On George Gershwin’s birthday I keep expecting them to play Rhapsody in Blue, An American in Paris, the Cuban Overture, the Concerto in F, Porgy and Bess as played by Miles Davis, but no, all day it’s been Dvorak, Grieg, Rimsky-Korsakov, and other worthies not born today, Elgar for heaven’s sake; at least they could give us some Debussy, as didn’t "they" (such a useful pronoun) criticize him for imitating Debussy, or Ravel, who declined to give George lessons saying, “Why become a second-rate Ravel when you’re already a first-rate Gershwin?”
Name the painter who built this stairway to paradise. As Claus DeRuyter said, his "rhythm was fascinaitng." The rhapsodic blue marked an advance that preceded the push-and-pull practice of Hans Hoffmann.
In the hotel lobby, leaning against a marble column from when the Romans ruled, I sip my vodka as gunfire night and day ricochets in celebration
punctuating someone's wedding or a moment in someone's mood in which blowing off a clip into the air fights off boredom:
in this cellphone video that's more slashes of light, jiggle and jag than a stable point of view, I watch them drag him from muck out
of a culvert, his kufi knocked askew, heavy body thrown across a Toyota battle wagon where an electrical engineer turned militia man,
who reminds me of my father, mild, unshowy, studiously polite, doesn't smile, frown, as he watches himself slapping, in the footage that he's
showing me, the Brother Leader, great Murshid, the Guide—doesn't comment, doesn't shy away from my oh so fine-tuned sensitivities
quivering on the brink, maybe a little drunk, my cloak of objectivity already tattering into rags—his lumps, welts not quite bleeding—unable to look away,
am I hoping to see blood? It isn't every day that a dictator writhes under your heel—the one powerful enough to say Those who do not love me do not deserve to live—
as if he himself were the soul in the body politic and we were just an afterthought, accessory to his glory, the merest janitors to his trash, or maybe
just the trash itself, all of us human trash waiting to be burned. But now, it's our turn, and we've got him where we want him—
his livid puffy face, its blankness unto death like slopped over paint running down the can— his nose by now smashed in so his mouth
hangs open to the blahness of desert hardpan cliffs shadowing tank tracks back into the Nafusa Mountains where just an hour ago we were driving and he was worrying
about load-shedding and high-voltage grids, the tragedy of no infrastructure—while I was daydreaming of vodka and peeling happy hour shrimp
glinting like armor plate—finally, I've seen enough; but as I turn to give him back his phone he's moved down the bar and seems, head bowed, to be
peering into his drink with that intimate anticipation that could signal a joke or a prayer speeding to its punchline, only it's the new kind
of humor, the new kind of prayer, in which the jokes aren't funny and prayers don't deliver, and whether you're praying or laughing, it's all on you.
Tom Sleigh is the author of eleven books of poetry including winner of the 2023 Paterson Poetry Prize The King’s Touch (Graywolf Press, 2022), House of Fact, House of Ruin (Graywolf Press, 2018), Station Zed (Graywolf Press, 2015), and Army Cats (Graywolf Press, 2011). His most recent book of essays, TheLand Between Two Rivers: Writing in an Age of Refugees (Graywolf Press, 2018) recounts his time as a journalist in the Middle East and Africa. He has been a Guggenheim Fellow, NEA grant recipient, and winner of numerous awards including the Kingsley Tufts Award, Shelley Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America, John Updike Award and Academy Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. His poems appear in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Threepenny Review, Poetry, The Southern Review, Harvard Review, Raritan, The Common and many other magazines. He is a Distinguished Professor in the MFA Program at Hunter College and lives in Brooklyn, NY. [Author photo by Annette Hornischer.]
“And I Will Dwell Amongst Them, Amongst Each One:” The Individual Life as a Sanctuary in the Poetry of Yehuda Amichai
A personal tribute to Chana Bloch, key translator of Amichai’s poems
Author’s note: The following essay was inspired by my recent participation in an AWP panel honoring Chana Bloch. Panelists were invited to consider Chana Bloch’s influence on their own poetry.
--By Yehoshua November
As an undergraduate at SUNY Binghamton, I studied under the poet Ruth Stone. During my first workshop turn, she announced to the class that my poem sounded like a translation, albeit not a bad one. Confused and embarrassed, I returned to my college apartment. On my desk, I spied a copy of the first poetry collection I had ever purchased, The Selected Poetry of Yehuda Amichai, the second section of the book composed of Chana Bloch’s translations of Israel’s leading poet. This was 1999. Amichai would pass away one year later, a few short months after the publication of Bloch and Kronfeld’s translation of his final volume, Open Closed Open. I had just entered a relationship with—and began writing poems devoted to—a dark-haired young woman with a space between her front teeth, the woman I would marry less than two years later.
This is to say, from the outset, even when I was unaware of it, my poetry and personal life have been significantly shaped by Chana Bloch’s translation work. Perhaps, as a side note, I should admit that, despite my Jewish day-school upbringing, I had managed to spend enough time on baseball cards, reruns of MacGyver, and other unspecified pursuits to manage not mastering modern Hebrew. Certainly not well enough, at the time, to read Amichai’s poetry in its original language. Thus, for me, like so many, Bloch served as the access point to one of the greatest poets of the last century.
