five people—some climbing in,
others climbing back out
in chaotic patterns ready for safari
dressed in kahki and telephotos
they stalk the grapes
the farmer runs out of his house
shaking his fist at the tourists
who paid $500 a head to sail above his grape sea
destroying his vines—
more money than he'll get for his crop
Meanwhile in the next pasture,
a horse and donkey have stopped their
morning grazing to watch the spectacle
of this strange fish floating
in the midst of their breakfast
7/21/1987? 7/22?
7/94 saved
Tuesday, July 21, 1987
FREEWRITE
FREEWRITE
Like an outrageous above sea cousin of the jellyfish,
a hot air balloon in rainbow colors
drifts over a sea of grape leaves,
it contracts and expands,
the hissing and snapping of flame tongues filling the bag.
Five people dangle in and out at the gondola,
someone getting in, others getting out, pure chaos,
They're dressed in khaki and sporting telephotos.
someone getting in, others getting out, pure chaos,
They're dressed in khaki and sporting telephotos.
The farmer comes running out of his house
shaking his fist at the tourists
who paid top dollar to sail above this vineyard
shaking his fist at the tourists
who paid top dollar to sail above this vineyard
At those who are destroying his vines
Meanwhile in the next pasture
the horse and donkey have stopped their morning grazing
to watch the spectacle of stinging jellyfish
in the middle of their breakfast
The hot air balloon lands later, near my car,
in the Napa State Hospital parking lot,
the patients are thrilled beyond belief,
there is a cop is writing the balloonists a ticket
and there is a general hubbub and howling
how on earth will I be able to teach today?
not sure of the date, other than it's towards the end of July, 1987. I wrote out of sequence in my journal, while I was driving to work. Could be 7/14, or 7/21;, or 22; probably not 23.
the horse and donkey have stopped their morning grazing
to watch the spectacle of stinging jellyfish
in the middle of their breakfast
The hot air balloon lands later, near my car,
in the Napa State Hospital parking lot,
the patients are thrilled beyond belief,
there is a cop is writing the balloonists a ticket
and there is a general hubbub and howling
how on earth will I be able to teach today?
not sure of the date, other than it's towards the end of July, 1987. I wrote out of sequence in my journal, while I was driving to work. Could be 7/14, or 7/21;, or 22; probably not 23.
HOT AIR BALLOON
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, July 21 & 23
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, Days 17-20
7/21, Tuesday I typed up poems at home. This is wrap-up week. I need to do my final bill this week.
7/21, Tuesday I typed up poems at home. This is wrap-up week. I need to do my final bill this week.
Anabelle's class went well, the kids were friendly and pleased to see me and I gave them poems and we made editing changes. They did some drawings. I handed back their work and they were very excited.
Linda's class, my favorite class ever. They began making their poem posters, we did some final editing. Carol wrote her first real poem unasked. New kid and Chris did a surfing poem. Benjamin had trouble settling down so far, no problems from him. Yvonne swears she wrote a typed poem, so does Louis—who to believe? Who wrote the poem? This is like the biblical story of the two mothers and one baby. Now I'm less certain who wrote those other poems out of class as well there could be a forgery ring going on.
Afternoon wrap up Floy's class didn't show up after I typed up all those poems.
Mark worked on the computer with his own poem. We worked on some other poems in his morning critique.
Alison's class is next. I'm feeling a bit poorly and don't mind the cancellations. The computer is making me nauseous. No I don't really have time to write, or I do really have time to write and there's nothing to write about. I am too exhausted to write.
7/23 Thursday Wednesday recap. AM wrapup, PM group canceled. I've been typing poems nonstop for days, trying to return everyone's work.
Linda is getting started on the poem posters and possibly Bonnie too for the final art project.
Thursday, later, Jocelyn canceled, but it's still a whirlwind of a day. Lockdown groups on on T – 12.
Linda is getting started on the poem posters and possibly Bonnie too for the final art project.
Thursday, later, Jocelyn canceled, but it's still a whirlwind of a day. Lockdown groups on on T – 12.
