"God Is a Chicken" is one of the stories from Beware of God stories (Simon & Schuster March 28, 2006) . Imagine what you would do as an Orthodox Jew if you died and went to heaven and found out God was an actual chicken who did all things chicken. All the practices you observed like keeping kosher were meaningless. You wanted to tell your family to stop being observant because God was a chicken and the practices didn't matter. But you were dead! Esquire Magazine called it "Heretical. Hysterical."Auslander's second book Foreskin's Lament: A Memoir was published in 2007.
Auslander has contributed pieces to The New Yorker, Esquire and The New York Times Magazine and NPR( You Must Read This by Shalom Auslander
I turned on the TV yesterday in time to watch a tape of the November 18, 2008 National Book Awards Ceremony. Poet Mark Doty was accepting the award for his book of poetry Fire to Fire: New and Collected Poems. I also heard Judy Blundell children's book author accept her award for What I Saw and How I Lied.
I know the book business is downsizing and changing due to the economy and also because of new media formats like the Internet, Amazon Kindle, Blackberries etc. I have loved books since I was a toddler. I love the feel, smell and concreteness of a book. I hope that books do not go the way of the dinosaur. For me and many readers that would be a sad day.
Click on the link to read about the awards and to see videos of each winner's acceptance speech.
The bud stands for all things, even for those things that don't flower, for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing; though sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on its brow of the flower and retell it in words and in touch it is lovely until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing; as Saint Francis put his hand on the creased forehead of the sow, and told her in words and in touch blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow began remembering all down her thick length, from the earthen snout all the way through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail, from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine down through the great broken heart to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them: the long, perfect loveliness of sow.
"Extraordinary... a vast, ambitious, spiritually lusty, all-guzzling, all-encompassing novel" The New York Times Book Review
I can't watch war movies. The blood and bombs, the hand to hand combat gets to me. I was surprised that I enjoyed this novel. Oh, yes the battle scenes were there (they filled many of the pages of this 860 page novel) but I saw them in the context of the greater story of the life from youth to old age of Alessandro Giullani, soldier and believer in beauty, art, and the spirit.
As an old man, Giuliani tells his life story to his traveling companion, a young man of seventeen, as they walk through the Italian countryside.
"Synopses & Reviews Publisher Comments: For Alessandro Giullani, the young son of a prosperous Roman Lawyer, golden trees shimmer in the sun beneath a sky of perfect blue. At night the moon is amber and the city of Rome seethes with light. He races horses across the country to the sea, and in the Alps he practices the precise and sublime art of mountain climbing. At the ancient university in Bologna he is a student of painting and the science of beauty. And he falls in love. His is a world of adventure and dreams, of music, storm, and the spirit. Then the Great War intervenes."
"Thousand Kites is asking you to call our toll-free line 877-518-0606 and speak directly to those behind bars this holiday season. An answering machine will record your message. Read a poem, sing a song, or just speak directly from your heart. Speak to someone you know or to everyone---make it uplifting. Call anytime, now through December 9, and record your message.
The United States has 2.4 million people behind bars. Thousand Kites wants you to lend your voice to a powerful grassroots radio broadcast that reaches into our nation's prison and lets those inside know they are not forgotten.
We will post each call on our website as it comes in! Check our website http://www.thousandkites.org to listen to your call and others!
CALLS FROM HOME will broadcast on over 200 radio stations across the country and be available for download from our website on December 13. This is a project of Thousand Kites/WMMT-FM/Appalshop and a national network of grassroots organizations working for criminal justice reform. Learn how you can help blog, distribute, broadcast, or support this event (thousandkitesproject@gmail.com)."
by Elizabeth P. Glixman originally published on 2004-05-17
It seems like yesterday I was O.K., breathing, full of life, love, and laughter. I had dreams and purpose.
Sunday nights I watched Mad TV. Monday night I kissed Fluffy and Boo Boo on my dusted TV screen. They were amazing animals on Miracle Pets rescuing their owners from faulty smoke detectors and heart attacks. On Tuesday I saw Simon Cowel ruin people’s dreams.On Wednesday I watched the dreamers sing goodbye, friends and family crying in the audience. Kleenex , please.Thursday was Will and Grace. Friday night Mad TV (redundant, I love that channel) and Nightly News. I avoided the segments where a man from Texas barbecued. Saturday I made fettuccine alfredo, tofu eggplant casserole, and egg foo young. When the cooking shows were over there were the infomercials, educational marvels that titillate us with flatter tummies, larger breasts, bigger pectorals, stainless steel egg cutters, and hair anywhere we want.
I don't know why I thought today was a Bloggers Unite Day. I am embarrassed to say it isn't, but I decided to leave the post up anyways.
Poverty is the theme of Bloggers Unite Day this year. I've chosen to post poems that deal with poverty( in it's various forms) or poems that suggest ways to go beyond poverty.
