CAMPBELL HOT SPRINGS (100 Monkeys) no efile on final copy

CAMPBELL HOT SPRINGS
(100 MONKEYS)

Like snow monkeys of Hokkaido
we sit in steaming pools
under a flurry of snowflakes
and discuss our stomachs,
Keats, and the idea of truth and beauty.
We bring our ideas of culture to backwoods
artists who were content to paint
on rusted frying pans and saws.
To them this is what art is.

Imu, of the 100 monkeys story, was the first
to wash sand from grains of wheat in the sea
and soon the whole tribe copied her.
Scientists were puzzled by snow monkeys
arranging small white stones because
it had nothing to do with survival.
They couldn't bear the thought of monkeys
inventing a new game, or art.

Later, when the story of Imu's influence
was challenged by fundamentalists, I saw
a photo of the monkeys and people
bathing in the hot springs together.
Who was copying who?
Hoarfrost forms in our hair, melts and
trickles onto our scalps like blood.
Snow piles up on bare black willow branches
and leaves a dermis of skin on the water.
Nothing is as simple as it seems.

2/1983
Campbell Hot Springs
rev. 1988


CAMPBELL HOT SPRINGS

Like the snow monkeys of Hokkaido

we sit in steaming pools
under a flurry of snowflakes
discussing our stomachs.
Ice forming in our hair
melts and trickles down
to our scalps like blood.
Snow gathers on bare willow twigs
and leaves a dermis on the water.

2/83

IN KIND MATCH, and some haiku , Chico

Dear California Arts Council, this is just to say, that after my presentation, for my in-kind match I am deducting the price of a pair of gloves because we stayed too long in the hot pools and got caught in a snowstorm over Yuba Pass. I had to put chains on Ken’s car, because he didn’t know how, and then I couldn’t write for ages afterwards with my poor frozen hands. On the long straight slaughterhouse stretch of Highway 99, we gauged the distance of approaching cars in our lane by measuring how close together the headlights were. We hoped they weren’t in our lane. And we measured the speed of our death accordingly. And after that, I could only think in broken  haiku.

3/12/83

The precision of bird wings 

slicing through the air, 

A  scythe of feathers.

Honey locusts 

looking up through the mouth 

of a cliff to the sky.

Hydrants aching 

for a dog’s leg trickling water 

urging the bladder onward. 

Indian hot Springs, 

Big Bend, Pit River we were hot 

stones floating in the pool.

On I-5, the transparency of trees 

hiding winter’s houses in the hills 

clothed like green brides.

3/12/83

Gypsy funeral

Baro Ram, the big man, the leader, or king of the San Pablo gypsies, Staley Costello died. Gypsies believe that the dead should be surrounded by what they loved in life. Things to take with them on their final journey. Stanley Costello took a Styrofoam model of a leaping fish, a rod, some cigars, cans of Coke, a fishnet—all were  placed on the bier for that final journey.

No date. 3/83?

Note bene: The last gypsy funeral I witnessed was for Baro Ram Silva, the Santa Rosa King of the Gypsies. Swarthy men on horseback, decked in heavily tooled silver saddles, people crowded in Cadillac convertibles, down the middle of Santa Rosa Avenue, women in full skirts, shawls embroidered with roses, everyone, men and women wearing astounding gobs of jewelry, I stood outside of Madame Rosa’s Palm Reading parlor on Santa Rosa Ave., and watched a lost slice of history parade by, not understanding I was witnessing the end of an era.

Silva, or Silveria, lived on High Street in Sebastopol, across from the library, and made redwood chairs and tables. He supplied my friend Donna Champion’s fathers A&W franchise with tables and chairs. Come spring he found his way to my grandmother’s house in Forest Knolls, where he collected scrap iron and fixed our pots. One time we bought two chairs and a table that lasted forever.

Donna remembers one year Ursuline High School put on a Gypsy night, and the real Gypsies wearing massive chains of gold, turned out. Madame Rachael was reading palms in one corner of the room. It was a watershed event, as they are but nominally Catholic. Donna went to school with comedian Pat Paulson’s niece, Pulika (sp) was their gypsy name.

It seems I raided old notebooks and recorded everything in March. First paragraph is from my NPC journal. Silveria story I added later, with a lot of hindsight, 4/2020

See King of the Gypsies

GRAVID TREE

GRAVID TREE
      —For Daphne

Jonquils nod their heads toward the sun.
Shadows of trees claw at the edges of the meadow
 as winter sun pushes westward.

Like a river, the wind lifts me
and enters with greedy licks:
The only thing real. I am coming through the tall grass.

The wind carries me to the orchard.
and I sit astride a fallen tree covered with moss—
warm, yielding, like flesh.

Like the wind, the tree quickens
comes, and I fill the trees.
I am coming, through the tall grass.

The tree shudders & divides.
Embedded in the heartwood,
smooth as- silk, an embryonic apple
beats a slow rhythm.

The wind comes through the tall grass.

3/83 Forest Knolls

RRWG 3rd annual Erotic poetry reading, Franklin St. Clubhouse

BOTTOM OF THE NINTH

BOTTOM OF THE NINTH

Our hearts catch an inside curve.

We try to sneak past each other

but the umpire yells foul play

and we are lost at the bottom of the ninth.

The player on third tries to steal home

but the bases are loaded and the score's

zero to zero in the moon's favor.

2/83

NIGHT HERON

NIGHT HERON

Night anchors on the dock
where the marsh heron's mask
is untouched by muddy water.
Only the slender bones of his legs
separate him from water and air.

