Tag: poetry

Ode to Summer II & A Poem by Jim Morrison

May 31st, 2008

Oh Saturday, what a gorgeous day you turned out to be (although this morning was so cold, self nearly froze while walking around the Redwood City Farmers Market, because she forgot to bring her jacket)

How self adores the apricots and cherries she saw at the market, just bursting with sweetness.

Oh beagles, how self adores your barking friendliness, your wayward tangle of leashes, your swaybacked walks, and even the way your tongues hang out, the closer we get to home.

Oh Stafford Park, this afternoon you are full of children and birthday parties, laughter and noise, and you remind self of the times when she celebrated son’s birthday here, and of all the memories the one that stands out is his sixth, because that was when self outdid herself by ordering a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cake from Goldilocks, and when she took it out of the box, all son’s classmates went “Ooooh” at the sight of the three buildings made out of hard candy, tiny Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles clambering down their sides.

Oh hubby, who refuses self’s invitation to take a stroll along Laurel Street (where self secretly hopes to stop by Chocolate Mousse and buy some slices of carrot cake) and all because Jason Bourne is on flat screen HDTV, and it’s coming close to the scene where Matt Damon and Franka Potente encounter punk-haired assassin in Bourne’s Paris apartment, and Matt achieves maximum lethal effect with a letter opener.

Now, both dogs are sprawled on hardwood floor, tongues hanging out. Breeze wafts through orange tree, laden with fruit. Student papers sit next to self’s laptop. The top one is a paper about a poem Jim Morrison wrote when he was in high school, “Horse Latitudes.” Self’s curiosity is aroused. She picks up the paper and reads:

“Horse Latitudes”

A poem by Jim Morrison

When the still sea conspires an armor

And her sullen and aborted

Currents breed tiny monsters

True sailing is dead

Awkward instant

And the first animal is jettisoned

Legs furiously pumping

Their stiff green gallop

And heads bob up

Poise

Delicate

Pause

Consent

In mute nostril agony

Carefully refined

And sealed over

Hmm, self thinks: Not bad. Not bad at all.
A Poem for Burma (with an Update)

May 9th, 2008

This morning, self watching CNN: At a press conference, Burma’s ex- Prime Minister is appealing for more aid.

But this morning brought the news that the current leaders of (so-called) Myanmar have refused to allow in USAID workers, with resulting widespread confusion and dismay.

Yesterday, self’s friend Kyi sent her this poem. It is by Ko Ko Thett, who was born in Rangoon in 1972. His studies at Rangoon Institute of Technology were cut short following his involvement in the December 1996 student uprising. He left Burma after a spell of detention in July 1997. In Bangkok, he worked for Burma Programme at the Jesuit Refugee Service-Asia Pacific until his resettlement in Finland in December 2000. As an independent researcher, Ko Ko Thett has taught, written, and commented extensively on Burma since 1999. As of 2008, he is reading peace and conflict studies at the University of Helsinki, while keeping his dream of return alive.

Nargis Cyclone

The storm struck at dawn.
Blow, blew, blown!
I was thrown into a space unknown.
As I float, my body begins to bloat.
Am I swimming among a million corpses?
A million of my compatriots?
I hear women wailing on the shore.
Is it the muted weep of dying children
I’ve never heard before?

Ko Ko Thett
8.5.2008

* * * *

In other news today, 10 May 2008, the ruling junta in “Myanmar” has stooped to a new low: Myanmar’s military regime distributed international aid Saturday but plastered the boxes with the names of top generals.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
Poetry, Poetry: A Reading in Boston, A Book Launch in New York

April 8th, 2008

Aaah, so many poets, so little time.

First up, Luisa Igloria, the author of nine books including Encanto (Anvil, 2004), In the Garden of the Three Islands (Moyer Bell/Asphodel, 1995), and Trill and Mordent (WordTech Editions, 2005), reads at the Barnes & Noble at Emerson College with fellow poet Eamon Wall, the author of four collections of poetry, Refuge at De Soto Bend (2004), The Crosses (2000), Iron Mountain Road (1997), and Dyckman-200th Street (1994), all published by Salmon Publishing in Ireland.

Details: Barnes & Noble, 114 Boylston Street, Boston, on Thursday, April 10, at 6 p.m.

