Tuesday, March 31, 2009
What do you look for in a good poem? - Patricia Fargnoli
I like this summary:
"Depth, beauty, spirit, craft, sound, humanity. Sometimes fracturing and remaking of reality, so that I as a reader can see a thing newly. Some news to help me understand my own life and its meaning."
The full interview of Patricia Fargnoli by Robert Lee Brewer is here: http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/Interview+With+Poet+Patricia+Fargnoli.aspx
"Depth, beauty, spirit, craft, sound, humanity. Sometimes fracturing and remaking of reality, so that I as a reader can see a thing newly. Some news to help me understand my own life and its meaning."
The full interview of Patricia Fargnoli by Robert Lee Brewer is here: http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/Interview+With+Poet+Patricia+Fargnoli.aspx
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Death of Walt Whitman, March 26, 1892
From my friends of the cyberwalt list serv:
Today is the day Walt Whitman died.
Living in Camden, NJ at Mickle Street.
He is buried at Harleigh Cemetery in a granite "burial house" of his own construction.
**
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me,
he complains of my gab
and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yaws over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
-- Walt Whitman
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Book of Rhymes: The Poetics of Hip Hop
http://www.vibe.com/news/online_exclusives/2009/03/rhymes_with_reason/
An excerpt from Adam Bradley's, Book of Rhymes: The Poetics of Hip Hop
From the author: In my new book, Book of Rhymes: The Poetics of Hip Hop, I explore the ways that MCs have transformed the poetic tradition, extending the legacy of William Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes and Gwendolyn Brooks. I argue that over the last four decades rap has helped bring about a renaissance of the word, returning rhythm, rhyme and wordplay to our daily lives. What follows is an excerpt from the book in which I describe how I uncovered an important truth about rap’s poetry in an unexpected place: a nearly abandoned beach in Brazil.
**********************************************
Rhythm is rap’s reason for being. I realized this several years ago in an unlikely place, a beach in a small seaside town outside of Rio de Janeiro. Unable to speak Portuguese, I had been making do by resorting to the traveler’s Esperanto of smiles and hand gestures, but I hungered for familiar words. One afternoon as I walked along the beach, I contented myself by idly reciting rap verses that came to mind. I was in the midst of Inspectah Deck’s opening lines from the Wu-Tang Clan’s “Triumph” (“I bomb atomically, Socrates’ philosophies/ and hypotheses can’t define how I be dropping these/ mockeries. .20.”) when I heard the first words uttered by another person that I had clearly understood in days.
“Wu-Tang Clan!”
An excerpt from Adam Bradley's, Book of Rhymes: The Poetics of Hip Hop
From the author: In my new book, Book of Rhymes: The Poetics of Hip Hop, I explore the ways that MCs have transformed the poetic tradition, extending the legacy of William Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes and Gwendolyn Brooks. I argue that over the last four decades rap has helped bring about a renaissance of the word, returning rhythm, rhyme and wordplay to our daily lives. What follows is an excerpt from the book in which I describe how I uncovered an important truth about rap’s poetry in an unexpected place: a nearly abandoned beach in Brazil.
**********************************************
Rhythm is rap’s reason for being. I realized this several years ago in an unlikely place, a beach in a small seaside town outside of Rio de Janeiro. Unable to speak Portuguese, I had been making do by resorting to the traveler’s Esperanto of smiles and hand gestures, but I hungered for familiar words. One afternoon as I walked along the beach, I contented myself by idly reciting rap verses that came to mind. I was in the midst of Inspectah Deck’s opening lines from the Wu-Tang Clan’s “Triumph” (“I bomb atomically, Socrates’ philosophies/ and hypotheses can’t define how I be dropping these/ mockeries. .20.”) when I heard the first words uttered by another person that I had clearly understood in days.
“Wu-Tang Clan!”
Monday, March 16, 2009
My father’s life gives me a clue about how we got here
I am pleased to post below an essay my friend Jennifer Freeman wrote on the eve of Barack Obama's election. In it, she uses her father's life -- and her speculations about how he might have voted in the election if he were still alive -- as a lens on the changes so many Americans have gone through in the past 50 years. I find it a very hopeful reflection.