I probably put in 80 hours this week. Thursday and next week beyond what I'm paid on the contract. I need to take time off in September. Still no paycheck.
Linda's other group was glad to see me, they brought brownies for us. How sweet. Even Craig came out of his hundred mile-per-hour world to make some sense. It seems very real in there. Must be the lockdown ward.
I told Vance about how Pamela likes his poems. He was pleased. He wanted to know who would replace me. I said, I'm impossible to replace. Sometimes they just need lively banter. They weren't to take they want to continue this project when I'm gone. I need to give Susan some ideas.
So I really enjoy this residency and sad to see it end, but boy am I ready for a break. I'm ready for it to end.
Thursday is my toughest and best day.
Thursday is my toughest and best day.
Rehab end Louis's group, the adolescents are sweet.
Forget about the fourth through sixth grade boys.
Anabelle's kids were good this time too.
Forget about the fourth through sixth grade boys.
Anabelle's kids were good this time too.
I'm committed to getting a poem from everyone for the book or, books?
Lots of adolescents. The month break will make it easier for me to do the book.
STATS: Direct contract 110 people and about 20 staff have written poems with me. For approximately 20 days. Some have worked with me for six sessions, others as few as one or two sessions, a few have worked with me 8 to 10 times. That makes it similar to a CPITS residency. Average exposure is 5 to 6 sessions.
The half-hour model program was thrown out. I was told that a 20 minutes attention span was the most I would get. And I was told to try to make the classes shorter yet.
And most sessions were at least an hour. And I knew they were very full. The age span of my clients was anywhere from fourth grade to 80 years of age. Of the 110 people I worked with, +20 staff, over half, about 50 to 60, were adolescents. Approximately 57 into in three classes, I tried to count them only once I was not always successful. About five people worked with me only once. There was an overwhelming repeat audience even among the dropouts. Going to class and working with them directly is still the best way.
Frewrite
Imagine if the dollar
was going to crawl down the street
like a snail, then rain would fall
declines back up into the sky
without knowing
the shape of the land.
was going to crawl down the street
like a snail, then rain would fall
declines back up into the sky
without knowing
the shape of the land.
This blue vessel of my heart
is shaking, hollow
before winter crawls out
of the oven of summer.
Parachuted with weights,
there is no more sky
left to hold up the air.
is shaking, hollow
before winter crawls out
of the oven of summer.
Parachuted with weights,
there is no more sky
left to hold up the air.
Some random nonsense
I am not doing word salad with the patients,
there is order,
I'm trying to open up their preconceived ideas,
which are very narrow,
of what writing really is.
Every once in a while
I run into a word salad writer
and it's a challenge
to get them to write coherently.
I should talk, using word cards
my work is word salad as well
so here I am introducing structure
when I'm normally inclined
to go the other direction.
I still have not found my final journal with my CAC wrap up notes. But I did find this from our Castles in the Air bookparty. 2/18/1988
Letter to my Napa State Hospital Poetry Students
there is order,
I'm trying to open up their preconceived ideas,
which are very narrow,
of what writing really is.
Every once in a while
I run into a word salad writer
and it's a challenge
to get them to write coherently.
I should talk, using word cards
my work is word salad as well
so here I am introducing structure
when I'm normally inclined
to go the other direction.
I still have not found my final journal with my CAC wrap up notes. But I did find this from our Castles in the Air bookparty. 2/18/1988
Letter to my Napa State Hospital Poetry Students
Thursday, July 16, 1987
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, July 16
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, Days 15-16?
7/16, Thursday, a week later, it's becoming increasingly difficult to keep up with my journal. My schedule is so filled at at this point, I have no down time. No time to reflect. So now I'm trying to catch up, after class, on my time. In the employee parking lot. These three pages only represent Thursday. I haven't even covered Tuesday and Wednesday which were equally intense.
Basically all is going well. More people are checking out the program and it's beginning to take off as a pilot project, it's working well and this definitely suggests that a there is a strong need for similar programs. Funding is always a problem.
