Remembering Lucille Clifton

Maryland this week mourns one of her poet laureates -- Lucille Clifton -- who celebrated life as a black person and as a woman. A victim of child abuse, she because a strong voice for victims everywhere. For a bit of background and several of her poems, visit http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/79. And here you can hear her read "homage to my hips." Enjoy and remember.
JoAnne

For JoAnne - After Snowbound

JoAnne,

Finding your snowbound poem on the blog was like finding a tiny gem in the middle of the sand, a perfect polished nugget that I've been re-examining. Your poem got me thinking about how that being snowbound is also a state of mind. We can be "snowbound" in our creativity, in a state of dormancy, waiting in whiteness. Here is a poem for you, modeled shamelessly after yours, and written in honor of you:

Snowbound

For JoAnne

Snowbound is that blankest slate

on which no words appear

and yet desire does survive

as just a spark,

a speck of heat,

the poets to revive.

Evil Technology?

Are advancements in technology to blame -- or is it our ability to decide what to do with those advancements? While our capability to move forward in our virtual world advances, our ability to make thoughtful decisions seems to be declining. One wonders where the "turnaround point" -- or the "breaking point" -- will be. The next generations down the road will have amazing technology at their fingertips, but will they be philosophically crippled? But I see, as I write it, that my own stance here lacks hope. Every generation has its artists and we can hope that perhaps they will save the future world. For now, it's ours to enjoy, after all. Let technology whirl about us. We can rein it in, make it work for us -- and still honor ancient connections. I am typing on this blog instead of sending a letter -- and I am tremendously enjoying the immediacy of communicating with you all.

New Generation.........what about them...

the more dependent on technology the new generations are the less their skills will develop, because they don't need them ( evolution). which makes them very venerable emotionally and physically .... how can they survive without power for their finger tip companions ..cellphones and electronics ... and computers...the virtual world they find themselves in......they would laugh at us talking about stars...to them we are ancient and to be honest some times I think I am....the scary thing is ,changes are happening so fast that we can actually live them...and our grandfathers thought we were getting dumb because we read less books......hahahah

Dumb, Dumber, Dumbest

Susan,

I don't know if the dumber is a symptom or an inevitable condition. It is just a theory. I was watching a show last night in HD about the National Parks. Sometime between 700-1200, the Pueblos built the Cliff Dwellers in the West. I was amazed they could execute that architecture. They had to perfectly stack those rocks on an uneven surface, especially since they didn't have the mortar or concrete that we have. Have you ever played Jenga at a party? The game ends quickly. If the Pueblos had Jenga, they would likely need more blocks.

Teddy Roosevelt rode into the Yosemite wilderness with just John Muir and slept with just blankets under the stars. Almost nobody today would want to do that. However, even with being forced to do just that, how many today wouldn't even survive the night?

Keith

Snowbound (in Pennsylvania)

Now in DC rather than Pennsylvania, I find that big snowstorms have a different quality. Here is a poem I wrote when "snowed in" back when I lived in Bloomsburg:

Snowbound

Snowbound is that other world
in which no schedules sit
and no ambitions flare
to interrupt the bluest sky
and whitest field
and coldest air.

from JoAnne Growney's collection ANGLES OF LIGHT (Finishing Line Press, 2009), p 23.

A Love Poem

Here is a love poem I wrote during the blizzard.

At the Reservoir

We gather the neighbors

for champagne and stand

outside in the quiet white that surrounds

the houses while we toast

the record storm of 2010,

and amid the clinks and the laughter

my eyes go toward the dark ridge

that makes the reservoir,

the water that connects you to me,

our thoughts that move underneath

snow and ice, underneath trees

and families, in a space where

we drift weightless and intertwined

making love in the way we can,

you blue-green and me red-brown,

and later that night I go inside

to gaze at your picture because

in the four hours since I’ve

last looked, I’ve forgotten your eyes,

you miles away, but I find you in the water,

your colors so close they turn black.