Several years ago, I attended a poetry reading by the recently deceased Polish poet Adam Zagajewksi. When asked what was lost in reading his poems as translations, he said, “Nothing. I feel, even as they are rendered in English, these are my poems.” As a devoted non-Polish speaking fan of Zagajewski, this answer felt like a fantasy fulfilled. According to Bloch and her co-translator Chana Kronfeld, the same may not hold true in the case of Amichai translations. As Bloch and Kronfed point out in an essay on translating Amichai’s final poetry collection[1], much of Amichai’s puns and word associations go unrepresented when rendered in other languages. They add that modern Hebrew is a kind of “echo chamber” of its Biblical precursor so that everyday contemporary speech resounds with meanings rooted in antiquity. They point, for example, to the Hebrew word shem, which translates as name. The plural form of the word, Shemos (names), serves as the Hebrew title of the second book of the Torah (referred to in English as the book of Exodus). Shem also brings to mind Hashem, an informal title for the Divine, a way to refer to God without mentioning one of the sacred, un-erasable names.
Given the absence of the rich diction that flavors Amichai’s original Hebrew, Bloch and Kronfeld wonder at Amichai’s popularity amongst his non-Hebrew speaking readers. [2]They conclude that he “crosses the language barrier” because “[h]is images make poetry out of the non-poetic things of ordinary life” and because he “makes a virtue of accessibility.” In introducing one of my poems included in The New York Times Magazine—the one time I enjoyed this distinction--Matthew Zapruder noted that my poetry is characterized by “radical clarity.” As a Chassidic Jew, being called radical in the largely secular poetry world did not come as a surprise to me; however, I never imagined the accessibility of my poetics would be the reason. Is my poetry really radically clear? And if so, how did I arrive at this atypical aesthetic? Is Amichai’s work—exceedingly accessible poetry further simplified when translation strips it of association and word play—also radically clear? Perhaps Ruth Stone’s observation about my student poetry as a kind of translation has remained largely applicable. If it’s true my poetry is more accessible than that of many of my contemporaries, perhaps, at least in part, this is due to many years of reading Bloch’s translations of Amichai. It’s strange and pleasurable to think this may be the case. Interestingly, in a tribute to his mother, Jonathan Bloch writes[3], “When I was a child, [my mother] wrote the word ‘clarity’ in black marker on an index card and taped it to the wall above her typewriter, where she would see it when she looked up from writing. I remember seeing that index card with the word clarity, in fading marker, hanging there for many years. I think that clarity was her lifeline, to the end.”
Looking back, it’s not hard to trace a number of my poems’ rhetorical underpinnings to Bloch’s translations of Amichai. Employing the language of negation in “When I Banged My Head on the Door, Amichai writes[4], and Bloch translates, “…and I didn’t scream ‘Mama’ and I didn’t scream ‘God.’/ And I didn’t prophesy a world at the end of Days/ where there will be no more heads and doors.” Though I didn’t realize it at the time, it’s more than likely this same language of negation, and particularly negation of spiritual idealism, that sparked or pushed along my poem “I Made a Decision,” which reads:
Once, before either of us was twenty,
in the cafeteria, I watched your mouth
enclose itself around a plum.
Because I was young and you were beautiful,
I did not say, This is just a physical body nourishing itself.
And I did not say, Perhaps this is the other half of my soul.
I made a decision with a young man’s body,
and my soul continues to thank me.
Aside from questions of craft, a recent tribute to Bloch I participated in asked its panelists to consider Bloch’s exploration of her Jewish faith and her desire to examine what she called “the inner life.” Here, too, I think it’s instructive to return to Bloch’s translations of Amichai. Raised in an Orthodox Jewish home, Amichai departed from a life of tradition as an adult. One finds no shortage of poems doubting the Divine in his body of work. In this spirit, Bloch and Kronfeld note[5], “Amichai’s reception outside Israel has tended to oversimplify the meaning of his work, blunt his irony, and even—so help us!—present him as a poet of fuzzy feel good religiosity.”
Yet, I think a traditional Jew, especially a Chasidic Jew such as myself, can find Amichai relevant and compelling, even without overlooking or distorting his iconoclast streak. This is because Amichai’s work echoes a central Jewish theology relevant to notions of the inner world and Jewish faith. Or at least his work offers a secular iteration of that theology. [6]As Chassidic and Midrashic teachings point out, the Divine instruction to build the Tabernacle, and by extension the Holy Temple, reads[7], “Make a sanctuary for Me, and I will dwell in them.” In the verse, the Divine voice does not note, “I will dwell in it,” as grammar would dictate. Rather, it states, “I will dwell in them,” in each one, implying that true construction of a Sanctuary entails each individual sanctifying the ordinary moments of his or her life, locating holiness in the mundane. For this reason, and in contrast to ascetic religions, traditional Jewish practices engage the body and the world. According to the Jewish mystics, each time a Divine command is performed with a physical object—and Judaism abounds with such commands—divine light, Or Ein Sof, is drawn down to, and absorbed by, the item in use. Surprisingly, in this theology, one’s body and its daily undertakings constitute a kind of Divine Temple, especially when acts are carried out with Divine purpose. And, in a sense, the Temple the individual creates proves more central to daily life than the larger structure of the communal Holy Temple.
