I grew up on A. A. Milne, Lewis Carroll, Dr. Seuss, and Edward Lear,
not to mention Mother Goose and the songs sung by singers like Burl
Ives and Pete Seeger. How could I not try my hand at verse myself, both
silly and serious? I found a little verse I wrote among some papers my
mother saved. I must have written it about the age of seven,
judging from the printing and the crayon decorations “illuminating” the
text:
I like to play, when
I can play
with anyone I choose
but I’m not happy
when friends say
“Oh, we mustn’t play
with Jews!”
Black or white or
red or tan,
everyone’s my
fellowman.
I like it when my
play is free
and I’m with whom I
want to be!
Yep, those great Pete Seeger songs had an impact! And I notice a
love of exclamation marks, which I still retain and really must learn
to curb!
Verse gave way to more authentic poetry when I was in college. I
remember writing a poem about a supernova I’d studied in Astronomy
class--and I was proud of it, though my grades in astronomy were less
than steller. (I did pass, however, thanks to the tutoring help of my
good friend, Sumner Starrfield, now a noted astonomer.)
In the early 1970’s, I first got into small press publishing ventures
funded by NEA grants and the cooperative, labor intensive participation
of other poets, including David
Gershator, Don Lev, Enid
Dame, and
Fritz Hamilton. My poetic contribution was a little chapbook on a
Caribbean theme, in some ways an answer to Anne Waldman on the same
theme.
In 1976 I also published a reference book, an extension of a project
begun as a graduate student in library science at Pratt Institute: A Bibliographic Guide to the Literature of
Contemporary American Poetry, 1970-1975 (Scarecrow Press). It
was an annotated overview of books on North American poetry--reference
sources, critical works, textbooks, and anthologies, published between
1970 and 1975. Compiling it, I was giving myself an education and
becoming something of a detective to boot. I wanted to keep searching
for books to include in my own book, but at one point the publisher
said,
“Bibliographies are never ending. You have to say DONE at some point.”
He was right, and we did get good reviews, thank goodness, even
though I must have
missed a few books.
I find myself writing poetry at high and low points in my life. I
sometimes write when I’m inspired or challenged by what other poets
have to say. And I often write poetry as an outlet when I feel angry
about things I read or see on the news--I haven’t lost that early
political impulse!
If I were to describe my work, I’d say it’s straightforward,
plainspoken, and reflects my interest in art, food, nature, and
politics.
I’ve published poetry in small magazines and anthologies, including Atenea, Home Planet News, The Caribbean
Writer, Paterson Literary Review, Jewish Currents, Spelunker Flophouse,
Scribia, Confrontation, Sea Magazine, The Newspaper, What’s a Nice Girl
Like You..., The Limits of Miracles, Yellow Cedars Blooming, and
Knowing Stones.
Here is a sampling:
In Paper Boat:
BROWN BREAD
The loaves are hard,
compact
I leave them in the
unlit oven to rise
pregnant bellies on
my mind
after the party last
night
and that milky Irish
girl
with curly red hair,
her belly taut
about to burst, four
weeks to go
The baby will be
black or brown or golden,
an Island baby.
The bread rises
softer as it expands
but her stomach’s
growing tighter, harder
and bobs as though
it’s breathing on her own.
One woman says,
“That’s my favorite
state”
A man says,
“I like to see woman
with fat belly
It make me feel good
you know.”
I can’t remember how
it felt
It seems like I was
always in a hurry,
and bread takes so
long to rise.
When I bake bread
there’s a reason
Maybe this time it
was the big belly
I touched last night
with both hands
and the thought of
the baby to come.
The loaves in the
oven
will be dark,
healthy bread,
a mix of flours,
and the smell when
they bake
an aphrodisiac.
In Collage IV:
BEES IN THE
JERUSALEM THORN
In the fragrant hour
after a morning rain
I stand under the
humming canopy
of green needles,
yellow flowers,
knowing it is an hour
that has everything
and nothing
to do with itself,
an hour that will
become transformed
into words on paper,
color on canvas,
sounds on tape,
transformed into
something else
with its own weight
and substance
in the way that
perfume and gold dust
become honey
In The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review,
the latest version of this Camille Pissarro poem:
NATIVE SON, FATHER
OF IMPRESSIONISM
Camiille Pissarro (b. 1830, Virgin Islands; d. 1903, France)
The light of the
islands
may not light your
canvas with a light
as close to the sun
as you can get,
a blinding light
sparkling on the sea,
bouncing off sand
and whitewashed
walls.
After all, you left
our tropic sun behind--
abandoned iridescent
hummingbirds
and frayed, breezy
palms
for city sparrow
songs,
for dark and stately
poplars.
Ah, Paris!
So far
from the oppressive
shadows of a
closed-in island
trapped by an
endless sea.
Ah, Paris!
