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When Li Po Meets Ezra Pound

The River Merchant’s Wife by Mary Wallace

Stepping into Tranquil Resonance Studio, the hustle and bustle of Chinatown disappeared behind my back.  Yellow walls, wood floor, traditional Chinese xuanzhi furniture, brush paintings, tea sets and a row of guqins (seven-stringed zithers) on the wall had the style of an old Chinese study.

David Wong, proprietor, listened to my reading of Li Po’s “Cho-Kan Hang”.

“I think the Fisherman’s Song would work well with this,”  David said.  He played the tune on the guqin and I read the poem again, first in Cantonese, then a translation in English by Ezra Pound with the title, “The River-Merchant’s Wife:  A Letter”.

All thirty lines of “Cho-Kan Hang” were made up of five syllables. I found it binding and difficult to be expressive.

“In a ‘five syllabic finite poem’,” said David, ” expressiveness is to be derived only from the varied tone of each character.”

The fluid and irregular lines spoken by Ezra Pound’s river-merchant’s wife gave a definite contrast to Li Po’s wistful lady.   Reading the poem one after the other, the character was fully realized—she might be confined within four walls, but her feelings knew no bound—by two poets centuries apart.

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I don’t know how to text on a cell phone because I refuse to learn.  Typing with two thumbs just doesn’t appeal to me.  But it is my choice, and to me, I have not lost out on anything.

It’s not the same if you want to publish a book and don’t know how the internet works.  If you don’t have Paypal, if you don’t have an online bank account, you definitely have a disadvantage.  All books need an online presence.  Sadly, those who refuse to learn or not capable of learning the way of the Web will be left behind.

I can clearly remember the excitement of hearing the first ring of a telephone and the first black and white TV my father brought home.  How during my lifetime communication has evolved and keep on evolving.  At some point I’ll stop catching up, I’m sure, and watch the world moves away from me.

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We Played Music

I felt the cold tonight. In a heatless storage unit turned music studio in Fremont my son Lawrence, his friend Cameron Brochier and I rehearsed for our February gig in Cotati.

Organizer Geri DiGiorno sounded a bit nervous on the phone when she found out my poetry reading would be accompanied by members of a rock band.  I assured her that the music would be more jazzy and bluesy.

But it was the distortion that added a special flavor to the poems.  Cameron was pleased that I asked for it and smiled broadly whenever I gave him a thumb-up on his riff.

When I pulled out my Native American drum Lawrence was unsure.  “Eh, we’ve never played with native instruments before.”

“No worries,”  I told him. “When one ends the other begins.”

We scored the poems, each contributing ideas and moods.  The cold was forgotten until we finished.  Then, it was bitter.

“Dinner?”  I suggested.

“No, we have to do our own rehearsal now.”

I left the guys in their freezer and drove home.

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No Contest?

I can’t recall how many times I’ve heard Dore say, “It was the best game ever!”  Clearly, the 49’ers had won the game this afternoon.  Cars were honking and people were celebrating in the street as I rode home in the bus.

“They going to the Super Bowl now?”  I asked Dore.

“Not yet.  One more before the final game.”

Super Bowl Sunday is Feb 5.  I have a poetry reading in Cotati that day.  Someone predicted that my audience will be all women, if I’ll have an audience at all.

You know what I’m thinking but it’s bad form for me to say it.  I just wish there are more (a lot more) people who prefer poetry reading than football.

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Seance

Our neighbor across the street is a big sports fan.  We see banners and flags in front of his house and windows whenever there is an occasion to cheer the 49ers or the Giants.  Since we don’t subscribe to Comcast anymore, Dore goes over to his house to see if he can watch one of the crucial games with him.

“No,” our neighbor says, “I prefer to watch the game by myself.  But I’m curious, do you have regular seance at your house?”

He has noticed that once a month  people come into our house at a certain time and leave after four hours.

“You’re definitely welcome to join us, ” said Dore, ” if you like poetry.”

How quaint, I thought, for our neighbor to think that we hold seances at our house.

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Chinatown, 7pm

Stockton Street tunnel

It was early evening, and Stockton Street had already retired.  A handful of pedestrians, a few cars cruised down the street.  The garbage truck double parked just before the tunnel.  Two workers sat on the steps of the Chinese school building peeling oranges.  A heap of rind between them.  This laziness did not befit Chinatown, when just a couple of hours ago it was bustling with shoppers and students.

People may have gone home early to prepare for the Chinese New Year, which comes early this year, on January 23.  The other day I went to the hairdresser and all the chairs were occupied!  Everyone wanted a hair cut before the New Year.

In the balmy evening I strolled leisurely down.  At the other end of the tunnel was Union Square.  The lights were still festive there, but the mood had also changed.

photo by Joseph Szymanski

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Rest In Peace, Live Forever

Elegiac poems are immediate and touching because they speak from the heart.  I heard another one tonight at Sacred Grounds, and learned that a friend had passed away.  It felt strange, because I just sent her an email this morning.  She was one of the names on my mass email list.

A number of friends have died in the past years but their email addresses remain active.  In a way the dearly departed have been immortalized.  The communication is active, albeit one sided.

Death does not exist in cyber space.  Memories are kept alive by Google and Youtube.  It seems even easier to keep in touch with friends who are no longer around.  They are just one button away.

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At an Art Studio

He softens a piece of flesh colored material with a flame and molds it onto a holder.  He whips up a bowl of green plaster and spoons it on top.  He brings it over to an opened mouth and sets it into the cavity.  “Stay still,” he says.

His fingers are slender and moves with dexterity.  He works quickly and speaks in a loud voice.  On his work table are rows of molds .  Some have red pearly tips, some are glazed, each has a name.

He takes care of my father in less than fifteen minutes.  He promises to deliver the product by next Tuesday.  My father beams at him with hope in his eyes, dreaming of chomping down meat balls and noodles and all kinds of yummy food.

“How many pairs of dentures do you make a day?”  I ask.

“Too many.  I don’t keep count.”

“You’re an artist.”

“Yes,  it’s a kind of art,” he agrees.

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Book in Hand

With all the internet publishing, poets still need to have a book in their hands.  It is tangible like a business card, something that you can show others and at times, make a few bucks.  It’s not the money, but the feeling that you have received appreciation and recognition.  The bottom line is, we want to share our art.

There are still poets who want nothing to do with the internet.  They believe in books.  They believe in turning the pages with their hands.  They believe in carrying the weight on their shoulders.  It is not a burden but pleasure.

 

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Three Good Things

Off to a wonderful start in the New Year:  The Tower Journal has published eleven of my poems in their winter 2012 issue along with Jack Foley’s commentary on my work.

After nearly two and a half years living by himself, my 91 year old father finally agreed to, and will have a living companion in his house to “keep an eye ” on him.

At home, after a scrumptious potluck, Dore’s first orientation for the Tangents Turkey Music Tour collected ten definite participants.

Three good things happened in one day.  We were blessed.  We gave thanks.  I washed the dishes with unusual enthusiasm.

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