Olga Angelina Garcia
A Poor People’s Poem
This poem
angry
corajudo
bold
has got
a bad attitude
un genio from hell
and you
you’re afraid
of my poem
afraid of this
deep dark red poem
that bleeds
woman words
you
you’re afraid
cuz even though
this poem
*is*
about survival
it isn’t about
endangered whales
or dying forests
Listen
this is a poor woman’s poem
a Mexicana
Chicana
Mestiza
India
Mujer
Este de Los Angeles
poem
Yeah
this poem’s
got roaches crawling
all over it
and tiny pink mice
nibbling at the edges
and corners of
simple-everyday words
Listen this poem rides the bus
works 12 hours a day
7 days a week
with no medical benefits
and no paid vacations
Listen
this poem
has crossed rivers
and mountains
jumped over
and crawled under
barb-wired fences
this poem
has slaved
in hot-sun pesticide fields
picking
piscando
your lettuce
tomatoes
oranges
onions
picking
piscando
the vegetables
and fruits
that make your meals
nice and balanced
And this poem
has worked all kinds of shifts
in inner-city factories
sewing
packaging
stuffing
cutting
folding
ironing
the clothes you wear
the jeans
the shirts
the jackets
that keep you
in style
Yeah
this is a poor woman’s poem
a brown people’s poem
so you see
right now
we don’t want to talk about
the ozone layer
We
the people in this poem
we wanna talk about where we live
about affordable housing
about how the hot water doesn’t work
and the windows don’t close
about the Never-no-heat-in-the-winter
Sit-u-a-tion
we wanna talk about drugs
about the alcohol cocaine crack heroin
impregnating our communities
making modern colonized brown black slaves of us
we wanna talk about food stamps
about jobs and fair wages
about 12 hour shifts
and working conditions
we wanna talk about the police
about choke-hold
and billy clubs
about busted heads
and handcuffed minds
about sharp-teeth dogs
and shackled freedom
about racist cops
who hate
poor
brown
black
people
we wanna talk about dying
about the river of blood
flowing where we live
about the heads of 2 year old babies
scattered on concrete floors
about the mountain of bodies here
outlined in white chalk
So you see
right now
we don’t wanna hear you preach
about recycling
cuz poor people like us
we’ve always recycled
we invented the damn word
and out of necessity
recycled our papers, cans, bottles
recycled our socially constructed poverty
recycled even our dreams
So you see
we do wanna talk
but talk about lies
about Am er i KKK a
about treaties broken
and lands and people stolen
we wanna talk about
S L A V E R Y
U.S. colonization
Third World penetration
And you
you’re afraid
of my poem
afraid of the East side poem
holding hands
with El Salvador
Nicaragua
Tijuana
Chiapas
Pico-Union
holding hands
with
SWETO
South Africa
South Central L.A.
Yeah
I know
you’re afraid
of this
brown black
poor people’s poem
This is where I live,
at 1352 Hope Street
with mamá, tía Mari, tío Leo,
and my brother Milagro
we live here, the five of us
packed together in a box
where there's no hot water
windows don't work
plumbing don't work
heater don't work
nothing here works.
But this is where I live
in this lopsided brown building
that sags like an old face.
Tía Mari says it's gonna fold
into itself one day and come
down on us, a giant toothless
wrinkled mouth swallowing us
whole. Says she'll be glad
when it happens too
cuz she's waiting for the Big One,
the 8 point earthquake
that'll crack sidewalks open
and crumble freeways,
turn skyscrapers into chalk dust,
she's waiting for the earth to move
beneath her feet. But my mamá,
she's living on bent knees,
cleaning rich people's houses,
wiping clean white tile floors
and toilet bowls. Walking on bent knees,
making pilgrimage, holding sacred
holy apparitions on street corners,
underground metros, churches,
trees, tortillas. Mamá is waiting
for Jesus to come back
from the dead, for La Virgen
de Guadalupe to send her a sign,
for her cemetery of candles
and saints to rise up like riot
flames among the living.
She's waiting for salvation on Hope
Street. Tío Leo laughs, says
God in the USA is TV and money,
is a rich White slum lord living
in Beverely Hills, is the Border Patrol
asking for papeles, is the police officer
who shot Turo from down the street
and got away with it. Says
the bullet whole in Turo's back es la huella
de Dios. Somos cucarachas, he shouts
y el zapato o la mano que cae del cielo
a darte el madrazo es tu Dios.
Scares us when Tío Leo starts saying stuff
like that, Mamá shakes her head and asks:
¿Qué, no crees en nada? He says he believes
in numbers. In 2 roaches + 2 roaches = 4 roaches.
In 3 days sin chamba + 6 days sin chamba = 9 días de desesperación.
In 8 hours worked + 4 hours work = overtime.
