No Place for a Poet at a Banquet of Shame

( with thanks, from Catharine Wright / dis.course )

http://mt.middlebury.edu/mt/mt-tb.cgi/3818

I was just sent a copy of this letter by the poet Sharon Olds, whom I have long admired and whose poems I have shared with students for many years, in response to an invitation from Laura Bush to talk about reading and writing at the White House. The letter is so eloquent and moving, so exquisitely precise and honest, that I wanted to post it immediately to share it with others who will understand her sentiments about the current administration, the war in Iraq, and the power of poetry. The letter was sent to me by a newly made and dear friend with whom I had tea today at the Hungry Mind cafe in Middlebury, where the rain burst through cracks in the door in the back of the room, and the creek rushed by carrying armloads of branches in a storm. Here's the letter, and do share it with others:

No Place for a Poet at a Banquet of Shame
Sharon Olds
http://www.thenation.com/doc/20051010/olds

Laura Bush
First Lady
The White House

Dear Mrs. Bush,

I am writing to let you know why I am not able to accept your kind invitation to give a presentation at the National Book Festival on September 24, or to attend your dinner at the Library of Congress or the breakfast at the White House.

In one way, it's a very appealing invitation. The idea of speaking at a festival attended by 85,000 people is inspiring! The possibility of finding new readers is exciting for a poet in personal terms, and in terms of the desire that poetry serve its constituents--all of us who need the pleasure, and the inner and outer news, it! delivers.

And the concept of a community of readers and writers has long been dear to my heart. As a professor of creative writing in the graduate school of a major university, I have had the chance to be a part of some magnificent outreach writing workshops in which our students have become teachers. Over the years, they have taught in a variety of settings: a women's prison, several New York City public high schools, an oncology ward for children. Our initial program, at a 900-bed state hospital for the severely physically challenged, has been running now for twenty years, creating along the way lasting friendships between young MFA candidates and their students--long-term residents at the hospital who, in their humor, courage and wisdom, become our teachers.

When you have witnessed someone nonspeaking and almost nonmoving spell out, with a toe, on a big plastic alphabet chart, letter by letter, his new poem, you have experienced, close up, the passion and essentialness of writing. When you have held up a small cardboard alphabet card for a writer who is completely nonspeaking and nonmoving (except for the eyes), and pointed first to the A, then the B, then C, then D, until you get to the first letter of the first word of the first line of the poem she has been composing in her head all week, and she lifts her eyes when that letter is touched to say yes, you feel with a fresh immediacy the human drive for creation, self-expression, accuracy, honesty and wit--and the importance of writing, which celebrates the value of each person's unique story and song.

So the prospect of a festival of books seemed wonderful to me. I thought of the opportunity to talk about how to start up an outreach program. I thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some books and meet some of the citizens of Washington, DC. I thought that I could try to find a way, even as your guest, with respect, to speak about my deep feeling that we should not have invaded Iraq, and to declare my belief that the wish to invade another culture and another country--with the resultant loss of life and limb for our brave soldiers, and for the noncombatants in their home terrain--did not come out of our democracy but was instead a decision made "at the top" and forced on the people by distorted language, and by untruths. I hoped to express the fear that we have begun to live in the shadows of tyranny and religious chauvinism--the opposites of the liberty, tolerance and diversity our nation aspires to.

I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival in order to bear witness--as an American who loves her country and its principles and its writing--against this undeclared and devastating war.

But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you. I knew that if I sat down to eat with you, it would feel to me as if I were condoning what I see to be the wild, high handed actions of the Bush Administration.

What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I would be taking food from the hand of the First Lady who represents the Administration that unleashed this war and that wills its continuation, even to the extent of permitting "extraordinary rendition": flying people to other countries where they will be tortured for us.

So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish and shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds and fire. I thought of the clean linens at your table, the shining knives and the flames of
the candles, and I could not stomach it.

Sincerely,

SHARON OLDS

Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe





We went to Juliet, Georgia, a tiny town where the film was made - and we ate
those fried green tomatoes, too. It was New Year's Eve, 12/31/2005 -
celebrated while visiting Ariana, Jody and Noah in middle Georgia... that's me, in red.

November Retrospective

It's been a while, a pretty long while, since I updated this blog.
November came and went - and very pretty it was, but no
rain. No snow. None at all. As I write this now, months later,
I am reminded how long it has been. Today we got a couple of
snowflakes - tiny ones, whirling and dancing in the wind.






Along the main canal - my favorite cottonwood tree.

__________________________________________

Corrales Bosque - Halloween
Trail to the Rio Grande - through red willow

Halloween - Cottonwoods and tamarisk

UlerFest
Laury Alexander and Tony Byers threw a party November 4 - the annual homage to Uler - by burning a huge bonfire of old skis - supposedly to auger an excellent ski season.
But it seems like 'ol Uler got pretty angry this year, and did not bring snow to the high country.



Bonnie Gonzales at the Corrales Grower's Market

Bonnie's beautiful flowers are my favorite part. On this day, Corrales celebrated
Farmland Preservation efforts and it was a wonderful affirmation of the power of
the land. Thanks to all who helped.

