The West Wing and Rose Garden

The West Wing and Secret Poems

My brother and I have been watching episodes of the late, great, The West Wing with our Roku. We have gone from 1999 to mid-way through 2001. Drago and I try not to repeat our comments about life too often to each other, so I only say, “It’s all the same!” every other night. Not the personal dramas that the writers wove into the episodes, but the politics, are all the same. Foreign affairs, economics, healthcare, violence against women and equal pay for women, race, immigration, national security versus the First Amendment, the Second Amendment, crime and punishment, poverty, education, education, education. It’s not just that we were talking about these things enough to make them viable topics for a TV show 14 years ago, it’s that, in an almost unbearable way, people, depending on their party affiliation, were saying the same things. We haven’t seen an episode revolving around LGBT issues yet, but I’m sure that will come up soon. President Jed Bartlett is a hugely erudite man, with a background that includes a Nobel Prize for Economics. And guess what? He is accused of being an elitist and out of touch with average citizens. He makes determined efforts to be seen as “folksy” until his staff brings it home to him that he has a big league brain and that’s what the country needs. With the “scandals” of the past week in mind, if you can, watch some of The West Wing again. It will make you laugh, and it will make you cry.

I haven’t been posting on my blog as much as I used to and I realized I missed it. I’ve been writing more than ever, though. Poetry, mostly, but I’ve been keeping the poems fairly secret. Once you post a poem or piece of fiction on a blog, it is considered published and you can’t submit it to publications like The Dog-Eared Review, The Slapping Thigh Journal, The Poet’s Cornfield,  or The New Yorker. I’ve been the poetry editor for The Linnet’s Wings since 2007 (with two issues off; one because I had open-heart surgery that summer, ACK!, and this summer’s, because the wonderful poet Elizabeth Glixman is guest editing for me) and at TLWs we don’t object to previously published work. We want good work, and if it’s shown up elsewhere, too, the chances are VERY SMALL that the same readers will see it again and think, “Oh, how boring, I’ve read this already.” So, anyways, having had a collection of my poems turned into a book, One Day Tells its Tale to Another, (rude product placement there, but this is, after all, my blog) and sent it out into the world, I’ve decided to send new poems out into the world of literary journals and see if anything comes of it. That’s what I used to do with poems, before I started Augustine’s Confessions, then I decided it was much more likely that people would read my blog than The Palm Tree and the Clay Pot Journal. And I was right. As Bill Maher would say, “I kid.” There are stunning literary journals to be read, filled with remarkable writers who are not yet famous, but may become so one day. We keep it all afloat, don’t we? “It” being the marvelous, maddening, inborn drive to  put things we think down in writing.

Getting back to The West Wing, somewhat neatly, I think: My brother and I watched an episode the other night titled “The U.S. Poet Laureate.” Toward the end of the hour (which is only 43 minutes long when you don’t have to watch commercials) she, Tabitha Fortes, has just given a lecture at Georgetown University, and Toby Ziegler, President Bartlett’s Communications Director, asks a professor if there was any press at the lecture. The professor says, (I may not have the exact words, but here’s the gist) “Well, no. It was poetry.”

Everything Happens in April.

I am skipping right to events in my small, important, life. We all know about the horrors of this month in Boston and West, Texas. We know about the shameful failure of the gun background check in a cowardly Senate, but it is also National Poetry month, and it's been gorgeous on the Florida panhandle. We got a new cat--a tortoise shell with a cauliflower ear, who was lost on the streets until my brother Drago took her home. My brother Robert visited for a week and I was out and about in an unhermitty (sp?) way. My niece got married on a day bursting with love, and I read some poetry to people who looked sad or laughed when I hoped they would. I wrote some new poems, too. Here's one of them:

The Song of Jerome

Jerome, a young cricket, 

grown strong over summer, chirps 

his loudest and longest to lure Lilah,
his chosen, to him, only him. 

His wings, up and open, send his calls 
sailing to the shy siren’s shrub. She hears them,
comes closer, and he courts her with a new song
in a voice low and private. Jerome's chirping 

persuades her to choose him, only him.

Later, in the meadow, all the Gryllidae 

cousins hear “My love is with eggs!” 

Jerome’s song of copulation joins 

thousands of others as couples commingle 

all through the night, the hot August night.

