Archive for September 2012

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Romney’s Self-Made Vision

September 20, 2012

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I am not unsympathetic to Mitt Romney.

But I do have some disagreements with even his beginning statements in the secretly-taped video from his May fundraiser in Florida (statements made before he gets down to percentages.)

Romney talks of his wealth as entirely self-made.  This is based on the fact that he and his wife donated the funds they inherited from their fathers. He also characterizes his only silver spoon as his birth in the U.S.

I applaud Romney for his charitable donations of his inheritance.  (I’m sorry, but I do have to note that this happened well after he was already very wealthy.  Still, he did do it.)

And I too feel very lucky to have been born in the U.S.

But I am troubled that Romney does not seem to appreciate the tremendous leg-up he was born with; that he does not seem to understand the self-confidence that membership in an important and wealthy family imparts; the risk-taking and ease that arise from having something to fall back upon.

We cannot help the gifts we are given at birth.

And, of course, it is tempting (even if one is not running for office) to tout one’s own part in one’s development.

But grace, empathy, wisdom and even a certain quality of leadership seem (to me at least) to go hand in hand with a modesty that over-emphasizes, rather than undercuts, what we’ve been given by others and that understands the difficulties faced by those without similar good fortune.

Romney might very well acknowledge the specifics of his good fortune in a quiet room with just a couple of people around.  But in the quiet room of the video, attitudes of gratitude and empathy don’t seem to make it into the camera’s viewfinder.  And, regardless of what you think of Romney’s proposed policies or whether his work at Bain qualifies as “old-fashioned” and “hard work,” or his own taxpaying record, this is troubling.

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After Working A Very Short Time At Mother Teresa’s Home For The Dying, Kalighat (Kolkata)

September 18, 2012

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After Working A Very Short Time At Mother Teresa’s Home For The Dying, Kalighat (Kolkata)

We carried some
like laundry
to small sheet-metal
tubs, their scooped torsos
hammocked
in our grip.

There was one
who made me wish I’d stuck
with washing pots and pans in the back,
where cold jolts of spigot, along with
the straw and sand we used
to get at the burned spots,
had steadied my hands.

Because it seemed that she
might die in my arms; worse,
cough–

Her thinned limbs spindled–
stripped kindling–only her
head, which the shaved bristle
somehow oversized,
seemed substantial and the dark
gaze that clutched
as if I might drop her–

Then I did drop her–
not
as I carried,
not
as I set her down
(awkwardly arranging the
double sheen of shin), but,
after I left that blue
moist hall, Calcutta, and for years afterwards,
when I reached
for the story I had pocketed,
and, too busy, too fearful, too
padded, washed my hands
once more.

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Click here for a somewhat ponderous reading.  (I’m sorry, still learning; it does give a sense of pauses.) After Working A Very Short Time At Mother Teresa’s Home For the Dying

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Above is a draft poem posted for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night that I still don’t think I’ve gotten right (in multiple ways.)  It’s not meant to denigrate hand-washing!  But is based on a very short experience working at Mother Teresa’s Home for the Dying in the 1980’s in what was then Calcutta (now known as Kolkata).  I was lucky enough to see Mother Teresa a couple of times.  She was tremendously impressive, immensely charismatic.  And her nuns (the Missionaries of Charity) seemed to me like angels.  Most of the dying in Kalighat had tuberculosis. 

\Check out dVerse for great online poetry.  

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Dali’s Venus (and the Sailor) – “I can too paint sweet” (Upping the Ante on Picasso)

September 17, 2012

Salvador Dali, “Venus and the Sailor,” 1926

Dali’s Venus (and the Sailor)

Forget the melting clock, encrypted koan–
I can too paint sweet as any know-n–
Picasso thinks he’s cornered beauty, truth,
with thighs so round and faces full of ruth–
(‘Ruth?’ you think, odd word for man of Spain–
Tal vez que “ruthless” is my middle name.)
I’ll show you, Pablo dear, and all the world
that ‘pretty,’ like my mustache deftly curled,
is well within my grasp.  You gasp!
And aim competing curses at my head!
But already this dame’s earned my daily bread.