There are many highlights each day. Working with the teenagers now takes up a large portion of my time, I prefer them to the fourth and sixth graders who are more out-of-control. They're not crazy, they're just little hellions who've gotten away with misbehaving and are proud of the anarchy of their success,. And all of them are boys. Need I say more?
Thursday I finally dressed one kid, John, down when he was rude, as it was getting worse and worse. He tried to lie his way out and I called him on it. I did get an apology from him, but in the process, he upset the others. We had to isolate him.
Joey said to me, I really like poetry. And just like that, the bitter tide was turned, but four more weeks of this…? The other kids were on model behavior the rest of the session. John started out so promising. Somehow he got it into his head to be an asshole. And there was no turning the tide.
I met a second time with Linda Wargo's new group, lots of kids who are in other classes, so I'm seeing some of them two times a week—and are they ever progressing. Wow! I just have to be ready to leap with my lessons, or change them on the spot, so there's not too much repetition. Louis in particular, shows signs of becoming a really gifted writer and he often tells me how he loves it. This is a great group—unlike the Wednesday group. Ironic in that Linda says that is her low group.
Floy's two new afternoon groups are resistant and there's a lot of mouthing; they say I don't want to do this. They have ingrained attitude problems. Starting at ground zero breaking down the walls again.
With Linda's group this is not a problem. The attitude cases drive me nuts because it's all about posturing and bullshit. But here they are, locked away in Napa, because they lost their Juvenile Hall passes. I think they're coaxed into participating in some classes, mine included. I suspect a little corporal punishment early on would've been in order for some of them. Not something one want to voice aloud. Too late now.
Most of the kids aren't clinically crazy. Just survivors of a bad home life. I dislike having to be tough and to call their bluffs. There are better ways to communicate, but it seems the adult/authority challenge is part of the process. Or the process of challenging as part of the process.
Linda's community rehab group, comprised mostly of chicana teenage girls, is great. They come in all uptight not knowing what to expect and then I come on neutral and then I get them loosened up and we were laughing irreverently and being silly, making up outrageous poems. The lone male in the group, a black man, said, I had no idea it was going to be this outrageous and fun. He's aboard.
I'm introducing playfulness as a way of problem solving. Very little levity happens in Napa. It's a very serious place. Unfortunately the young kids mistake this for fucking around time. And then I have to be both good cop and bad cop. I'm schizophrenic, and so am I, said the Gemini.
Linda's and Bonnie's groups overlapped, so they combined classes. But Marcus wanted to schedule a personal critique time in the midst of it all. At one point, I was running different lessons between three separate tables. I got Bonnie's group settled in and working, and then I met with Marcus, who is from the same ward, then I ran back to Linda's group. It was too much, and I shrieked, You'll have to excuse me, I'm having a split personality right now—and we all cracked up.
Despite its size, it all worked out fine. I'm much more at ease with the groups, and I'm able to tell them my fears and insecurities and the risks I'm taking. The drugs they take are so potent, it's hard for them to fight the medication, and be themselves, but I'm pushing them harder to do just that.
In the men's lockdown ward, Raymond finally gave up his—I'm so crazy—routine, and he wrote a long poem, unasked. I had them write about things they didn't know they loved.
Kirk didn't show up until later. It was so funny, he came in shouting out his lines—he who didn't want to be in the group to begin with. Carl came undone; he was holding his head and howling—it's too intense it's too intense—and he rushes to the bathroom to retch. And someone else is shouting this is way radical. Wow, cool! They were acting like college kids. Someone asks: is poetry supposed to be radical?
Two new guys are slow but we are getting there. Today they comment that I didn't need to tear the curtains off the wall to get their attention. I had their attention from the get-go. I snigger.
Afternoon class: Earl and I explore the renga form on the computer.
In Brook's group, Michael, who claims he has been illiterate for 14 years, because he can't read without glasses, has lost several pair on violent wards. He's not used to thinking anymore. So it's all a stretch. However he is beginning to blossom. I took down a poem from him about his life, a road game, we did a poem on what's in a name.