This is a photo of Robert by Nonnie. He visited in the beginning of April.

This is a photo of Nonnie by Robert. I'm 63. Have I mentioned that ever? 

This is Tula, the cat that mesmerized my brother Drago into bringing her home

This is Tullie (her name's evolved) being mesmerizing.

This is my one and only niece, Lia, at her wedding  party with my one and only nephew, Nick.

This is Blossom with her 3 cats on my messy bed.

This is Gracy licking my brother Drago's head. We think she is trying to turn him into a cat. She does this trick most nights.

Drago, Book Promotion, a Poem about Waitressing and a Video of Gabriel Orgrease Reading "Lavender, a Liberal"

My brother Drago is a Catholic Buddhist. He has been lighting many candles in hopes of influencing the choice of new Pope. I hope this works and Drago has a say, because he knows what he's about, whether it's teaching yoga, explaining the basic concepts of Singularity to me or to someone with a chance in hell of understanding what he's talking about, or 16th century English literature--which brings me, in a clunky segue, to me.

As you may or may not know, I have written a collection of poems and it has been published by The Linnet’s Wings and is available on Amazon and through Create Space. For some reason, if you buy it on Amazon, I, the actual author, only get $1.47 out of the $16.00 price. If however, if you buy it from https://www.createspace.com I get $4.67. It is called One Day Tells its Tale to Another, and I’ve put my reviews, which are also on Amazon where the book has a 5 star rating, (but don’t buy it there!) on my website, http://www.nonnieaugustine.com. So, that’s about that. I do not like having to promote my book this way, but there you go. I’ve never been businesslike and I’m not just saying that to sound artistic. When I was four I decided I wanted to be a ballerina, and decisions like that one have kept on coming throughout my life--dancer, special ed teacher, obscure poet. I did pretend to be a secretary at one point, but I wasn’t very good at it, and I had only a vague idea about what my boss did. My secretary days were after I stopped dancing and before I started teaching. There were also a few stints at waitressing that taught me many things about myself and life that I hadn't learned in dance class and, happily for me, I got a poem out of them. It’s in my book. Oh, hell. I’ll post it here because you may not buy my book just to read my poem about waitressing.

THE FRIENDLY WAITRESS

On my two-top young lovers gaze at each other and share

her linguini, his prime rib. He butters her bread and she purrs. 

Three salesmen drink and eat and stare at my body. 

I try not to mind; they'll tip me 20%.

Our king, the Chef, rules his steamy realm 

with steely eyes, paces his rum. Before closing

he’ll be maudlin, desperate. The sous chef flirts, 

quips, chops and slices. We like him for his cheer. 

The old Greek grunts as we pick up his exquisite meringues,

tarts and layer cakes. Dishwashers talk trash in broken English--

not the paper-pale junkie. His silence is frantic.

I hoist my tray with six covered dishes. My back and feet

scream “Quit!” At my six-top a tired toddler's flung 

mashed potatoes at his sister, the floor, their table.

 If I clean up the mess now, I’ll fall behind; drinks wait

at the bar for the three-top, I need to take a dessert order

from the lovers, clear the four-top because the fucking 

busboy is hopeless. Two more years and I'll be a teacher.

Will I make it? Will I still be kind?

Lest you think this collection, which you may or may not be thinking about buying is full of swear words (it’s not--just a few) or dour, here’s a wonderful thing that a poet friend did to my great delight and surprise. He made a video of himself reading one of my poems. Gabriel grappled with a line or two and he kept that in his reading, but I love it all the more for that. (I am writing in a peculiar voice today. This is something that happens from time to time. It may be because I am embarrassed about promoting my book. Dunno.) Here’s the link to the video: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=afnBroeRGyI

  

Love Verse

A gentle man,

and a fierce woman,

charmed one another

in a shaded gazebo.

Rupert’s castle showed crumbles.

Irene’s prized roses had bugs. 

Each soothed the other

sipping Zinfandel in Bath.

Tommy’s boots flapped.

Polly’s hem dragged.

She invited him over

for a rabbit stew supper.

Arthur’s corners were round.

Sophie’s darts were dull.

They rolled in the clover

down a slope past some goats.

Robert’s inkwell dried up.

Elizabeth’s verse wouldn’t rhyme.

