Almost two years ago, I posted about Roberto Chavez’ show at the Autry Museum in LA. As part of the post I mentioned that over 30 years ago, a gallery owner had sold a wonderful self-portrait of Roberto with a lime-green background that we had loaned to the gallery for the show. Even though it was not for sale, the unscrupulous gallery owner sold it, and although Roberto gave us another painting in its place, I never really got over it. Continue reading “Internet magic”
It’s been a long time since I posted anything wholly practical here, so here are two first aid tips I learned this summer that have miraculous properties.
Yes, I know, it’s Tuesday again. What can I say? As always, life before poetry. But today I have a poem by Troy Jollimore, a recent Squaw connection, whose book Tom Thomson in Purgatory, won the National Book Critics Circle Award. One section of the book has poems that give a nod to Berryman’s Dream Songs. Troy’s alter ego is not Henry, but Tom Thomson. Here’s one of my favorites:
Tom Thomson in Retrospect
He had a good run. Ran like hell, in fact,
toward the wisdom and away from pain.
(Except he got them mixed up, it turned out.) Continue reading “Poetry Monday”
One morning, my granddaughter gathered 21 good size snails from the garden. When I commented that these are the same snails they broil for escargots in France, she was adamant that we try this. Continue reading “Snails to escargots”
I get a lot of poems online, various sources. Once in awhile, I like one. This one is by Gretchen Primack. You can read more by selecting the link below:
I’m tired. Men can Hey baby
all they want. A station wagon
shudders into reverse,
a plum wrinkles
its skin; three nurses
walk their smoke break,
a bird decides no,
paper bag tumbleweeds
tumble. Too much
hangs on a doorknob.
Too many choke
the awnings. Tired water
holds itself up by the curbs;
all that grows in the hardy
filth of the avenue
holds itself up; the dirty hands
and minds, someone
hollering about grace.
Look at that bucket of carrots
outside the deli, glowing
like a lampshade. How can that man,
peeling them in another language,
Beside him, pyramids of citrus.
Rows and pyramids and buckets:
all that bounty at eye level. Up above,
nothing at all, as if the sky
has always been imaginary.
An intriguing poem about stones at the recent Squaw Valley Poetry Workshop reminded me of this wonderful monologue from Molly. Cliff DeYoung performed this monologue at Cal State LA as part of a tribute to Beckett on his 100th’s birthday. I don’t think it could be done better! Continue reading “Cliff DeYoung and Beckett”
Forty-five years ago, I began translating Russian poetry. Okay, I was a strange young adult. But this year, a book of my poetry translations was finally published, Poems from the Stray Dog Cafe: Akhmatova, Mandelstam, and Gumilev. Here’s one of the poems:
Но я предупреждаю вас,
Что я живу в последний раз.
Ни ласточкой, ни кленом,
Ни тростником и ни звездой,
Ни родниковою водой,
Ни колокольным звоном –
Не буду я людей смущать
И сны чужие навещать
Ah, but I am warning you
This life’s the last I’m living through.
Not as a swallow, or a poplar
Not as a reed or a star,
Not as water from a well
Nor a bell’s hollow song—
I won’t return to trouble men
Or visit stranger’s dreams again
With my unquenchable lament.
Anna Akhmatova, 1940
Susan Gangel l William A. Henkin l Karen Lee Hones l Rick Kempa l Kit Kennedy Stephen Kessler l Joe Lamb l Bill Mayer l Meryl Natchez l Steven Rood
Friday, Auqgust 9, 2013 at 7 p.m.
San Francisco Center for the Book, 375 Rhode Island St. at 16th, San Francisco, 415-565-0545
Or you can buy a copy of the book (listed on page 4).
Jweekly is the newspaper of the Bay Area Jewish Community. I get their weekly email version, and will have a poem in it for the High Holy Days this year. This week, they had an article about a project to animate Psalms. My favorite was by RachelLopez Rosenberg, an interpretation of Psalm 90. Worth a look!