La Ventana

I’m pleased to announce my alma mater Purchase College will be publishing my poem, La Ventana in their interdisciplinary journal, The Submission.

Rather interesting timing considering I’ve just moved into a house where all the windows are broken.

Alpacas and hope chests

It’s interesting to me how friendships and objects change over the years.

Someone who you used to share intimate secrets with in bright lights becomes one less friend on social media sites. Or someone who once helped you find a place to live becomes a person you are not sure why you spent all your lunch hours consoling. Even someone you learned how to fly with, can then become someone’s mail you rip up and recycle.

In my living room sits my grandmother’s hope chest, inside it’s dated 1943. I have kept some old things in there, embroidery, table clothes–
my dowry, I joke, some old Hungarians made. Mostly in contains my journals, about 20 of them, that I wrote in them on a daily basis for the last ten years. They are the only things I fear of losing in a fire. I’m amused, disturbed, flabbergasted at characters who burn their journals first when wanting to recreate themselves, or leave an old self behind. I’d sooner cut my hair. I did actually. Right now I use it as a table and sit on the floor and eat my dinner, or lean up against it and watch tv. I think about how my grandmother would feel about it being in Los Angeles, among other things.

On my refrigerator is a vinyl panel from a trade show booth. It’s about five feet tall and is a picture of an alpaca. It’s only half of the panel. The other jigsawed piece is on another a refrigerator, at least it used to be, of another person whose meaning has changed for me.

Now I stare at the alpaca, or it is staring at me, while I eat breakfast and it truly keeps me company. I lean on the hope chest and chat on my iPhone with people all over the world.

The meaning of these people, these objects have changed for me. Somehow, the absence of the people doesn’t bother me and I think the objects are happy in their new home.

Words that Annoy Me

• religiousity
• modernity
• guesstimate
• suicidality

What words annoy you?

Gay Marriage

So I still can’t marry a woman in New York. Bummer.

And I really mean that. I mean that because although I am not currently in love with a woman I want to marry, I should be able to marry a woman if I want to. Marriage is not about love. Even though the marriages of San Francisco couples who had been together for decades was touching, marriage has only recently been a union between two people who actually like each other. Marriage is a contract, a business agreement, a different box on your tax return.

I should be able to get married to a woman, not because I love her and we’ve been together forever or because I’m gay or because I’m not but because I should be able to get married because I should get to check that box on my tax return. Because I should have a father offer me up a dowry. Because I should be able to see my wife in the hospital. Because I should be able to get to inherit my wife’s assets if she dies and not give up our treasured ceramic bird collection to obnoxious children.

Oh. But I should also get to do it for all the amazing reasons heterosexuals get to do it. Because she got me preggers. Or, I got her preggers. Because our families think it would be a great idea. Because I’m in the closet. Because I really want kids. Because I really want a Vitamix and all six seasons of Sex and the City or whatever else people put on their registry wishlist. Because I want American citizenship. Because I want to get away from home. Because I want more money. Because I want someone to take care of me.

People get married for alternately really great and really shitty reasons. It has nothing to do with love, or religion but how our government and laws recognize marriage.

So please, let’s recognize gay marriage.

Persimmons

I like the fall.  Or at least California’s version of the fall that makes me switch to tall boots and a scarf.  The farmer’s markets explode in yellows and oranges and I feel pressure to buy squash.  But it’s the sounds of the new produce that I love, butternut, endive, pumpkin, pomegranates, persimmons–which of course reminds me of this poem, Persimmons by Li-Young Lee.

 

 

 

 

Greek class

A few weeks ago I signed up for a Greek class.  It is a language I have wanted to learn for awhile and finally decided to cross it off my list.  I have taken Spanish and Latin for years, but this is the first non-Romance language I have really set down to learn.  This may be more difficult with the additional challenge of learning a new, albeit familiar, alphabet.

What frustrates me about learning another language is I have never become fully fluent in one–but I feel I am not in fully fluent in English as a poet.  What I say and want to convey superbly in my work is an ongoing challenge; I include many double entendres in my speech and poetry.  I find the grammar also difficult since American public schools decided to neglect this aspect in English class and thus I struggle to learn (as most of my comrades) to learn grammar in a foreign tongue.

Anyway, last night, this poem came up in the lesson and I thought I would share it.  Amusing to me especially since I am planning to go to Ithaca, NY.

Ithaca

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon — do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)

B is for Bad Poetry Reading

It’s been way too long since I have been to a poetry reading.  I came across this reading and decided to forego my usual attempt at the downtown artwalk.

It was at the Mandrake in Culver City.  One of my favorite bars really.  Every time I go there I wonder why I don’t go more often.  They list cocktails with names I savor: Rose’s Garden, Dark and Stormy, Sidecar, Manhattan.  Surely you can order these cocktails most places, but I decided to forego my usual jack and cock and ask my date for a recommendation.  He suggested French 75 and I enjoyed those all night.  They also have pretty good food and we ate a martini glass full of exotic olives before chomping down on some stuff grape leaves, manchego cheese and honey.

I wasn’t sure what to expect of the crowd or reading, but both were really wonderful.  Many people came spefically for the reading, held in a room usually reserved for the art gallery portion and it was packed.  Everyone was lovely and receptive.  Pamela was a hoot.  In the past, I’ve been annoyed when greater applause or recognition is given to a poet that can make the audience laugh–not all poetry is funny or entertaining, if you want that go to a comedy show.  However, Pamela was able to be funny and entertaining, but her poetry was good! Er, bad? Which is it?  She compiled “bad” poems for this book which I had not known about previous to this reading that were turn of phrases, cliches that suddenly got clever, producing laughs and groans from the audience.

After her reading, there was a break, then an open for people to recite their own bad poetry.  They provided a sort of worksheet where you could make up something on the spot.  I couldn’t come up with a short bad poem, I’m sorry to say and had mixed feelings about reading a short poem from my iPhone that could be good, but fit into a reading of bad poetry.

I bought her book but haven’t fully explored it yet.  We chatted a bit at the reading and I told her how much I liked having poetry reading in bars–that really more readings should be in bars and Russell told me that she was hoping to get together some kind of fun salon with drinking and reading, just kicking back and having fun.  This sounds promising so I hope we are able to connect in the future.