They thanked God they were lovers,

and got naked in Sienna.

A young girl
and a younger boy
blushed and bussed
on the Ferris Wheel in Vienna.

On Whitecap Island

Terrence pulled his Mercedes into the dirt driveway of Kathleen’s bungalow.  He opened his door, closed it, lit a cigarette, took a couple of drags, crushed it in the ashtray, opened his door again and got out of his car.

With renewed determination, he rang the doorbell. 

“Just a minute; I’m coming.” 

“She sounds cheerful”, Terrence thought. “Good sign.” He caught a flicker of moving curtain.  The door knob turned, he heard a grunt, and the door flew open.  Kathleen, adorably, regained her balance and blushed.

“I’m sorry Mr. Coyle. This old door sticks and then BAM it opens. Gets me like that every time I open it.  Uh, how can I help you, Mr. Coyle?”

“Would you ask me in, I wonder?” He saw her glance around her front room before she opened the door wider.

“Yes, of course, come in.”  She stepped aside and he entered the small room.  Terrence had been there once before, at her husband’s funeral, and was impressed then with the charm of the house.  The hand-hooked rug was certainly made locally and the fine drawings on the wall of the town and harbor were by an artist he knew who sold his work when he could, but made his living as a fisherman.  Books were on the shelves- -not china dogs, dancing ladies, or souvenir plates.

Kathleen had regained her usual composure. She was an Islander whose family had been on Whitecap for generations and whenever he’d seen her around the harbor, at company parties, or in town he’d admired her dignity.  Now she stood staring at him with her head slightly cocked and her brows drawn together.  Her small, sunburned hands were still at her side. Kathleen was one of the least fidgety women he’d ever known.  She must be wondering what her dead husband’s boss was doing in her tidy front room. Well, he wasn’t there to worry her, so he’d better say something.

“Kathleen?  May I sit down?”

“Of course! Yes, please have a seat. Would you like something? Coffee or tea? Or, would you like a proper drink? I have whiskey.”

“I’ll take a whiskey if you’ll have a glass with me.”

Terrence sat on the sofa and Kathleen went to the kitchen.  She came back with two generous drinks in crystal glasses. 

Kathleen sat on the edge of an armchair across from him and raised her glass. She took too much, too fast, coughed and turned pink. Before he could do more than put his own glass down, she’d stood from her chair.  She stumbled toward the kitchen, choking out “water” as she went.  Terrence hurried to the kitchen ahead of her.  He found her a glass, filled it from the tap, gently eased her into a chair by the wooden table, and hovered over her until she stopped spluttering.  When she did, he took her hand in his.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“I’m here to do whatever you want—whenever you want, every day for the rest of our lives.”

“What?  What do you mean?  Please don’t tease me Mr. Coyle.”

“When we were in high school, you called me Terrence.  Our senior year, you called me Romeo.  When I kissed you during the play, dear Juliette, dear Kathleen, it had nothing to do with Shakespeare. But you were always Davy’s girl, weren’t you?”

“I was Davy’s girl, then Davy’s wife, and I bore Davy’s children, but I never forgot you, dear Terrence, dear Romeo.” And with a young girl’s radiant smile, she wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him like she’d been wanting to do for fifty years.

In the Desert

by STEPHEN CRANE

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,                 

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,                       

And ate of it.

I said, “Is it good, friend?”

“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it

“Because it is bitter,

“And because it is my heart.”

My stomach has been churning off and on for weeks now. I’ve been uneasy. I’ve read more, heard more, thought more about guns, the gun culture, the 2nd amendment, and statistics about gun deaths since December 14th, not yet a month ago, than I ever had before in my life. I’ve watched videos, listened to interviews, even sought out gun shop websites to try and educate myself, because I haven’t been able to understand the “other” side. The NRA side--those government-hating, tax-hating, ATF-hating, American citizens who are so loud, so powerful, so paranoid. They are ready for revolution and no one is going to take their guns away from them. Not now, not ever. They are a militia. Militant. Sure of their stand, and ready to stand when the time comes.

