The Old Mule

Nan Goldin

All weekend I have been unable to get Nan Goldin out of my mind. Her photographs positively haunt. Shots of friends seem like x-rays, a quick jot of how things where that second - all bones in place, or not. You can see the faces, really see them, and from the reading chair know how certain our collective mortality is. It is as if her fading lens bleaches the color of clothes, and you see nakedness there, and age, and a moving forth. I have never been so affected by a group of singular photographs such as "ballad of sexual dependancy".

 

Nan Goldin
Tree in first snowfall, Priory Hospital, London, 2003
Matthew Marks Gallery

Kunitz at 100

When I saw Stanley Kunitz at the Dodge Poetry Festival in New Jersey, I knew I was in the presence of a real thinker. He was the kind of person who goes about in utmost trueness - without veil or conceit. He was a boneskinny old man in a threadbare hat, mustache and a kind smile.

Stanley Kunitz lived a hundred years, and read until his death with shaky hands and a steady, low-tilted voice. When he read aloud, people listened. He died this past May. Today was his birthday.

This is one of my favorite poems. Read through...the last stanza is perfectly wrought:

The Testing-Tree
by Stanley Kunitz
1 On my way home from school    up tribal Providence Hill       past the Academy ballpark where I could never hope to play    I scuffed in the drainage ditch       among the sodden seethe of leaves hunting for perfect stones    rolled out of glacial time       into my pitcher's hand; then sprinted lickety-    split on my magic Keds       from a crouching start, scarcely touching the ground    with my flying skin       as I poured it on for the prize of the mastery    over that stretch of road,       with no one no where to deny when I flung myself down    that on the given course       I was the world's fastest human.               2 Around the bend    that tried to loop me home       dawdling came natural across a nettled field    riddled with rabbit-life       where the bees sank sugar-wells in the trunks of the maples    and a stringy old lilac       more than two stories tall blazing with mildew    remembered a door in the       long teeth of the woods. All of it happened slow:    brushing the stickseed off,       wading through jewelweed strangled by angel's hair,    spotting the print of the deer       and the red fox's scats. Once I owned the key    to an umbrageous trail       thickened with mosses where flickering presences    gave me right of passage       as I followed in the steps of straight-backed Massassoit    soundlessly heel-and-toe       practicing my Indian walk.        3 Past the abandoned quarry    where the pale sun bobbed       in the sump of the granite, past copperhead ledge,    where the ferns gave foothold,       I walked, deliberate, on to the clearing,    with the stones in my pocket       changing to oracles and my coiled ear tuned    to the slightest leaf-stir.       I had kept my appointment. There I stood in the shadow,    at fifty measured paces,       of the inexhaustible oak, tyrant and target,    Jehovah of acorns,       watchtower of the thunders, that locked King Philip's War    in its annulated core       under the cut of my name. Father wherever you are     I have only three throws        bless my good right arm. In the haze of afternoon,    while the air flowed saffron,       I played my game for keeps-- for love, for poetry,    and for eternal life--       after the trials of summer.           4 In the recurring dream    my mother stands       in her bridal gown under the burning lilac,    with Bernard Shaw and Bertie       Russell kissing her hands; the house behind her is in ruins;    she is wearing an owl's face       and makes barking noises. Her minatory finger points.    I pass through the cardboard doorway       askew in the field and peer down a well    where an albino walrus huffs.       He has the gentlest eyes. If the dirt keeps sifting in,    staining the water yellow,       why should I be blamed? Never try to explain.    That single Model A       sputtering up the grade unfurled a highway behind    where the tanks maneuver,       revolving their turrets. In a murderous time    the heart breaks and breaks       and lives by breaking. It is necessary to go    through dark and deeper dark       and not to turn. I am looking for the trail.    Where is my testing-tree?       Give me back my stones!

No Shoulders Small Tooth Jones

Or, Stand-by. Son of the Damned Swede. Go figure. Which is to say...standby.

And this is quite funny.

Zapotec Pleated

After *much* talk, planning, coaxing and procedure...here, in its glorious flesh, is our first organic, home-grown Zapotec Pleated Tomato (slightly out of focus, uh hmm):

and a perfect poem:

Sue Ellen Thompson from The Golden Hour

Dr. Collin Simms

We were living in England, where for fourteen
weeks I didn't know I was pregnant. Then
I rolled over in bed one morning
and felt a fist beneath me. My boyfriend

was in the upstairs bathroom, taking a shower.
An American acquaintance persuaded her doctor to meet
with us the next day. We took the Underground,
thrilled and silenced by the possibility.

There was an open fire at one end of the room,
a Persian rug and, behind his desk, a bay
window overlooking Harley Street. Afternoon
tea was served, and he called us by my maiden name.

Slipping behind a lacquered screen, I undressed.
Then he examined me: Oh my yes.

Readings

Yesterday it was 100 degrees. It is too hot to think. These are the days of living.

A Good Night

I woke up this morning
with both feet on the ground
and the memory of a dream
you had sent me.

Arctic shelves
and the cold green
of a northern sky.

How can we go about
in such heat?

There must be
another route
to slip back
behind day-living
and memorize
the directions
to those other cities.

Last night, my toes
were heavy lead bullets
and each new step
a fire from a sea-
wrecked cannon.

I woke up
with both feet on the ground
remembering
what you had sent me.

Cafe Cantante

A Saturday kind of poem from Federico Garcia Lorca...

Caberet

Glass lamps
and green mirrors.

On the dark stage
Parrala carries on
a conversation
with death.
Calls her,
she doesn't come.
Calls her again.
The people
swallow thier sobs.
And in the green mirrors
long silken trains
begin to stir.

Georgetown.
Haunted.
Catfish and eels.

This is my window
into a new way
of thinking.