Rick has outbursts of violent behavior. Brooke is able to calm him down. But I can't read his writing, I think he's an ex-cop…I tend to shy away from him.
Mellow Ned doesn't respond to anything right away, he has a distinct synapse lapse, but clearly he is very gifted with words. He loves writing in rhyme, and the lyric format. He was—he is a musician after all.
In Linda's groups I'm beginning to collect drawings for the book. We began a watercolor poster, with the Wednesday group. Wednesday at noon, a kid jumped in front of a semi, a suicide. One girl said I smell smoke. It must've been the creek Oregon fire. There is reason for concern. Too many eyes light up at the smell of smoke. Napa has the highest per capita rate of arsonists in the entire state. Fire is a big deal here.
What I've learned is to not take the patron's participation handicaps at face value but to push them gently to get what I want, and to be open about my attitudes and misconceptions, a heavy dose of reality. I am able to articulate and to talk about this place without feeling I have to be delicate, or that there are taboos—other than their privacy rights.
Howard, after seeing his poem typed up, really liked it. He's an odd one, the chess playing savant. Wednesday afternoon, a formerly dead time, I had a group of men gathered around me and we were all discussing writing. I got a glimpse from the outside looking in, the camera panning in, it's actually working. Success. What happens when I leave?
Freewrite
the time for spring is beyond us
I am tired of all the things
both visible and invisible
This tightness of ribs
where the night stars show through
Listen she sighs slowly
I hear nothing
Thunderbolts in a slow sky
Have no need for pathways.
The emptiness of wine glasses
like sad sunsets
the frames a ladder to the shadowy past.
I am left in the dust
Who can hear the questions the woman asks
Young beggarsquaking in the roots
This the last week of summer
before the fall creeps in
Melodious notes of dry grass before rain
We each desire something from the rain
Ears of corn listening
for the questions of the wind.
Tuesday, July 14, 1987
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, July 14
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, Day 14
Tuesday 7/14. The days are so filled, I barely have time to type up poems for each class, let alone, working in my own journal.
Michael G stops by, and I get him on the computer to rewrite his poems. This time he really got into it, and did some good revising, to the point of overworking it.
Alison's class, Louis, Julie, Christine, Sarah and a new girl. We did a lesson from Kenneth Koch's Wishes, Lies and Dreams. Louis has been writing outside of class. I recognized his poem—it was great but it was written by Yvonne. Plagiarism is alive and well at Napa. They are wanting positive feedback so they'll even stoop to copying each other's poems, and think I won't notice.
Howard wanted his poems typed up, he's not so paranoid these days, and seems to like them. He has new stitches over his eye. I'm afraid to ask.
Lunch, Linda Wargo and I discuss the broadside poem posters. Her group comes in late. We do a poem based on Wishes, Lies and Dreams. as well.
Some new kids in Floy's class, plus the ones who worked with me before. They know the drill, and get right down to business. I can see the difference already. Rod, Julie, Eric, and Kane—plus a new girl who wrote in Spanish.
Recap: Less time than ever to record the daily events. This afternoon Linda's rehabilitation group (a new group) was still working, when I had another new group join us too. But Marcus wanted my individual attention for a critique, and I said, excuse me, I have a split personality today. He laughs.
Monday, July 13, 1987
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, July 13
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, Day 13
7/13/ Monday. Darrell C. asks for an independent critique. I moved it from 1 to 2:30 PM. He wants to know if he can publish a manuscript and he wants to know about sci-fi, and he is also very interested in the process of copyright. He's owning his work. I need to look into the William James Foundation see if there's any help for him there.
We look at form and structure, it was a good critique, the three best poems he chose included the two sci-fi pieces. They were looser than the one he read in class. We talked about editing—the hard work. I suggested that he rewrite four of his poems and gave him some writing assignments. He needs to write about being in Napa not just about elves. He has a good voice but he's prone to abstract ideas.
Heber met me at the door. What a change in him. The sullen man come alive. He's apologizing for not writing anything, but he said that he really wanted to. He's got a good ear and he said that his delusions may get in the way of accomplishing something, always an excuse.