 2/83

FALLEN ANGEL, drafts, no final efile

FALLEN ANGEL

Lost in the backwater

of each other's thoughts,

from the beginning,

we felt the letting go

into slow lees and eddies

until the current caught it,

eased it over venial stones,

closer to the whirlpool

in a slow gyrating dance.

Afraid of this sinuous twist-

ing of fleshéd days continuing,

we fishtailed, sought distance, slid

our attention into the river,

called it horizon. We named it mirth,

named it sin, grinned through

blackberry-stained teeth against

the skull-end of summer,

never calling it by its rightful name

The pelican daughters of King Lear

offered little solace. Like the redwoods,

their cliff-edged hearts beat once

a century. They never danced bone-

blind or drowned in the detritus

of amniotic love    after a coat-

hanger fished night’s labored descend-

ent from a crevice in the couch.

2/83  
rev 7/94

another version



FALLEN ANGEL

Feel the mind let go of itself
in the slow backwaters until
the current catches it, hurtles
it over stones closer to the whirlpool
in a slow gyrating dance;
the bone blind love
joined in the debris of night.

The mask of attention slips.
Afraid of this nakedness,
our eyes seek distant horizons.
Our hands offer hollow comfort.
We mechanically grin and laugh
calling it mirth, calling it laughter,
never calling it by its rightful name.
We are lost in the alleyways and cities
of each other's thoughts.

2/83
see
7 POEM FRAGMENTS, no date, end of summer 83? 

 

POEM FOR MARTY GOLDSTEIN

(Oct. 14, 1949 - Jan 15, 1983)

A woodpecker plucks seeds 

from a late fig in January. 

Bubbles rise as my hand 

traces along the surface of the tub. 

In another town, my friend Marty 

sits up in the hospital bed, 

stares wildly out, and vomits blood. 

What did he see before that final leap? 

A girl tucked baby mice in the fingers of a glove 

and put them in a bureau drawer for safekeeping.

Who forgot they were there and what fingers 

crushed the powdery remains of mice 

as she fitted the gloves to her fingertips? 

Was this a memory of home, 

or an old dream?

1983, no date, found in my 1983 Napa Poetry Conference journal

Guerneville Poet Boschka Layton to Read at Copperfield's Books Jan 10. (need tear sheet)

Canadian poet and Guerneville resident Boschka Layton's first book, The Prodigal Sun, by Mosaic Press, Toronto, Canada, has been released in Canada, the US, and abroad. A poetry reading and book party will be held at Copperfield's Books in Sebastopol on January 10 at 8 PM.

The book, a collection of poems, stories, and drawings, all by the author, reflect the style as diversified as the life of Boschka Layton. She has managed to fit in a full-time career as a painter, an editor, graphic designer, mother, and writer all within a 62-year period.

Winner of the Santa Rosa Junior College Fred Minelli Award for creative writing, recipient of an Ontario Arts Council grant, and a Canada Council grant applicant, Layton claims she wrote her first novel at the age of six, and at seven, her second novel, which apparently contained controversial material.

Her second novel was a how-to book for South Sea Islanders in need of instruction on the assembly of codpieces—which was promptly confiscated and burned by her grandmother. She gave up writing for the next 40 years, became an artist and established herself in Montréal, and later, in California.

Born in Liverpool, Nova Scotia, Boschka Layton, then Betty Sutherland, spent the next 12 years traveling across Canada with her family before her mother died. Her father remarried, and added three more brothers and sisters to the Sutherland clan.

Escaping her wicked stepmother, Betty studied art at a vocational school at St. John's, in New Brunswick. Layton remembers when she first became interested in art. Her brother John was sitting at the kitchen table trying to draw an apple. She helped them and in the process, became hooked. John gave up art and took up writing, and she became the artist.

Her brother John, founded an avant garde literary magazine, First Statement, which eventually merged with another periodical to become the illustrious Northern Review.

Betty who was in charge of layout and book design of First Statement, was also a member of the editorial board. In 1941, she met an unknown writer who wanted to publish his work, and three days later they were madly in love.

The tempestuous relationship lasted nearly 20 years and produced two children. Betty later married Irving Layton after the birth of their son, Max. Irving became a well-known poet, who was later "discovered" by the Black Mountain School poet Robert Creeley. But Betty and her brother "discovered" Irving first.

Irving eventually became Canada's premier poet and received numerous awards and grants. Betty continued designing his books, and she painted. She said, "I painted all my life. I didn't stop painting—even when I had my kids."

Betty finally had had enough of Irving's philandering ways, and left him for good, smuggling her small daughter Naomi out of Canada with an underground passport. But she had to leave her son Max behind. In Canada, a child can't obtain a passport without both parents' signatures—and Irving wouldn't sign.

Betty arrived in San Francisco expecting to find work in the publishing business but was unable to find work. She reverted to menial jobs, working at department stores, restaurants, and provided domestic services. Layton remembers, "Working as a char woman, scrubbing floors for an old lady, was rock-bottom."

Betty took up an itinerant life with a man named Price, and the three of them traveled all over the US, living a few weeks in one town or another, while Price looked for work. Layton, fed up with Price's unsuccessful search for work, sold her house in Big Sur, and left for India with her daughter in tow.

Living abroad for two years, Layton said, "India change my whole life. It cleared all the shit out, and it centered me. For the first time, I began to write again. Obviously, I couldn't write while I was with Irving. He was the writer and I was the painter."

Layton compares her India journals to that of DH Lawrence. Layton said, "After India I never lived with a man again. I'm not saying a woman can't paint or write and live with the man at the same time, but for me, that's when the change occurred."