In numbers typed in at the right hand side
of his paycheck = never enough.
He's waiting to win the lottery,
for God to fuck up and accidentally
call his numbers:
13 52 4 28 7.
Me, I'm waiting for something
as soft as my brother's name
to come raining down on me.
I'm waiting for for a miracle
cuz we're 5-to-a-room here
cuz there's a muerta on the 1st floor
and a deaf woman who eats mice on the 3rd.
I wait for miracles cuz here
roaches have wings and fall
from ceings into bowls of soup
and cereal. Here, we can't get
rid of them, even with daily sprays,
those roach motels, that Chinese chalk,
and the manager won't fumigate
says we got roaches cuz we're dirty.
All 126 tenants have roaches
cuz all 126 of us are dirty
and lazy and poor and well
everybody knows that roaches come
with poverty and poverty with roaches.
And the other day
when I told the manager
we needed mouse traps
he told me, aquí no hay ratones
and he said we should
leave him alone because after all
he wasn't God and he couldn't solve
all of our problems and anyways
we were all crazy,
seeing things
all 126 of us who live here,
seeing things
I pray for miracles
cuz I live smack in the middle
of this city's aneurysm,
where drunk disenfranchised men pee
against cracked walls and shoot heroine
up swollen veins, where the unwanted
leave their dreams lying around like syringes
on sidewalks.
I pray for miracles
cuz I'm only 17
and I live among all these roaches
these mice
these men.
Rumi This World Which Is Made of Our Love for Emptiness
Praise to the emptiness that blanks out existence. Existence:
This place made from our love for that emptiness!
Yet somehow comes emptiness,
this existence goes.
Praise to that happening, over and over! For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness.
Then one swoop, one swing of the arm,
that work is over.
Free of who I was, free of presence, free of dangerous fear, hope,
free of mountainous wanting.
The here-and-now mountain is a tiny piece of a piece of straw
blown off into emptiness.
These words I'm saying so much begin to lose meaning:
Existence, emptiness, mountain, straw:
Words and what they try to say swept
out the window, down the slant of the roof.
"His century was also a century of war and famine, where the Mongol hordes had wrecked havoc in
Asia . Not much different from our own, where the majority of human
race lives below the poverty line and is constantly at war."
"Yusef Komunyakaa was born in 1947 in Bogalusa, Louisiana, where he was raised during the beginning of the Civil Rights movement. He served in the United States Army from 1969 to 1970 as a correspondent and managing editor of the Southern Cross during the Vietnam war, earning him a Bronze Star.
He began writing poetry in 1973, and received his bachelor's degree from the University of Colorado Springs in 1975."
http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/22
Emily Dickinson
Your Riches Taught Me Poverty
Your Riches—taught me—Poverty.
Myself—a Millionaire
In little Wealths, as Girls could boast
Till broad as Buenos Ayre—
You drifted your Dominions—
A Different Peru—
And I esteemed All Poverty
For Life's Estate with you—
Of Mines, I little know—myself—
But just the names, of Gems—
The Colors of the Commonest—
And scarce of Diadems—
So much, that did I meet the Queen—
Her Glory I should know—
But this, must be a different Wealth—
To miss it—beggars so—
I'm sure 'tis India—all Day—
To those who look on You—
Without a stint—without a blame,
Might I—but be the Jew—
I'm sure it is Golconda—
Beyond my power to deem—
To have a smile for Mine—each Day,
How better, than a Gem!
At least, it solaces to know
That there exists—a Gold—
Altho' I prove it, just in time
Its distance—to behold—
Its far—far Treasure to surmise—
And estimate the Pearl—
That slipped my simple fingers through—
While just a Girl at School.
Some say down the toilet. I have to agree. I thought that truth and facts were, well the truth and facts. I thought it was a reporter's job to state facts. I don't know, call me old fashion. I am not a fan of propaganda and mass psychosis. I still think 2 and 2 equals 4. I am telling you I can't listen to the news without wishing life was simpler and people were civil.
The new issue of Eclectica is online. There is lots to read: poetry, commentary, fiction, book reviews, travel essays.
Check out my interview with author Jayne Pupek (Tomato Girl, Algonquin, 2008), and if you enjoy comic books, Alan Baird interviews comic book author C.J. Hurtt. Donna George Storey interviews Xujun Eberlein about her new short story collection Apologies Forthcoming, Livingston Press, 2008.
Nominated for THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE 2007 "This remarkable debut saga of intrigue and akido flashes back to a darkly opulent WWII-era Malaya. ...measured, believable and enthralling." — Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)
I can't stop thinking about Phillip Houston the main character and narrator of this book. I can't stop wondering if he is sitting in his house overlooking the sea or if he has passed away. I wonder what the sea looks like today from his house on the hill.