The ambition to sanctify the quotidian is present in much of contemporary poetry, but few poets seem to see the body and the individual life as a kind of sanctuary to the extent that Amichai does. Or in Amichai’s secular iteration, the interior world of memory seems just as important as larger real-world history and geography. In this sense, the personal and historical, the interior and outer worlds, compete, coalesce, and get conflated, recalling the Jewish theology of the literal communal temple structure and the idiosyncratic temple of each individual life. Given Bloch’s focus on the inner world and Jewish faith, it’s not surprising she was drawn to and served as a leading translator of Amichai’s poetry. Let me close with a Bloch translation of an Amichai poem which appears to best represent the individual-life-as-temple ethos. Significantly, in the poem, Amichai refers to David’s Citadel, a Herodian tower in Jerusalem whose name calls to mind the Holy Temple, which, in the Song of Songs, another work Bloch co-translated, is also referred to as David’s Citadel. Here, quite literally, Amichai, like the Midrashic-Chassidic teachings, prioritizes the individual human temple of daily life over the larger historical structures:
A prose poem from "Tourists,"[8] by Yehuda Amichai, translated by Chana Bloch
2
Once I was sitting on the steps near the gate at David's Citadel and I put down
my two heavy baskets beside me. A group of tourists stood there around their
guide, and I became their point of reference. "You see that man over there with
the baskets? A little to the right of his head there's an arch from the Roman
period. A little to the right of his head." "But he's moving, he's moving!" I said
to myself: Redemption will come only when they are told, "Do you see that arch
over there from the Roman period? It doesn't matter, but near it, a little to the
left and then down a bit, there's a man who has just bought fruit and vegetables
Theodore Ell’s first collection of poems Beginning in Sight won the 2022 Anne Elder Award, judged by Gig Ryan, Ella Jeffery and Marjan Mossammaparast. As the book’s title suggests, Ell’s poems are conceived through a gathering of visual details, their accumulation developing atmospheres and meanings that are often vague and indefinite. Part of the appeal of Ell’s poetry is the contrast between the precision of these details and the shadowy effects they create. In “Tenebrae” the arrival of nighttime into a city apartment is presented with rigorous particularity: “Sky / in the gaps of a broken comb - the medley / of towers, antennae.” The way the night seems to enter the apartment, to break the distinction between the inside and outside worlds, generates a vulnerability, ominous, that transforms solitude into isolation, reminiscent of some of Pierre Reverdy’s poems. Tenebrae is of course a Catholic service held during Holy Week in the days leading up to Easter, and a tension exists in the poem between “the cold communion” of maintaining this solitude by watching the night pass by from the windowsill and the desire to enter into the world: “Thoughts of not doing an evening by halves – / not dress circles”.
Tenebrae
Nightfall on the sill. Trinkets, hardened dust. Sky in the gaps of a broken comb – the medley
of towers, antennae. The city: a queue for dinner at a swish place, or a catwalk.
Thoughts of not doing an evening by halves – not dress circles or crystal filled in series,
only forgetting the rule of doubt for hours, leaving morning till morning, whole vacancies.
This sill, monogrammed by wine rims. A living. Rest from studying the pavement in silent lines,
from the cold communion, aid. Frail-voiced nuns chant responses from behind gilt fences
through the workless days. They reach some in the street, who look in, down a ribcage of coloured light,
high rafters, canopy – a keyhole vision of dusk between towers, that toothed horizon,
a light that breaks our outline, hides our numbers.
Sam Sax begins their hilarious, touching, and human/humane book Pig with an Orwell quote from Animal Farm—"“The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.” It is impossible for me to say which Sax poems I enjoyed more—“Miss Piggy,” “a pig pulls out of paradise,” or “james dean with pig.” Inventive and political, tender and sensual, Sax’s poems use the concept of “pig” to talk about police violence, capitalism/”this little piggy went to market,” pet pigs, religious dietary restrictions, the swine flu, the pandemic’s outbreak in pork plants, ecology, pig hearts used in surgery, and the celebration and degradation of the human body. When Sax learns that their grandfather castrated pigs as a young person, they imagine “castrato pigs singing/opera oddly/wagner probably…” and later, in a companion poem “Author’s Note,” they write “I’ve never bred pigs. never fed pigs…only read pigs. only/ begged to be pig-bred. only been/ called pig/a hundred times…” In “Experiments,” they imagine revisiting a classroom of fetal pigs. In “Squeal Like A Pig,” they recontextualize Deliverance through a tender queerness: “boy hurting/boy hurt/never imagined/I could leave/become the trees….” Sax has seemingly and magnificently exhausted the subject, though they write in their opening poem “the first book written/about pigs was published/ in 3468 BC, the last will be this, until it isn’t….”
Eugenio Montale asked me if there was an American word for sprezzatura, particularly with respect to poetry. In respetto di poesia, he said. And I said yes, in American We call it ‘moose’ and mentioned several poets, Frank O‘Hara among them, who were quite famous, As fame goes in our sort of work, for their moose. He wondered if there were an American expression To convey the general concept of ‘Eugenio Montale.’ And I said, Yes, we call it ‘George Seferis.’ I also observed —I was showing off, but how often do you get to talk to Eugenio Montale--that, in my view, the prose of Seferis, Especially his diaries from the last years of the war And the slow waking to the depth of that devastation after, Were even greater than his poems, though his poems At their best gave off pure light, like the glare From the white walls on the cliffs above the harbor in Skios Which could make the eyes ache. He canted his head Politely and asked if among Americans the worship Of the Virgin Mary was a custom. And I said that it was And that in the cities of the Middle West and probably The towns, it was especially intense among the mothers Of children with grave illnesses who heaped flowers In enormous quantities before her altar and he nodded. And they light candles? he asked. And I said, Yes, candles.
from Summer Smoke, the brilliant new collection by Robert Hass (Ecco, 2020). Hass was the guest editor of the 2001 edition of The Best American Poetry. Photo credit: Miriam Berkley.
I mean to look at five different very small-scale details, and demonstrate the hard-to-beat Pierre Boulez's 1969 recording with the Cleveland Orchestra:
:
Obviously, recording techniques have evolved a lot since then -- and there are many other great recordings; here's just a few:
Stravinsky's subtitle is so descriptive: Fertility of the Earth.
This four-bar nibble occurs just a few moments into the piece. For the purpose of this example, I want to draw your attention to the two bass clarinets.
There are two other things going on -- a fluttering alto flute and the insistent English horn.
II.
This cookie is a wonderful taste of courageous orchestration.