She added, "I began to concentrate more on my own work. At the age of 50, it was about time. "After India, Layton settled in Sonoma County, in 1971, but continued to make yearly sojourns back to Nova Scotia to visit her father. She said, "I started young traveling across the continent. In my work I'm always trying to bring the two coasts together."

When asked why she didn't revert back to her maiden name of Sutherland after her divorce from Layton—she still signs all are her paintings as Sutherland—Boschka commented "my half-brother Donny was becoming well known as an actor then and I didn't want to be smothered by the association."

Actor Donald Sutherland made his first big break in The Dirty Dozen, and started movies such as Luke, Day of the Locust, and the Academy award-winning movie Ordinary People.

Layton, reminisced about her famous half-brother, and said, "Donny was the most extraordinary kid. There was nothing ordinary about him, even though he starred in the movie Ordinary People. I remember when he was three years old and a beautiful woman came to visit. He came running out across the lawn without a stitch on, and presented himself to her at her feet."

Writing under the nom de plume of Boschka Layton, Layton draws heavily upon her life experiences. She has one semi-autobiographical novel finished, and another novel three quarters completed.

She explained the origin of her name. When Betty married Irving, she converted to Judaism and took the name, Bashka, which in Russian Jewish, is a diminutive of Betty. But when she left Irving, she took on the name Bosch from the painter Hieronymus Bosch. The diminutive -ka ending means "little Bosch."

Boschka's poems and short stories have appeared in several local publications including First Leaves, Sonoma Mandala, Sonoma County Stump, and The Red Book. 

As far as future prospects go, Layton said, "I'd like to get a novel out, some poems out, a book of short stories out, so I can go on writing." She concluded, "sending stuff out is the worst part of writing. It takes up too much time. I think I need an agent."

Layton's book, The Prodigal Sun, will be available at Book and Brush, Copperfield's Books, and Eeyore's Books. Reading with Boschka at Copperfield's book party will be Ina Scrocco. The reading will begin at 8 PM, with one dollar admission at the door.

NO TEARSHEET
A shorter version of this story appeared in Rural Arts Services' ARC, a monthly periodical serving rural California. Boschka Layton, ARC article (tearsheet)

Boschka Layton (Betty Sutherland) 1921 - 1984

Boschka Layton, ARC article (tearsheet)

She has lead a colorful life. In 62 years, Guerneville resident Boschka Layton has had a full-time career as a painter, editor, graphic designer, mother and writer. Her first book, The Prodigal Sun, reflects a style as diverse as her life. The Prodigal Sun, a collection of prose, poetry and drawings by Layton, has been released in the US, Canada, and abroad, and was published by Mozaic Press, Toronto.

Winner of the Santa Rosa Junior College’s Fred Mannelli award for creative writing, Ontario Arts Council grant recipient, and Canada Council grant applicant, Layton wrote her first novel at the age of six. At seven, her second novel appeared, containing controversy all material—a how-to book for South Sea Islanders on the assembly of cod pieces—which was promptly confiscated and burned by her grandmother. She gave up writing for the next 40 years and became a painter, establishing herself in Montréal, and later, in California.

Born in Liverpool, Nova Scotia, Layton, Boschka, then Betty Sutherland, spent the next 12 years traveling across Canada with her family. She later studied art at a vocational school, St. John’s, in New Brunswick.

Layton remembers the moment when she first became interested in art. Her brother John was sitting at the kitchen table trying to draw an apple. In the process of helping him, Layton became caught up in the process. John, who was an invalid, gave up art and took up writing, Betty became an artist.

In Montréal, John (Jamie) founded an avant garde literary magazine, entitled First Statement, which merged with another periodical to become the illustrious Northern Review. Layton was in charge of book design.

In 1941, she met an unknown writer who wanted to publish his work. Three days later they were madly in love. She married poet Irving Layton after the birth of their son. Their tempestuous relationship lasted nearly 20 years and produced two children, Max and Naomi.

Irving went on to become Canada’s premier poet, receiving numerous awards and grants while Betty continued designing his books, and painting. She said, “I painted all my life. I didn’t stop painting—even when I had my kids.”

Tired of Irving's megalomania, Betty finally left him, smuggling young Naomi out of Canada with an underground passport, but she had to leave her son Max, behind. In Canada, a child can’t obtain a passport without both parents’ signatures and Irving wouldn’t sign.

Arriving in San Francisco, and unable to find work in the publishing business, Layton resorted to menial jobs at department stores, restaurants, and a stint in the domestic services. She reminisces, “being a charwoman scrubbing floors for an old lady was rock-bottom.”

Betty took up an itinerant life with a man named Price, and the three of them traveled all over the US, living a few weeks in one town or another, while Price looked for work. Wanting stability, somehow, she was able to buy a small cabin on the Big Sur coast. And settled down. But Price was a wanderlust. Layton, fed up with Price's unsuccessful attempts searching for work, eventually sold her house in Big Sur, and left for India with her daughter in tow.

Layton lived in India for two years. “India changed my whole life,”  she said. “It centered me. For the first time I began to write. Obviously, I couldn’t write while I was with Irving. He was the writer and I was the painter.” She added, “I became my own person, an individual. I suddenly knew who I was.”

After Price, she never lived with a man again. “I’m not saying a woman can’t paint or write and live with the man at the same time, but for me, that’s when the change occurred.” She added, “I began to concentrate on my own work. At the age of 50, it was about time.”

