clarahsu – Page 41

The Great Seduction

Before they are introduced to the concept of examination, I find my students enjoy playing the piano with a certain degree of innocence and curiosity. But as soon as they have taken the first exam, the pleasure of playing is transferred to the pleasure of passing. And when the certificates arrive in the mail with their names printed in gold, they are forever seduced into the system of achievement.

Learning to play for playing’s sake doesn’t go down well with the parents. After years of lessons, they are no longer dreamy-eyed about the essence of the soul and how music will nurture the character of their children. The piece of paper is proof that they have gotten their money’s worth. All that tuition and the weekly transport have to have tangible meaning in the end. Their children agree. Music is a must-have to put on their college application. My job is to whip them in shape before the next exam.

Our Daily Listening

From the moment of waking my ears are actively decoding. It is second nature, and I don’t think about it unless there is a change in the ambiance—like rain pattering on the window, or birds making extra noise, or complete silence, which can be quite startling. I am most conscious of listening when learning Arabic. It is a language that fascinates me. How much listening does it take before the brain acknowledges and stores the information? I’m sure it has to do with intention and individual ability. After several years of on and off lessons, I retain very little and often blank out whenever I am given an opportunity to practice. Besides listening to a series of lesson tapes, I have developed a habit of going to BBC Radio Arabic on the internet. At times I hear a word or two that I have studied. The rest is incomprehensible. It is disappointing but it’s the best I can do for now.

My father’s hearing began to decline after a stoke over fifteen years ago. He used to practice on the cello every day, go to concerts, and listen to the classical music station first thing in the morning. Now completely deaf, I find him sitting in front of the TV watching in silence Yo Yo Ma in concert or Michael Tilson Thomas conducting the San Francisco symphony. Perhaps he is reminiscing. Perhaps in his mind he hears the music, that which he had stored from years of daily listening.

Looking at the Devil

The Devil was seated among us, completing the circle in a cozy home in Diamond Heights. He was the guest of honor, but he couldn’t talk, as he was stamped on a poster and glued to a cardboard. Neither could I. This was my first Tarot experience. We eyed each other with mutual recognition as we listened to who the Devil was and who he might be. Each part of his anatomy was analyzed–his bat wings, goat horns, scaly claws, etc. and the male and female figures that represent the mortals. As the conversation evolved the Devil changed from an abhorrer to Pan, god of the wild, and Bacchus, the party god of wine. He was relentlessly deconstructed and reconstructed until we were quite tired of him, and turned our attention to a fabulous feast provided by our host.

I looked at the Devil one more time before he was put back into a big plastic case. I decided he was neither good nor bad. A shadow, maybe, of what we fear in ourselves. It turned out he had been whispering to me all evening, telling me to stay quiet because I didn’t know anything about the Tarot, telling me to keep my questions to myself. But then, he was also telling me to keep my mind open, to listen like a baby, to absorb new materials without questioning.

Tanya Joyce, our facilitator, offered to drive me home. I helped her place the plastic case with the Devil inside the car trunk. As she drove the fog was thick and wet and we made a wrong turn following the wrong bus. The devil inside told us to forget the bus and go our own way. He was right.

Stealing a Style

I don’t know about you, but going to poetry reading is work for me. It’s the good kind of work—observe and steal. The style, I mean, not word for word. It may be the surprise twist at the very end of a poem. It may be the use of a repeated rhythm. It may be the concept of a slice of pizza topped with “tiny little white men” *. It may be an imagery of a bucket of herb blood. Whatever it may be, when I see a gem I snatch it and put it in my memory bank.

Luke Warm Water came to Sacred Grounds last night and he was the rich guy I hung onto. Out of his mouth tumbled all kinds of goodies. It was better than Christmas. When I got home I had to cook down his humor, metaphors, language, moves, even the beer he sipped during the reading. And the end result was I wrote a poem of my own without a trace of LWW.

* from Luke’s poem “Are You Hungry For Pizza?”

The Paddling Poet

Biking at the Mic — Stephen Kopel, the Paddling Poet

When I was small, my father wanted to teach me how to ride a bike. He took me to the park. What stayed with me was the horror of crashing into a chain link fence and falling. I rode a little with my friends when I was older, but stopped altogether when a toddler wandered in front of me and I nearly killed her.

Such memories do not serve me well. Seeing bikers whisking down tunnels and hills, I can only hope for such thrills in my next life. But there is a more gentle kind of paddling that seems easy and non-threatening, that ignores the fashion trend, that brings out the sun and inspirations, that makes me think that perhaps, perhaps at this stage and age I can still hop on a bike and ride…

But I know such easiness comes from years of riding, just as good poems give the sense of effortlessness. It’s all in the doing.