Phillip Houston's story is so engrossing. His father was British, his mother Chinese. He grew up on Malaya. He was not fully either of these three cultures. He befriended a Japanese man who was his sensai, his teacher of akido. The man rented the island Phillip could see from his house on the mainland. Who would he be loyal to when the war broke out and the Japanese invaded the country of his birth: his family, his country, his teacher, his heritage?
The book is full of memorable lyric writing and wonderful descriptions of a time and place full of turbulence and personal anguish before and during WW II.
The sea is often mentioned in the poetry of Neruda. I especially love his Odes and erotic love poems.
"Si Tu Me Olvidas" By Pablo Neruda
En Español: (In Spanish)
Quiero que sepas una cosa.
Tú sabes cómo es esto: si miro la luna de cristal, la rama roja del lento otoño en mi ventana, si toco junto al fuego la impalpable ceniza o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña, todo me lleva a ti, como si todo lo que existe: aromas, luz, metales, fueran pequeños barcos que navegan hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.
Ahora bien, si poco a poco dejas de quererme dejaré de quererte poco a poco.
Si de pronto me olvidas no me busques, que ya te habré olvidado.
Si consideras largo y loco el viento de banderas que pasa por mi vida y te decides a dejarme a la orilla del corazón en que tengo raíces, piensa que en esa día, a esa hora levantaré los brazos y saldrán mis raíces a buscar otra tierra.
Pero si cada día, cada hora, sientes que a mí estás destinada con dulzura implacable, si cada día sube una flor a tus labios a buscarme, ay amor mío, ay mía, en mí todo ese fuego se repite, en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida, mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada, y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos sin salir de los míos.
"If You Forget Me" By Pablo Neruda
In English: (En Inglés) I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists: aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now, if little by little you stop loveing me I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land.
But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine.
Hugh Hodge whose poems I posted yesterday sent me the link to pictures Sonja took on their trip to a national park in South Africa. He wrote
"A few months ago Sonja and I walked through our biggest national park with our cameras, six other people and escorted by two (armed) game rangers (there are untamed lions and other very dangerous animals in the park): an absolutely unforgettable experience (if you're interested I'll post a link to some of our pictures). No shots were fired on the three-day walk, other than by the cameras. But we were careful."
A superstitious day, the last storm still
battering up the coast. A cormorant silhouettes
the line of surf, an arrow to the heart.
Out in the bay the great ships heave and sinew,
chained by a bull-ringed capstan. The sea
swells from the north-west catching
the port quarter to roll awkwardly,
twisting and plunging her head
into the backing southerly, and the crew waits
pilot and tugs to lead her
to the still waters of the basin.
This in the pen’s imagination, each word
an arrow uncertain of its meaning,
peers from the page a frightened lamb
born on a cold night in the desert air.
Barbed wire rusts in the mist,
drying in the wind.
Spider webs jewelled in dew diamonds
like photographs.
Friday then, fish and faith,
the fishermen and the fishers of men.
The sea, its fathoms and cables,
parallel rule, dividers, compass rose,
the binnacle of brass, the lifting deck.
The ease and happiness of the soul
found again in the loneliness.
13 June 2008
Exercise #28
The sea has risen to the wind
from its beds and deeps.
It rolls before the north-wester
on shoulders of rain and squall,
muscling in from the island,
crouched in its collar,
to reefs of Malmesbury shale
here these six hundred million years,
charges into the valley of death
left and right. It is a grand poem
of heroes, foolhardy but performed
each winter of its seasoning
steeped in form and remembering,
repeating lines and rhythms,
and broken men. Yet there is no fear
I do not provide in visions
of drowning kelp, reaching for air
in rain and foam, still alive,
gesturing ashore where I watch
with Ted’s dented eyeballs
and the black-backed gull bending
like an iron bar. And twa corbies
thinking theft in dark snow
where rabbits scutter
in meadows and memories. But here,
now, a Southern Right intersects
the weather and blows knowing nothing
of my dark eye and thoughts
that drive this pen.
11 June 2008
Hugh Hodge lives in Cape Town, Western Cape , South Africa
Baby Seals are beaten to death each year infront of their mothers. Wolves are chased until they can run no more by men in planes until they are exhausted and shot. Pups, mothers are killed no none is spared. "Big Men" pay money to shoot captive animals in shooting parks. This sport is called canned hunting. There really is nothing more to say about this brutality. Google wildlife conservation groups such as Defenders of Wildlife and read about what is done in the name of wildlife management, testosterone, and earning a living.
"I have some sad news. Unfortunately, Alaska voters defeated a ballot initiative yesterday that would have ended the state’s brutal aerial hunting program.
Thousands of Defenders of Wildlife Action Fund supporters gave invaluable support to this important campaign, but in the end, deep-pocketed special interests carried the day.