And yesterday the name that had never left my store of names, or, I daresay yours, came right up front in my brain. Timothy McVeigh. He used a bomb to kill 168 people, including 19 children, and injure over 800 in Oklahoma City on April 19th, 1995. So...not an assault rifle. But he’d owned guns, worked gun shows, hated government, wanted to start a revolution. So he blew up a federal building. If you don’t remember much about him, or don’t know about the Oklahoma City bombing, all the information about Timothy McVeigh is on the Internet, easy to find. He talked to a lot to reporters before he was executed in 2001. Apparently he wanted us to know all his ideas about the evils of the United States government. McVeigh claimed he didn’t know there was a daycare center in the building he blew up; he would have chosen a different target if he’d known that. Strange that he didn’t research what he was blowing up, who he would be killing, before he lit the fuse to that bomb in that truck, but he didn’t. It was a federal building and that was all he needed to know I guess. He thought the government was tyrannical, and used Ruby Ridge and Waco to fuel his anger against his enemy, our government. But why did he blow up all those people? Why did he have to kill children in a daycare, sleeping or playing while their parent worked? The adults he killed weren’t on Ruby Ridge or in Waco, Texas. Why did he pick them? And by the way, we had a white President then.

Enough. As Gabby Giffords said the other day, “Enough.” There are too many Americans who are dangerous to other Americans and they are allowed to own, collect, amass horrible weapons. I lived in Maryland when the D.C. Snipers were killing people; I was a mile away from one of the first shootings. She was a young woman sitting on a bench at a bus stop, reading a book. None of the victims who were killed or wounded were carrying weapons, or posing any kind of threat to anyone. One man was mowing his lawn. People in Maryland, Virginia and D.C. didn’t know who was shooting at them, where they would strike next, or how to deal with the insanity of it all for weeks. 

Timothy McVeigh and the D.C. Snipers (I don’t want to look up their names and have those names right behind my forehead again) were extremely angry and extremely sick, one could say. So was Adam Lanza and all the rest of them. But, aren’t all of these gun owners, who need battle ready weapons in case our government decides to attack its own citizens, pretty much the same? Or at least heading in that direction?

Hell, what do I know? I’m a poet and a fiction writer. A literary blogger, if you will. But I do know a few things. I used to teach emotionally disturbed children and for awhile taught in a wonderful psychiatric hospital that had lasted 100 years, but lost the funding battle and closed down. I’ve lived in England and traveled in Europe and had conversations with Europeans who would never come to the U.S. because of the violence. Violence is bad for our tourist industry, you know. I’m pretty sure no one is going to eat game that is shot full of lead from an automatic rifle. I know that in our country, we are more likely to be shot than in other countries, because so many people have guns. And I think a lot of those people, the ones who have the most powerful guns, are pretty damn nuts.

A New York Moment

Harvey C. Hamby was drunk.  Usually he held his liquor well, but tonight he was off his form.  Stumbling over an ottoman, he landed on the floor in a sodden sprawl.  As he fell, his left foot shot out behind him and socked Glenda Steinberg in the back of the knee, and she fell, too, taking the waitress, Elena Rosita Allendé y Marquez, and a tray of champagne glasses with her.  Roger Steel was looking at himself as he passed a mirror and he tripped over Harvey. As he fell he reached for Edith  Pemberly-Smythe and she went down on top of Roger.  Harvey grabbed the ottoman and tried to get up as Sheila O’Callahan was sitting down. She screamed when she felt a hand under her ass and Jimmy DeLuciano, startled, took a step backwards and fell onto the couch, landing in the lap of Judge Anna Pavlorroti. They had never been friends.

 The Plaza banquet room was crammed with well-heeled New Yorkers, and all this falling, pushing, pulling, and tripping continued to have a ripple effect through the crowd, who had gathered to celebrate New Year's Eve with newly elected Mayor Mary Flanaghan-Silverman.  The Redhead and the Machine chugged along with the giggling, cursing, crying, and moaning coming from the crowd, who were almost all on the floor.

The big screen T.V. was tuned to Times Square, and the ball was about to drop.  Harvey, whose muscles were extremely relaxed, and so was still in a heap on the parquet, turned his head toward the screen, but was sidetracked by Lenora Black's fabulous cleavage. She was lying on her side and her breasts were roughly at Harvey's eye level. He'd always been hot for Lenora Black, and he was drunk enough to sneak a feel, as he faked trying to get up.

 Lenora hissed, “Harvey, dear, get your fucking paw off my tit!”

