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The Warsaw Chronicles 5

Aljosa Jurinic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Aljosa Jurinic’s Performance of Chopin’s Etude Op.25 #11 (Winter Storm)

The pianist seizes time with his fingers—

Thunder, lightning
a deluge of gibberish
on roller-coaster
pounding waves on pounding hearts.

Bounded in their seats with all the doors closed
the audience is trapped in the elegant hall.
Merciless hammers. Screaming strings.
Rapid bullets shoot out
from the hollow of the great black box
The ghosts of men rise up
bracing the assault with their chests
power – anger – rage
ring in their ears, boiling the blood.
Bark! Mad dogs, bark
because mad dogs recognize the call
when they hear one
and soon the hall is filled
with the most primitive agreement:

kill or be killed.

If Chopin was not consumptive
he too would have wrung the cravens by the neck
and walked off the stage with a flip of his hair.

*

Photo credit: Fryderyk Chopin Institute

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The Warsaw Chronicles 4

Chopin's house in front

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chopin’s birth place, Żelazowa Wola, was about an hour train ride west of Warsaw. Dominating this tiny village of 65 people (according to Wikipedia) is the historical museum with a visitor center. Chopin was six months old when the family moved from Żelazowa Wola to Warsaw. The house lay in ruins for many years and was rebuilt into a nobler house to commemorate the composer in the 1930’s. It was a chilly autumn day with sun and rain intermittent. There were many spiky shells and what appeared to be chestnuts on the ground. We were overjoyed! Gathered a whole bagful and took them back to cook. Alas the inside was bitter.

The Rebirth of Żelazowa Wola

Romance, laced with purpose
handles nature with white gloves
so that each utterance
whether a splatter of rain
a fiery bush among golden willows
or fallen leaves masking an autumn stream
is as delicate as the man—
his curled hair
his distinctive nose
his melancholic eyes
—is as sensitive as his fingers caressing the keyboard
as if it was a woman’s breast.

The house that was
burnt down ages ago.
It sheltered him as an infant
and bore the rawness of his cries.

The house that is,
a black and white elegant period structure
situates at the back of a reflective pond.
The immense garden, sloping hills,
his statues, now pensive with his hand on his heart,
now with a wing-like cape,
all bear semblance to the unattainable.
Piano music flows in the air, in a minor key.
Serenity, in this manifestation
seduces the pilgrims,
star gazers of the imagination,
they sleep walk
from one dream sequence to the next.

But for the lover who left his homeland
beauty was the clump of soil he held in his hand.

*

Photo by Millie Siu.

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The Warsaw Chronicles 3

Ksiegarnia Cafe Reading

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The taxi driver was friendly but a little scattered brain. He took me for a long ride to another part of town before realizing that he had misunderstood the address that I gave him. I arrived at the reading 40 minutes later to find a beautiful duet of violin and guitar playing. Without entering the performance space I asked the people at the counter if there is a poetry reading. The girl said no. I was greatly disappointed but decided to go into the space anyway and listen to the music. Then a man came forward and told me that there is indeed a reading but in Polish only. I said YES! That’s what I’ve come for.

The man in the middle (of the photo) read very well and the music that accompanied him enhanced his voice and was never intrusive. I found out at the end of the reading that he was actually an actor reading the poetry of the man on the far left. He had a rehearsal with the musicians the day before.

Poetry Reading at księgarnia Cafe

You ask me how I can listen
without understanding.
I ask you what ‘sex on the beach’ has to do
with a Polish cocktail?

Meaningful words.
Meaningless their meanings.

The poet at the mike mumble-jumbles
mumble-jumbles
“Catastrophe!” cries the taxi driver,
“You want Grochowska, but we’re on Grójecka.”

Meaningless words.
Meaningful their meanings.

It won’t matter as long as I get there,
to hear a different sound in a different place,
where meaning, although meaningless
is rich in its meaninglessness.

*

Photo from Ksiegarnia Cafe

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The Warsaw Chronicles 1

org_438_mn_17
Image from http://www.ztm.waw.pl/aktualnosci.php?i=438&c=100&l=2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Going to Warsaw, Poland and attending the final round of the Chopin International Piano Competition was an enriching experience. To begin from the beginning, my friend Millie Siu and I hopped illegally on the local bus. (We wanted to pay but didn’t know how to work the machine!) Without knowing exactly where our apartment was, we got off at Warsaw Central:

Home

Home is the big downtown
hurried rhythm
cold-shoulder shrugs.

Home is the big signs
flashing neons
malls and hotels.

To go away is to arrive at familiarity,
the comfort of international chains
global logos.

Indoor heating systems provide the warmth.
Glass revolving doors recycle tourists.
Warsaw Central
the heart is the place of exchange
mechanical valves opening, closing.