Layton settled in Sonoma County in 1971, but continues to make yearly so sojourns to visit her father in Nova Scotia. She said, “I started young, traveling across the continent. In my work I’m always trying to bring the two coasts together. ”

Although she signs her paintings with her maiden name, Sutherland, Layton retained her married name for writing. When she married Irving, she had to convert to Judism. She said that Bashka was a Russian Jewish diminutive of Betty, and the spelling of Boschka was taken from the painter Bosch. (The “ka” meaning little Bosch.)

When I asked Boschka why she didn’t take back her maiden name, she said, “My half brother Donnie was becoming well-known as an actor, and I didn’t want to be smothered by that association.”

Donald Sutherland made his first big break in The Dirty Dozen, and starred in several movies such as M*A*S*H, Klute, Day of the Locust, and the Academy award-winning Ordinary People.

Layton, reminiscing about her famous half-brother, said “Donnie was the most extraordinary child. I remember when he was three years old and a beautiful woman came to visit. He came running out across the lawn without a stitch on and presented himself to her at her feet.” 

In in her writing, Layton draws heavily from her life. She has one semi-autobiographical novel finished, another 3/4 completed. Her poems and short stories have appeared in several local publications including First Leaves, Sonoma Mandala, the Sonoma County Stump, and The Red Book.

As far as future prospects go, Layton said, “I’d like to get a novel out, some poems, and a book of short stories so I can go on writing.” She concluded, “sending stuff out is the worst part of it. It takes up too much time. I think I need an agent.”

A longer version of this article first appeared in The Paper, a Russian River weekly. Guerneville Poet Boschka Layton to Read at Copperfield's Books Jan 10.

CLOTHED LIKE GREEN BRIDES

CLOTHED LIKE GREEN BRIDES

Amid green hills

transparent trees

hide wintered forms

of houses waiting

in silence.

1/83

AU LAIT

AU LAIT

The ghosts upstairs
are moving furniture at night
while the rest of the world
sends out for coffee

1/1983

STAR JELLY

STAR JELLY

A hand roving

among galaxies and cellular walls 

star jelly          silent spring

behind the shade of stars     light, 

the silent snowfall of stars

We, an interim species afloat

a probing hand roving

 among galaxies and cellular walls
we loosen spacial debris
behind the shade of stars
gelatinous light shimmering

The one event changed our history
a man was shot     jungles became interesting
defoliated trees, red rivers
the aftermath of choice      we measure
biological distress in the jungles of southeast asia
leaves of stars fluttering on barren soil
the sahara was a jungle once

no date 1983

SONG TO THE POTTER WHILE DRINKING TEA

SONG TO THE POTTER WHILE DRINKING TEA

    To Soji Hamada, and all potters
    gathered in mountain valleys
    between the Sierras and Hokkaido.

In the valleys, potters pinch humble pots
from clay beginnings that was once stone.
They return it to the fire and it turns back into stone.

As your tea steeps in the raku bowl
remember to thank the earth
for the laughter of glaciers
that churned the stones to powder;
clay flour that drifted downward
from the light tops of mountains
to alluvial valleys etched in darkness.

Remember to thank the fire
for returning the pot into stone;
and the woodcutter for the logs that fired
the pot.
Don't forget the burning logs for the ash
that settled on the shoulders of pots
making the glaze.

Remember to thank the earth.
She is very old
and sometimes we forget
she can hear us.
Thank her for the tree,
the rock,
the glacier,
and the light.

And then, may your teabowl
be filled
with laughter
and light.

no date, 1983
Ridge Review

ASCENT OF MAN

ASCENT OF MAN

        —for Seamus Heaney

Each dark night carries its own cloud

to measure the flight of birds.

Seals slip upriver to steal souls

& sing the memory of Sweeney to sleep.

It is difficult to single out a shadow

of an individual tree in the forest.

In steamy cafés, the refrain

of silverware & coffee cups

solitary scores orchestrated

simultaneously while the canvas

of vertical history

is painted on the walls of the living

in the streets, & buried in the rift

of the Olduvai Gorge.

1983

Short Poems 1983

ACROSS THE GREAT DIVIDE
(OR WHAT HE REALLY MEANT)

Don't care if you
take me literally, Mama
Just take me

83


AU LAIT

The ghosts upstairs
are moving furniture at night
while the rest of the world
sends out for coffee

1/83



ASCENT OF MAN
        —for Seamus Heaney

Each dark night carries its own cloud
to measure the flight of birds.
Seals slip upriver to steal souls
& sing the memory of Sweeney to sleep.
It is difficult to single out a shadow
of an individual tree in the forest.

In steamy cafés, the refrain
of silverware & coffee cups
solitary scores orchestrated
simultaneously while the canvas
of vertical history
is painted on the walls of the living
in the streets, & buried in the rift
of the Olduvai Gorge.

1983



BOTTOM OF THE NINTH

Our hearts catch an inside curve.
We try to sneak past each other
but the umpire yells foul play
and we are lost at the bottom of the ninth.
The player on third tries to steal home
but the bases are loaded and the score's
zero to zero in the moon's favor.

1983


CLOTHED LIKE GREEN BRIDES

Amid green hills
transparent trees
hide wintered forms
of houses waiting
in silence.

1/83


 COELACANTH

Why can't you hear
the incandescent humming
of the fish in my womb
as you bend to touch me?

        2/83



CRAW

I am trying hard not to think
of the contaminated water.
I raise a glass to my lips
only to discover the throat has memory.

1983



FOR MARILYN

Time is scented,
secret pearl hidden within the folds
of the oyster

The leaf of a blackbird
shaken loose
flutters down toward its own death

Corpses of flowers—
rose petals beneath
Marilyn's stacatto heels

    6/83



 GRANDMOTHER'S DAUGHTER

as I approach my 31st year,
sometimes I see the world
through the memories of my grandmother:
her eyes watching me view the world
through a 12-year-old's vision.

