clarahsu – Page 7

Yummy Yummy

Jack Foley’s birthday is tomorrow. I wanted to treat him to a birthday lunch. We were in Chinatown. Finding the restaurant that was recommended to us closed, we kept walking down Pacific Ave. At lunch time the restaurants were packed with people. You had to take a number and wait in line in some of them. Jack had a radio show to get to. We couldn’t just wander aimlessly. I ran down the street ahead of Jack and saw Yummy Yummy. It was a medium sized restaurant and they promised we’d have a seat soon.

The head waitress’ shrill voice cut through all the noises. Maybe she was trained in the Chinese opera. All the other waitresses maneuvered around the room under her directorship. They brought out selection of dim sums in little tin containers. Diner’s voices bounced off the harsh white walls, floor and ceiling. I told Jack, “It’s like your collision texts.”

I gave Jack a bag of fortune cookies for his birthday. He opened the bag and shared them with the people sitting next to us. The chocolate flavored ones were surprisingly good.

Mission accomplished, Jack drove back to Berkeley with time to spare. I took a long walk to Bart, enjoyed the warm sun and fair weather.

Jack at 72
72 Jacks
at
Maxwell
well well
(none too loose
all cool)
kick ass with pen
kudos
to who?
All 72!

Not So Quiet Lightning

QLclarajack080612 — click image to watch the reading

It has been years since I visited Golden Gate Park’s Conservatory of Flowers, a big white domed structure that sits gracefully at the beginning of JFK drive.

Rows of chairs are set up at the entrance of the conservatory. Some have already been occupied. The wise ones brought heavy blankets. At 6:30 in the evening the wind has kicked up and the fog is fast descending.

Evan Karp the organizer of Quiet Lightning has created a monthly poetry reading event unlike others. He whips out an audience (attendance over a hundred) who actually come to listen to poetry. They pay an entrance fee, buy books and drinks, and stay until the very end.

Jack Foley and I read in the cold, bracing the increasing strong gusts of wind. After the first five readers the reading moves inside. Now people and plants compete for space. In the farthest wing of the conservatory, a tyrannosaurus rex has smashed through the roof and stuck his head out for air.

Photo by Ian Tuttle.

Jack University

(The essay below is written for Jack Foley’s Festschrift, to be published in The Tower Journal‘s September issue.)

Jack University

I have a mentor. His name is Jack Foley. He has an exceptionally large brain with all sorts of stuff in it. I listen and try to stuff everything he says into my little brain. Jack recites verses in English and French and German and Middle English and sings songs by George M Cohan, Irving Berlin and Kurt Weill. He also tap dances. Sometimes I get a headache when he sends me a poem and asks me to answer or comment on it. Jack gives me books to read, CDs to listen to and videos to watch. I can’t read and listen and watch fast enough. He asks me to listen to the voices that have been talking in my head since the day I was born. He asks me to listen to other people’s voices, the ones that are in other people’s heads that they have not bothered to listen to. When I’m confused Jack feeds me ice cream from Tucker’s in Alameda.

Jack will not spare anyone in conversation nor in his writing. He has a weakness for sweets but you can’t bribe him with it. Sometimes I’m mad at him. But for every criticism he has his reasons, and sooner or later he is proven right.

Once a month I take Jack out to lunch. We go to Nong Thon, a Vietnamese restaurant in El Cerrito. He likes everything that is on the menu, some dishes more than others. He won’t call his favorite beef pho the “best dish”. The idea of a winner defeats all others and limits the scope of things. Jack celebrates multiplicity.

Jack encourages me to write in Chaucer’s style, Joyce’s, create visual poetry, make collages with words, and experiment with multi-voices. A friend commented upon hearing my poem that contains repeated lines: “It sounds like Jack Foley without Jack Foley.” Jack laughed when I told him. “Repeating lines is only a technique. But since nobody uses it, people interpret the technique as my style.”

Sometimes Jack and I do readings together—my Chinese/British accent against his Irish/Italian/American accent. He teaches me how to roll “r”s and correct my pronunciations but so far hasn’t put any marbles in my mouth.

Little brain or not, my universe is expanding into the realms of Artaud, the ears of Ives, the mirrors of Gertrude Stein and others yet to be revealed. When one part of my mind dances into other parts of the mind that don’t know they exist, I invariably hear a laugh–hearty and mischievous. It is Jack, playing.

The Siesta Spell

La-siesta-Pablo-Picasso-1919 — La Siesta by Pablo Picasso

Hard to understand why one feels the urge to snooze in the afternoon. Is it our natural rhythm to drift after lunch? I was startled by impatient drivers on the road when I slowed my speed to accommodate the dreamy thoughts that are often the prelude to sleep. Not a good idea. But whose idea is it? Certainly not mine. I don’t want to drive and dose at the same time. It has to be a spell of some sort, cast long ago by a magician, stored in the body and ever since then, makes timely releases.

Some additional potions that often enhance the effect of the “siesta spell” are: listening to a lecture in class, reading a book, the thoughts of laundry, bills, and various necessary chores. But the most heavenly inducement is being enfolded by a pair of arms while listening to a steady heart beat. And upon waking, realize that it is not a dream.

Free Spirit in the Grid

tree house — Tom Chudleigh’s Free Spirit Spheres

Waiting for a friend in front of a donuts shop, watching the staff arranging the food trays, working the cash register, moping the floor; I’m grateful for those who put life in order,that I may go to the post office and mail a letter, that I may sit down at a restaurant and order a meal, that there is electricity and water in my house, that an airplane flies.

