Itsy

Itsy
1993-2013

Baby black cat
came home in a pillow case.
Issy, Issy, is it a he?
Shiny fur
big round eyes
we named him Itsy
Itsy because he was tiny.

Itsy slept on the top of my head.
Itsy bit Julia’s hair.
Itsy roamed around the foothill
of Mount Diablo
chased and killed birds.
Itsy scorched his paws
on the hot asphalt.
Itsy invited a big orange cat
into the house in a stormy night.

Itsy watched the children grow.
Itsy saw the family changed.
Itsy hunted and played hide and seek
even though his whiskers had changed color
and the lush coat was spiked with white.

hot day
black cat
lying on the ground
ears up
eyes closed
not a sound

I look up
from my reading

he’s gone.

Listen to a reading of the poem:

Image by Susan Hsu.

Muriel Rukeyser’s 100th

We came together at the Poetry Salon. Some of us came “for the food”. Most of us didn’t know much about Muriel Rukeyser.

We began with eating–an important communal experience–then sat down and listened to Muriel read. Her recorded voice came through loud and strong from the speaker.

Sydney Clemens brought a book of Muriel’s poems. Jack O’Neil borrowed a few from the library. I had some print-outs from the computer. We honored the poet by reading her work.

Stephanie Manning brought out a cake. After Muriel’s dark poem Absalom we all needed some sweetness in our mouths.

Here’s one that will bring a smile:

Myth

Long afterward, Oedipus, old and blinded, walked the
roads. He smelled a familiar smell. It was
the Sphinx. Oedipus said, ‘I want to ask one question.
Why didn’t I recognize my mother?’ ‘You gave the
wrong answer,’ said the Sphinx. ‘But that was what
made everything possible,’ said Oedipus. ‘No,’ she said.
‘When I asked, What walks on four legs in the morning,
two at noon, and three in the evening, you answered,
Man. You didn’t say anything about woman.’
‘When you say Man,’ said Oedipus, ‘you include women
too. Everyone knows that.’ She said, ‘That’s what
you think.’

Cafe La Promenade

Behold Cafe La Promenade
Poets and writers congregate
To defeat winter’s bitter cold.
Don Brennan, Bill Mercer incite
Attendees are here to recite
Fervent verses, songs and stories
To defeat winter’s bitterness.
All hail Cafe La Promenade.

The new poetry series was born on a cold winter night, to the music of the berimbau. Chuck Bernstein played. A single string vibrating with a stone and gourd. Dan Brady gave the inaugural reading. Poets from far and near joined in the open mike. We remembered our dear friend Steve Mackin, who had attempted a few times to establish a reading in the Richmond neighborhood. Now we have a new hope.

La Promenade Reading series is every first Saturday of the month at 7pm. Cafe La Promenade, 3643 Balboa Street, San Francisco.

Shared. Not Burned.

Evidences indicated that Steve Mackin might be present at the Poetry Hotel yesterday. There were periodic knockings that sounded like someone was at the door but when we opened it, in rushed a draft of cold air. Of course, each time we faced the unseen, we said, “C’mon in!”

And when I am dead
Let the dirges be sung
To the turban mad twirl
Of the dervish and Hun
On the field of twilight
As the moon mugs the sun

Bill Mercer opened the reading with Dylan Thomas’ In My Craft of Sullen Art, a poem Steve liked to recite when he attended a reading for the first time, or just for the love of it. One of Steve’s poems was read too. Imagine him growling and cursing if no one bothered to read his poems at his memorial Salon!

And when I am dead
I will leave not a mark
Except for these poems
That I carved on the heart
Of the veil of the night
As Venus fucks Mars

Steve’s friends came and went all day, picking from the thirty-four boxes of Steve’s books that his family gave away. The portrait of James Joyce (painted by Chris Trian and commissioned by Steve) looked on as we performed this intimate activity: going through one’s library that took years to build.

And when I am dead
Why then build me a pyre
Of my books and my poems
Consign me to fire
Oh sing then rude cantos
of the ruin of desire

We didn’t burn any books. If Steve’s poem was his last will, we certainly did not executive it properly. But no matter how fiercely the wind protested outside, Steve would have loved seeing his books taken up by appreciative hands. We all had a part of you now, Steve.

Photo by Vern Peralta.
When I Am Dead, by Steve Mackin.

A Medal for H.D. Moe

Write something
Don’t rush me
I need time to come alive again…
–H.D. Moe

It’s been a month now, and it is still difficult to write another post about another death. 2013 has not been kind to poets. But for H.D. (David) Moe, we were able to celebrate his life achievement and hear him read before he stepped into the blue beyond, and that, I felt, gave some comfort to those who knew him.

David published my first book of poem, Mystique, under Beatitude Press. He took me through the process, even though at that time he was physically weak from hepatitis treatment. Sometimes at readings David looked like he was sleeping. But one time he raised his head after I read and told me to reconsider the word “fly” in one of my lines.

“It sounded too much like a fly, the insect…but that’s not what you want,” he remarked, and dropped his head back on his chest again.

High on poetry, David wrote every day even when he was in hospice. He left us volumes of poetry, some yet to be published. After his death, poems and tributes came pouring in. Jack Foley and I put together a volume titled A Medal For H.D. Moe under the imprint, Poetry Hotel Press.

Date for the memorial is Sunday October 20 from Noon to evening at the Humanist Hall, 390 27th and Broadway, Oakland. It is a potluck event because David loved potlucks. David’s poetry books will be available on that day.