This morning, I spoke with Nick Jans, co-chair of Alaskans for Wildlife, our grassroots partners in The Last Frontier who spearheaded the state ballot initiative to end Alaska’s brutal aerial hunting program. He wanted me to pass on this message to you:
“I want to thank Defenders of Wildlife Action Fund supporters for their help in this hard-fought campaign.
"We faced an approximately $750,000 campaign from our opponents -- including Safari Club International and a $400,000 state-funded campaign approved by Governor Sarah Palin and the Alaska legislature. They used deceptive propaganda and the authority of the Alaska government to defeat the ballot initiative.
"But thanks to the generous support of Defenders of Wildlife Action Fund activists and donors, we were able to reach thousands of voters. Yesterday, over 75,000 Alaskans voted to end this barbaric practice.
“Despite this loss, we’re not giving up -- Alaskans for Wildlife will continue to hold the state Board of Game’s feet to the fire and redouble our efforts to end this brutal program.”
Defenders of Wildlife Action Fund will continue to partner with groups like Alaskans for Wildlife and our sister organization Defenders of Wildlife to end Alaska’s slaughter from the skies.
As we prepare for another bloody season of aerial hunting in Alaska, we are redoubling our efforts to pass the Protect America’s Wildlife (PAW) Act in Washington, DC to bring an end to Alaska’s aerial hunting program -- and prevent programs like it from spreading to places like the Greater Yellowstone region.
This bill already has strong bipartisan support in the House of Representatives -- now we must ensure that this important bill gets passed.
Once again, thank you for your support in this important campaign. Together, we’ll continue to fight for sensible wildlife management -- and end the senseless slaughter of wolves by airborne hunters.
I don't know why I read the comments on political blogs. But I do. I get all worked up over peoples' rudeness. Some bloggers like to say McCain's POW experience qualifies him for nothing. Okay. I hear ya Mr. Blow It Out Your... People have user names like this. Another poster Liberal Missy writes, "Yeh, all being a prisoner of war did for the old guy is teach him how to sit still. He could be a kindergarten teacher."
Then there are the Obama haters. Mr. Rise Up for America writes, " Precious" needs to commit to something other than his wife and hoop shots." How about Same Old Same Old who calls Obama and his VP pick ObamaObiden Oboy.
Resentment and anger and of course wanting to win can make people creative and rude. I think the Obama Obiden Oboy is quite catchy. I made it up like I did all the posters' names. I could not go back and read their names or posts again. My pretend names and posts are mild curry sauce compared to the nasty biting real ones. No water needed to read this post.
I told a friend today if I start talking about the election and begin to look or sound hysterical to walk away from me or hang the phone up.
I wish there was some way to block me from Politico.com, Real Clear Politics, Puma, and No Quarters. It is like a feeding frenzy of animosity and rudeness in their comment sections. I go back like a fighter in the ring trying to thinking of a verbal punch to post. I delve deep into my store of sarcasm and wit and most of the time come up with nothing. I am like a defective hot air balloon who gets all fired up and then crashes.
Since I like words I am making a list of all the "mild" able to repeat when there are children in the room names the Obama posters could call McCain and visa versa. I am listening to the sounds and perhaps will write a poem using them. I think it is the only way I can get through the election process.
Here is a start:
Mc Bush, MC Needs a Cane, Mc Can't Digest McDonald's low fat burger ( too old), Obominate, please don't, Obomba,
In ekphrasis, or ekphrastic art, there are initially two imaginations at work—that of the original artist, and that of the respondent through his/her medium.
For the purpose of this discussion we’ll primarily talk about writing poetry in response to visual art. That writing may define, redefine, or simply react to (in whatever way feels valid to the writer) the original piece of art.
Questions asked about ekphrastic poetry
What kind of art can be used for ekphrastic poetry? You can write in response to the Springprint Company illustrated barns restaurant placemat at the greasy spoon down the street. It’s up to you. Writing poetry in response to a play, dance, movie, sculpture, oil or any other kind of painting, wood carving, you name it, can be a grand opportunity to respond with an ekphrastic poem. For ease of discussion I’ll talk about “paintings” and “drawings.”
How scholarly is your take on ekphrasis? I haven’t a clue. I’ve studied everything I can get my hands on, and there is much disagreement in the subtleties of current use of the word and practice. I’ve decided to go with broad interpretation. There hasn’t been that much available on the subject but in the past 10 years there’s been a huge increase in interest—so much so that the words “ekphrasis” and “ekphrastic” are making their way back into dictionaries. They were gone from all but the Oxford for a very long time. This discussion is meant for the poet who wants to engage in ekphrasis and this is a subjective offering coming from my opinion which might find some disagreement elsewhere on the literary playground.
