When it rolls right on out

Tonight, my good intentions of homework were thwarted by a line that’s been stuck in my head ever since it planted itself firmly into the sodden turf at work yesterday. it was not moving and told me placidly that it was here to stay until i reckoned with what it had to tell me.

After reading a short email from my cousine, I let it speak into the silence of my self-produced cocoon. And it kept speaking in increasing octaves until the beginnings of a poem had filled the white void of before. I love these moments when I can be still or as my friend Myrna said “just be”, erasing white noise smearing on white walls, letting the color infiltrate the canvas of night.

Hallelujah for them.

Things I love this Week

1. Running into an acquaintance on the street
2. Carolyn Forche’s “The Colonel”
3. Listening to “Best Around” on youtube and being reminded that it’s from “The Karate Kid”!
4. Catching up with Dr. Jayne at supper last night
5. Reading on the porch during a balmy evening
6. Hearts of palm in salad
7. The color wisteria
8. CSI: Las Vegas
9. Making a co-worker’s day better
10. Discovering the “Heart” Pandora radio station

Stranded in New York, I thank God

for the thunderheads rumbling into position like burly warriors
their spears bolting from fists like brilliant cracks of light

for the sparrow marooned on the slender branch of a ficus furtively
glancing down as we all are held from the elements by a sheath of glass

for the barefoot woman mumbling chicago flights would miss connections,
tassled black shoes in security-issued grey tubs, mine emptying, me exiting

for the tentative voice of a queens-dwelling friend extending a bed, glass
of water and refreshing chatter on things poetic well into the night

i thank God because what could be vinyl chairs with cold metallic rims instead
has become another night in new york, a chance opportunity with a friend.

New York: small moments at the speed of the subway

Being back in New York feels increasingly familiar. The other day I was thinking about this vegan restaurant I like to visit in Chelsea and was wondering if I had gone three times this year, would the waiter know I’m not from here? Anonymity’s freedom is like an elixir of which you sometimes want a long swallow. Then there’s the unexpected city that brings together old friends and new ones.

Such is the New York to which I have returned. Last night, I met up with a friend and we ventured over to the West Village on the A train. He suggested an Indian restaurant called Surya, which sounded great. My cocktail included sweet and sour, strawberry vodka, and mint culminating in a tart and slightly sweet concoction that paired well with our spiced dinner. We ordered vegetable samosas which paved the way for an okra dish slathered in coriander and smashed tomatos. The lemon rice hit all the right notes on my palate. We caught up over a shared jetlag and papadums, then hit the streets walking in the balmy weather. My favorite discovery during the jaunt involved a chess cafe. Multiple tables occupied, each was set up with black and white plastic pieces waiting to be moved. Cost, $1.50 per hour to play; $3.00 to watch and then $10.00 to complain… We continued walking until we ambled up to an independent movie theater where we paid to see a funny film that ended up being an intense narrative on a boy who becomes a skinhead. But a great evening it was, catching up with a friend and strolling the streets like they might be my own.

Tonight, I visited a church on the East side of town. God has a funny sense of humor and sometimes we become privvy to it. This church plant meets in a hotel’s ballroom and reminds me of what SF’s City Church must have been like when it first came into existence. Amidst hymns set to revised chords and a reformed platform, I settled in. The pastor talked about pleasing God and pleasing men, reminding us that we cannot please everyone. He asked us what our lives would look like if we didn’t need the approval of others? For the first time in I don’t know how long, I listened to the sermon and it actually spoke back to me. Like dredging up things I could easily burrow in San Francisco during silent prayer in New York. Afterwards, I met up with a friend’s brother who plays bass at the church. He’s leading a team to work in an orphanage in India. We sat along with his co-leader by the fountain on Park Ave. and 53rd, talking about India pointers and cultural sensitivities to consider on their trip. Talking about India and hearing their enthusiasm for the upcoming trip made my whole body smile. Just like walking down the street with a bag full of groceries, headed to a hotel room that feels more like a mini loft apartment. Hello, New York, I have missed you.