2/83



 Lear's pelican daughters
offer little solace.
Like cactus, their hearts beat
only once every hundred years.
They never dance the sinuous twist
of ht flesh.

2/82



Marguerites growing
amid the marble soils of Crete.
Amid the large columns of bones.
Marguerites strewn across the soil of Crete
blooming between marble columns
and the bones of the temples.
Marguerites holding the clouds up
and keeping the sky at bay.

8/13/1983



MOTHLIGHT

As you breathe in the light,
    darkness, 
softly fallen
  from your face
reveals these burnt wings
rekindled
  in your eyes.

11/23/83
 


 MUSIC NOTES

A violin
breaks the glass.
Seedlings push up earth
as a worm dances to the music.

2/83



NIGHT HERON

Night anchors on the dock
where the marsh heron's mask
is untouched by muddy water.
Only the slender bones of his legs
separate him from water and air. 

 2/83



(NOT)

cats
(not)
sseing
eye to eye
with
dogs

83


 OROVILLE 11/83

Waiters silent mouth cowboy songs
a silent croon, unintelligible, forgettable.
One of the good old boys
butters his toast up the local law,
the biggest, and only game in town.

11/1983



The violin's small scale
climbs above the metronome,
small bejeweled clicks
patterning mountains of notes,
increasing in tempo,
a sonic pitch invades,
the strings lose their time,
the bow loosens
and the hand falls silent.

9/1/1983



VIRGO

In the moonlight,
naked,
I will cook fish

     8/83

CAMPBELL HOT SPRINGS, earlier version

Crows sit over the orchards.
The way a woodpecker approaches a tree is with intent.
We follow the Feather River north along the bowl of valley
and sit in the steaming pool, discussing our stomachs
amid a flurry of snowflakes. Ice forms in our hair and melts,
trickling down our scalps like blood.
Snow gathers on willow branches.
Snow on skin, the water, leaving marks,
dermis of snow on the water.

1982, Chico
Rev. 3/12/83
The original impetus for this poem was written in Chico, 1982. It’s almost a different poem. This is a second draft from 83, for NPC.

• CAMPBELL HOT SPRINGS (100 Monkeys) no efile 

SOLSTICE

See this night pass under piercing stars.
The clear bell of night cups the earth
with a soft blue blanket of snow.
We wait for the sun’s return
to melt the frozen tears of the world
from its journey along the dark winter road.

12/82, or 83 solstice

RRWG winter reading at Sebastopol Vets Bldg

THE ILLUSION OF LIGHT: notes to a landscape painter (Frank Gannon)

THE ILLUSION OF LIGHT
Notes to a landscape painter

Just as I'm beginning to see color notes
the way fog resting on a green-eyed patch of ocean
turns to pale jade, or a wedge of sunlight
carves a bright cerulean wafer of sea,
and cantilevered mountains amidst swells
tease color across its taut surface,

you said, "find a red-tailed hawk circling in the sky.
His cry will make you forget the pain."
What I didn't see was how light belays notes of color
to your eye as you stroke the landscape.
"There isn't anyone else I'm seeing," you said,
and it dawns on me that this light is your mistress.

A web of my hair fell across your face
and you said you couldn't breathe.
A friend once said, "when lovers disagree,
one casts his vote and the other negates it."
No one told me the choices would be so limited.

Our conmingled clothing in a dark pile
at the foot of the bed casts tall shadows
as you held them up, a hooded cloak of darkness
stealthily slipped over the hills robbing them of color.
No one told you the night is for lovers.

At Bridgehaven, I found a hawk crouched on a pylon.
I said, "if he flies away, I'll forget the pain."
But he wouldn't fly away. Dammit!
I had to shake my fist at him and scream.
A hawk is not a feather daisy one plucks petals from.

Now, the dark painting you gave me makes more sense.
Who breaks up with someone on their birthday?
When I looked, it filled me with a feeling of loss
What I couldn't understand, because it wasn't
anything like your impressionist landscapes
but of a fence hemmed in by shadow.

The light peeked out from behind trees
teasing the viewer's eye around the corner, out of reach.
But, a painting is only an illusion of light after all,
just as these words are an illusion of feeling.
Didn't they tell you—if you stare at the sun too long,
you'll go blind?

12/4/82

Drawings 82 (art)

MOTHLIGHT

MOTH LIGHT

As you breathe in 

the light,

darkness,  softly fallen 

from your face

reveals these burnt wings

rekindled in your eyes.

11/23/83 

Date may be off, it may have been published in Radius or Arc. I used the published version line breaks.

a page from the Marin Poetry Center anthology, 1982? or 83?

Obligatory Hug, Nov.1982, Copperfield's, Sebastopol

To Maureen in your fourth decade: a Sestina for my 30th Birthday

To Maureen in your fourth decade

Be sure to spend the season in Mexico.

Remember, ice melts the red hot licks of summer and spring.

Make sure you take a hike from forest Knolls to Tomales Bay.

From southerly licks, the red hot summer season
spreads grassy knolls to your moment.

Spring the tumbleweed down into the red hot summer
sleeping up into green meadows.

Be sure to have plenty of Guinness, a saucer in any season.

I have not spent any time in Mexico
And sometime during your 70s, we will sing together
in Dublin's fair city
and spend next summer picking huckleberries with your grandmother
And when you come back, be sure to practice your spear throwing
because the men who carry earth and bags are closing in on you.
If you need spears , I have several at my place.

In Mexico, hawks melt especially in spring from Bolinas to Petaluma.