Stravinsky has a nice steady pulse going on -- the piccolo plays a familiar melody, while the contrabassoons and the fourth French horn (in its lowest register!) plays 1/4 notes on the offbeats in major sevenths. In some recordings, this lovely off-beat rhythm is barely heard ... or worse.
III.
Stravinsky is building up to this massive climax which culminates in a bar of silence before the Dance of the Earth. This little detail has always fascinated me ... and is not as well-defined by other recordings as in this one.
There are four main things going on. We're concerning ourselves only with #3-4!
The melody is a clever five-bar phrase, where bar 3 is repeated;
These are the tenor and bass "Wagner" tubas (they produce a sound similar to a baritone horn). Long notes, also composed as a five-note phrase;
The entrance of the bass drum. Notice that it's in 3/4 (the 1/8th-notes in the timpani help define the beat) -- producing that wonderful two-against-three effect ... but it gets even better!
The tam-tam plays one beat between two bass drum beats, creating yet another polyrhythm! All this is clear as a bell in this magical Cleveland recording!
IV.
Two muted trumpets. Listen to how carefully the Cleveland players match each other's tone!
Stravinsky lengthens the duet for a bar or two, and then drops in this beautiful counter-riff:
Two violas and two cellos play this spooky little jagged triplet, while the rest of the cellos keep a steady 1/8th-note pulse.
The trumpets repeat their somber theme one more time, and Stravinsky sweeps everything up with his great, magical orchestration. Like a floating ghost, the trumpet theme is taken up by a new combination -- clarinets and horn. The only pulse is the pizzicato cello, as the texture thickens with the triplet motif.
V.
A glissando by the English horn ends on a held G-Sharp against the steady plucked D's (a tritone apart). An alto flute joins in.
After much working out, Stravinsky returns to this idea, which will lead directly into the ferocious Sacrificial Dance. But note a small detail of orchestration. The glissando is played by a muted bass trumpet
which must carefully lead into the English horn note, which it does three more times. The alto flute again answers the E.H.
Once again, Stravinsky challenges the two bass clarinet players:
They didn’t do their due diligence. They didn’t do it, And now they rue it, And how they will rue not doing it With vigilance when they had the chance. They talked the talk but didn’t dance the dance.
They committed the folly Of failing to follow the lolly. They didn’t learn about the booze, They didn’t learn about the flooze, The smack, the jack, and the lolly. And, in short, they missed the trolley.
They overlooked some obvious flaws. Why? Was it arrogance Or the need to spare the expense Or just a lack of common sense? Who can say? Whatever the cause, They failed to observe the clause.
They didn’t do their due diligence. They didn’t do it, And now they rue it, And how they will rue not doing it, How they will rue the day They didn’t do their due diligence.
Karla Cordero is a Chicana poet, educator, and a 2021 California Arts Council Established Artist Fellow. Her poetry collection, How To Pull Apart The Earth, is a San Diego Book Award winner and finalist for the International Latino Book Awards. Karla’s work has appeared on NPR, Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day, Split This Rock, The Oprah Magazine, PANK, The Breakbeat Poets Vol. 4 LatiNext Anthology, among other publications. She is the Executive Director for the non-profit art organization Glassless Minds and Professor at MiraCosta College and San Diego City College. Follow her @karlaflaka13 on Instagram or visit her website.
This is the epigraph that Edgar Allan Poe chose for "The Murders in the Rue Morgue":
"What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions are not beyond all conjecture." -- Sir Thomas Browne, Urn-Burial
Formidable and fascinating in its own right, the sentence is perfectly apposite to the story it heads.
Poe's example makes me want to composea succinct ode to the art of the epigraph, which involves not only a cunning eye for a great and somewhat out-of-the-way quotation but also a determination to build on the quoted material -- to use it to quicken a new work into being.
noun: A literary work, especially a poem, composed of parts taken from works of other authors.
ETYMOLOGY:
From Latin cento (patchwork). Earliest documented use: 1605.
NOTES:
Nobel-prize-winning poet T.S. Eliot’s observation is relevant to centos: “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion.”
“Louis Zukofsky continued to write ... a play, a novella, a book of criticism, a 500-page cento of philosophy in homage to Shakespeare ...” Bob Perelman; Finding His Voice; Tikkun (Berkeley, California); May/Jun 2007.
514: Song lyricist was my dream career: Fill a dozen or so pages with drafts, send them off to my dependent collaborator (with a sweet voice, ear for melody, and recording contract), and live on royalties as I consume experiences for my next set of lyrics. The dream came true—except for the contract and royalties.
515: I was madly in love with the 60s singer-songwriters, playing their albums on repeat (pre-digitally on a turntable) and seeing them at The Gaslight, Fat Black Pussycat, Bitter End, Gerdes Folk City, Club 47, Central Park summer concerts, Palisades Amusement Park, Newport Folk Festival: Phil Ochs, Laura Nyro, Eric Andersen, Buffy St. Marie, Bonnie Raitt, Tim Hardin, Tom Paxton, Fred Neil, Paul Siebel, Patrick Sky, Richard and Mimi Farina, Leonard Cohen, Tim Buckley, Steve Noonan, Janis Ian, and of course Bob Dylan. (Though I was never enamored of "Blowing in the Wind," which Peter Yarrow introduced on a live Peter, Paul & Mary recording with a Rabbinical "This song asks nine questions.” What motivated him to count the questions? Years later I asked him and he tousled my hair and said, “Oh you!”)
516: I took to the guitar at an early age. Here I am pretending to be a lap-guitar-cowboy (prepared for an unruly-crowd).
I toured local backyards as one of the first Elvis impersonators, right down to the cowlick.