Keith's "Dumb Generation"

Keith,

I have been thinking for days about your feeling that the next generations are getting dumber (in addition to possibly growing both sex organs). Do you think that, in our collective craving for immediacy, that we are destroying our ability to contemplate? It's not stupidity as much as it is the loss of the ability to think. Because, in some ways, our next generation is faster and smarter than we are. They just don't seem to be able to slow down long enough to reach their "inner oasis."

A Two-Word Name and Thoughts on Lightning

Keith, I like your title for Najwa's painting but then I was trying to get it down to two words since that was the original request. So I stole your word "Oasis" and now suggest "Inner Oasis." I keep returning to the blog to look at the painting, Najwa. Thank you for sharing your color with us. I wonder if that is what we all do as artists is share our "inner oasis" with others, and I wonder, too, if that "inner" aspect of our creative lives gives way to occasional profound feelings of loneliness.

And I believe in the power of poets in love. It's the kind of weather that storms across the water at you and catches you before you realize you've been waiting all your life for it.

Tom's Thunder Poem

I love the poem. I have never thought of male/female thunder. We had thunder and lightning the other night during the blizzard. One bolt took out four trees and put them on the road. I wish I could have inspected that bolt. You mentioned that Poets know thunderstorms get their energy and full fury at those rare moments when male and female are in harmony. I am not so sure about that. I think Poets with an ex-wife might take exception to that harmony. Maybe the difference is Poets in love.

Speaking of the topic of male/female in one thing...
Did you know that 80% of the male smallmouth bass in the Potomac River are now born with parts male and parts female. The males are producing eggs. Scientists can not account for what is causing that. They should ask me.

I have a perfect name for that painting.

I saw it and immediately starting singing...

Send your camel to bed.
Shadows paintin our faces
traces of romance in our heads...

My title for that would be..

MIDNIGHT AT THE OASIS

Najwa gets a gold star on her collar!

That painting does capture the mood of a star, and it is a nice to look at. So I would say, well done 100%. Najwa gets a gold star on her collar!

Life Without Stars

I like the snow, but not the Blizzards.... and here is my contribution to the thought of

life without Stars.....since I cant go any where, another painting is rushing in my brain, it will cause a blizzard in my head if I don't get it out...will keep you posted.Thank you for your eyes and time.

My Dear Susan, so nice of you to want to visit the painters studios, unfortunately I am studio-less right now...

YO, PAINTERS!

Love what's been going up on the blog, everyone!

We bounce ideas off each other really well.

Just look at what the topic "Life Without Stars" has generated:

new ideas for poems and paintings.

Painters, can we visit one of your studios sometime soon?

It doesn't have to be a formal group meeting, just

whoever can go, can go, and we can bring along others

who might be interested.

We want to not only keep the blog going but also keep the group

connected in small ways in between our larger meetings.

Let us know what days/times work for you and we'll

grab a few people and come. Meanwhile, thanks

for the communication. Good reading

on these snowbound days.

Thunderstorms

There is a peculiar aspect of thunderstorms that is way beyond science that only poets understand. In addition to being a force of nature thunderstorms are organic, in a very special way. Most living things are the offspring of male and female -- -- a thunderstorm is alive and it's one part male and one part female. Not the offspring of male and female but what makes thunderstorms special is they retain distinct male and female characters.

When a thunderstorm is distant there is a lag between the lightning and thunder. You can tell it's approaching when the lag gets smaller -- -- as it leaves the lag grows.

Being organic each thunderstorm has a distinct personality and character  -- even the lag is distinctive. This is the story of one very special thunderstorm.

----------------------------------------------------

As she approached the brilliance of her lightning served a harkening and you could hear the rumbling boom chasing behind.

The darkening of the sky had a haunting holy effect, as if to create a cathedral ceiling over a mystical religious passage.

The brilliance of her lightning led, signaling an ascension connecting earth with heavens. the booming male thunder was closing in awkwardly, trying to catch up with the ceremony.