Home is where businesses get done.
Home is traffic jam.
Home is everyone talking in a foreign language.
Home is—

Give me a map, please.

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The Master

James-1992-600My father, James Ma, passed away on April 1, 2015. I gave him a poem  as a Father’s Day gift in 2005. The last stanza was added on the day after his passing. He was a piano maker in Hong Kong and a lover of classical music.

The Master

1.
In the morning he turned on the radio to the classical station.
He would listen with his coffee and toast.
At work his machines cut wood
and felt-tipped hammers
wound strings on metal frames.
Keys were repeatedly tapped
until the strings were tuned.
Among sweat and sawdust
he proudly checked his pianos
before they left the factory’s door.
On weeknights he practiced his cello.
On weekends he went to concerts.
He preferred the company of music
to the company of man.

2.
In the afternoon he held his spade,
slowly shuffled toward
the little red greenhouse
William built in the backyard.
A short winding path led to two tiny steps.
He climbed them carefully
left foot first, then lifted the right one
and brought them together,
pausing between attempts.
The night was warm.
He had kept the fans on for the orchids.
They needed cool air and ventilation.
Exotic greens
hung from the ceiling and on the walls.
They were gifts from friends
and orphans of deadbeat parents.
The quiet was pleasing
as he counted each bud
and pruned out dead leaves.

For flowers don’t speak.
They wouldn’t drown his ears
with sounds he no longer could distinguish.
He wouldn’t have to strain his mind
to read people’s lips
to put on a smile
to nod his head.
For flowers don’t sing.
Their delightful petals bloom
with silent praises to his good work.
For flowers don’t weep
upon hearing news of friends departed
but bestow hope and splendor
on life when it dims.
Sundown and fog
he preferred the company of flowers
to the company of man.

3.
In the evening he prepared dinner.
Grilled salmon in the oven.
Tender greens with toasted nuts,
cashews, pecans and sunflower seeds.
The radio played a cello tune.
A fresh cut orchid on the table.
For his daughter was coming home,
the wild flower with a head of dreams.
He saw her flaws and weaknesses
but understood the sacred art
of giving his heart and letting go,
forgiving age and pardoning change.
As he surveyed the simple feast,
he preferred the company of his creation
to the company of man.

4.
He lay still on a hospital bed.
His head fell on one side of his shoulder.
That insatiable hunger had finally ebbed
except for the faces that flashed before him
loving, smiling, lively, beautiful.
He laughed, reached out to grasp
and caught a thread as thin as air.
He could still make something
and he would keep on making
for no work is ever done
even when the work is done.
He mulled over this dubious place
where his body was confined.
The seconds on his watch kept ticking
his pulse quickening
running, running faster than time
leaving behind the sounds
and the cries the touch of gentle hands
leaving the disobliging machine
to the company of men.

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ClaraCuba

Che museum with green car

Cuba, rich with culture, vibrant in color and humming with rhythm. Old cars from the fifties are still dominating the roads, passed down from grandfathers to fathers to sons. The country is devoid of big business signage. Poetry is alive and well. At a reading in Camagüey, I was able to share my work and ideas with others. Che Guevara mausoleum in Santa Clara moved me to tears; and nights are for dancing to the music of salsa and son. Cohiba is sweet smelling and elegantly slim. My only problem is consuming too much rum, coffee, hot chocolate and ice cream…

Obama taking steps to normalize US relationship with Cuba and the release of the rest of the Cuban Five are exciting news. Please join me in celebrating this significant forward step in history. I will be reading ClaraCuba, a set of poems of reflections on the places that I have visited and the people who I came into contact with.

Monday December 22, 6:30pm
Pat’s Cafe.
2330 Taylor Street, SF, 94133
6:00pm poets sign in for open mike.
This is a new venue. The reading is hosted by Karen Melander-Magoon.

SF Weekly’s The Write Stuff

Evan Karp’s interview with me is now online. It’s a light piece but you can see Cuba was very much on my mind when we did the interview ten days ago. The interview includes an excerpt of ClaraCuba.

http://www.sfweekly.com/exhibitionist/2014/12/18/the-write-stuff-clara-hsu-on-spiking-curiosity-and-giving-light

*

Photo of Che Guevara Museum in Santa Clara by Rose Lazzaroni.

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The First to Escape

First-to-Escape-Front-Cover-gray4I am happy to announce the publication of my new book of poems, The First to Escape. It has been seven years since Mystique, my first book. However, changes in my writing occurred only when I began studying poetry with Jack Foley in 2011. Those of you who witness the change have found it “remarkable.” Those of you who think you know me (and my writing) might scratch your head when you read this one! The poems in The First to Escape actively explore new territories in language and expression. I invite you to partake the excitement with me.