The dish of Guinness wanders towards Dublin

Huckleberries are in leather bags.

Dehumidify your Volkswagen especially while eating strawberries.

Maureen,  in your fourth decade, go to Mexico
when the ice melts in TOmales Bay, take a hike to Foresville.
We'll all be there to meet you with the saucer of Guinness
because of the men with spears, because they carry bags of dirt.

I pass, Maureen, you should pickup your mail more often
on your way to Mexico from Tomales Bay
with your dehumidifiedVW, strawberries and Guinness,
pick up males on the road. Choose a nicer man. No more junk mail.

On your trip, may your bag contain the berries, beer, wisdom,
and the maturity of the recent past.
May it also contains the happiness of the future.
And made also contain first-class mail.

Maureen, in the 30th year, which is your fourth decade, take a hike.

Maybe lick the hot ice of summer and spring

Trek past that one with your saucer of Guinness
singing in Dublin with Mike, pick huckleberries with your grandmother

Take a spear and dehumidify your VW. Pick up your mail.

May your fourth decade be multiplied by your sixth sense in your fifth decade.
With the saucer of Guinness by your side, look forward
remember the days, not to be too mindful of sword flashing in Guatemala.

Always dehumidify your VW with strawberries,
remember to pick up your mail.

Have a good time while rolling down into the Russian River.

Spent a season in the hot licks of Mexico
with your saucer Guinness and the summer
spearing huckleberries with your grandmother.

Remember to dehumidify the bagman in your VW
and pick up your male more often whoever he is.

When you multiply your sixth sense in your fourth decade
so that your fifth decade will have seven blessings
while your VW rolls down the hill to the river.

Then next fall, take your new dancing shoes and hot stockings
to the mouth of the river and dance and Irish jig
while the pelicans dive for fish.

Go to the Pink Elephant and get drunk.
Get your VW lowered, chopped, cherried, and painted metallic blue

Cruise down to Mexico. Drink Guinness and Dos Exxes.
Cruise to Tomales, lay down in some river.
Take your grandmother to Stony Point Rd. and pick up some males.

Go down to the mouth of the river and celebrate
while the whales spout. And always keep the crows nest in your heart
in your fourth decade, and stop to pick the violets and wildflowers.

11/21/1982 

I had a huge bash at Zara Altair's. Poets included Lee Perron, Mike Tuggle, Susan Kennedy, Simone Wilson, Jim Byrd—most of my old boyfriends...

RRWG reading at Sebastopol Creative Center, Leonard Cirino, Maureen Hurley, Richard Salzman on sax

 

DAWN ON THE LAGUNA date?

DAWN ON THE LAGUNA

Purple cutouts of mountains,
etched valleys and cold creeks 

tumbling over boulders where ice forms 

on the edges, rising steam off the laguna 

shrouds the lone heron croaking at dawn.
I walk through the mist-filled trees looking 

for the mystery, white light leaps from eddys 

and drops from ice, swims blindly downstream 

and falls into a blue pool at dawn. 

11/1982, or early1983?

added 9/15/2016

minor changes

random poems and notes on small pieces of paper 1982

Found poems my notes on small pieces of paper 1982

The difference between 

the FBI and the CIA 

is like the difference between 

scotch and bourbon.

Clemency for goat rock

Will this stretch of road support Winnebagos, 

a parking lot with TV antennas and stereos

Sacrilege of another California monument. 

If we had some ham 

we'd have ham and eggs 

Now if we only had some eggs 

—Irish saying

We make light-years leaping with other people

Yes but the wind was locked within the woods 

11/13/1982

The ghosts upstairs are moving furniture at night 

while the rest of the world sends out for coffee

1982

added 9/2016 oddities, at best.

Misc Bread & Roses letters

• Bread & Roses Festival handbill 1982

 

ARCHITECTURE OF BONES

ARCHITECTURE OF BONES
          —for Bill Snow

Some members of the Donner Party didn't wait for spring.

Their bones grew new coats of skin.

The survivors slept, dreaming of hot ash bonfires

remembered the earth was a vast burial ground

but did nothing.

Deep inside, the earth shuddered.

Liquid bones of molten lava tried to escape

& snow soothed the terrible thirst

from their hearts.

They say beauty is only skin-deep.

Skin stretched over the cheekbones of women

means nothing without inner structure.

Leaves are homeless without

wind-polished femurs of trees

to hold them to sunlight.

Look to the architecture of bones for strength.

Without them, holding snow would be impossible.

Mountains would bleed back into the sea.

In spring, no skin would slough off

to reveal the bare-boned mountains.

Who keeps moving the bones?

Soon they will rise up

& reassemble themselves

but the pattern is forgotten

& the earth's strength is altered.

Bare bones. Hidden bones.

For a year, Albion Ridge

swallowed the bones of young girls.

The murder was not avenged.

No one lit hot ash bonfires for them.

Their skin sank into the earth in a slow trickle

& the trees were the only ones left to listen

to the soft music

of skin falling from bones.

10/31/82

Sebastopol

rev.88

1985 Napa Poetry Review
1984 Deepest Valley Review
1983 Poets of the Vineyard, 2nd Prize
1983 ARC/Rural Arts Services
1983 Poets of the Vineyards, 2nd prize

WAKING MNEMOSYNE

WAKING MNEMOSYNE

As you rise up in sleep,
dreams and memory merge
like dove-tailed hands.

In sleep's imperfect flight,
the sum of our lives
enters a new waking.

Seeking night vision
a memory slowly approaches
in the shape of wings.
The mantle of stars drops
over your death—

lifts away from it,
& of this, you remember
how like doves,
her hands.