**
I wish my father were alive to see Barack Obama’s candidacy. I would love to know how he felt about it. I’m pretty sure my father, the proud veteran of WWII, would be voting for Obama. That’s a surprise given who my father was; not surprising given who he became throughout his 84 years. I find it remarkable, and thrilling, that we are poised to elect an African-American president. My father’s life gives me a clue about how we got here. His evolution must mirror an evolution that has been taking place around the country for decades, in individuals and across generations, leading us to who and where we are today.
My father was always uncomfortable, at the very least, with people of other races and cultures. I was born 18 years after my father’s discharge from the Air Force where he was stationed in Italy and Egypt. My memories date no earlier than 1968 or so, but though 24 years had passed since his time in the war, I remember that Italians were still Wops to my dad, Egyptians were still A-Rabs. And yet his war stories reflected a subtle change in those 40’s era attitudes. He told a story of how none of the men in the unit at the base of Mt. Vesuvius believed the Italian geologists when they warned that it would erupt. My dad said they lost bombers and tanks that could have been saved if they’d heeded the warnings. I don’t even know if that story is true (Mt. Vesuvius did erupt in 1944, lava did pour over bombers, but I don’t know if it’s because the Italian warnings were ignored) but my father told the story with a note of disdain, or at least something a little smug, toward those who he said had refused to believe that “Wops” had any useful advice.
My Italian-American sister-in-law, whom my father adored, put to rest his waning anti-Italian bias. When he launched into yet another war story and my mother, two brothers and I rolled our eyes and cried for relief, Hank (nicknamed after her grandfather) was rapt and filled with questions. But when he referenced the I-talians (long-I), she’d always correct him “(short-I) talians, Frank, Italians.” He’d laugh and correct himself. She never let him get away with the mispronunciation or any slip back to Wop. She helped him overcome his anti-Catholic bias too, which had already taken quite a hit during the Kennedy era but was still there nonetheless.
During my childhood my father was uncomfortable with African-Americans too, and while I can’t recall anything specifically racist it seemed pretty clear that he was. Maybe it was the way he laughed with Archie Bunker instead of at him like the rest of us. Archie was beleaguered by a more liberal family, a changing neighborhood and changing times, just like my father. I recall how we berated him when he referred to Negros or colored people, until finally he corrected himself and learned to say “black.” He would often express his appreciation for black athletes or actors with an inadvertent tone of surprise or a qualifier -- “he’s good, for a colored guy.” We were merciless at those times, angrily demanding to know what he meant. He’d get flustered and say he didn’t really know, that he didn’t really mean anything. I guess we were part of changing him, but it seemed that the changes in his commentary were designed to avoid our abuse, not a reflection of any real change. I remember asking him how he’d react if I married someone black. We all baited my father like that, taunting him a bit, sneering at his prejudices. I felt bad for him in a way, saw how much he was a lonely island in his own home, yet felt righteous in my message and my style of delivery, however insensitive and ineffective, as only the youth can be righteous.
The Vietnam War also divided us. I remember vividly an argument between my mother and father when my mother declared that she’d encourage my brother to flee to Canada if the war was still going on when he became draft age. My father was furious and deeply wounded. His own sacrifice, his sense of honor and pride instilled during WWII could not reckon with my mother’s questions and the resentment she must have felt toward her country in 1970. Jeff was only 12 years old. It was an unnecessary argument, wound up in a hypothetical war 6 years in the future. But at that point it looked like Vietnam could go on that long, and in my mother’s eyes, there was no good reason why it should.
Another time I recall a discussion about busing, when Minneapolis like many cities was working to undo school segregation. We lived in a quiet, white suburb, watching it all from a safe distance. My mother said that that didn’t seem right, that they should include the suburbs in a busing plan. I don’t recall my father’s reaction, but I’m sure he was not gung-ho about busing his children over the line into North Minneapolis. Maybe he’d learned by then to keep his reactions to himself.
Over the years there were little signs that my father was changing with his family and the world around him, and that the changes were truly about him, not just a means to avoid our barrage of assaults. The first significant evidence was his shift from the Republican to Democratic party. He claimed it was Richard Nixon who did that. He felt deeply betrayed by Watergate. He said it helped him see that the Republican party was becoming a party interested only in helping the well-to-do. The Republicans my father was drawn to were frugal, small “c” conservatives who appealed to values rooted in his upbringing on Minnesota and Iowa farms. After Watergate, he began to appreciate the Democrats focus on “the little guy” like him. Throughout the rest of his life he became a loyal and tireless volunteer on many a democratic campaign.