Blessed Beatitude

Blessed Beatitude
deathday is birthday
Shooby-doo tiddlywinks
Baby Beat in a stammering rocket
latitudinal attitude
the world a pease

Syncopated synchronicity
Go gentle, Eros
in a Japanese silk Kimono
giggyup from word pools
sand pearls mirages charades
deepburp bleep blink

Thinking dreams
waking blackouts
we tread
on thin vapors
wild roller-coasters
Moe’s translations

To the Wounded God

“Cast a cold eye on Life, on Death. Horseman, pass by.” –W.B. Yeats

Steve,

I opened the reading at Sacred Grounds tonight, just like what you did for years. Except this time there was no “hear ye, hear ye!” but a sad announcement. Your poems led the way: Minotaur, A Thin Line Between the City and the Sea, and A Poem of the Wounded God. There were just a handful of poets there. Has the wind changed? The landscape that we found ourselves in five, six years ago is no longer, as we file out of the picture one by one.

The city, its streets and cafes, the crows outside your window, the luring women in North Beach and then the gyre and the spiral, the gods and goddesses and the myths… You preferred to wander in these vivid worlds than work at the bleak 9 to 5 job. You are a lover. A romantic. It was between Yeats’ tomb and San Francisco that your love affair lasted until the very end. But the heart, no matter how you look at it, was wounded.

Going Away Party

As he lay dying, friends came to say goodbye. Some gifted him with songs. Others gifted him with words. Poetry was abundant—Langston Hughes, Mary Oliver, and his own My Heart in the Matter. He listened and sometimes nodded. Humor never left him. When asked how many pupusas he would like (wish) to have, he held up two fingers.

His beloved Linda assured him that he will be remembered, and there was nothing in this physical world that he needed to worry about. He was kissed and touched and loved and touched and loved.

He often brought flowers that had passed their prime and over ripe fruits to the Poetry Salon. He saw beauty in things that people discard. Time was neither enemy nor friend. Mostly it was not so important to pay attention to. He would sing to a cynic as well as to an ant. He was not ashamed of his tears.

Carlos Ramirez stepped over the threshold a little after midnight on March 10, 2013—a new born, leaving his skin behind. We are left to dance, leap, and sing through the remains of our days.

Photo by Marlene Aron.

Poetry Hotel/ Birthday Poem

WHY I’M GLAD YOU CAME INTO THE WORLD, WHY I WISH YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY NOW (2013), AND MANY MORE

—Jack Foley

Listen to the poem!

The Poetry Hotel
Imagine paying for a night at the hotel with a poem…
—Clara Hsu

(Clara) At the Civic Center Bart Station
Carlos, Dan and I had a vision
to take possession of the Mission Street Marriott
after we win the lottery.

(Jack) When I heard this poem,

We will renovate the building
knock everything down to its bones.
With imagination, joy, and persistence
we give birth to the Poetry Hotel.

I wanted to join up.

When you enter the Poetry Hotel,
observe the grand reception hall.
Poets check in with a poem
check out with a new chapbook.

I’ve got poems, I’ve even got

The ground floor is reserved for first drafts
the second floor is for revision.
From the third to the twentieth floor
there are chutes and ladders built especially
for the out of bounds writers.

a rhyming dictionary,

All the rooms have the essential
desk, chair and bed,
an unlimited supply of paper, and
ink gel pens to write.

though I don’t use it.

There are numerous libraries
each named after a poet.
Collections of works are readily available
for reference, research and reading.

Clara came to me

As for dining, the Poetry Café
serves daily a scrumptious buffet.
Muffins, puddings and all sorts of pies,
thick soups, black coffee, exotic teas
to nurture the poetic belly.

and asked whether I could bring her to a “break-through.”

Every evening there is a gathering
new and old poems are read.
Cakes and champagne are served afterwards
to celebrate the creation of words.

I notice now

This enterprise is run so successfully
it is franchised throughout the world.
All the poets in this planet
come home to the Poetry Hotel.

that she brings me to “break-throughs.”

Carlos, Dan and I blinked
as we stepped into the train.
It was filled with sleepy people
who wanted to get home quick.

When I’m weary, at night, it’s late, near bed time, my mind a blur,

Days of work and nights of toil
weaken our eyes and hearts
But tonight we lay the cornerstone
for the Poetry Hotel.

she sends me poems from her own “poetry hotel,”

that boiling consciousness,

and suddenly:

(Both) I waken.

Photo by Dore Steinberg.

Birthday Dialogue

Good morning sun. Goodbye rain and wind that came before the sun. The sense of renewal is ever present on such a day, no matter what age you are celebrating.

There is a big field to play in. Perhaps we begin with facing each other. Here is my birthday poem, with a response from Jack Foley.

Birthday

fifty-seven knots
back to the threshold
of unknowing
zest
with style
ecstasy
with flair
one eye toward the gyre
whole body traverses
this universe
as big and as tiny
as all other universes
pushes pulls
into out of
forms and proportions
distance is memory
the fire
fueling
the present.

Birthday
Clara Hsu/ Jack Foley

fifty-seven knots

Oh, I remember
back to the threshold

fifty-seven
of unknowing

and unknowing
zest

the “cloud”—
with style

What’s strange is
ecstasy

you feel it
with flair

only sometimes

one eye toward the gyre

Mostly,
whole body traverses

you’re whatever age you’ve set your bodymind clock for
this universe

Desire

as big and as tiny

remains
as all other universes

and intellect
pushes pulls

in the vastness
into out of

of all you’ve done
forms and proportions

in more than 70 years
distance is memory

Distance is memory
the fire

Fire
fueling

(that deep friend)
the present.

blazes

image by Doc Ross.