10/13/1982  (81?)
rev. 1988
Forestville

1989 Women's Voices

Mnemosyme, a Titan goddess of memory, mother of the muses by Zeus
2. roughly translated, it means speak-memory

ASCII file was half gone. hard copy rools.
Such a radical shift from the first draft, almost a completely different poem, so I've posted both.  see MNEMOSYNE AUBADE

MNEMOSYNE AUBADE

MNEMOSYNE AUBADE – for Richard Salzman

In sleep, dreams come
flying halfway down to greet you.
And as you rise up to meet them,
the dreams become a part of you,
and you, a part of the dreams.
To those dreams we bring with us
the whole sum of our lives.
Dreams and memories merge and sleep
like a pair of dovetailed hands.
I am seeking your stars in my dreams.
Like night vision, from the corners of your eyes,
you are remembering you can see
how the mantle of death approaches slowly
in the shape of doved fingertips.

10/13/1982

Mnemosyne, roughly translated, means speak-memory.
She is the goddess of memory, a Titaness, and the mother of the Muses, by Zeus.
The revision is so different, it's almost another poem.

WAKING MNEMOSYNE

Bread & Roses Festival handbill 1982, photos

Misc  Bread & Roses letters

CPITS Teaching Notes, Montgomery ES, Westside School, Healdsburg ES, journal

10/29/82 Dear diary, after 20 hours of fruitless arranging of a SSU Public Poetry center benefit reading with Herb Kohl on November 11, then the 10th, then canceled completely because I couldn’t find a venue—then I got the Cotati Cabaret to agree to host us which is a good connection. God, how can I even write because of the exhaustion and the frustration. I was sick in bed for three days, so zoned out, I never wrote up my teaching notes. This is a recapitulation.

Since my last entry, I’ve taught nature poems of 4 to 11 lines. Write four obvious things and four obscure things. Pat Solen‘s class went well but Gary Reeves’ class was out of control. Dick Peters’ class had low energy with minimum output. I got so-so results. I talked lots about images for concrete poetry. 

After Gary’s second class, I had my doubts about going on with the lesson plan. Lee and I did animal poems during the next section. It was like regression. Dumb it down. We each read lots of examples and told them to start writing when they got something in mind. That went well and some of the best animal poems were produced ever. 

Peter’s’ class we did a repeat lesson and got some mediocre stuff. I think they’re doing what they think I want, not writing about their feelings. We went ahead with other lesson plans in Pat‘s class. Day, one four elements, four seasons, four more elements. Write a nature poem with at least one from each category, then do a drawing of it. Went well.

Day two make a simple sketch. Cut out the words that describe your poem or drawing and organize them on the page in a shape, that’s concrete poetry. These poems came out wonderful. Example if you wrote tree and did a silhouette sketch of a tree and looked for lots of words for example, and only found tree tree tree tree, you’d have a hard time trying to find enough words, but if you describe the things a tree is to you you get more ideas. The poems were very good. 

We went ahead with it in the other classes. I have to do follow up from the last class. Peter’s’ class is lethargic but they did the best poems I’ve ever witnessed. Gary Reeves’ class went well too. 

I’m learning self-control, pacing, etc. The logistics for concrete poems takes up the whole afternoon. I need lots of time for students to hunt for the words. Techniques for getting their attention at the beginning. Don’t say a word. Just stand there until they get the message. Then begin.

I told them about the upcoming anthology and to please write more poems at home to be considered for publication. The idea of appearing in print is always a siren call.

PPC I had a public poetry center student reading scheduled on October 28 and no one showed up. The poets conducted a workshop which was small and lasted from noon until 4:30 PM so it wasn’t entirely wasted.

Reading for a day in on November 18 all set up, negotiation with ICC intercultural center, poster is made—I made it, etc. it’s all finalized. Press release needs to be done. Art show classical guitar and poetry reading for Alta, Jonathan, London, and Beatrice Lagos at the Laguna is all set up. We have free floor space. We keep the door in order to pay the poets. Poetry show with flamenco dancing and classical guitar.

Mandala magazine is getting submissions and the class I’m teaching is unreliable, so lately I am recruiting outside help from PPC members. I’m learning to administer work to be done provided that the class is there to receive instruction. 

Tomorrow I start teaching a calligraphy class at Montgomery, Elementary school in Cazadero. I will give a history and show work and ask them to find feathers to make their own quills.

11/3 Poetry reading at Garbos with George Englander. I thought it went very well. My best so far reading from journal entries mostly.

11/6 reading at SSU in my fiction class with Elizabeth Herron, I read short story stories from my journals. I am not cut out to write fiction. I need to write about real things or listen to my poetic voice.

11/18. Busy busy putting on readings, Boschka Layton, Jonathan London, and Beatrice Lagos with Alta. I’m pretty jazzed as Alta doesn’t often come out to read. I was surprised that she said yes. It was very time-consuming, setting it up. Boschka’s art and poetry reading was a smash success. Her daughter, Naomi was wonderful on the guitar and we had a full house. My photos are in the Sonoma County Stump.

I haven’t had time to write any of my teaching stuff. The Mandala classes coming along. Calligraphy at Cazadero, I spend a lot of time researching material. I’m teaching third and fourth grade, I suspect there may be some problem with the teacher. She seems annoyed. Does she even want the program? 

Paul’s class by comparison, is a dream. Kids are doing well but I don’t always have the same kids each session, so It’s impossible to build continuity, something you need when learning calligraphy so, that’s not working out. I don’t like the bait and switch. I have one student who is left-handed. So we worked with many systems before we got something to work for her. I had to learn to do left-handed calligraphy, and she learned to do right handed Calligraphy.