517: When I was 15, I spent some of my Bar Mitzvah money on a $50 Harmony Sovereign guitar at the recently-opened branch of Sam Ash in Hempstead. Here's Paul Ash after closing the deal.
On the way home, my mother said, “Is this going to collect dust in the closet?” I took the bait and signed up for lessons from Al Wansor, who had an eponymous store in Lynbrook. At the first lesson, Al “taught” me to play “Love Me Tender”—single notes, no chords. I wanted to strum like Bob Gibson and fingerpick like Mississippi John Hurt. I didn't return so I never got to know that Al Wansor had toured with bands and did session work on albums. I did enjoy playing the notes to “Love Me Tender,” and eventually realized the repetition was starting to train my ear to recognize note differentials, training that was never completed because I gave up on Al Wansor.
518: I played the Harmony Sovereign at dozens of gigs, wrote songs on it, and filled cassettes labelled "noodling" and "messing." Everyone who picked it up admired its action and tone. Several years later, Jimmy Page would compose Led Zeppelin songs on a Harmony Sovereign (here on display at the Met Museum), and even played it on the recording of “Stairway to Heaven".
Also, Pete Townshend had one.
But first I had one.
519: I would pretend I wrote songs I admired, and sing them in imagined settings. I also fantasized going to go to my left on a fast break for the Knicks, which was never going to happen, but having my lyrics sung at the Gaslight was remotely possible (and did happen).
Fred Neil’s “Just a Little Bit of Rain,” comprises only 13 discrete lines, including:
And if you look back Try to forget all the bad times Lonely blue and sad times And just a little bit of rain And just a little bit of rain
I heard myself adding:
And if you look back Try to forget the last words Those hastily caste words And just a little bit of rain And just a little bit of rain
I felt like I had just gone to my left on a fast break.
520: Robert Middleman was my folkie friend throughout high school (and beyond). Somehow, we summoned the gumption to play hoot night at Gerdes Folk City (the original location, positively on Fourth Street), where on Monday nights anyone could do a song or two. The emcee sized us up and put us on first. As the sparse audience scattered politeness for Tom Paxton's "The Last Thing on My Mind," the emcee said, "Well, that's a hootenanny for you," which we took to mean, "We got that one out of the way." We were followed by a kid about our age who knew what he was doing. He was Gram Parsons, later of the Byrds and the Flying Burrito Brothers (who would OD at 26). Another performer was a cowboy-type with the refrain, "I proceeded to take 3 or 4 steps backwards and give her a dropkick right in the crotch." Everyone (including me) laughed at the line, which showed up a few years later on Jerry Jeff Walker's Driftin' Way of Life album. By then, I didn't laugh.
521: In the spring of my first year at Union College, my roommate from Carmel Valley said, "One of your folksinger friends was killed near my house." He said it with a combination of hometown pride and college banter. It took me a couple of days to find out it was one of my heroes, Richard Fariña, who had left a party for his wife (and collaborator) Mimi's 21st birthday to take a ride on the back of a motorcycle.
I mourned by singing "Children of Darkness" to Mimi:
Now is the time for your loving, dear And the time for your company Now when the light of reason fails And fires burn on the sea....
For I am a wild and a lonely child And the son of an angry land; And now with the high wars raging I would offer you my hand
I wasn't wild, I wasn't particularly lonely, and I wasn't a child, but I certainly felt the need to imagine Mimi's company.
522: Though not as momentous an occasion as Ezra Pound showing up at William Carlos Williams' room at Penn, I first met Carl Rosenstock when he appeared at my dorm room to check out the Harmony Sovereign he'd been hearing about, marking the beginning of a long songwriting/performing friendship. Usually one of us would write a first draft and the other might offer suggestions. Eventually we added Cliff Safane (a true musician who played piano, sax, and bass clarinet) and called ourselves "The 42nd Street Shuttle," which came to be known around campus as simply "The Shuttle." We were regulars at the North End, a makeshift campus cafe, where performers included Phil Robinson (later to build the Field of Dreams), and afterwards we might have beers at the Rathskeller with Jeffrey DeMunn (currently with 119 acting credits on IMDB), who blew us away with his Krapp's Last Tape at the campus theater in the Nott Memorial.
We also played frequently on Rob Friedman's Folk Fest radio show on WRPI (which went on for decades). And we somehow got on the stage at Caffe Lena in Saratoga, with Cliff playing bass clarinet (probably a first for a folk club). At the end of the set, Lena declared, "Well, that's the new music!" which we took to mean, "We got that one out of the way." Set list:
523: Some lies are so unnecessary (and ultimately disprovable) that they could hardly be worth the ephemeral pleasure they might bring. This lie still confounds me: A production company was making a documentary on Union College. The producer called and said he'd heard that "The Shuttle" was the folk group on campus, and could we record one of our songs for the soundtrack? (Maybe someone would see it and offer us a contract.) Weeks after we did the recording, a classmate mentioned he had seen a preview. "Are we in it?" we asked. "Yeah," he said. "The Shuttle, right in the opening."
We weren't in it.
524: I couldn't sing. I could finger-pick passably (thanks to someone showing me the secret of double thumbing), and my Harmony Sovereign sweetened my strumming. But I couldn't run a sequence of single notes, a minimal skill set for a lead guitarist. Carl liked—needed—having me around, so I was in the Shuttle lineup, home or away, and the lead lines were keyboarded or blown by Cliff.
One of my lyrics came out, wholly formed, in my notebook, triggered by my memories of playing the snare drum in the elementary school walking band.
Carl added a lovely melody, and since there were so few lyrics, Cliff had plenty of time to stretch out. One performance, I felt the music in a way I hadn't before, and improvised a very brief solo. The show was recorded, and when my solo came up on the tape, Cliff looked at me, smiled, and said, "You had a musical idea."