7/13/ Monday. Darrell C. asks for an independent critique. I moved it from 1 to 2:30 PM. He wants to know if he can publish a manuscript and he wants to know about sci-fi, and he is also very interested in the process of copyright. He's owning his work. I need to look into the William James Foundation see if there's any help for him there.
We look at form and structure, it was a good critique, the three best poems he chose included the two sci-fi pieces. They were looser than the one he read in class. We talked about editing—the hard work. I suggested that he rewrite four of his poems and gave him some writing assignments. He needs to write about being in Napa not just about elves. He has a good voice but he's prone to abstract ideas.
Heber met me at the door. What a change in him. The sullen man come alive. He's apologizing for not writing anything, but he said that he really wanted to. He's got a good ear and he said that his delusions may get in the way of accomplishing something, always an excuse.
Darrell said the drugs make him less motivated. I told him he still has to keep on trying. Keep fighting. That's the artist's path.
Chuck showed up at half an hour late for his appointment so I didn't see him.
Howard wanted to talk—him, the non-talker—about his poem. He's concerned that someone may read it and then, know of something him. He was annoyed at the prospect. It was a Earl's appointment time, so I couldn't deal with him other than to say that I wouldn't type it up, if he felt uncomfortable about it.
3 to 4 PM Earl and I had a great time. I really like him. We talked of haiku. He dictated a couple of lines in a poem about Fujisan and read a few of Issa's haiku translated by Lucien Stryck.
In the middle of our critique time, a woman came running in, a teacher Floy D, who wanted to schedule a few classes for her adolescent group. Eric is one of her kids and he's loving the poetry workshops. Raving about them. That's how she found out about them.
The poetry program is really beginning to have an impact. People I don't even know, say hi and wave to me as I drive by in my VW bug. Word is out. The inmates like me and they like what I'm doing.
Floy said that she had seen me read in Sebastopol, so my name value is increasing. So ironic that the recognition I wanted is now merely a byproduct of what I am doing, living the life, being the artist, but not wishing for it.
FREEWRITE
In the middle of our critique time, a woman came running in, a teacher Floy D, who wanted to schedule a few classes for her adolescent group. Eric is one of her kids and he's loving the poetry workshops. Raving about them. That's how she found out about them.
The poetry program is really beginning to have an impact. People I don't even know, say hi and wave to me as I drive by in my VW bug. Word is out. The inmates like me and they like what I'm doing.
Floy said that she had seen me read in Sebastopol, so my name value is increasing. So ironic that the recognition I wanted is now merely a byproduct of what I am doing, living the life, being the artist, but not wishing for it.
FREEWRITE
Ancestral cairn,
the sky singing of tongues
from ironclad clouds
this cold, red road to the sun,
the ancestral wind
swims like a fish in the rain
the sky singing of tongues
from ironclad clouds
this cold, red road to the sun,
the ancestral wind
swims like a fish in the rain
A man's horn filled
with flowered words
and broken tables
with flowered words
and broken tables
Paper lion feeding on words
shaped cloth around my knees
falling like dusk to the ground
shaped cloth around my knees
falling like dusk to the ground
7/13 Driving country roads,
their twists and turns remains secretive
until I leave each band and curve,
and it unwinds like an arrhythmic black snake, or a ribbon.
The intimacy comes with time,
and I look forward to certain bend
that remind me of other roads,
passing under the redwoods at Papermill Creek
is very much like Mark West Springs Creek.
their twists and turns remains secretive
until I leave each band and curve,
and it unwinds like an arrhythmic black snake, or a ribbon.
The intimacy comes with time,
and I look forward to certain bend
that remind me of other roads,
passing under the redwoods at Papermill Creek
is very much like Mark West Springs Creek.
Like with Sir Francis Drake Blvd. Road
I'm beginning to recognize a particular band
not only by its forward face
but by how it looks coming the other way
in late afternoon, like film clips played in reverse,
there's that odd sensation as the reverse image
meshes with the current one,
engaging two points of view.
