clarahsu – Page 42

Surrealism and the Art of Performance

Coming into writing late in life with no background makes it difficult for me to appreciate different poetic expressions. Surrealistic poetry is especially daunting. Friends suggest visualizing the imagery, but my mind can’t react quickly enough and I sink under the deluge of words. Ask the surrealists and they’ll say their poems are whatever you want them to be. I walk away feeling a little silly. Questioning artists for meaning of their work is like asking about the ingredients and nutrition facts in a cookie. It doesn’t help me in appreciating the nuance of the product.

For one thing, the mind—that stubborn, controlling, egotistical blob—does not want to let go of preconditioned bias. But recently I found a way to trick it. Instead of listening to the words, I listen to the rhythm and sound of the poem. The music in these poetry is the catalyst that allows me to immerse in them with awe and wonder. I am held afloat by their juxtaposition. I ride their waves until they bring me ashore. It’s all in the performance, and they often leave me breathless.

Where The Audience Is

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH — Reading at the Beat Museum

I walked into the elevator with a group of new acquaintances after a class. As we briefly introduced ourselves to each other I told them I was a poet. “Really!” One lady exclaimed, “I didn’t know they exist.”

Even in San Francisco poets are an obscure breed. Unlike musicians who can generate an audience, there is a general lack of interest in listening to words. Few of my relatives have come to my readings. My sister went to one and would not go again. In cafes and restaurants poets read to their own kind. Once in a while we capture a few accidental listeners but we just can’t get people hooked.

Four years ago H.D.Moe and three other poets went to France and Italy to promote the Baby Beat Generation Anthology (published in France). Moe was heartened to find a real audience in the places he read. They came to hear the poets, not to read their own poems. He sold all his books before coming home. A musician friend once said we must go to where the audience is. I don’t think he meant France.

Photo by Steve Wilson.

Haight Street Blues

Don Eli had a gentle voice. When he read his poems sometimes we couldn’t hear him. Then Don disappeared from the scene. I bumped into him many months later standing on Haight Street talking to some passer-by. He had taken to the street, reciting poems by request for money. His voice had become strong and loud and his gestures expansive. I was amazed at his transformation. He had since been a fixture on Haight Street for many years.

Being a street poet Don had to overcome many obstacles. Solicitation had to be understated and fun so people wouldn’t get scared or intimidated. He learned to project his voice and be theatrical so his patrons got their money’s worth. But the biggest problem for Don was the street gangs. They didn’t like him and wanted him out. Don persisted, until recently, when during an evening a group of men gathered half a block away from him with looks to kill. Don had no intention to get beaten up so he fled and that was the end of his street gig.

Don is back at the Sacred Grounds. When he reads the room is too small for him.

Photo by Travis Snelling.

Dahlia of Beauty and Love

Last year, my father’s neighbor Devi Joseph got permission from the city to plant dahlias in front of the Cabrillo Playground. The head gardener of her district removed the sod that had been covering the lawn area and filled it with truckloads of Golden Gate Park compost. Devi received a grant from SF Beautiful to pay for the drip irrigation parts and system. She put up a wire fence and planted the bulbs. I watched the rows of green plants in front of my father’s house with interest. One day the flowers came, blooming in all hues and shades. Some are soft like little crinkled pompoms, some are elegant in their velvet dresses, all of them stunning in their display. In late autumn, Devi dug the bulbs up for the winter. The little plot of land lost its magic.

A few weeks ago I saw Devi at work again. As the weather warms, the dahlias are peeking out of the green. My father, 90, likes to ride his electric scooter down the sidewalk like a pageant reviewer. The dazzling faces give him joy and company. I, on the other hand, can only think of poems that speak of love.

Tithes For Poets

A friend once remarked that poetry reading is the best entertainment in town because it is free. I’m finding out that may only be the case in San Francisco. In the East Bay and Marin County, a collection is usually encouraged so that the featured poet will walk away with some gas money. When I went to New York last summer all readings there charged a cover.

When Marc Kockinos came to San Francisco he was shocked that poets receive no compensation when they feature at readings. The giving spirit is worthy of praise, but aren’t poets, like all artists, deserve some material recognition? Marc started a weekly reading at Om Shan Tea, a venue at 14th Street and Mission. At the beginning of each reading he kindly reminds people to contribute. “Give as you would like to be given.” The featured poet also receives complimentary tea and meal on the house.

