31 March 2010
30 March 2010
Letter to Kathy from Wisdom
My dearest Kathy: When I heard your tears and those of your
mother over the phone from Moore, from the farm
I’ve never seen and see again and again under the most
uncaring of skies, I thought of this town I’m writing from,
where we came lovers years ago to fish. How odd
we seemed to them there, a lovely young girl and a fat
middle 40’s man they mistook for father and daughter
before the sucker lights in their eyes flashed on. That was
when we kissed their petty scorn to dust. Now, I eat alone
in the cafe we ate in then, thinking of your demons, the sad
days you’ve seen, the hospitals, doctors, the agonizing
breakdowns that left you ashamed. All my other letter
poems I’ve sent to poets. But you, you were a poet then,
curving lines I love against my groin. Oh, my tenderest
raccoon, odd animal from nowhere scratching for a home,
please believe I want to plant whatever poem will grow
inside you like a decent life. And when the wheat you’ve known
forever sours in the wrong wind and you smell it
dying in those acres where you played, please know
old towns we loved in matter, lovers matter, playmates, toys,
and we take from our lives those days when everything moved,
tree, cloud, water, sun, blue between two clouds, and moon,
days that danced, vibrating days, chance poem. I want one
who’s wondrous and kind to you. I want him sensitive
to wheat and how wheat bends in cloud shade without wind.
Kathy, this is the worst time of day, nearing five, gloom
ubiquitous as harm, work shifts changing. And our lives
are on the line. Until we die our lives are on the mend.
I’ll drive home when I finish this, over the pass that’s closed
to all but a few, that to us was always open, good days
years ago when our bodies were in motion and the road rolled out
below us like our days. Call me again when the tears build
big inside you, because you were my lover and you matter,
because I send this letter with my hope, my warm love. Dick.
- Richard Hugo, Making sure it goes on: the collected poems, W.W. Norton, New York 1986.
mother over the phone from Moore, from the farm
I’ve never seen and see again and again under the most
uncaring of skies, I thought of this town I’m writing from,
where we came lovers years ago to fish. How odd
we seemed to them there, a lovely young girl and a fat
middle 40’s man they mistook for father and daughter
before the sucker lights in their eyes flashed on. That was
when we kissed their petty scorn to dust. Now, I eat alone
in the cafe we ate in then, thinking of your demons, the sad
days you’ve seen, the hospitals, doctors, the agonizing
breakdowns that left you ashamed. All my other letter
poems I’ve sent to poets. But you, you were a poet then,
curving lines I love against my groin. Oh, my tenderest
raccoon, odd animal from nowhere scratching for a home,
please believe I want to plant whatever poem will grow
inside you like a decent life. And when the wheat you’ve known
forever sours in the wrong wind and you smell it
dying in those acres where you played, please know
old towns we loved in matter, lovers matter, playmates, toys,
and we take from our lives those days when everything moved,
tree, cloud, water, sun, blue between two clouds, and moon,
days that danced, vibrating days, chance poem. I want one
who’s wondrous and kind to you. I want him sensitive
to wheat and how wheat bends in cloud shade without wind.
Kathy, this is the worst time of day, nearing five, gloom
ubiquitous as harm, work shifts changing. And our lives
are on the line. Until we die our lives are on the mend.
I’ll drive home when I finish this, over the pass that’s closed
to all but a few, that to us was always open, good days
years ago when our bodies were in motion and the road rolled out
below us like our days. Call me again when the tears build
big inside you, because you were my lover and you matter,
because I send this letter with my hope, my warm love. Dick.
- Richard Hugo, Making sure it goes on: the collected poems, W.W. Norton, New York 1986.
29 March 2010
this is me being political
maybe it's because i'm just a recent immigrant here
but i do not understand why Americans are not in favor
of the Scandinavian (or even Canadian) way
of taking care of its people.
what's wrong with universal healthcare?
why can't we have public funding for the arts?
good night sunday
the music sounded great live. max and mirza ripped it up on stage.
You're so gracious
You tip over
You collide with all your pasts
You tip over
You collide
You tip over
You collide with all your pasts
You tip over
You collide
28 March 2010
"Two Perspectives of the Piano"
each played an hour set with magik*magik string quartet.
photo by accord and discord
i truly felt lucky to have witnessed such beauty.
dustin o'halloran's music is deeply touching--the perfect soundtrack for the coming of spring.
and hauschka's musings on the prepared piano are nothing short of genius.
i wish i have an older brother
The Boy
My older brother is walking down the sidewalk into the suburban summer night:
white T-shirt, blue jeans-to the field at the end of the street
Hangers Hideout the boys called it, an undeveloped plot, a pit overgrown
with weeds, some old furniture thrown down there,
and some metal hangers clinking in the trees like wind chimes.
He’s running away from home because our father wants to cut his hair.
And in two more days our father will convince me to go to him – you know
where he is – and talk to him: No reprisals. He promised. A small parade of kids
in feet pajamas will accompany me, their voices like the first peepers in spring.
And my brother will walk ahead of us home, and my father
will shave his head bald, and my brother will not speak to anyone the next
month, not a word, not pass the milk, nothing.
What happened in our house taught my brothers how to leave, how to walk
down a sidewalk without looking back.
I was the girl. What happened taught me to follow him, whoever he was,
calling and calling his name.
- Marie Howe
My older brother is walking down the sidewalk into the suburban summer night:
white T-shirt, blue jeans-to the field at the end of the street
Hangers Hideout the boys called it, an undeveloped plot, a pit overgrown
with weeds, some old furniture thrown down there,
and some metal hangers clinking in the trees like wind chimes.
He’s running away from home because our father wants to cut his hair.
And in two more days our father will convince me to go to him – you know
where he is – and talk to him: No reprisals. He promised. A small parade of kids
in feet pajamas will accompany me, their voices like the first peepers in spring.
And my brother will walk ahead of us home, and my father
will shave his head bald, and my brother will not speak to anyone the next
month, not a word, not pass the milk, nothing.
What happened in our house taught my brothers how to leave, how to walk
down a sidewalk without looking back.
I was the girl. What happened taught me to follow him, whoever he was,
calling and calling his name.
- Marie Howe
27 March 2010
red apples
a year ago i got this tattoo. it was my first.
i love looking at it especially when it was swollen.
it was really beautiful.
now, i'm thinking of getting another one:
a lighthouse or flock of birds?
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