The next day, a friend ran up to me on campus, held my shoulders, said, "'Proud of your brand new shoes'—beautiful!" and ran off.
525: I met a student named Paul Harris when I was being rushed by both Jewish fraternities. Paul asked me if Eric Andersen was any good. "He's great, why?" His friend Harvey Brooks, a bass player, had asked Paul to join him accompanying Andersen at a concert. They hit it off so well musically that Eric Andersen did something perhaps unprecedented: He rerecorded his current album, 'Bout Changes 'N' Things, this time with Paul and Harvey.
Paul went on to an illustrious career with hundreds of credits as accompanist and arranger: The Doors, Nick Drake, B.B. King, Ian and Sylvia, John Sebastian, and so so many more, including a stint as part of Stephen Stills' group "Manassas."
One day Paul excitedly gave me a reel-to-reel of Richie Havens' forthcoming first album, Mixed Bag. We went to the campus library, and I listened to the whole album through headphones in one of the cushioned chairs on the mezzanine, tingling with the excitement of a career being launched. "What did you think?" Paul asked, and I told him I loved it except for "Sandy," which sounded more cocktail lounge than folk club. Paul seemed crushed. "I thought that was some of my best playing," he said, and I listened again and realized that Paul was transcending musical borders, and I should try to keep up.
Paul's most stunning early achievement was arranging and conducting Tom Rush's Circle Game album, utilizing compositional approaches he'd picked up from Edgar Curtis, a Union professor. When I ran into Paul backstage at the Newport Folk Festival, we got into a conversation about the merits of the two Jewish fraternities at Union. Tom Rush sidled up and said, "So, what are we talking about?" I tried to change the subject but Paul continued with Phi Ep vs. Phi Sigma.
After graduating, Paul toured with, among others, Judy Collins. By then we had lost touch, so when I saw that Collins was performing in Troy, I tried to reach Paul at the hotel. Someone else came to the phone and said, "My name is Michael Sahl, I'm filling in for Paul." He promised to give Paul my best. Decades later I was introduced to Michael Sahl at the graduation of his son Ben, my student and friend. I said, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Wa talked on the phone."
525: Carl and I took a bus to New York to audition for Vanguard Records. Not only didn't we get a deal, but someone stole my borrowed guitar from the waiting room. (Fortunately, it wasn't the Harmony Sovereign.) And we auditioned for an A&R man at April Blackwood. His name was Tony, and he told us that our songs needed hooks. He was sympathetic to our artistic impulses and said he had been on the performing side of the business. Then, the pre-Dawn Tony Orlando belted out "Bless you / bless every breath that you take."
526: The summer of 1969 I was living with my girlfriend in Riverside, California, working as a newspaper reporter (infiltrating the White Citizens Council, writing about street corner preachers and a women's liberation group) while occasionally sending lyrics to Carl, who was passing the basket in Greenwich Village coffee shops.
My girlfriend moved back East on a pre-determined date to start at a new college. As much as I thought I was prepared for the split, after she left for the airport I felt like the world around me had gone empty. I grabbed my notebook and wrote exactly what happened.
The empty suitcase slowly fills You take the candle off the windowsill The dresser's empty now You look around Make sure there's nothing you left behind
You take the ticket that I bought For the bus ride to the airport Baggage on the sidewalk We just sit and talk And the driver starts his engine going You're going
The driver moves to close the door He says we can't wait anymore Caught by surprise No time for goodbyes I walk away after you turn the corner You're going
We knew at the start that it would end And we knew just exactly when You'd go back east I'd stay west It's just what places It's just what places It's just what places Have to offer To offer
Months later, back in New York, I caught one of Carl's sets. I sat in the corner, alone, paying close attention to the wizard guitarist sitting on my old stool. A young woman with bright red hair yelled, “Do the one about the candle!” (I later found out she was the daughter of a famous folk musician.)
“You know the poet I’ve been talking about, who wrote the lyrics to that song? He’s here tonight.” Carl pointed towards me, and all eyes turned my way. “But he’s so innocuous looking," said the young woman with bright red hair.
I couldn't have felt more flattered.
527: I was writing poetry and editing a literary magazine, but I got down to the Village occasionally. Carl was part of a flock of folksingers, who would play a set or two, then head for drinks at the Kettle Of Fish (above the Gaslight). When the Kettle was full, it was over to Googie’s on Sullivan Street. When the bars closed, the migration might head a few blocks down to Chinatown. Among the crew, the one I thought most likely to make it was Patrick Chamberlain, a singer-songwriter-raconteur born in East Texas and raised in rural Pennsylvania. He greeted me at one of his concerts with “The gentleman from the press has arrived.”
Back row from left to right: Carl Rosenstock, Pat Chamberlain, and an innocuous lyricist (drawing by singer-songwriter-poet Rich Levine).
And then, tragedy. As I heard it, Pat was on the phone with an ex-girlfriend, threatening to blow his brains out if she didn’t come over. She didn’t come over. I played the cassette I recorded of his recent concert. Pat introduced a song with, “They say you need three things to make it in this business: experience, exposure and an ex old lady so you have some kind of experience to write songs.” Lyrics included “it gets in my veins I can hear her refrains / I hope that she is just fine.”
The memorial service was at Calvary Church. I overhead Paul Siebel say to Steve Goodman, “If it’s all the same to Pat, let’s not do this to each other.” Goodman replied, “It really kicked that shit out of me.” Siebel looked around and said, “He sure threw a good party.”
528: I had some money, so when Erik Frandsen (who once sang “Meet the Mets” at the Gaslight) told me about a Gibson J-45 at Matt Umanov’s shop, I went for a look.