I'm beginning to recognize a particular band
not only by its forward face
but by how it looks coming the other way
in late afternoon, like film clips played in reverse,
there's that odd sensation as the reverse image
meshes with the current one,
engaging two points of view.
The road threads between the mountains
along the silver needle of the creeks in late summer.
COUNTRY ROADS
along the silver needle of the creeks in late summer.
COUNTRY ROADS
PORTER CREEK see Country Roads
PORTER CREEK
The road threads between the mountains
The road threads between the mountains
along the silver needle of the creek,
driving country roads, their twists and turns remain secretive,
until I learn each bend and curve anew
as it unwinds like an arrhythmic black snake or ribbon.
The intimacy comes with time;
and you look forward to certain bends
that remind you of other roads,
passing under the redwoods at Papermill Creek,
like with Sir Francis Drake Boulevard,
I’m beginning to recognize each particular bend,
not only by its forward face,
butt also how it looks coming other way,
in the mirror in late afternoon
like film clips played in reverse.
There’s an odd sensation like synapse
as the reverse image meshes with the current one.
No date. But this one was typed.
Friday, July 10, 1987
HAIKU from Napa State Hospital
Late bees are dancing
on white chrysanthemums
as long shadows fall.
The waking child yawns
her hands on the tatami
twinkle like twinned stars.
7/10
Thursday, July 9, 1987
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, July 9
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, Day 12
7/9 Thursday. Jocelyn's class is late again, the kids are crazy, we didn't accomplish much. We made letter poems but the there were too many attitudes problems. Last week's negative kid dictated a poem to me without being asked.
In Linda Wargo's class, two kids from another class, Louis and Julie, joined us. Louis and Julie were so jazzed from the Tuesday afternoon class, they were so excited about working on a poem. Word cards rock, said Louis. He told me he tried to write more poems back on the ward but it wasn't the same. We had a 45 minute session. We wrote using word cards, and my name is like... Linda said she will have the students make drawings for their poems for the second hour.
Ward T – 12, three guys asleep on the table, three new customers. One is light footed, so the doors need to be kept locked. It's stuffy in the classroom. I'm glad to see that Darrell's back, and that Kurt's still sticking it out.
We read their poems from last session. Kirk's god poem is not bad. It's an uneven group, but Darrell is a real poet. I read the Soledad poem to them. I also read Nazim Hikmet's,Things I Didn't Know I Loved. They quit fidgeting around and look begin to listen when they realize Hikmet's writing from prison. Something clicks. Hector wants to read the second half of the poem. I tell them to underline parts of the poem they like. I'm trying to get them to become active readers.
We made a group poem about Napa. They're still not totally into it. So I tell them to talk about this place and then, to wake them up out of their complacency, I ripped the velcro curtain from the window and say look out that window, there are bars. Talk about this place. At that point I had their undivided attention and we wrote a long poem together. It was a breakthrough day. One guy was rocking and moaning and holding his head, reality was too much for him.
It's not all cigarettes and drugs. their shaken out of their their stupor now. Mitch write some moving poetry. Nurses shoes like clocks. They're impressed by my craziness and they open up.
We read their poems from last session. Kirk's god poem is not bad. It's an uneven group, but Darrell is a real poet. I read the Soledad poem to them. I also read Nazim Hikmet's,Things I Didn't Know I Loved. They quit fidgeting around and look begin to listen when they realize Hikmet's writing from prison. Something clicks. Hector wants to read the second half of the poem. I tell them to underline parts of the poem they like. I'm trying to get them to become active readers.
We made a group poem about Napa. They're still not totally into it. So I tell them to talk about this place and then, to wake them up out of their complacency, I ripped the velcro curtain from the window and say look out that window, there are bars. Talk about this place. At that point I had their undivided attention and we wrote a long poem together. It was a breakthrough day. One guy was rocking and moaning and holding his head, reality was too much for him.
It's not all cigarettes and drugs. their shaken out of their their stupor now. Mitch write some moving poetry. Nurses shoes like clocks. They're impressed by my craziness and they open up.