Harvey complied. The Mayor, realizing there were journalists and photographers in the room who were upright and busy, couldn't come up with any idea other than turning out all the lights in the party room.  So she did. It's anyone's guess what happened in the dark after that, but the big ball did its thing, and the New Year began.

THE END

This is the car I drove in Albuquerque from 1973 to 1979.  There isn't a poem about it in my book, so I've given it a picture here.

Nonnie Interviews Herself

Clifford Garstang, http://cliffordgarstang.com/?p=3412, the editor of Prime Number Magazine, published by Press 53, has invited me to participate in The Next Big Thing series, a chain of self-interviews where authors talk about their new/forthcoming collections and projects. Thank you, Cliff. My book of poems has only just been published, so this is a welcome and timely opportunity for me. Answering these questions has also helped me climb some of the way out of the hole dug for us all by a shooter in Newtown, Connecticut.  It feels good to write.

 If you click on Cliff’s link above, you’ll see not only his answers to this list of ten questions, but you’ll see links to the writer who tagged him as well as links to the blogs of all the writers whom Cliff has tagged. Down at the bottom of this page I’ll link to the Diana Ferraro’s  and Marty Lopez's blogs and they will link to other writers. We are all answering the same questions, and you can discover new writers, or read about the projects of people you know, by following the links. So here goes:

What is the title of your book?

My poetry collection is called One Day Tells its Tale to Another, published by The Linnet’s Wings. on December 16, 2012.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

My poems are loosely based on my life. There is one about a witch, and two about murderers (one of them had good cause) and I’m neither a witch or a murderer and the very last two lines in the collection give advice, and I’m not usually a giver-of-advice, but all the poems come from something in my experience. Although it may be that there is only a line that links directly to what I’ve seen, heard, touched or been touched by, each poem goes through me to you, hopefully. When I read a favorite poet, there is a sigh, or flash, or breath of connection and my inner world becomes slightly, or vastly, changed.

What genre does your book fall under?

Poetry: with and without rhymes, formal (well, there are two villanelles, one sonnet, and a sestina. (Writing sestinas is a form of masochism.) informal, with serious themes and not so much. I have a poem about Chinese noodle soup, for instance, and there is a poem about taking care of my mother during her last year of life. There are some sexy poems, too. Breasts are mentioned. And lips. They are one to two pages long; no epics or allusions to Greek or Latin poets. And there are pictures in my book of poems! My brother Robert Knisel’s wonderful photographs start each section. (I can say that because this is, after all, my blog.)

 Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

What a question about a poetry collection! I have to skip this one because I’m heading into crazy daydream territory and I’ll never get on with the interview. In fact, there might be a poem about George Clooney simmering. Johnny Depp is already in my book. No. I’ll do the next question.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Um. No. I can’t do this question either.

Was your book self-published or represented by an agency?

The Linnet’s Wings, a literary magazine, published my book. It is available online through http://www.thelinnetswings.org. Click on SHOP, but please read the stories, poems, flash fiction, micro fiction, and editorials in the magazine, too. Marie Fitzpatrick is the managing editor and she manages it artfully. It is also available on Amazon. The link is to the right on this page.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Nine years.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson. That’s probably a stretch.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

In 2001 I had open-heart surgery (I’ve had two!) and soon after developed a crush on my cardiologist. I had a dream about him, and an image from the dream became the first line of the first poem I’d written in many years and I’ve been writing poetry and fiction ever since. Here’s the poem:

IN TIME,

we will walk on gravel paths 

studded with gemstones.

Our plates and bowls will be chipped

porcelain exquisitely painted.

When we drive in our weary car

we will listen to Mozart.

Sunlight will fade our carpet

and our windows will be

draped in fine French lace.

We will dress for work

and undress for pleasure.

Sway and I’ll steady you.

If I should slip, you’ll put me right.

Each will soften the landings

of the other’s great leaps.

As we sit at this café table 

in Montmartre, sheltered

from the downpour, I see our future.

I will write it down on torn paper, 

using a sapphire pen.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

It is safe for me to say, I think, that if you read this blog, “Augustine’s Confessions,” you will enjoy reading One Day Tells its Tales to Another. I hope so.

Diana Ferraro will be talking about her book, The French Lesson, on her blog http://dianaferraro.wordpress.com on December 20.