As I was testing out the guitar, intimidated by all the pros in the room, I started strumming major 7th chords. Someone pointed to a sign that read, "No major 7th chords without a note from your mother,” and I switched to double-thumb fingerpicking and plunked down $350. I still have the guitar.
529: For a few years I wrote songs with former Shuttle-mate Cliff Safane, more pop than folk. They were performed by an up-and-coming singer (who didn't come up).
530: Back in the late 60s, a magazine identified Tim Buckley, Jackson Browne, and Steve Noonan as the Orange County Three. Noonan's career didn't take off like the others, but his first album never strayed from my rotation.
All Lafayette’s installations and performances happen within what is, essentially, an elaborate sculpture of space by architect Rem Koolhaas. Basically, Lafayette is a large three-layer light well with viewing platforms.
If you’ve lived in a flatiron or a round building or had to renovate “atypical space” to live in, experience or instinct gives you some measure of Lafayette’s ongoing technical and esthetic challenge, interesting in itself. More broadly, whether doing dance performance or living life, the space it takes place in is a primordial feature of it; we are in an existential exchange with our surroundings.
A space can be mute: choreography that works fine in somebody’s basement won’t necessarily work at Opéra Bastille. A space can talk back: current life choreographies are transforming the natural environment from an indifferent ally into an existential threat.
Mute or responsive, exchange with space is an existential imposition. But both authentic living and art require will and intention, so finding a way to dialogue, deliberately shaping and grafting intentions into given space, is essential to creative success. Because Lafayette’s “space sculpture” has so much relentless will and intention built into it – Rem Koolhaas is always talking back – it forces a spectator – at least, it has always forced me – to think hard about how a creator/choreographer/performer achieves dialogue from exchange.
So far, whether for installations or performance, Lafayette’s three-layer light well sculpture has been made to work pretty well. For instance, both as experience and brain-teaser, the articulation of light and dark for Agnes Gryczkowska’s Spring 2023 installation, Au-Delà: Rituels pour un monde nouveau, (“There Beyond: rituals for a new world”), modeled as an “initiation” evoking archaic, contemporary and future ritual, did the trick very well. And the space positively threw itself into its role as a big city pocket park for performance creator Lina Lapelyte’s The Mutes.
Strong choreographers at Lafayette can and do create dialogue through force of artistic intention. I’m thinking of Noé Soulier’s Mouvement sur Mouvement. Strong performers can and do master the space with a performance that creates a parallel space, resonating like an opera in a rocket ship. I’m thinking of Dorothée Munyaneza’s A cappella. Both performances featured in Echelle Humaine 2022.
At moments, too, Lafayette’s space can make for wonderful, one-of-a-kind success. My heart still beats hard when I think of watching dance performer Yuika Hashimoto’s re-creation of choreographer Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker’s historic Violin Phase, which was followed by the choreographer’s de-creation of same at the bottom of that light well. Unforgettable stuff and only possible inside Koolhaas’ sculpture.
Essentially, Echelle Humaine 2023, which opens this Friday, 15 September, is challenging all its dance performance and installation creators to work deliberately within its unique performance space. Using public workshops, creator meet & greets, installations and choreographies, it has explicitly built its program around how that is, or can be, done.
The program is heavy on visualness and concepts. Installations include Alix Boillot’s Scénographie potentielle, a blue potato that inhabits it’s given space at the top of the light well and Tai Shani’s Reading room, which accents (her) recurring motifs. Ivan Cheng’s Clarities, is a purpose-built active installation-performance using video to satirize the creative process, Luara Raio’s Apocalypso, featuring Acauã El Bandide Sereia, and Paul Maheke’s L'Origine de la mort, featuring Alyssa "Ledet" Dillard, are both dance-performance duets, the former themed around cultural colonization and the latter around on the thinness of the lines between perceptions.
The praise poem was all the rage in certain circles in 1993. Kathy from Pussy Poets started it; she wrote a praise poem for Bobby Miller, and one for me, called “Mary Jane Girl.” “Mary Jane Girl” was all about how I would get her high and listen to her relationship problems with DC, and how awesome of me that was. I loved Kathy, too, but I never wrote a praise poem for her.
I never wrote a praise poem for anyone. The closest I came was a poem I wrote for Eliza, which wasn’t written so much for her as it was written to impress her. The poem was named for my old friend Melissa, and it implied that Melissa and I had slept together; in fact, we had not. But I wanted Eliza to think I had some credibility as a lesbian so that she would like me, and isn’t wanting someone to like you one of the highest forms of praise?
Eliza didn’t have any praise poems, though she had a response poem, which was kind of the same thing; just another way of flirting. Maggie Estep had a poem called “Fuck Me,” so Eliza wrote a response poem called “No, Fuck Me,” and of course Maggie heard about it and was flattered, but she didn’t swing that way, so Eliza read it to me, dancing ahead of me on the sidewalk on Allen Street, really performing the hell out of it. I was dying to swing Eliza’s way, and I almost did, for a few weeks there, after which she dumped me in the middle of Tompkins Square Park. Then I wrote a poem with Eliza’s name in it, but it wasn’t a praise poem.
I started dating Paul, who put me in just about every single one of his poems, which was his way of paying me back for letting him live with me and supporting him while he smoked all of my weed. He read one on stage at the Nuyorican one night – “And Janice will fill you up! And Janice will set you free!” – and I cringed, ashamed. Everyone knew how cheap I was, that I could be bought for the price of a few lines of not very good poetry.
In the meantime, DC wrote a praise poem for me. It was called “For J.E.,” and the word “genius” was used. This caused me to think about dumping Paul for DC, who had his own apartment, and a job, and was also a much better poet than Paul was. So I wrote a poem dedicated to DC. This caused Kathy to retire her praise poem for me, and to change one of the characters in the screenplay she was writing from a wonderful best friend type to an inane slut.