Jumping back into the fray

If you find me slow to respond over the next oh six months, I have posted exhibit A below as evidence for my whereabouts. One book is still missing from the flock and while in New York I will attempt to hunt down Yona Wallach’s shepherd press contribution. This semester finds me exploring poetry: of the lyrical narrative persuasion, of ecstasy, of witness and of the leaping variety. Should be fun and the midnight oil tins have been readied.fall-2007-reads.jpg

Spoiled by Mr. Darcy (spoiler alert)

Ladies, ladies. Do you remember the smoldering look he gave Lizzie from across the room? Even atop the piano’s grate, we swooned watching his eyes betray his heart from the cold, proud edifice of his carriage. What the cleverly wrapped up ending does not let onto is that Mr. Darcy did not end up with Lizzie but instead with a woman of convenience.

I must be a glutton for punishment because I saw not one, but two movies in two days about unrequited love. This was quite unintentional I suppose since the primary force driving me to see them lay in:
– my love of historical fiction
– fantastic fashion and decor

“Becoming Jane” begins quite like “Pride + Prejudice”. Then with the omniscience of future-dwellers, we know her life will take a sharp turn. Jane Austen, as depicted in the movie has a capacity for writing and is a woman ahead of her time in an era when women depended on men for their survival. She chooses the high road of selflessness and the risky one of trying to eke out a living by her pen. Jane visits renowned author Mme. Radcliffe and remarks that though her novels are full of vivid detail, her life appears austere. Radcliffe comments and foreshadows that she writes out of what she does not have. Jane ends up taking these words literally. As they become her bread and wine, she writes out of what she knew and yet does not have currently, happy endings to stories of duress marking the way. She becomes this prolific author. Yet once aged as the Jane Austen, she sights her beloved, provoking a crack of betrayal in her carefully crafted composure. They observe each other and that is that. A list of her achievements don the screen and we learn he named his eldest daughter for her. The credits roll and it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

“Moliere” accidentally falls for his insipid patron’s wife. He has been hired to teach his patron Msr. Jourdain how to act. Regretfully Jourdain is without talent and sense. His neglect of his wife and the caressing words Moliere has penned turn her heart toward his. But theirs is a love that is not meant to last. We know this, even as he pleads with her to leave Jourdain and join him and his troupe. It won’t happen. As he desires to involve himself in serious theatre, his aim is to write and play in tragedies. Instead he carves out a name for himself in history through the humorous plays he brings to his willing audiences. And whose advice fueled this direction, none but the now dying Mme. Jourdain. On her deathbed, he laments their final happy moments before parting. She is still goading him to invent a way to marry the tragic with the comic before the curtain closes over her eyes one final time. His eyes, we see looking behind the screen background, words mouthed over the actors reciting them to an audience. But those eyes are haunted, clouded with grief and tears. A rich legacy of drama his to bequeathe.

And so this leaves me with me. Wondering if great writers really do offer themselves up to their art, a sacrifice for the greater good. Wondering what modern day Darcy’s look like and how they are best recognized amidst all the cads roaming the streets like feral cats. I ask these questions and leave them, wandering back to the pen that waits uncapped, ready like a sentinel to the patrol the paper street upon which its lines will cut.

On mystery and writing

My mentor made a comment to me over lunch during the residency, nicely sandwiched in between bites of strawberries doused by whipping cream. She has this way about her that penetrates and asks the questions around which others might lollygag. But not her. Its importance is not attached to being said between bites. I sat back, mouth open and really let the words come in. Let her speak into me and know the task at hand is not insurmountable, but might take the rest of my life.

Tonight, as I was meditating, I read the words of Jesus who taught in parables, spoke in riddles. He knows His audience and through his explanation of why he uses riddles, he asserts that they will get them. Kind of like gnosis that’s open to anyone who wants to understand. They can have ears to hear.

My poetry leaves a lot unsaid and I like the inherent mystery of it. Life is brimming to the rim with mystery and so it goes that I think if someone really wants to understand a poem, they will sit with it, spending the time delving into its depths. That to me is where its power resides- in the depths.

A friend living in East Asia is helping start an Italian restaurant and commissioned a poem for its wall. I took inspiration from the sunniness of Italy, the importance of family and good food. Olga will be translating it into Italian and then we will email it back to them. They will be painting my poem on a restaurant wall in East Asia, which will be kind of fun for all involved. I am picturing people trying to read the foreign words in their equally foreign-to-my-ears tongue. Bowls of spaghetti being passed underneath my words, like a painted benediction peppering their meals.

Life’s nuances give it tang and pucker. The mystery fills in with maltiness, body.