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Here’s a rather silly one for Tess Kincaid’s The Mag 135, intended to a be an internal monologue of Salvador Dali.  I confess that Dali, a surrealist known for his message-filled paintings, clever bravado, and extremely waxed mustache, is not one of my favorite painters.  I find the Venus painting quite beautiful though, and (to me) very reminiscent of some of Picasso’s work with similar “voluminous” and luminous figures. 

Check out Tess’s site, and also my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.  Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

Categories: poetry
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Comments: 28 Comments

“Firefly Jar” Fragment(ed)

September 16, 2012

Drawing of Firefly Jar by Diana Barco

Firefly (Fragmented)

As a child, I was told that I was a star,
whose brilliance would light up the world like a jar
filled with fireflies.  In the place I grew up,
we’d crouch in dark grass, catching them in the cup
of a hand that quickly transformed into heart,
a roseate, luminescent, star part.
From palm, we would pour them into our glass,
so we could catch more, faster than fast….

Now, when I think back to that life as a star,
I see less of the firefly, more of the jar,
the air holes on top we made with a pick
used to pry nuts from shells, a sharp metal stick.
It tore holes that were cutting, jagged beneath,
and could easily pierce an insect’s bright sheath.
I think of those holes, the sharp underside
that ceilinged that glow, that unreasoning pride.

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I am posting above which is a fragment of another poem for Kerry O’Connor’s With Real Toads Challenge, to post a poetic fragment – the type of language one might save in a firefly jar.  I’m not sure this fits the bill as it really is part of an already written poem – on the other hand, it deals very directly with firefly jars! 

The full poem can be found here, and is in my book, Going on Somewhere, by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by the incomparable Diana Barco.  I actually think the shortened version, posted today is better than the full poem.  (I’ve never felt completely happy with the full version as it seemed awfully bathic and more than a little self-pitying.)  Another great firefly jar drawing by Diana Barco can be seen here.

I urge you to check out all the wonderful poetry at With Real Toads.

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“Missives” (And First Time Light Sculpture Film)

September 15, 2012

Missives

The first time I communicated with the dead
was through the “D” volume of
my Junior Britannica.
My letter was addressed
to my lost dog, though her name, which even today
is too embarrassing for me to repeat, began
with a C.

The next time was in the shadow
of my grandmother’s casket
as I watched my aunt rub out
the lipstick she felt
too bright
for the corpse
of someone so
modest.
“I’m sorry,” I thought to my
grandmother, “but you know
how she is.”

Since then, I haven’t lost count–
communications with the dead
are not something
one loses track of – I just can’t bear
to recite the coordinates – the place, the time, the
circumstances
of sobs (interior
or wracking), the wait
for blessing.

My missive
is almost always the same – “I’m sorry” in all
its permutations – for your death, for
my life, for what I did–more often, for what
I didn’t do–

You’d think that I would learn by now.
You’d think that I’d be different,
but the dead, you see,
at least the ones I talk and write to,
are so forgiving–their stroking hush
holds me, allows me to go on
even as I am.

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The above poem was written for dVerse Poets Pub’s Poetics Challenge on “First Times,” hosted by Fred Rutherford (of Poetical Psyche).  The video was made of a light sculpture by Jason Martin. 

Check out dVerse for lovely poetry, and, if you have time, check out my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.  Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

Categories: LIght Sculpture, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 33 Comments

Flash Friday 55 – Mitt Lets Us Know Exactly What We Need To Do Next

September 14, 2012

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We must be strong…. (Yes.)

And use our influence with our allies. (Sure.)

And be strong.… (Absolutely…)

Because the world is a dangerous place. (You bet. )

And use our influence. (Never would have thought of that.)

And be strong. (Yesss…..)

Because HE’s wrong. (Huh?—)

No matter what– (Well….)