How does one approach the art in hopes of accomplishing an ekphrastic poem in response? Become physically comfortable and committed to a long period of time in front of the art. If possible sit in front of the work and attempt to become one with it. If you have permission, take a photograph of it and carry it with you or prop it in front of your computer, especially for the revision process. Since while writing poetry “it all depends on the questions that you ask,” ask yourself and ask the painting about the movement in the piece. What is going where? Ask about color, light, shape/form, subject/items, geometry/direction/balance, relationship/tension, taste, sound. Is anything here making noise? Is anyone/anything speaking? Can you create dialogue? Monologue? If you can’t take a photo of a museum piece, try a “naive poet’s sketch” of the piece just to remind yourself of the elements of the painting, its flow, and relationship of the subjects.
How might I choose one piece of art out of a whole gallery? Tour the gallery without pen or paper, and after a while, feel the tug toward a particular piece of art. Honor that “tug” by returning to the work and staying with it, studying it as much as possible in the short period of time you have for it. Thirty minutes? An afternoon? Then start taking notes. Is this feeling like a picture you want to further explore? Yes? Then it’s yours. Let the piece go to work on you.
There are different approaches, right? Can you simplify an explanation of that? Choose whether you wish to try the minimalist approach by saying exactly what you see there in as few words as possible (example, Cathy Callaghan’s book, Other Worlds available through Pudding House) or the embellished and flamboyant approach (example, my book, The Magic Fish) that allows you to have your way with this art without regard for the artist’s possible message.
Are there additional techniques that could help me make a successful ekphrastic poem? Minimize adjectives and adverbs and choose just the perfect qualifiers, not over-doing the descriptive just because you’re “interpreting” art. Tap into the senses that might be in the picture. It is easy to write what you “see” but what about smell and taste? Get all the 5 physical senses into your writing. Try a narrative, writing a story in poetry form about what you see there and beyond, starting long before the action in the painting or long past. Avoid vague language, trite notions, over-used expressions. Use strong action verbs and the finest detail regarding the nouns and even presumed proper nouns in the visual art. You may name the subjects even when the visual artist did not. Some say “art is anything you can get away with.”
How do you know you’re understanding what the artist intended? You might not get it at all and I don’t know many artists who would care. Most professional artists I’ve known are at least amused by various interpretations of their art if not flattered or gratified by differing opinions. My recommendation is that the poet should have her way with the art and see what happens. In my work on The Magic Fish: Poems on an Edward Boccia Sketchbook, I went with immediate reactions and did not try to interpret the painting with concern for Edward Boccia’s meaning, though one can always attempt that. Perhaps occasionally I came close to his own story regarding the drawing. Boccia gave me carte blanche to have my own experience with the art. This way you have two different pieces of art, a drawing and a poem, that might meet somewhere on the spread between the two side by side, but that’s for the third pair of eyes to decide, isn’t it? For the poem to have its highest experience, we might remember that ART is always taking things and altering them. Study the picture, deconstruct it, then put it all back together again your way. It will be valid.
Are there any legal issues when making your own art (poetry) off of another’s work? Always include a citation regarding the art: Title, medium, year produced, artist’s name, and sometimes the owner of the piece and whether it is on loan and where you saw it exhibited. If you’d like to publish a photo of the work, you’ll have to obtain written permission from the artist and/or owner of copyright. Some artists will not give you permission. This is not legal advice, I am not a lawyer. If you are concerned, you should consult an attorney.
What is the value of ekphrastic poetry? Exercising your pen with ekphrastic writing, when it comes down to it, is great practice for empowering your writing re: any “picture” life presents. “Get the picture?” It is great practice for poetry therapy group participants. “Taking a picture of a moment” is one of my most popular writing exercises and in my mind writing in response to a freeze-framed moment of two siblings arguing in the backyard is no different than responding to Georges Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of LaGrande Jatte. Ekphrastic poetry brings renewed attention to visual art. It is an excellent way to bring art ‘back from the dead’ or to just bring additional attention to worthy works, old or new. People who have trouble appreciating “modern art” (as they’ll lump it all together with this nondescriptive or incorrect label) could find an enhanced understanding of any work they spend enough time with to write a response. Ekphrastic writing can unlock the mysteries of the painting and grow an appreciation for the art and artist. It is also a way for the poet to go outside the self and respond to something outside her/his usual experience.
Are the paintings and poems supposed to interact? If the poet wants them to. The poet may struggle to discover precisely what the artist intended, go wildly in another direction (as I often do), or anything in between. The poem might require the painting to stand beside it in order to get meaning from the poem or the poem might stand alone.
Since Ekphrasis was better known long ago, can you tell us more about that? Where did the term come from? It isn’t a joke out of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, it really did come from the Greek. We know that school boys were instructed to write (usually poems) about the architecture and art in museums and grand public places—for public consumption and understanding. Around the 4th and 5th Centuries, ekphrastic poetry was pretty much limited to poems derived from visual art. The poems were often elaborate and descriptive and might have been about the religious architecture or paintings surrounding people or that the citizens had little access to. English romantic poets: (Keats “Ode on a Grecian Urn” always comes to mind first), Shelley, Byron, and others composed many such works, some of which became well known.