CONTINUUM: A LOVE POEM

going for grapes with
ladder and pail in
the first slashing rain
of September rain
steeping the dust
in a joyous squelch the sky
standing up like steam
from a kettle of grapes
at the boil wild fox grapes
wickedly high tangled in must
of cobweb and bug spit
going for grapes year
after year we two with
ladder and pail stained
with the rain of grapes
our private language

Copyright © 1980 by Maxine Kumin.

The Apparition

True to his word, our vet

comes in late afternoon

and kneels in a slant of sun.

A pat, a needle stick

stills the failing heart.

We lower the ancient form

to the hemlock-shrouded grave

and before the hole is brimmed

set a layer of chicken wire

to guard against predators

so that the earth we broke

reforms, a mild mound.

The rock we place on top,

common glacial granite,

is mica-flecked and flat.

That night the old dog works

his way back up and out,

gasping, salted with dirt,

and barks his familiar bark

at the scribble-scratched back door.

I pull on shirt and pants,

a Pavlovian response,

and stumble half awake

downstairs to turn the knob

where something, some mortal stub

I swear I recognize,

some flap of ear or fur,

swims out of nothingness

and brushes past me

into its rightful house.

--Maxine Kumin

(Atlantic Monthly, December 2003)

I found this poem, and it reminded me that it was
this time of year - 2002 - when Marcus came, bringing the pink needle --
late Autumn afternoon light slanting in across the flagstone
to where she lay, her breath laboring, beautiful Sandy letting go, we say goodbye, those brown eyes trusting us.

For The Time Being: my poem from those days, Fall 2002

Andrew Joseph ~ b. 1946 - d. 11/1/2005 All Saint's Day
We've lost (another) Andrew - Cousin Andy Joseph has left us.
He was much loved, by many. So sorry for the suffering. So sorry, Terry.
Miss you, Andy. (click on ABOUT ANDY on the left sidebar)


In The Arc Of Your Mallet
Don't go anywhere without me.
Let nothing happen in the sky apart from me,
or on the ground, in this world or that world,
without my being in its happening.
Vision, see nothing I don't see.
Language, say nothing.
The way the night knows itself with the moon, be that with me.
Be the rose nearest to the thorn that I am. I
want to feel myself in you when you taste food,
in the arc of your mallet when you work,
when you visit friends, when you go up on the roof by yourself at night.
There's nothing worse than to walk out along the street without you.
I don't know where I'm going.
You're the road, and the knower of roads, more than maps, more than love.

The Essential Rumi
Coleman Barks




Love has gone a-rocketing.
That is not the worst;
I could do without the thing,
And not be the first.
Joy has gone the way it came.
That is nothing new;
I could get along the same,
-- Many people do.
Dig for me the narrow bed,
Now I am bereft.
All my pretty hates are dead,
And what have I left?

"Wail" -- 1925 By Dorothy Parker

Hopi Prophecy




When the Clock Strikes Midnight

"Many of you have come here for years now asking the
Hopi about the prophecies, and when the clock will
stop ticking. You have spoken with our elders, and
some came with good heart, and others with bad heart,
some left never knowing their own hearts and could not
hear from the heart of the Hopi.

You always left here always fed with something from
us, for your thirst for knowing, and always blessed
from our hearts.

Now the time together is short, shorter than you know,
and our hearts are heavy. You have been telling the
people that this is the Eleventh Hour. Now you must go
back and tell the people that this is the Hour.

And there things to be considered:

Where are you living?
What are you doing?
What are your relationships?
Are you in right relation?
Where is your water?
Know your garden.
It is time to speak your Truth.
Create your community.
Be good to each other.
Do not look outside yourself for the leader.

This could be a good time!
There is a river flowing now very fast.
It is so great and swift that there are those who will
be afraid.
They will try to hold on to the shore.
They will feel they are being torn apart, and they
will suffer greatly.
Know the river has its destination.
The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off
into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open and
our heads above the water.
See who is in there with you and celebrate.

At this time in history, we are to take nothing
personally. Least of all ourselves. For the moment
that we do, our spiritual growth and journey comes to
a halt. The time of the lone wolf is over. Gather
yourselves! Banish the word struggle from your
attitude and your vocabulary. All that we do now must
be done in a sacred manner and in celebration. We are
the ones we've been waiting for."
(http://www.wolflodge.org/hopi/hopi-old-oraibi.htm)
















Chile roasting - at Wagner Farms - Corrales
















Harvest Moon ~ Corrales - October 2005

Succulent Snapper

A delectable dinner may be as close as the nearest pond or stream!

LINDA WEISSINGER

One of my earliest little-girl memories is of going with my dad and brothers to catch snapping turtles in the muddy Auglaize River near Wapakoneta, Ohio. The rugged, hook-jawed beasts—once pulled ashore and cleaned—would be cooked into a big pot of turtle soup or fried to a golden brown in a sizzling hot skillet.