Garbo’s meeting for coordinators at Jim Montrose’s house. Hammer and tong.

10/8  teaching notes from Healdsburg Elementary school fifth grade I taught intro to poetry to three classes. The format is what is poetry and why do I write? It was hard for me to talk about myself. I discovered that the information, what is poetry, was too detailed and that I couldn’t throw out too much. They became space cases if I did. I would be lucky to teach them all. 

I want to cover in one day plan during the next five sessions. I passed out two pages of poems with words, like metaphor and image and rhyme on it. They read poems out loud and we discussed big words in the poems and what the poems meant. I asked them if they had ever experienced any of those things? 

In all three classes, they picked the fire poem versus the Sexton poem (fury of overshoes had appeal), but I was flummoxed when they picked my poem about light. I told it was one of my list, and I said the reason why I started to write it was because I wanted to paint pictures with words. That’s when I discovered poems are made up of images. We can all see an image and write about it. I say an image is a picture worth 1000 words. And also an image is worth 1000 nouns. 

In the first two classes on Monday, Lee Perron, the arts coordinator, and my trainer came in with a guest so I invited him up to the front of the classroom and we each made up alternating lines out loud so the kids could see the process. We used objects they could see hear, taste, touch, and smell both in and out of the classroom. We made up the beginning and the kids wrote the last line.

On Wednesday I was on my own! I had the teacher working with me, but the fire alarm went off right when they were starting to write, so I took control of the class and asked them to finish. I rekindled the interest by reading some of the other endings out loud.

Time: to prepare for the first day is idiots delight work, and it took me three hours. Teaching time, etc. it was there from I was there from 10:30 AM until 4 PM. Wednesday was better, I taught from noon until two. To prepare the lesson plans, 10 hours total and one semester of observation, ouch. Talk about time commitment.

I also met with all three teachers on 10/3. The conferences went from 10:30 until 2 PM. I was reeling with exhaustion.

On 10/4 I reported back meeting with Lee, and for a half hour I met with another new poet, Pam Rafael. We went over her book for the Horicon anthology, and I did the calligraphy for it. We also discussed our first day. She tried to instill confidence in me. And I was terrified. I had these pictures of 6 foot tall fifth graders waiting to beat me up. We are already on our way to be coming friends.

I also did some other CPITS related work on 10/7. I won’t always mark down my time as it is a lot to write it down means I won’t have as much time to do my incredible workload of school work. Poetry Center, and calligraphy, not to mention my own classes. For example, it took me 45 minutes just to write this up. 

PS, the reading Tuesday with Elizabeth Herron, David Bromage and Roshni Roshtomji drew 80 people.

Press release photo see the Stump photo Roshni, set up and clean up, making posters etc. eight hours

Also I made the front page of the Healdsburg Tribune today as poet and residence to kick off arts program at Healdsburg Elementary school. It’s a big deal I was shocked to see a photo of myself in class teaching.

11/18. Focus on chores at Garbo’s for the RRWG. Lee and I will do the entertainment plus booking for February and March to generate some capital. The grant we applied for, technical assistance, for $3000 has 175 applicants so the CAC did not award it to anyone. It will be turned over to a region. We may have to rewrite a grant and the most we could ever hope for is around $200 so what’s the point? We spent that much and maybe more just writing the grant. 

Basically this means I go unpaid again. If this continues the burn out what rate will be great. Bad news. Good news I was asked to teach a guest CPITS residency at a private school in Marin. My former employer’s daughter’s class as a memorial to her great grandmother. Negotiations with the school will proceed on Friday. I have a 10 AM appointment at Saint Mark’s school with Mr. Bizjak, the principal. I am asking for the full $650 plus money for anthology.

I got the CPITS countywide poetry anthology to the printers all camera-ready to Reprographics. 

Yuck. A bit of domestic theater. The cat is acting crazy and the frightened mouse can barely move. The cat is high on it. I wish he just eat it. Don’t dare throw him or the mouse out as a second mouse has been caught. I really wish the cat wouldn’t share He’s caught two in two months in my house is too small for mice too. It’s an eat, or be eaten world. The mouse and cat are banished for the evening.

Last session CPITS with Pat Solem’s class. We made creation myths. I read some and then told them one. They wrote their own myths and some had trouble getting started while others loved it. I got my first fan club going because of it. Dick Peters’ class went along well with concrete poetry, but surprise!they needed less time than we planned for.

12/17 since last month, lots has happened. The Sonoma County anthology was taken back from printers by Michael Dow. I hereby throw up my hands in despair because the anthology now represents too much anger and frustration. And Michael has been a prime blocking force for entirely selfish reasons. 

And six months is just too long to be spent hustling over some things such as this. Too many power trips. The man has no concept of how to put a magazine out or what kind of commitment it requires. He’s already ruined relations with the county printer. Not good. And this is after Lee and I set that one up too. He’s afraid to release power or afraid to be honest. Too much to deal with. I find it ironic because of his involvement with Tibetan Buddhism. But life is full of such paradoxes. Enough on Michael.

(When MIchael doesn’t show up for our annual meeting, that he produced, Lee deposes Michael and becomes de facto area coordinator. MIchael said he was held up by an escaped bull and had to capture him but he didn’t call us or anything. He just left us floundering. 

Michael’s holding on and keeping us from expanding or going into new schools has became positively crippling. It was not a pretty sight. I felt so badly considering that MIchael was my first mentor and it was he who brought me into the CPITS program through the child and changing times conference at SSU.