Because he’s HIM… (Aha.)

No matter what.

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The dialogue above has – you guessed it – 55 words so please tell it to the G-Man.

I do not want to seem flippant, but I also want to take this opportunity to send condolences and prayers to the families of the four Americans slain in Libya, J. Christopher Stevens (Ambassador), Sean Smith (Foreign Service Information Office), Tyrone S. Woods (former Navy Seal providing security), and Glenn A. Doherty (former Navy Seal providing secruity). I also extend condolences to Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, who seems to have particularly felt the loss of these fine Americans who served under her, and who has spoken with such eloquence about their lives and deaths.

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“When Violence Flash Flares” (Petrarchan Style)

September 14, 2012

When Violence Flash Flares

When violence flash flares with red-black spark
and men can only see through teeth and blur,
their skin bit-bristling like claw-sharpened fur
that seeks the carve of scar as truest mark,
that bites the curve from every moment’s arc,
as if time’s belly something to regur–
gitate and spit again–again–a lure
to not make lush, but tear instead to stark–

Then, oh, what can be done to stop the woe?
Reconstitute the mob as one and one?
That he, who likes to brush, with rueful care,
his child’s hair from the cowlick that will grow
upon her crown, and that lost mother’s son
who hums remembered songs in twilit air.

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Agh!  I am posting the above would-be Petrarchan sonnet for dVerse Poets Pub sonnets prompt, hosted by Gay Cannon.  I’ve written lots of sonnets – usually of the Shakespearean or Spenserian rhyme schemes (wonderfully explained by Gay.)  This is my first serious try with the Petrarchan.  I’ll say it again – agh!   I’m not sure I like the rhyme scheme which in this case is abba abba cde cde–it feels like the rhymes are a bit diffused.  But there it is.   Check out dVerse for Gay’s article and what I’m sure will be wonderful examples.  Also, if you’ve a chance, check out my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (for slightly more polished sonnets);  1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.  Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

Categories: poetry
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Comments: 25 Comments

More Views From NYC (9/11/12 Evening Downtown)

September 12, 2012

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Categories: New York City, Uncategorized
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A View From Downtown (NYC – 9/11)

September 11, 2012

A big part of me would really like to store 9/ll in a plastic bag and not think about it any more.

Another part of me thinks that would not be such a great idea (even if I could do it in downtown NYC where I live.)

First, because we still have young men and women actively serving in Afghanistan, as a direct response to the event.  Secondly, because the day provides such important cautionary tales.   Third, well, because I swore not to forget it.

So here’s an older poem, and above and below are photos I took in downtown NYC this a.m.  I’ve also included a (rather fraught) reading of the poem.

9/11

The burning buildings woke me from a sleep
of what I thought important, nothing now.
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street,

praying that my child was mine to keep,
dear God oh please dear god I whispered loud;
the burning buildings woke me from a sleep.

Some stopped to stare, all of us to weep
as eyes replayed the towers’ brutal bow.
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street–

North sky a startling blue, the south a heap
of man-wrought cloud; I pushed against the crowd;
the burning buildings woke me from a sleep.

I’d never complain again, never treat
with trivial despair–or so I vowed.
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street.

I’d change, give thanks—I saw them leap—
and begged for all the grace God would allow.
The burning buildings woke me from a sleep;
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street.

I’m linking this to dVerse Poets Pub’s Open Link Night, hosted by the wonderful  Brian Miller.

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Holding On Through The Storm (Monarch)

September 10, 2012

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Above is a photograph of a Monarch Butterfly right after an intense storm   The butterfly clung to this stem through the rain and actually late into the night.  (I checked.)

The next morning he’d dropped to a lower place on the stem, and then to the ground, slowly flapping his wings dry.  (As shown on the video below.)  Later, I saw him flying around a field, stopping for long breaks.  (The videos I have in the field appear to be the long breaks, so won’t bore you with those.)

His doggedness was amazing.

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