Second, Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia , & Beyond, edited by Tina Chang, Nathalie Handal and Ravi Shankar, and with a foreword by Carolyn Forché, launches at New York’s Rubin Museum, on Apr. 25, 7 PM. The Burmese poet Kyi-May Kuang, who self met over two years ago now, in the 2005 Berlin “Sending Signals” conference, has some poetry in this one! Here are just a few of the to-die-for blurbs:

“This extraordinary, library-in-one-volume: what a resource! Those to whom poetry is essential as the supreme use of language will find the work of many poets they have never before come to, and those readers who have limited themselves to prose have the opportunity to discover how the poet outreaches everything prose can illuminate in who and what we are, no matter where, on the map. Nine thematic groupings of the work bring us wonderfully, almost perilously close to ultimate experience in childhood, love, war, exile, the inextricable relations between politics and the personal, the tragic and the ironic, the wisdom in sorrow and humor, that only the most intense imagination can plumb. That of the poet. The realm of imagination is one. This anthology gives entry to its vast _expression in the Middle East and Asia , including the changing sensibilities of poets in the ever-growing world of immigration. Assembled here not the Tower of Babel , but the astonishment and subtlety inherent in many languages and their experimental modes to expand the power of words. The introductions to each section offer perceptions engagingly, against which to place one’s own readings. The editors have boldly envisaged and compiled a beautiful achievement for world literature.”
                                                —Nobel Laureate, Nadine Gordimer

“Language for a New Century is a symphonic sweep of beckoning cries, praises, prayers, curses, ruminations and revelations. An ensemble rich with diverse voices, here the old and the new converge, and something wholly human and futuristic emerges—something that possesses a robust lyricism—shining its light, its illuminated certainty into the twenty-first century. This marvelous anthology assembles a multitude of voices intent on a purposeful, deep singing.”

                                                —Pulitzer Prize Winner, Yusef Komunyakaa

Details:

Friday, April 25th, 2008, 7:00 pm to 10:00 pm
at The Rubin Museum , New York City
Rubin Museum of Art · 150 West 17th Street , New York , NY 10011 ·               212.620.5000

Self’s first Shabbat. Self didn’t know that no buses ran after 4 or 5 p.m. A Filipina told her, while self stood waiting in vain at the stop for Bus No. 10 on Arlozoroff.

Ying was asleep when self left the hospital. Less voluble today, but her fever’s gone: her temperature was 36.5. But lymphoblasts — or whatever you call those cells doctors count to measure the body’s immune response — were low, “only 500” said the nurse. So, self had to wear a mask all day.

Now, back at Ruppin Street. This narrow thoroughfare is like a stage: all manner of people come and go. Self likes sitting on the balcony, where she can enjoy the breeze while listening to Astrud Gilberto on her brother’s ipod. Motorcycles spurt up and down the street, doors slam, car engines sputter and turn over. And always, there are voices.

Nephew’s back from a trip to Haifa with self’s brother. All excitement: he wants to share his views of Haifa, the bomb shelters and the beautiful palace with the pink trees. Then, he shows me his newest invention: nutella with yoghurt, something he dubs a “nutgurt.” Self has to admit, it looks dee-lish.

Tomorrow self wants to go to Old Jaffa. Nephew told her it was only a 25-minute cab ride. But how much is a 25-minute cab ride? 100 shekel? Self has to husband her finances sooo carefully, especially as hubby’s tales from his office grow increasingly bleak and the economic forecasts in The Jerusalem Post spout doom.

Ah, but let’s deal with that when self returns, in another week. In the meantime, this is an excerpt from a series of poems by Shlonsky — a member of what Barbara Mann calls the first generation of Hebrew modernists in Palestine — from the series called “In Tel Aviv”:

Street lamps before evening falls
Ah– who lit you, yellowed eyes?
For what did you bring, empty auto, untimely,
a strange gust to the wine house?

Hackerbrau pictures on the walls,
overturned glasses on the bar.
And in a neglected nook a clock drowses,
and a Jew asleep at the counter.

I, a Jew, came for no reason,
I, a Jew, returning home,
an empty car shifts another moment,
and silence returns to what it was.

And a snoring shofar roars,
A scratch in the skin of silence.
And only streetlights still throw
Yellow rings to the earth.

Kanlaon

Tag: poetry

Ode to Summer II & A Poem by Jim Morrison

A Poem for Burma (with an Update)

Poetry, Poetry: A Reading in Boston, A Book Launch in New York

The Street: Excerpts From Shlonsky’s “In Tel Aviv”

Probably a Silly List, But Anyhoo . . .

2007-2008 Stanford Jean and Bill Lane Lecture Series

Quote of the Day: From Louise Gluck’s AVERNO