Can you give us an example of ekphrastic poetry collections or resources on the subject?
ELASTIC EKPHRASTIC: Poetry on Art / Poets on Tour Edited by Jennifer Bosveld, with the work of poets on tour through galleries. Ekphrastic poetry has been on the rise for 15 years and is only now beginning to be understood. Here is a marvelous classroom or workshop resource for writers responding to art. Released in 2003. Perfect bound, red enamel cover, 71 pp, $14, ISBN: 1589981669.
Other ekphrastic poetry collections and resources on the subject:
Monet in the Twentieth Century by James R. Scrimgeour (chapbook, Pudding House, 2002) Elastic Ekphrastic: Poets on Tour through the Galleries edited by Jennifer Bosveld (chapbook anthology forthcoming from Pudding House, 2003) Other Worlds: Poems on the Drawings of M.C. Escher by Catherine A. Callaghan (Pudding House, 1999) The Magic Fish: Poems on an Edward Boccia Sketchbook by Jennifer Bosveld (Pudding House, 2002) Snow Effects by Lynne Knight (Small Poetry Press, 1999) The Gazer’s Spirit by John Hollander Museum of Words: The Poetics of Ekphrasis From Homer to Ashberry by James A. W. Hefferman Transforming Vision: Writers on Art ed. E. Hirsch (Art Institute of Chicago, 1994) Paint me a poem: a canvas of words (King County Poetry & Art on Buses), 1999 Visions: paintings seen through the optic of poetry by Marc Elihu Hofstadter, Scarlet Tanager Books, 2001, 72 pages, $14. No art included but this is still another take on ekphrasis. Some might argue that most of the poems are not ekphrastic because they don’t capture the whole of the art or attempt. But the poems are elegant, very much at least a response to the art. Among experts on ekphrasis (and they are very few with a broad vision) it would be interesting to hear opinions on whether this work is ekphrastic. Regardless, I think it is splendid. Ekphrasis, The Illusion of the Natural Sign by Murray Krieger “Ekphrasis and the Other” by W. J. T. Mitchell in Picture Theory (University of Chicago Press), 1994 Getting the Picture: The Ekphrastic Principle in Twentieth Century Spanish Poetry by Margaret H. Persin, 1998 The Sculpted Word: Keats, Ekphrasis, and the Visual Arts by Grant F. Scott Poetry in Crystal: Interpretation in crystal of thirty-one new poems by contemporary American poets, sponsored by Steuben Glass w/support of the Poetry Society of America (a reversal from the norm!), 1963
I have a confession to make. I can't go to church and confess. I'm not Catholic. Can't be on national TV talk shows. I tried but my name isn't Bill.
"No way," said Helena, a famous talk show hostess, when I pleaded with her.
"Just give me one prime time minute to confess. I promise to make it juicy."
"No can do," said Helena. "No viewer interest in your type of crime. I'm sorry but you have to face the fact that you aren't Bill. Maybe one of those evangelists would give you air time. They love confessions from ordinary people."
My crime was as good as the next person's, as good as Bill's. But because there wasn't a young intern involved no one was interested.
I have to confess now. I can't turn back. It took me years to gather the courage. I told a few friends my horrible deed. I needed practice. They minimized my crime. "What's the big deal?" they said. "Do you know how many people steal towels from hotels or cheat on their spouses?"
"No," I answered.
"Thousands of people break the law everyday. Your crime is diddly."
I was hurt. My crime meant a lot to me.
"Where has morality gone?" I said sadly.
"It never existed," said my friends.
I have to confess. Otherwise I will live in a world darker then the blackest night. I need the relief that comes from public humiliation, media coverage, talk shows, and full color spreads in Karma News.
I say to myself every day since it happened, "Why did you do it? What were you thinking?" I looked at my reflection in the Atlantic Ocean this summer as I contemplated jumping in, and wondered, how could this happen to such a good looking person? I had my hair done that day. The ocean was silent. She had taken the fifth.
What was my crime? Just like Bill I had a professional speechmaker write my confession. Here goes. "My fellow Americans I am talking to you on national TV tonight to tell you something I did that I am not proud of, that I regret. On July 24, 1975, I ate a tuna fish in a holy ashram in the country of India. Yes that is my crime. Sorry. No sex. No scandal. No violence, unless you consider vigorous chewing violent. This was a serious offense to the Indian people. To many of you it may not seem an impeachable act yet I betrayed a people. I violated a country's trust. They let me in their borders, sit in their temples, sing their songs. Doesn't that count?