Foshan and the Hung-Sing Revival

Kungfu artists in China were persecuted as outlaws and revolutionaries toward the end of the Qing Dynasty (later part of 19th C). Many who had established their schools in Foshan, south China, fled to Hong Kong. Some eventually immigrated to the United States.

When my son was small, he took lessons with Sefu Dino of Hung-Sing Kuen (fist) at his Sunset studio. Sefu Dino (second generation grandmaster in San Francisco) wanted to find his Kungfu roots in China. After doing some research for him, we traveled to Foshan in 2000. The legends of the founder still reverberated in the ancestral temple, the alley ways, the tiny dwelling where he lived and died. A small group of Hung-Sing artists were active in teaching and preserving the sites. Sefu Dino and his new found colleagues worked out together. The fist style had changed with time and place, but as they showed off their moves, they were able to recognize many of the signature movements and fondly called each other brother.

Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan would trace their roots to Foshan. The smell of money was too pungent for the government and the movie industry to ignore. Since my visit, I heard Foshan was changing rapidly, surrendering its innocence and simplicity to the modern times. It is to be expected.

Freedom

July 4th is fire trucks and sirens, fireworks and barbecue and the sun coming through like clockwork. After 245 years the concept of a birthday is a little fuzzy to me. But when I read the world news where the struggles for freedom are paid with human lives and tragedies, I am grateful to be in the United States. Freedom is not “just another word”. It is to be fought for and gain and guarded with vigilance. It is not to be taken for granted. Freedom and respect tread a delicate balance that begins at home and extends to the communities and the world. I am thankful for all the activism in this country that keeps the dynamics of power in check. That is worth celebrating.

Words are Meant to be Heard

John Rhodes and Dale Jensen. Click to see the show.

The booming of the internet has created a stage for players great and small. Thanks to the ever advancing technology, individuals have never been so visible. Video hosting sites are a perfect platform for some poets whose works are best presented live.

Not to say that the traditional paper publishing is not necessary. Books are like music scores that need to be preserved for posterity. But what makes a score comes alive is the performance. Through the internet, poetry performance has risen from cafe and salon readings to having a global presence.

Dale Jensen, surreal Dadaist of the cut-up consciousness, was a guest at John Rhodes’ SF Poetry, Open Mike, TV show. Let him give you a bird’s eye view of the absurd and the mundane with equal potency. Surrender to his voice. Hold onto your seat and enjoy the ride.

Five Minutes Of Fame

At open mike we usually get to read for five minutes. Sometimes less. But the concept of five minutes varies with individuals. That’s why the host of a poetry reading is often the time keeper. A nice little chime is too understated. Its sweetness can easily be ignored by the poet. A kitchen alarm works well, since it is meant to be loud. But I find it off-putting, especially when I’m immersed in something wonderful. The continuous beeping jerks me back into reality and destroys the magic of the moment.

There is really no good way to manage the five minutes. Poets are needy for attention and not good manager of themselves. To cut a poet off in the middle of delivery requires snap judgement and the skill of a surgeon. No one does it better than Don Brennan. He interjects when he hears a pause and in no uncertain terms tells the poet to stop. “OK. Time’s up.”

That is definitely better than having the audience booing at the end of an interminable narration and chiding the “rude” poet for taking up other people’s time.

The Flashlights of Innocence

I met Susan Birkeland for the first time at a reading in North Beach Library. She arrived with an oxygen tank and wearing a breathing mask. Her head was bald from chemotherapy. She came to hear her friends. Someone asked her to read. Susan took off the mask and made her way slowly to the front. Yet when she turned around she was radiant and stunned the audience with her passionate recital. Shortly after, Susan passed away. I bought her chapbook, the Bruised Angels’ Almanac. One of the poems in the book, The Flashlights of Innocence, was my favorite. I share it often at readings and enjoy hearing it read by others.

Fred Schywek, a German poet, discovered Susan’s poetry on the internet through surfing for American poets. Fred and his friend Annmarie Sauer are organizers for the 2nd European Festival of Poetry and Hafenklänge, Havenklanken, Sounds of Harbor, a multi-lingual project of internet publishing. Annmarie contacted Nicole Savage of SF Hearts. She and Fred flew over to San Francisco and we met at the Paradiso recording studio. Ana Elsner, Bill Mercer, Jerry Ferraz, Nicole Savage and I took turns reading Susan’s poems. The finished product will be played at the poetry festival in Antwerp, Belgium, in September. Susan Birkeland, even with her body gone, her poetry lives on.