By early 2000 it seemed that my father had changed quite a bit when it came to issues of race. I was suddenly struck by this when he and my mother moved into an assisted living facility. They introduced me to the aides who came to help clean up their apartment, take their medication and get ready for the day. Nearly all of these men and women were Haitian or African-American. I remember coming by for a visit and finding my father and one of his Haitian aides sharing pictures and stories of their grandchildren. He would have found this impossible 20 years before.
After my mother passed away my father became increasingly frail and began to need the help of his aides more and more. They were there all the many times he fell or the EMTs needed to be
called. During those days the suspicious, mistrustful manner of his younger days was nearly gone, given way to a man much more frail, a little nervous, but grateful for the kindness of these strangers who were his daily support.
The father I recall from 1968 – 1975 or so would have most certainly voted for John McCain, Watergate notwithstanding. He simply could not comfortably vote for a black man, even if he was a Democrat, even if my father had turned away from the Republican party to be in the party that stood up for the little guy. But the father with tender admiration and appreciation for his hard-working health aides, I’m certain he would be voting for Obama. It brings tears to my eyes to think that, and wish that he were here to see this day. I’m sure he’d be proud of his country right now.
by Jennifer Freeman
**
I wish my father were alive to see Barack Obama’s candidacy. I would love to know how he felt about it. I’m pretty sure my father, the proud veteran of WWII, would be voting for Obama. That’s a surprise given who my father was; not surprising given who he became throughout his 84 years. I find it remarkable, and thrilling, that we are poised to elect an African-American president. My father’s life gives me a clue about how we got here. His evolution must mirror an evolution that has been taking place around the country for decades, in individuals and across generations, leading us to who and where we are today.
My father was always uncomfortable, at the very least, with people of other races and cultures. I was born 18 years after my father’s discharge from the Air Force where he was stationed in Italy and Egypt. My memories date no earlier than 1968 or so, but though 24 years had passed since his time in the war, I remember that Italians were still Wops to my dad, Egyptians were still A-Rabs. And yet his war stories reflected a subtle change in those 40’s era attitudes. He told a story of how none of the men in the unit at the base of Mt. Vesuvius believed the Italian geologists when they warned that it would erupt. My dad said they lost bombers and tanks that could have been saved if they’d heeded the warnings. I don’t even know if that story is true (Mt. Vesuvius did erupt in 1944, lava did pour over bombers, but I don’t know if it’s because the Italian warnings were ignored) but my father told the story with a note of disdain, or at least something a little smug, toward those who he said had refused to believe that “Wops” had any useful advice.
My Italian-American sister-in-law, whom my father adored, put to rest his waning anti-Italian bias. When he launched into yet another war story and my mother, two brothers and I rolled our eyes and cried for relief, Hank (nicknamed after her grandfather) was rapt and filled with questions. But when he referenced the I-talians (long-I), she’d always correct him “(short-I) talians, Frank, Italians.” He’d laugh and correct himself. She never let him get away with the mispronunciation or any slip back to Wop. She helped him overcome his anti-Catholic bias too, which had already taken quite a hit during the Kennedy era but was still there nonetheless.
During my childhood my father was uncomfortable with African-Americans too, and while I can’t recall anything specifically racist it seemed pretty clear that he was. Maybe it was the way he laughed with Archie Bunker instead of at him like the rest of us. Archie was beleaguered by a more liberal family, a changing neighborhood and changing times, just like my father. I recall how we berated him when he referred to Negros or colored people, until finally he corrected himself and learned to say “black.” He would often express his appreciation for black athletes or actors with an inadvertent tone of surprise or a qualifier -- “he’s good, for a colored guy.” We were merciless at those times, angrily demanding to know what he meant. He’d get flustered and say he didn’t really know, that he didn’t really mean anything. I guess we were part of changing him, but it seemed that the changes in his commentary were designed to avoid our abuse, not a reflection of any real change. I remember asking him how he’d react if I married someone black. We all baited my father like that, taunting him a bit, sneering at his prejudices. I felt bad for him in a way, saw how much he was a lonely island in his own home, yet felt righteous in my message and my style of delivery, however insensitive and ineffective, as only the youth can be righteous.