Escape
from narrow Main
Street’s
thick warehouse
walls,
family store,
family.
But the light was
still with you--
a child of light.
In the San Fernando Poetry Journal:
PRE-ELECTION POLL
I’ve just read that
flaxseed
ground into meal
will alleviate
depression
Should I run out and
buy some
so I can get through
this season
when people call at
all hours
also depressed
Another four years,
they say
Another four years
of the same
war in Central
America
ozone and ocean down
the drain
Another four years
for the starving in
Africa
and malnourished at
home
Another four years
of white bread and
circuses
and idealists in
retreat
debating the latest
health food fads
flaxseed for one
The campesinos don’t
have beans
In the anthology 2000: Here’s to
Humanity, a poem from 1995, in six sections:
“China’s most prominent dissident....seemingly the only spokesman for
human rights and democracy in the country”--
The New York Times
I
“Building Shanghai Railway Station
into a Window of Socialist Civilization”
(sign in the "Soft Seat Waiting Room")
After admittance to a tea garden
with restricted entrance
and a public toilet
"For Visitors and Overseas Chinese Only,"
the park we stroll through now
belongs to the government
as distinct from the people
It is private and deserted
behind gates and guard posts,
reserved for guests of state
and gardeners
pruning trees from bamboo ladders
"No Dogs and Chinese Allowed"
the signs once said
before the Revolution
I haven't seen any dogs around
but there are still Chinese
looking through forbidden "windows"
It seems the Revolution
got off on the wrong foot
however unbound
II
“The people must be able to pursue real happiness,
to enjoy advantages at least equal to those
that are afforded to foreigners."
Wei Jingsheng,
sentenced to 15 years in prison in l979 for his
call for "The Fifth Modernization: Democracy."
Special privilege makes me uneasy
I'm always in the other fellow's shoes
or thongs or slippers
Equality for Some?
But I'm a guest here,
a foreigner,
I don't say much
I look through the window
and the bamboo fence
of special privilege
Besides, Wei Jingsheng said it
He said so much
about Socialism,
Equality
and Democracy,
it's unlikely that he has
a window in his cell at all
I hope he does and that
if he's still alive
he's allowed to exercise
once a week
like the demonstrators
who followed him to jail
ten years later
III
...he
has refused to reform himself,
and he does not regret his crimes."
Official report on Wei
Back home I learn
that Wei Jingsheng is alive
losing his teeth and hair
kept in solitary confinement
no window no exercise no family visits
I contemplate the letter I must write
flattering his jailors
asking for mercy
for one small fish in the sea
asking: why create a martyr
out of one small toothless fish?
Will they be impressed
or take offense
at the implied criticism
between the lines of a letter
from the U.S.A.
Finding the right line
is the hard part
as Wei Jingsheng knows
I'm afraid to argue for his life
when his life's at stake
IV
It’s front page news!
Was it my letter?
Was it the last straw
the camel that broke...?
No, I suspect more tactical considerations:
tariffs, trade, favored nation
China’s hopes to host the Olympics
in the year 2000
But Wei isn’t the last left
to loose his teeth in jail
And China isn’t chosen
for the games
V
Wei’s still speaking up
between still loose teeth
still on parole...
I saw him on TV
He’s free!
He won
those “heaven-given human rights”
as he calls them,
“the right to live and the right to strive”
I saw him on TV
Wei is alive!
VI
He has the right to visit a park
He’ll see the autumn leaves, the snow,
not in the garden reserved
“For Visitors and Overseas Chinese Only”
but the blossoms in spring are a start
even in a crowded public park
Let the flowers bloom
Is this a hopeful message?
Is there another?
My husband, being something of a haiku master, encouraged me to try my
hand at that form of poetry. When I was young, I loved the Peter Pauper
books, intimate little collections of haiku. Now I know that these
small poems are more complex than they seem at first glance, not simply
collections of seventeen syllables, which is something of a fallacy to
begin with if one is attempting to emulate the Japanese (see Willliam J. Higginson, the
foremost American scholar on the subject of haiku today).
Here are two of my published haiku:
in the morning
her pillow on his
side
of the bed
*
managing nature:
plucking grass from
the stones,
plucking stones from
the grass
*
And three more for the crickets:
drip-drop of water
in the bathroom...no
a cricket!
old fashioned
crickets
still using
Morse code
closing in
on the sound
the sound stops
These last couple of
years, thanks to the encouragement and collaboration of my songwriting
husband, I've tried my hand at song lyrics. We've come up with some
wonderful musical projects, the first being "This Is the
Day! Storysongs & Singalongs." "This Is the Day!" was produced
by our daughter, a singer and pianist, and her neighbor and friend,
Dave Hall, a composer, guitarist, and songwriter known for his own
original and unique work for both adults and children. For "This Is the
Day!" lyrics, click here.
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