I have an appointment with Darrell after lunch to have a one-on-one session. His poem was okay, at least it was real. it'll be interesting to see what happens next week.
FREEWRITES
These must be word cards
we were schooling reality
teaching it how to walk
like a woman with a basket
balanced on her head
and her smile playing with the sun.
The future dawn in a tree
slowly with dry thoughts
These must be word cards
we were schooling reality
teaching it how to walk
like a woman with a basket
balanced on her head
and her smile playing with the sun.
The future dawn in a tree
slowly with dry thoughts
My name is like the hourly perfume of bells
my name is the light behind the clouds
my name is the light behind the clouds
Tired blackboard of glass shatters
beneath the stars of hope
and the bricks of emptiness
fill a room with nothing more than air.
the rich perfume of winter
reminds us of the futures not taken
the resurgence of light scatters the hours
until the sand, lonely for the shape
of an hourglass, repeats its endless task.
beneath the stars of hope
and the bricks of emptiness
fill a room with nothing more than air.
the rich perfume of winter
reminds us of the futures not taken
the resurgence of light scatters the hours
until the sand, lonely for the shape
of an hourglass, repeats its endless task.
The cup of sadness dropped from the counter
and baby corn was a factor
because the basis for a civilization
is hidden within the tenants of time.
and baby corn was a factor
because the basis for a civilization
is hidden within the tenants of time.
Wednesday, July 8, 1987
MANNA
From the whirlwind of a passing truck,
the robin's body luffed & raised
like a leaf; orange breast flashing
the dawn back into the sky.
I wanted to stop the car, mend
the random fluttering of small wings
in their strange and useless flight,
& turn this tiny teacher of Icarus
back toward the sun.
7/8/1987
1989 Sculpture Gardens Review
FREEWRITE
From the from the wind of a passing truck
the body of a robin luffs and raises
like a leaf and autumn leaf
the orange breast flashing
the color of dawn back to the morning sky.
Tiny wings flutter randomly useless
in its strange head over head flight
along the side of the road,
fragile grayness like a soft fog,
no longer lifting into air,
the last flight of the robin
into another kind of world.
Early autumn
Where the steady pool of darkness
Early autumn
Where the steady pool of darkness
descends upon us all
neck broken, his head tucked under one wing
for preparation of that final sleep.
I wanted to stop the car,
hold that tiny teacher or cousin of Icarus
in my hand, straighten its wings
and turn it towards the sun
to escape the island of death.
Each time we witness the death
of any living thing we feed the manna of our own death
we die too, we witness the mortality
of every new day.
We bear witness to our own sleeping
in summer, autumn's descent into winter
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, July 8
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, Day 11
7/8 Wednesday. Short critique this morning with Barry on his poem; he's doing a lot of writing.
Linda Wargo's S -1 group, the ones with the lowest academic skills, didn't do too badly. Eric may sound slow, at first, but he always has a poem ready to write. The word cards worked well for him. We also made some drawings for the book. I met with Linda and Steve Weeks to discuss the layout of the book. Linda offered hundred dollars to help pay for the rehab students' portion of the book I don't know what all we will need yet. But I am grateful for her assistance.
Afternoon recap. Busy day. We wrote to the prompt: what's in the name? Brook's quite a writer. We have a good time. I have two new clients. Ned's so heavily medicated, he's a little too out of sequence. He's a musician. Goes with the turf.
The other new client explains how he can't see without his glasses. It's been seven years without glasses, he says. He writes a poem and struggles to read it, he says he didn't know he could still even read, let alone, write. Seven years! I can't imagine it. At any rate he's really enjoying the writing process. Even if he is half-blind.
Ned finally gets down, so we do all right. It's a matter of reaching in. Howard is very cool, he writes poetry like the way he plays chess. Howard checks us out, dictates a poem to me about his name—strong work.
Barry and I finish our day's critique. These guys are getting more quality writing time in than I am!
7/8 Wed. I've fallen hopelessly behind in my journal. Impossible to catch up. At least I'm still writing my own work, part of the stipulation of this grant.