People who work the grid provide for people like me, who have difficulty conforming to rules and regulations. They allow a free spirit to take comfort in a bus shelter, knowing that a bus will come to take her to the next destination.

As much as it is crucial to preserve “the system”, which is tangible, free spirited people are just as vigilant to preserve their spirit, which can only be felt. When they lose their spirit, so goes the system.

The Dots’ Polka

“All dots interesting–but you say nothing about the polka. Is the rosary a sort of dance?” commented Jack Foley.

There was no reason for “polka” to be linked with “dots” except, according to Wikipedia, that the dance step was very fashionable in the mid 1800’s, and thus, might be a selling point for the new dot-pattern. “Many other products and fashions of the era also adopted the polka name.”

Just as the dots give a whimsical impression, polka’s quick and light steps bring to mind the vibrancy of life. When I see polka dots on anything I swear they dance.

As for the rosary, active counting brings believers closer to their God. Isn’t that also a kind of dance?

The Meaning of Polka-Dots

van-gogh-sunflower-painting-59 — Van Gogh’s sunflower painting

Polka-dots on clothing, shoes, handbags, headbands, table coverings and more. Circles of various sizes and colors, there is a whimsical side to the simple pattern that cannot be ignored. Circles are heavenly spheres, mystical, but also joyful. One comes to mind is the large round velvety-looking head of a sunflower. Van Gogh’s sunflower paintings bring me into a field of polka-dots.

But I also think of these filled circles as gentle reminder of things. Like a soft rain or the moisture of dense fog that stings the face. The persistent and numerous presence of dots are like pixels of a photograph close up. They make me wonder whether what I’m seeing will change shape and context from a different perspective.

Could polka-dots be inspired by the rosary beads, each one a prayer? Or are they a call for perfection and conformity? Or am I taking these dots a bit too far…

Sweet!

A little sweet in the mouth goes a long way. Watch babies eat ice cream for the very first time. Their expression is sublime; and get addicted immediately: mouths open, hands outstretched, and if they are refused this marvelous, new gustatory sensation you’d be hearing sirens for a long time.

Sugar, nectar, honey—their sweetness reminds us of love and as we taste love we are reassured that we are loved.

It had been a long day. I could barely keep my eyes open for my piano student, and told her so. “Would you like a candy?” She asked. “Yes,” I perked up. She handed it to me, a piece of chocolate that I had given her a couple of weeks before.

Sacred Grounds Clerihews

Dan at SG2 — Dan Brady, host of the Sacred Grounds Reading Series

There’s nothing like getting obsessed over writing these paired and rhymed couplets. It’s a great way to learn about exact rhymes. My over-the-top enthusiasm is a bit scary for Jack Foley. He keeps shaking his hands: Stop! Stop! Quality, please.

Well, just a few more, for the Sacred Grounds poets:

Laurie Hampton prints a poem
more stylish than a Russian goem

“Justice” is she
Say, can you see?

Bill Mercer dips his brushes
to make smudges and rushes

Buddha by the bayou
cooks red bean and rice for you

Don Brennan
fires a cannon

aims at the Empire
stakes it like a vampire

*
From Sacramento comes Kellyann Conway
with her GPS there’s only one-way

to Sacred Grounds she goes
on her tippy toes

Greg Pond
calm as a frond

takes you into darkness
exposes interior starkness

*
Deirdre Evan’s crypt
is plainly in her script

She is Mother Goose
who has since run loose

*
Christopher Trian gives you a head
in paint, without the lead

He’s tall as a tower
and boy, his voice is power

*
Carlos Ramirez dances
goes into trances

time is lost
in the frost

*
Owen Dunkel writes
the metaphor of kites

high flying are they
before diving into the bay

Buford Buntin has a story
that has nothing to do with fiori

he gives a helping hand
to a fallen kid in the sand

Foley starts the clerihews
When Hsu attempts they lose their hues

He begs her to stop
before the verses go flop

Clerihews

Jack and Jeanne — Jack “Legs” Diamond and Peaches O’Toole. Chicago, 1929.

There’s nothing like a good dare. Jack Foley wrote:

Can Clara use
Clerihews

Or is their augury
Pettifoggery?

According to Jack, “The clerihew was invented in 1890 by Edmund Clerihew Bentley, who was a schoolboy of sixteen at St. Paul’s in London when the divine numen of Orpheus struck him.

Francis Stillman’s The Poet’s Manual and Rhyming Dictionary (1965) says this: ‘The clerihew is a humorous pseudo-biographical quatrain rhymed as two couplets, with lines of uneven length, and often contains or implies a moral reflection of some kind. The name of the individual who is the subject of the quatrain usually supplies the first line.'”

So, here are a few to humor my friends:

S.P.Mackin
his lips are smack’in

He feeds on books
It’s the library that he cooks

Stephanie Manning
gets a lot of tanning

Berkeley to Davis she goes by rail
observes shell mounds along the trail

Dore Stein is a blast
he can run very fast

He’s a damn good pitcher
but it won’t make him richer

When Julia Hsu makes a moue
birds would fluster and begin to coo

she is someone’s yum-yum
and my sweet chrysanthemum

Everyone knows Daniel Brady
who is animated like O’Grady

Life of the party is he
Jokes and silliness are key

Wendy Wolters is a rare find
She is very kind

Writes poetry and sings and dances
melts you with her glances

Pity Jack “legs” not Diamond, but Foley
in a gangster hat, oh holy moly

He writes clerihews for all his buddies
except for those who are fuddy-duddies

Invite Jeanne Lupton to tea
Lipton wont’ do it, says she

Two pink flowers grow out of her hair
Surely they’re sharper than the ears of a hare