Poet and musician Jake Berry made the following comment:

“The First to Escape is that rare volume of contemporary poetry that carries the weight of its ancient and modernist predecessors while remaining passionately engaged with its own time. Multicultural, multiethnic, yes, but intimate, not exotic, with openings into surprising and mysterious familiarity. “Brilliant darkness.” What Clara Hsu renders here is a deeply moving and masterfully articulated musical language – a poetry that draws us into a conversation beyond ourselves, beyond any closed idea of self. This is vital work by a fully realized poet.”

From Zhang Ziqing, Nanjing University, China:

As a Chinese, I’m certainly familiar with the lines taken from the classic Chinese poems, but I hadn’t expected her to mix them with her own lines, as in “Moving with Li Po.” It is a creative experiment.

The First to Escape is available on line at Amazon.com and at readings.

Book Readings:

Wednesday July 16 at 7pm

Sacred Grounds Cafe
Hayes Street (and Cole), San Francisco
I have invited Jack Foley, my mentor and co-publisher of Poetry Hotel Press to read with me. Reading begins at 7pm. Open mike before and after the feature.
Hosted by Dan Brady.

Sunday July 20, 5 to 7pm

Cafe Leila
1724 San Pablo Ave, Berkeley
The Music of the Word, La Palabra Musical is hosted by Avotcja. Featured readers are: Clara Hsu, Jack and Adelle Foley, and Michael Goldstein.

South Cal Debut:

San Francisco’s Wild History Groove & Reading
Friday August 15, 7:30 – 10pm
Beyond Baroque
681 Venice Blvd, Venice, CA
San Francisco’s Wild History Groove is the companion film to Mary Kerr’s Venice West & the LA Scene, screened earlier at Beyond Baroque. Refreshments at 7:30; program  at 8. Poets Jack & Adelle Foley (participants in the documentary) and Clara Hsu will appear to introduce work from their exciting new press, Poetry Hotel Press.

 

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The Highest Good

A New Angle on LifeHighest good is like water
Water is good for all things
but does not compete.
It lies in the lowest place
which all men disdain.
Therefore it is close to the Tao.
–Tao-te Ching VIII

I whispered into Don Brennan’s ear,”I’m interpreting the Tao-te Ching.” He would want to know this, lying on his deathbed. Not long ago he wanted us to get together to translate Li Po. I said yes, let’s. We had such a good time translating Li Po at Cafe La Boheme a few years ago, such a good time organizing Poets with Trees Readings in the parks, getting together once a month at the Poetry Salon, carpooling, cooking, eating…

And while I’m trying to handle life’s full-course meal Don decided that he had had enough. I found a file of his poems on my computer. He wrote them while helping me to take care of my dad.

AN EMPTY MINDFUL   by Don Brennan

I will bear myself in my own arms
if you will simply explain how
we have come to find ourselves
surrounded by children of toddling age
demanding justice when they can barely
utter anything more significant than
all of the confounding mysteries that
neither of us has ever been able to
comprehend and then leave it to us
to fathom the uncharted depths of their
unaccountable laughter that cries for mercy.

How do they do that, and who do they
think they are, anyway, barely able to
run around at the level of our ankles and
knees, judging us without even knowing
what questions to ask?

I therefore promise to bear you and me together
with the lot of them in my sagging and weary arms
and agree to cease my whining and complaining
immediately as soon as we are able to glimpse by
looking into our own selves how to put an end
to the contemporary and relentless history of
random and intolerable suffering of the innocent,
thereby allowing all of us to live until we die in peace.

“Don, leave a little piece of your goodness to me.”

*

Don Brennan passed away on the morning of March 18, 2014.

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Hail Mary

Mary Rudge seatedAbout a year ago Mary Rudge was scheduled to go into the hospital for a heart operation. Just a few days before her appointment I was asked to do a mini feature at the Sacred Grounds Cafe. Mary wanted to come.

“Don’t bother,” I told her, “It’s only 8 minutes long. Come when I do a longer feature.”

But she came anyway, because she thought there might be a chance that she would not survive the operation. I read my multi-voice poems with Jack Foley. Mary was delighted. Sacred Grounds was especially full that night and I don’t think Mary even got a chance to read her own poems, but that was not why she came.

Mary passed away in her sleep on January 19. The night before she received a lifetime achievement award from Artists Embassy International. She was with poetry to the end, and I am forever honored by her love and support.

Mary-Rudge200-July-4-2013
photo by Dave Holt

Mistress Mary
child of verse
how did the curtain fall?
With laurel crown
on haloed hair
and loving faces gathered around.

Gentle Mary
long endured
brittle bones and heart.
Mother Hubbard
with a problem shoe
fed her kids and filled the cupboard.

Hail Mary
full of grace
the Lord is with thee.
A lullaby
from earth to heaven
for the wee lamb blithe and spry.

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