The Vietnam War also divided us. I remember vividly an argument between my mother and father when my mother declared that she’d encourage my brother to flee to Canada if the war was still going on when he became draft age. My father was furious and deeply wounded. His own sacrifice, his sense of honor and pride instilled during WWII could not reckon with my mother’s questions and the resentment she must have felt toward her country in 1970. Jeff was only 12 years old. It was an unnecessary argument, wound up in a hypothetical war 6 years in the future. But at that point it looked like Vietnam could go on that long, and in my mother’s eyes, there was no good reason why it should.
Another time I recall a discussion about busing, when Minneapolis like many cities was working to undo school segregation. We lived in a quiet, white suburb, watching it all from a safe distance. My mother said that that didn’t seem right, that they should include the suburbs in a busing plan. I don’t recall my father’s reaction, but I’m sure he was not gung-ho about busing his children over the line into North Minneapolis. Maybe he’d learned by then to keep his reactions to himself.
Over the years there were little signs that my father was changing with his family and the world around him, and that the changes were truly about him, not just a means to avoid our barrage of assaults. The first significant evidence was his shift from the Republican to Democratic party. He claimed it was Richard Nixon who did that. He felt deeply betrayed by Watergate. He said it helped him see that the Republican party was becoming a party interested only in helping the well-to-do. The Republicans my father was drawn to were frugal, small “c” conservatives who appealed to values rooted in his upbringing on Minnesota and Iowa farms. After Watergate, he began to appreciate the Democrats focus on “the little guy” like him. Throughout the rest of his life he became a loyal and tireless volunteer on many a democratic campaign.
By early 2000 it seemed that my father had changed quite a bit when it came to issues of race. I was suddenly struck by this when he and my mother moved into an assisted living facility. They introduced me to the aides who came to help clean up their apartment, take their medication and get ready for the day. Nearly all of these men and women were Haitian or African-American. I remember coming by for a visit and finding my father and one of his Haitian aides sharing pictures and stories of their grandchildren. He would have found this impossible 20 years before.
After my mother passed away my father became increasingly frail and began to need the help of his aides more and more. They were there all the many times he fell or the EMTs needed to be
called. During those days the suspicious, mistrustful manner of his younger days was nearly gone, given way to a man much more frail, a little nervous, but grateful for the kindness of these strangers who were his daily support.
The father I recall from 1968 – 1975 or so would have most certainly voted for John McCain, Watergate notwithstanding. He simply could not comfortably vote for a black man, even if he was a Democrat, even if my father had turned away from the Republican party to be in the party that stood up for the little guy. But the father with tender admiration and appreciation for his hard-working health aides, I’m certain he would be voting for Obama. It brings tears to my eyes to think that, and wish that he were here to see this day. I’m sure he’d be proud of his country right now.
by Jennifer Freeman
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Split This Rock Poetry Contest Deadline Extended
Contest Deadline Extended! New Deadline for 2009 Split This Rock Poetry Contest: March 23
$1,000 awarded for poems of provocation & witness
Patricia Smith, Judge
NEW Postmark Deadline: March 23, 2009
We've extended the deadline for the 2nd annual Split This Rock poetry contest, to be judged by poet and National Book Award finalist Patricia Smith.
So, if you missed the deadline, don't panic - just send those poems! And please help us spread the word by forwarding this notice widely and posting it on your blogs. Thanks!
First place receives $500; 2nd and 3rd place, $250 each.
Winning poems will be published on SplitThisRock.org, and the 1st-place winner will be invited to read winning poem at Split This Rock Poetry Festival, 2010.
$25 entry fee. Proceeds support the next festival (March 10-13, 2010).
So, if you missed the deadline, don't panic - just send those poems! And please help us spread the word by forwarding this notice widely and posting it on your blogs. Thanks!
First place receives $500; 2nd and 3rd place, $250 each.
Winning poems will be published on SplitThisRock.org, and the 1st-place winner will be invited to read winning poem at Split This Rock Poetry Festival, 2010.
$25 entry fee. Proceeds support the next festival (March 10-13, 2010).