Marty Lopez will be talking about his book, Void & Sky, a Collection of Prose & Poetry, on his blog http://upatberggasse19.blogspot.com/ on December 28.

What exactly is a Well-Regulated Militia in 2012?

What exactly is a "well-regulated militia" in 2012?

Who needs protection in this country, the world, if not the innocents? Those children hadn't even lived a decade.

White Star-Gazer Lily symbolic of sympathy, purity, hope

I'm in the 6th decade of my life. I've lived a full, incredible, sad, joyful, foolish, and useful life. I've gotten to go places, do things, love and be loved as a child and as an adult. I've been a giver and a taker.

I've never needed to own a gun. And here I am! I have been frightened by guns, though. The "D.C." snipers killed their first victim only a mile from me. And there was a more private time when a gun owner scared me badly, both for his sake and my own, because he...no. I won't tell that story here. I ran far away from that person and stayed away from him and his guns.

Did you read "In Cold Blood?" They were all asleep, weren't they? I could reread it and get my facts straight, but I won't today. I'm sadder today than I was yesterday. Why is that, I wonder? 

I used to be a Kindergarten teacher. Emotionally disturbed kids. I taught older children, too, who were also handicapped one way or another. Not "right" for some reason. I was happiest with the youngest children, because when I tried to help the little ones, I felt like they still could be helped...

You know what else? I would have lunged at the killer on Friday and been killed myself. Like that principal, that psychologist, those teachers in Sandy Hook Elementary who died. I've no doubt that I would have done the very thing those adults in that building did. It is in your blood when you teach little ones. Keep monsters from hurting them or die trying? It has come to that.

Do we really differ so much, that some of us think we need to carry concealed weapons, buy assault weapons, keep weapons in our homes, locked away from our children or, in too many cases within their reach one way or another? 

If a killer comes into my home with a gun, will he give me time to unlock the gun safe and get my own gun? Do we all need to have guns so that we are all safe from people who have guns?  That's the right to bear arms extended to everyone, isn't it? We can all shoot each other, then. Is that a well-regulated militia? Who will protect who? I'm, like so many of you, so sick of this national insanity. 

And something else: there is profit for people who make these weapons. They exploit the paranoid and selfish. Profit. Money, money, money. Trumps decency every time, it seems. Out there in the world; the big bad world. Come on. Really. Does it have to be like that?

Nonnie Deals with Sudden Melancholy

J.W. Turner

Someone who I know only via Facebook and a writer site we both belong to posted a picture of a 12 week old fetus in the palm of a human hand. The message was anti-abortion. You know--how can you consider killing this baby? And the picture was of a tiny, tiny baby, looking like a newborn infant only so much smaller. Is that true? I didn’t think they were so perfect-looking so early. Is that what 12 week old fetuses look like? I’d do a search or something but I’m too fragile at the moment to check on this. It might be true. No. It was a trick photo, wasn’t it? My baby died in utero at 16 weeks. Annie Clare was her name. Is her name. This happened 21 years ago and had she lived her birthday would have been two days ago. It was a punch in the stomach to see that tiny baby on Facebook. Don’t they, the pro-life crusaders remember us? The expectant parents who lost babies they wanted very much and never got to see? Do they really want to hurt us this much while making their political/churchy point?

Nevermind. I have worked things out for myself. About 10 years ago, when I was still married, I got to thinking about Annie Clare again during a road trip. I had my usual muddled, near tears thinking for awhile, then a new thought popped up. What if there is a heaven? What if Annie Clare was born in heaven? Of course! She was scooped up by a heavenly being, possibly an angel, finished her time in a celestial surrogate mother’s womb, and was born in heaven. A heaven-born, as are all the babies who don’t get to have live births for whatever reason. Wonderful, creative, calming thoughts skipped through me. It was all I thought about for the rest of the trip during those long road trip silences. There were silences that lasted hundreds of miles.

When we got home I started a novel about Annie Clare and her life in heaven. I wrote about who was raising her, how she played with other heaven-borns, “dead” people and celestials she got to know and what her room looked like. My novel wasn’t only about heaven--there was a plot of sorts and a character that was her living mother. Madeleine. Not me, exactly. Writing my novel was also my first serious go with writing. Huh. I finished it and sent it out, but no one decided to publish it, although there were nibbles. I’m thinking about getting back to it. The earth parts seem all wrong to me now. I’ve learned a lot in the last ten years. Soon, I’ll have a book of poetry out there in the world. Annie Clare is alive in the novel, though. I think that’s why I want to get back to it.