I guess what I’m trying to say here is that no poem will get you laid faster than a praise poem, but if you use one to sleep with another poet, you’re either going to wind up supporting them while they smoke all your weed, getting dumped in the middle of Tompkins Square Park, or alienating your best friends. Probably safer to stick to limericks.
Ben Lerner’s The Lights was published September 5 by MacMillan. The poems contained therein are heady, energetic, and totally engaged with the now—our crisis as a nation and the world’s peril. Lerner contextualizes the horrors of our contemporary situation with the life of Whitman and the grass. There is a lot of grass in this book, actually—delicately pulled from the earth with reverence. Yet the weight of his subjects never feels too much as the tonal shifts in the book allow for humor. In the prose poem “The Media,” he writes “And it’s me, Ben, just calling to check in. I’m on my way to pick Marcela up from daycare and wanted to hear about your trip…Give me a call when you can. I’ll be around until the late nineteenth century, when carved wood gives way to polished steel, especially on lake surfaces….” And in the spectacular “Contre-jour,” a sparkly list poem chronicling luminosity of all sorts, Lerner injects, “I wish I’d known//you were a fan of light/I would have same some for you…”
There’s really nothing to see inside. The austerity that once numbed the rooms Died of a fever and rotted in the shadows Of the few trees left on the lawn. You can stare through the windows all you want, Nothing inside will be broken, the guests The dogs and stray cats will never appear. But something keeps me here. Maybe it’s The old man who whistles through his teeth. He sways lightly on the porch swing. His rifle Is covered with dust. Birds listen from the barns, Wait for their big chance. Maybe it’s Upstairs Helen, weeping in the shadows of gold. Maybe it’s the children moaning from deep Under the ground where they’re passing their lives. They wait for the tale’s perfume to blow away. They have asked me to step back and drift off Through the suddenly softly falling snow, Launched into the future, my hands thrown up, So we can all disappear from my mind.
-Richard Stull
Richard Stull was born and raised in Mount Gilead, Ohio. He lived for many years in New York City, where he worked as an editor and a freelance writer. He now lives in Newburgh, a small city on the Hudson River, about fifty miles north of New York. He has been a resident at Yaddo and was awarded an Ingram Merrill Foundation grant. His poems have appeared in Poetry, The ParisReview, Sal Mimeo (edited by Larry Fagin), and Blazing Stadium. He is the author of several limited editions. These include A Walk With Jane, Drugged Like Mirrors, Canal, and The Adoration of the Golden Calf.
The New York School Diaspora (Part Fifty-Nine): Richard Stull
Richard Stull’s “Country Music” begins with a compelling disclaimer: “There’s really nothing to see inside” and moves on to a brilliant matter-of-fact personification: “The austerity that once numbed the rooms / Died of a fever and rotted in the shadows / Of the few trees left on the lawn.” This poverty, natural and human, is the source of country’s music’s tortured falsetto and gravelly base—anguish and comfort in one. The house has nothing to offer—even its unofficial guests, the strays, stay hidden. Then the poet/speaker says, “But something keeps me here,” and posits “it’s / The old man who whistles through his teeth”—a carnivore’s music. The man seems more dead than alive, like a photograph of someone once living: “He sways lightly on the porch swing. His rifle / Is covered with dust.” “Birds listen from the barns, / Wait for their big chance.” What this means is mysterious, made even more so by the arrival of “Upstairs / Helen, weeping in the shadows of gold.”
Suddenly we are in the realm of myth—incongruous in this cornpone setting, but somehow right. Think of Loretta Lynn—was she not a kind of Iphigenia? In shadows of gold from the glittering costumes that surrounded her? I am far afield, but the poem invites that, I think.
It takes us next to an underworld: “Maybe it’s the children moaning from deep / Under the ground where they’re passing their lives.” “Passing their lives” manages to suggest so much while at the same time withholding it. “They wait for the tale’s perfume to blow away.” What is the tale and why is it scented? Because of an Attic breeze—not from under-roof storage, but ancient Greece? Like all of us, the children wish for things to be different. Maybe scentless.
The word “Maybe” in the poem keeps us at the threshold of reality, the house we don’t need to enter.
What happens next astonishes—the poet has heard from the children. The poem opens wide,suddenly, with the poem’s words addressing its maker. These are not quoted, but summarized--“They have asked me to step back and drift off”—and suddenly it’s snowing—the same prophetic snow that covers the end of James Joyce’s great story, “The Dead,” and we are carried on its drift along with the poet. The poem’s astounding ending violates and remakes the rules of personification: “So we can all disappear from my mind.” How to parse this statement? As opaque and teasing as Arthur Rimbaud’s “’I’ is another,” it says all this is fantasy—straightforward enough—but also violent. The poet’s posture is like someone shot, pushed over a cliff, powerless: “Launched into the future, my hands thrown up.” The casualties include the shotgun codger, the strays, the birds, and—most heartbreakingly--Upstairs Helen. If the poem said “so they can all disappear” we would witness a familiar poetic desertion, like the one in Keats’“Ode to a Nightingale,” when the poet must return to his “sole self.” That’s not what happens. Instead, we “all disappear,” “launched”—shades of Helen—into an unknowable future that is decidedly non-mythic. The inclusion of poet and reader in the disappearance makes magic--and in this moment, the poem, like breath, is knocked out of us. Yet something reverberates in reverse: a willed poverty, a Keatsian surmise. - Angela Ball
I left it
on when I
left the house
for the pleasure
of coming back
ten hours later to the greatness of Teddy Wilson "After You've Gone" on the piano in the corner of the bedroom as I enter in the dark