The other new client explains how he can't see without his glasses. It's been seven years without glasses, he says. He writes a poem and struggles to read it, he says he didn't know he could still even read, let alone, write. Seven years! I can't imagine it. At any rate he's really enjoying the writing process. Even if he is half-blind.
Ned finally gets down, so we do all right. It's a matter of reaching in. Howard is very cool, he writes poetry like the way he plays chess. Howard checks us out, dictates a poem to me about his name—strong work.
Barry and I finish our day's critique. These guys are getting more quality writing time in than I am!
7/8 Wed. I've fallen hopelessly behind in my journal. Impossible to catch up. At least I'm still writing my own work, part of the stipulation of this grant.
FREEWRITE
From the from the wind of a passing truck
the body of a robin luffs and raises
like a leaf and autumn leaf
the orange breast flashing
the color of dawn back to the morning sky.
Tiny wings flutter randomly useless
in its strange head over head flight
along the side of the road,
fragile grayness like a soft fog,
no longer lifting into air,
the last flight of the robin
into another kind of world.
Early autumn
Where the steady pool of darkness
Early autumn
Where the steady pool of darkness
descends upon us all
neck broken, his head tucked under one wing
for preparation of that final sleep.
I wanted to stop the car,
hold that tiny teacher or cousin of Icarus
in my hand, straighten its wings
and turn it towards the sun
to escape the island of death.
Each time we witness the death
of any living thing we feed the manna of our own death
we die too, we witness the mortality
of every new day.
We bear witness to our own sleeping
in summer, autumn's descent into winter.
Tuesday, July 7, 1987
WARDROBE MOTHER
WARDROBE MOTHER
She dresses in mouldy costumes
and the bug-infested mountains
of clothing in her rooms,
she attacks with Raid roach killer.
In her purse, along with crumpled bills
and dry marking pens, she carries Aquanet
to spray in her ears to stop the voices
and bugs she claims have crawled in
during the night.
When she talks, words tangle
and flop like shoes
with each utterance
as if she were playacting,
not matured into the part of age.
She remembers the stage,
boasts of roles, and curtain calls.
Her mascara drips and melts,
and on her false teeth, lipstick smears
like blood on ivory piano keys.
When the medication isn't working,
she hides behind unfocused eyes,
the generic beer in hand
bringing comfort and oblivion.
An endless chain
of cigarettes, the only thing
she remembers—ties her to this world
where her "friends" wait it out
in downtown hotel rooms until
the SSI checks come in.
Then they mug her,
robbing her of more than money—
this woman I continue to call Mother.
7/1987
rev. 7/7/94
Man, digging through some of this old work is painful...
Monday, July 6, 1987
Napa State Hospital Poetry Journal, July 6 & 7
7/6, Monday. Call to Kathy Russell, I can't believe I still don't have a contract. And I haven’t been paid. Apparently there are two contracts one for 1986/87 fiscal year that goes to June, and one for 87/88 fiscal year which includes July through September. The paycheck should be in the administration office by Thursday afternoon, or so I have been told. Kathy said to wait until Thursday before panicking. I haven't been paid yet. A call to Gail McGovern would be in order.
During lunch I typed up poems trying to catch up. It's so easy to fall behind.
Full day, not enough time even to record the day's events. I had a long critique session with Barry as well. I went home feeling good, despite the fact that I feel so rushed.
Kathy Russell said she will try and visit the site the last week in July, 21st to 24th, if there's travel money, if not, she still needs to do a site visit in September, my new schedule. Send her a note about not working in August. Remind her.
7/7 Tuesday recap. Late with Annabelles kids, I can't remember what we did. There was a problem with doing the residency and I'm doing a recap two days later. Not good. Time flies, never a good idea to put off the journal until later.
During lunch I typed up poems trying to catch up. It's so easy to fall behind.
Afternoon class, five new kids—Louis, Julie and two others are great. We had a hot writing session.
Full day, not enough time even to record the day's events. I had a long critique session with Barry as well. I went home feeling good, despite the fact that I feel so rushed.
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