Small gestures can have big impact. I think it does begin with ourselves. Even though we read for reading’s sake, the world has to remember poets pay rent and food just like everyone else.

Photo by Ella Seneres

He Stands In Line

During the Duanwu festival (early June this year), the parents of my piano students offered me zongzi. They are traditional Chinese treats and most families still make these savory and sweet packets at home. Filled with sticky rice, meat or sweet bean paste, each zongzi is wrapped in lotus leaves and steamed to perfection. The other activity during this traditional holiday is the dragon boat race.

But the origin of this festival was tragic. Qu Yuan (340-278 BCE), poet and adviser to the king of Chu, was banished from the court and exiled. He committed suicide by throwing himself into the river. The common folks tried desperately to save him but to no avail. They rode their boats into the middle of the river banging gongs and drums to scare the fish. Some threw rice and meat into the water to prevent his body from being eaten.

Since Qu Yuan, many poets who held official positions had unpleasant endings. It is a strange contradiction. On the one hand, the government actively looked for the best minds by holding national examinations. On the other hand, the best minds they collected were often rejected and destroyed.

After spending over two months in jail, Chinese artist Ai Weiwei was finally released on June 22. His future is uncertain. His ability to speak his truth questionable. Now Ai stands in the long line of artists, poets, patriots and lovers. Like Qu Yuan, whose legacy is still being remembered today, Ai will go down in history long after the regimes are gone.

Photo by Tina Hager.

The Poetic License

Poets and cafes are inseparable. We need the coffee, the table, a little occupied space amid the hustle and bustle to nurture the inspiration. Most of the time we are respectful, minding that the seat we sit on is temporary, and no matter how often we frequent the cafe and buy their coffee and call it our home, it is not. Sometimes, though, we forget. As with any family, poets bicker and quarrel and throw things at each other. When we forget that the cafe is not our living room we run into trouble.

Poets are passionate people with a mysterious mind. It is more of a surprise that we come together as often as we do and only a handful of explosive situations have occurred. This speaks well to the fact that we have basic understanding of our relationship with our environment. When things get out of hand, it is the larger community that suffers. Sometimes individual gets 86’d. Sometimes readings get shut down. But the saddest thing is losing friendship, the lifeline that we all need from each other. The fine prints on the poetic license do not include violence and abuse toward our fellow citizens. Let us use it wisely.

Before Night Falls

During my college days my roommate Mayra Suarez, whose family immigrated from Cuba, would bring back her grandmother’s delicious black bean and rice, fried plantain bananas and fried pork to share with me. That was the extent of my knowledge about Cuba, until the Mariel Boatlift in 1980, when Fidel Castro let go of anyone who wished to leave the country. More than 125 thousand people left by boat. Mayra’s other grandmother was among the exodus, cramped in an overcrowded boat that sailed through stormy weather and ended up in a refugee camp in Florida.

Cuban writer Reinaldo Arenas’s memoir, Before Night Falls, gave me a further glimpse into the persecution of artists during this era. It also opened my eyes to the plight of the homosexuals and their biological makeup. In a dictatorship everything is absolute. What they don’t understand, they fear. What they fear they destroy. But art thrives in the crevices of concrete, even though the flowers are always blood red.

Shirchin Baatar and the Naadam Festival

I got to know Shirchin Baatar, visiting Mongolian scholar at UC Berkeley, in 2001. Together with Jeff Falt, human rights lawyer, we produced several fund raising events to send the first Mongolian woman, Oyuna Tsedevdamba, to Stanford University. With our combined effort Oyuna received her MA in International Policy Studies and now works as an adviser to the president of Mongolia.

Years later, Baatar introduced me to G. Mend Ooyo, poet and president of the 26th World Congress of Poets, who came to the Sacred Grounds and read his poetry in Mongolian. Baatar works tirelessly to help the underprivileged Mongolian community in the Bay Area and to keep their tradition and culture alive. The Naadam festival is happening soon, where Baatar brings wrestling, music and archery to the Golden Gate Park. The music is always enchanting. The food and the men hefty. Ask for Baatar at the West Speedway Meadow. Everybody knows him.