One of the many things I don’t understand about militant pro-life Christians is: whatever do they think happens to fetuses that don’t get to have live births? They believe in heaven don’t they? HEAVEN. If life begins at conception, then the soul begins at conception, (I think souls probably begin before, long before a particular conception) so why don’t they think that the souls of these babies who don’t have a live birth would go straight to heaven and be splendidly happy, cared for, loved...all that. Huh? Why do they get so upset about abortion? If you asked the baby, he or she would most certainly prefer heaven to being unwanted and on earth. I used to teach emotionally disturbed Kindergartners, and believe me, they were not having a good time. The first goal we teachers had for them was to “experience their environment with pleasure,” because they didn’t know how to do that. And it’s a damn hard thing to teach.

Losing my baby is the worst thing that has happened in my life. I can’t think of anything that might happen even now that would be worse. I was having a middling to good morning until I saw that fucking Facebook photo. Then, whoosh. Down and down. I’m all right now, because I’m writing about it; getting my anger out. Thinking about Annie Clare is okay, now. Maybe I’m not completely sane, but I’m me, and I can think about her any way I want. Sorry if that sounds corny. Shit. I am corny. Not cruel, though. I’ve never been cruel.

WAITING FOR HURRICANE DENNIS, FLORIDA 2005

With soft eyes,

she quizzed,  

shivered, said:

“Where’s Dad? 

Where’s Ric?

Will you leave me here alone?

Are you all going to leave?

Where’s Peter?

Do you feel all right?

We’re the only ones here.

We need to leave.

Who’s in the attic?

I hear them

Why are they there?

They are there. Why?

The storm’s too big,

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

We’ll all be hurt.

Where’s the cat?

Where’s the dog?

Is Peter outside?

Are you going to leave me?

I can’t see  well.

No! I don’t want to eat.

No! I won’t take a pill.

It’s here, isn’t it?

No! Don’t change the channel.

Where’s Dad?

Is Ric here? 

I can’t lie down.

Will you stay here?

There’s no air

They put those boards

on the windows.

We have no air.

There’s no air in this house.”

Finally she took a pill.

I tucked her in,

and kissed her forehead.

Safe in bed at last,

her face relaxed.

I said,” I love you.

We’ll be fine.”

I rubbed her leg,

shoulder, felt bones.

Tired eyes closing

she whispered to me.

“What did you say, Mom?”

“Thank you. I said thank you.”

And I left the room

lest she see my tears.

Mom was asleep

before the wind

picked up.

3 POEMS

When George Took Me to Greece

Jet-lagged and hung-over, we climbed the rough old road. 

A black boulder jutted onto the path and George said, 

“That's Socrates' Rock." 

I stopped when my lover spoke, startled out of tangled thoughts,

touched the stone, then leaned against it, 

looked up and to the east and gasped.

The Acropolis, just there, undid me.

The setting sun lit the hill

and golden temples floated

above the shadowed slope. 

My back against the ancient

teaching rock, I dissolved.

                                                                                     

                                                                                

LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING

If you think by your death you have left me alone,  

to pine, to regret, to watch cable tv, you're wrong.

At bedtime I wear a new black lace gown,

and arrange myself to advantage

on sheets finer than any we shared.

I’ve left the back door open. 

I believe I thrum.  I hear 

his step and then we begin.

He attends to that place

below my ears, knows how 

to rub and nip. There is time for my breasts, 

time for him to stoke me, each inch

until my supple back arches, reaches, pleads,

demands his weight. We twist, turn, lift, 

sate, shout, pound pillows, laugh.

Then something, a noise? 

I wake, on my side of our quiet bed,

my short white hair mussed, our gray cat 

stretched along my pale, restless thigh.

The Dice are Not To Blame

Ted swam far from shore with a bar of lead. 

He loved it, you see, until he drowned dead.

Mick had a trick of giving his money

to heartless bosoms that called him honey.

Sharon kept caring for drinkers and dopers

gamblers and cheaters and whiners and mopers.

Benny saw double and never could tell

which one had substance and which was a shell.