This abundant—and practically free—source of delicious protein can be found in almost any body of fresh water in eastern North America. And though snappers look mean, they're a cinch to catch and—if you know what you're doing—easy to handle....

http://www.motherearthnews.com/library/1980_July_August/Succulent_Snapper

LOL! I think this is hilarious - and kind of astonishing - I found this article on a google search, which was a referral to my blog, on the name "linda weissinger" - my maiden name. I did not write this piece for Mother Earth News - and I did not go snapper catching with my dad. This to me is like the Bizarro-World Linda Weissinger -...Child, I never knew ye!

Labor Day

We enjoyed a glorious day at Rich's place in Regina NM
with great company, and wonderful food. I failed to get
decent pictures of people, but a few architectural shots
will give you the idea.





The Sun room





Rich in the kitchen, making cioppino



Rich Jamison - moving too fast to catch

The Umbrella -
Andrew Nagen - 09/04/1950 - 08/26/2005

We have said good-bye to our dear friend, Andrew.
He gave Robert the drawing, The Umbrella - shown here -
Robert felt it spoke to him at the exhibit at artspace - he felt that it was his role, he was the Umbrella. We have had the drawing for a few weeks - here is the
photo I took of it.

We loved him and he loved us.
G-dspeed.



i am a warrior
i am not at war
i am seeking peace.
i work for peace.
peace for us all.
peace for myself.
my struggles are your struggles.
my success is yours also.

i am a warrior.
the opponent is unseen.
i am a warrior.
the victory is not celebrated,
but felt.
the battles are bloodless
and brutal.
i am a warrior.
honor is my currency
and merchandise.

you are a warrior too.
your work is defined.
you proceed each day
until the sun drains you
and the moon cools you.
we all work together
as the best warriors do.
there is no war,
there is only living.
suit up!
time is passing. Andrew Nagen

MY NAME

One night when the lawn was a golden green
and the marbled moonlit trees rose like fresh memorials
in the scented air, and the whole countryside pulsed
with the chirr and murmur of insects, I lay in the grass
feeling the great distances open above me, and wondered
what I would become-and where I would find myself-
and though I barely existed, I felt for an instant
that the vast star-clustered sky was mine, and I heard
my name as if for the first time, heard it the way
one hears the wind or the rain, but faint and far off
as though it belonged not to me but to the silence
from which it had come and to which it would go.

--Mark Strand


This is one of many datura in bloom at my home - Photos cannot
capture the beauty of these huge, pale lavender blossoms, such as
Georgia O'Keeffe painted. I understand now why she was so taken with them.

Redfish, Bluefish



That was the name of a restaurant on Captiva Island, Florida
which I passed by last week while we were vacationing in Sanibel
with Ana, Jody and Noah - We had a wonderful, relaxing break,
swimming in the languid waters of the Gulf of Mexico and playing
with our grandson. I'll be posting some photos from the trip when
I get the chance.

We left in the height of summer and came home to autumn - cool,
cloudy mornings and that subtle change in the light that signals
the end of relentless heat and the beginning of the slide toward
fall. I saw the nearly-full moon setting this morning, and was
reminded that the next new moon is likely Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish
New Year.

For a long time now, every Rosh Hashanah we would go to
Andrew Nagen's pond, to "cast our bread upon the waters."
Andrew would tool out there
in his motorized wheelchair,
and Robert would read from the prayer
book, while we crumbled crackers and bread
into the pond for the fabulous koi
to gobble up. Always, it would be a gorgeous day -
and there upon the waters,
we cast our sins, regrets, hopes and wishes
for a new year to come.

This year Andrew won't be coming to the pond,
at least not in his wheelchair.
He is in bed, only yards from the shimmering water,
but he can't go out to see the fish, swimming in the
sun under the surface. We have said our
good-byes, tears and laughter - lots of laughter,
especially, over the years we have been friends.
He especially loved to explore Robert's mind
and exchange the jokes and humor that they shared.

We will miss him so much and we pray that the passing
when it comes will be joyful and a true
experience of freedom - the hope of many years of
bread upon the waters -
a celebration of the brilliance of his spirit, released
from the burden of the body.



the end of a day today
front to back, top to bottom
it had everything.

sunrise sunset
trouble and joy
wearing a birthday suit

the doorbell rings
it is nobody somebody
here to deliver a serving of truth.

he hands me a package
it's warm and fragrant
a serving of truth on wry.

i tip him
say thank you
and ask for the recipe.

i am told
it is in my pantry
just add water.

i found it
watered it with tears
laughed and served it
to myself.

Andrew Nagen

Also see posts: i am warrior - remembering andrew nagen
and The Umbrella

Here are some quick shots from our trip to
Florida - Noah is hard to catch these days,
he is running full-out headlong into life.
What infectious joy - sweetness and delight.

THE EDGES OF TIME

It is at the edges
that time thins.
Time which had been
dense and viscous
as amber suspending
intentions like bees
unseizes them. A
humming begins,
apparently coming
from stacks of
put-off things or
just in back. A
racket of claims now,
as time flattens. A
glittering fan of things
competing to happen,
brilliant and urgent
as fish when seas
retreat.

--Kay Ryan

The New Yorker

Here's a Rainbow - for Andy



Here's a rainbow - for Andy

Robert, relaxing

Afternoon thunderstorm - from our porch

Noah enjoyed the Corrales pool this June - so cool!