My fellow Americans, can you feel my pain? I ate the tuna before morning meditation. While people were om-ing, I was gulping. The truth. You want the truth. I'll give it to you. My desires got the best of me. I'm middle aged and I needed a fling.
It's not like I murdered Ghandi. That may not be completely accurate. It's all how you look at it. The cycle of birth and death is tricky. A politician today. A fish tomorrow. Remember that Bill. A crime is a crime. I can not be excused. I broke the rules of the ashram. I broke these ancient laws in India (of all places). I might as well have committed a crime against the American people while living on Pennsylvania Ave. Forgive me." End of speech.
Now I will wait for the consequences of my confession. Eating fish at the ashram is a sin that will be investigated. I wish. Bill, that lucky guy, is the one with the special prosecutor on his back. Not me. I'll get a three hour epic lecture on tape from my mother and a bolt of lightening will strike my year supply of tuna fish.
I am working on a defense. I have two plans. One is the genetic defense. Eating fish was genetically encoded in my cells. My ancestors were as coincidence would have it fisherwomen. It was those dam cells that made me eat the tuna. Genetics determining behavior is a good start. It's a popular theory that can be debated. Debate is good. It confuses people and will give me time to create defense two, the philosophical argument.
Defense two goes like this. It's an animal's job to give up their lives for us so we can do good in the world. It's in the plan of creation. They know the score. Tuna fish don't mind. The cosmic plan to be eaten works. Why else would God have made spare ribs? This defense won't get me off the hook, but it could with defense number one added, create public support and let me at least keep my job.
If all fails I can say legally I did not eat tuna on the ashram grounds. I ate tuna at the park that was next to the ashram. I'll falsify make believe measurements from non-existent government land surveyors to prove this. I was close to the ashram but we were never intimate. I know I've already confessed but I can change my story. Many famous leaders do.
The decision, no doubt, in my case will be to throw her out of the ashram forever. I will not be allowed to go to a spiritual retreat again and will be stripped of any spiritual attainment I have made in this lifetime. No dream team, no PR experts will get me off. Why should they? I broke a special trust. No one at the ashram would be able to look at me again without wondering if I had a fillet mignon in my suitcase.
I did it, Bill! Did you hear me? I confessed like you. I'm glad I'm not you. No offense. It must have been hard to confess in front of millions of people, telling them what a jerk you had been. Better think twice before you look lustfully into the eyes of any women but your wife. As for me, I'm joining Tuna Eaters anonymous. There are too many fish in the sea and I can't control myself.
This piece was originally published in the now defunct e-zine "Snark Byte." It was then republished on a website for people from India. It was my error submitting to the site and not reading the fine print. I don't have any ancestors that lived in India as far as I know. Even though I wrote and said I am not from India, the piece is still there.
Slow down you move too fast, gotta let the moment last
I am not sure what group in the 60s sang this lyric but I know I relate to this idea. There was a blackout for an hour last night where I live. There were no street lights , no indoor lights, no radio, TV, or computer. When I got use to the silence and darkness, I thought this is wonderful. I imagined what it was like living in a period before electricity or living in a modern country that has no electricity. What do people do at night? In some places there are no oil lamps or flashlights. There is fire for illumination. That is all. Silence and darkness can be so full. It is an idea to contemplate. I've decided to slow down and stop multitasking. I've decided to do less.
My planet Venus that deals with love and beauty is in the house of Gemini (the twins). I seem to always have two goals or two activities going on at once. I write prose. I write poetry. I draw. I make collages. Perhaps in the creative process that is an asset. One feeds off the other. I am experimenting. I am combining my love of art and writing and making an artist book. This is my "first draft" of a poem and image about my great uncle.
Democracy imposed from without is the severest form of tyranny. —Lloyd Biggle, Jr.
Unlikely Stories is a unique online e-zine. Check out the interview by Belinda Subraman with editor Jonathan Penton and read my poems in the July issue.
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I'd love to hear from you.
I write posts on this blog for two reasons. I want to promote my own work (what writer and artist doesn't), and I want to share my love of the written and visual arts. In the past nine years although I've written fiction and non-fiction, I've been focused mainly on poetry. I am interested in hearing from writers, artists and readers. I am actively seeking to expand my vision of what is possible as a poet/writer/artist through shared self expression. The effect of words and images on our psyches can be profound.
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CHAPBOOKS
I Am the Flame - Amazon.com. Clic on Cover.
Cowboy Writes a Letter &Other Love Poems
Pudding House Publications Chapbook. Click Cover.
A White Girl Lynching
Pudding House Publications Chapbook. Click Cover
The Wonder of It All
Contact Alternating Currents for info on this chapbook. https://altcurrentpress.com/
POETRY ANTHOLOGIES
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Read my review at Amazon.com. Click cover.
Interviews With Other Writers and Poets (2003-present)