And then they met as male and female rarely do, crackling combustion, a nuclear fusion of Venus and Mars putting on a lightning show with bright colors and dark dancing clouds, with ringing sheets of rain like symbols in an orchestra, with sonic booms from the male's base drum.

Scientists think thunderstorms are formed by differentials in the atmosphere and Earth's temperature. Poets know much better --- thunderstorms get their energy and full fury at those rare moments when male and female are in harmony. It’s a heavenly celebration and symphony of the joining of the sexes -- -- it's nature's Fourth of July.

The celebration fills all the senses ---- magnificent female lightning to see, booming thunder of the male Eros to hear, the baptismal massaging rain to feel. The singed air incense to smell.

The celebration also more importantly speaks to the spirit --- it’s to be revered, it is to be feared, it demands witness, it exacts homage. within a cloud Cathedral ceiling to receive our respects.

And then thunderstorms move on -- -- but not in this story of our special thunderstorm. The male thunder lost his ephemeral nerve and planted himself on a farm. And could only watch as his lightening soul mate moved on.

Poets know this story and get impatient with scientists fascination with this particular thunderstorm that's all lightning with no boom, known as the thunderstorm with a one handed clap. The poets also can explain the haunted farm where the fields speak in a soft lonely boom.

Poets also know the fields in the farm rest with a certain fulfillment and peace. Minutes after the resident boom saw his lightning's last sheflash there appeared a brilliant rainbow with all the spectrum's colors. Mrs. Lightning and Mr. Boom shared a certain synesthesia that encoded the letters of a message in the rings of color of the rainbow ----- which said ' I love you'

Thomas J McCabe, February 2010

Look what I found

I am working on my accompanying painting for the star poem. I was researching how Van Gogh did stars, because I love his paintings. I will wind up with a different style, but I at least wanted a reference of how a master painted them. The only thing I know for sure is that I want to include at least an inference to the Big Dipper. If anybody is like me, they look for the Big Dipper first thing in the sky. When I checked Van Gogh Starry Night over the Rhone...I was shocked. There it is! I have seen that painting many times and never noticed the Big Dipper staring at me. Vincent would have called it Steelpannetje (saucepan), but there it is.

I have to check Vincent's notes to see if he specifically noted the Big Dipper in his painting, or if he wanted it to be subliminal.

Next Poem

Next poem challenge..

I am writing a poem about visiting places in our beautiful America that most will likely never see. I suppose we all are much more mobile than most Americans. However, there are some sights even we will never see. As an artist that is sad to me. However, in your mind you can make them so much more because that is also God's creation. Therefore, just as the early American artists glamourized the American west, because it was out of reach. I am going to do the same thing, because gas prices are cramping that dream in the 21st century. Therefore, I want to again romanticize an America that some will never see. A 35MB photograph will not do. Maybe in the 22nd century we will have high speed rail and we can go back to photographs.

My accompanying painting will be called Cezanne Falls. It is really Angel falls in Yellowstone Park. I call it Cezanne Falls, because I would have really like to meet him, but even low gas prices can't make that happen.

Therefore, the poem is about creating beauty in your mind, for others to share, so that we don't have to be sad about never actually experiencing.

And God said Let there be "Light" !

Here is a little light reading:

http://www.lulu.com/SchoolofLife

painting life without stars

I had to attend a workshop on Sat.( a non creative one). I find myself drawing sketches on the paper i was handed to follow the speaker , the drawings were 1X1 inches of my view of life without stars......today i started a painting based on the 1X1 inch drawings...I don't know were it is heading....I will be writing about the progress of this painting....

Dinner At Tom McCabe's

Hot thoughts were the dinner
Pizza was just a break
Wine, was the water
For dinner at Tom McCabe's

Dinner at Tom's Poem

I love that poem!

I mostly like Poems that make me think. However, this is the first poem I have ever read that is written like I think. I love that.

Twin Haikus for Susan

cold Pizza is life
very low expectations
in the end not bad

valentine hearts
life also this time of year
in the end not good