Find full details and guidelines online at: http://splitthisrock.org/contests.html
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Sloganize: The new time waster
On one of those dopey post-lunch internet meanderings, I stumbled just now on Sloganize, which claims to transform your run-of-the-mill words into a... slogan! Here are my attempts:
At the intersection of poetry and social change: "At the intersection of poetry and social change, your family will love you!"
Poems of provocation and witness: "See the world with poems of provocation and witness."
Then it told me it worked best with two-word combos, so I tried:
Poetry activism, and got: "My poetry activism, your poetry activism, poetry activism for all!"
And the worst, with "poetry change," I got: "Poetry change, innovate your world!" Maybe that should be our new slogan at Split This Rock... (Somehow I think not.)
So, see what you think - try out a two-word combo and post any interesting results in the Comments. Goofy!
At the intersection of poetry and social change: "At the intersection of poetry and social change, your family will love you!"
Poems of provocation and witness: "See the world with poems of provocation and witness."
Then it told me it worked best with two-word combos, so I tried:
Poetry activism, and got: "My poetry activism, your poetry activism, poetry activism for all!"
And the worst, with "poetry change," I got: "Poetry change, innovate your world!" Maybe that should be our new slogan at Split This Rock... (Somehow I think not.)
So, see what you think - try out a two-word combo and post any interesting results in the Comments. Goofy!
Monday, March 09, 2009
This Side of Early - 2nd book of poems by Naomi Ayala
I am very pleased to post this announcement by Curbstone Press of the publication of Naomi Ayala's second collection of poems. I've not seen the book yet, as it's hard to get stuff here in Italy, but I am looking forward to it - a long-awaited moment.
**
"In This Side of Early, Naomi Ayala exhibits astonishing range, proving that great poetry is worth waiting for. Like Whitman, Ayala contains multitudes; she is a poet with an ethereal vision of another world."--Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
Naomi Ayala's poems explore wide-ranging themes in an ever-changing landscape--from the city streets to the introspective solace of the woods. These lyrics deconstruct the political world of man, offer hope through a compelling, lyrical spiritual intimacy, and bridge the gap between the two with words full of ecological intensity.
"Naomi Ayala's strong, supple poems pull a reader right inside. Haunting secrets scuttle along beneath the rafters of every day--she hears them in the mystery of animals and culture and time, connection and disconnection, and sings their resonant song."--Naomi Shihab Nye
This Side of Early
http://www.curbstone.org/bookdetail.cfm?BookID=207
This Side of Early by Naomi Ayala Original Paperback Curbstone ISBN: 978-1-931896-46-7 68 pages $13.95
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Patrick Leahy proposes Truth & Reconciliation Commission for Bush - Sign a Petition in Support
From Democrats.com (not an official Dem org):
Dear Friend,
We have just emerged from a time when White House officials often acted as if they were above the law. That was wrong and must be fully exposed so it never happens again.
That is why Senator Patrick Leahy has proposed the idea of a truth and reconciliation commission to investigate abuses during the Bush-Cheney Administration. These abuses may include the use of torture, warrantless wiretapping, extraordinary rendition, and executive override of laws.
Rather than vengeance, we need a fair-minded pursuit of what actually happened. The best way to move forward is getting to the truth, finding out what happened, so we can make sure it does not happen again.
Please join me by signing Senator Leahy's online petition at http://www.BushTruthCommission.com -- urging Congress to consider establishing a truth and reconciliation commission to investigate the Bush-Cheney Administration's abuses.
Dear Friend,
We have just emerged from a time when White House officials often acted as if they were above the law. That was wrong and must be fully exposed so it never happens again.
That is why Senator Patrick Leahy has proposed the idea of a truth and reconciliation commission to investigate abuses during the Bush-Cheney Administration. These abuses may include the use of torture, warrantless wiretapping, extraordinary rendition, and executive override of laws.
Rather than vengeance, we need a fair-minded pursuit of what actually happened. The best way to move forward is getting to the truth, finding out what happened, so we can make sure it does not happen again.
Please join me by signing Senator Leahy's online petition at http://www.BushTruthCommission.com -- urging Congress to consider establishing a truth and reconciliation commission to investigate the Bush-Cheney Administration's abuses.