Mick, Benny, Sharon, and poor dead Ted

had luck that sucked they frequently said.

I didn’t agree and suggested instead

 that they didn't have to sink 

     they could listen to me,

and let go of their lead 

     when they swam in the sea.

A Story from When They Lived on Staten Island: Nonnie and the Garage Monster

Nonnie followed her brother Peter all the way to a house she'd never been to before. Not next door. Far away. Peter said she could come with him. Peter was bigger. All the kids were going. Nonnie walked very fast to keep up, but they got way ahead. Mommy stayed at home. Did Mommy know that Nonnie was going all this way?

All the little kids stopped in front of an old red house with a big porch. Nonnie's much bigger brother, Bobby, was there with his friends. Bobby was in the fourth grade. Peter and Nonnie didn't even go to school yet.

Bobby shouted,"Come on! It's around back of the house. In the garage. Come on!"

Peter turned around and looked for Nonnie. She smiled at him. He looked around at his friends, too. Peter looked worried. Bobby was laughing.

All the kids went with Bobby and the other big boys to the back of the house. There was a garage back there and the door was open. Nonnie's house didn't have a garage. She couldn't see what was in there but she knew it was bad because Peter and his friends yelled and took off running fast.

They were gone! But Bobby was still there. Nonnie looked.

In the big dark of the garage there was a monster in the way back. A monster with only a red and green and yellow head. Just the head and black all around it.  Nonnie screamed and ran to Bobby. He picked her up right away and carried her to the safe front of the monster's house. Then he carried Nonnie all the way home. She cried and cried.

Mommy was mad. Peter had told all about everything.

Bobby got yelled at a lot.  Nonnie didn't want Mommy to stand there yelling at Bobby. She wanted her to hurry up and kill the monster up the street.

"It was only a mask, Mom." Bobby said. "Tommy said his Dad said it came from Africa and was important but his Mom said she didn't want it in the house because it looked too mean so Tommy said his Dad put it up in the garage and we put Billy's flashlight under it and the little kids got scared but it was a joke."

Mommy gave Bobby another piece of her mind, then Bobby got sent to his room. Peter and Nonnie got to make cookies with Mommy. Bobby didn't get any till Mommy cooled off.

When Borders Was Alive and Well

I'd been working for two years as a barista in a Starbuck's in a giant, two-story Borders in an upscale mall on Rt. 355, a main artery between Washington D.C., and Frederick, Maryland. I'd finished my M.F.A in 2000 and was trying to build up steam for more grad school--steam and money. I wrote poetry. So, the accepted way to make a living doing that was with a college-level teaching job, which meant a Ph.d. Jeez louise, I hated the thought of doing the doctorate. However, I was tired to the bone of making fancy coffee drinks.

On one of these endless days an eighty-something man came up to the counter with a short stack of books. (We took all kinds of purchases at the café register.) I could see a large magnifying glass jutting out of a pocket of his tweed jacket. He gave off a spicy aroma as if he wore this jacket while he cooked curries and burned incense in a closed room every day. I liked him.

"I'd like a coffee, too, please. A plain, black coffee. Medium? Grande, I suppose? And could I have one of those blueberry scones?" His voice sounded rusty. I wondered how much use it got.

I smiled at him and scanned his books and added in the coffee and pastry. When I started working at Borders, I'd made a point of noticing what people were buying, but I'd stopped looking at titles after a month or two. The store sold bestsellers, mysteries, Harry Potters, celebrity bios, diet books, and never, ever poetry.

"That's $64.76, sir." Damn, but there was something about this old guy that tugged at me. Should he really be spending so much on books? He looked more like someone who'd do better searching for something to read in a Goodwill stack or a library, not in a Borders. That's where I'd be looking if I didn't have the employee discount, well, even with the discount. I was poor but young and strong, though. This  man looked poor but frail and definitely frayed. He was wearing an old canvas hat that might have been green once and the sleeves of his sweater were so stretched they covered his hands up to the middle of his fingers. And there was that magnifying glass. He handed me a Visa card. I automatically asked him for his I.D.

"I haven't driven in years, Miss, but here's my driver's license. It expired four years ago." He was leaning against the counter and I had a sudden urge to hurry up and get him his coffee. But I dutifully checked everything and finally the penney dropped and I registered his name, "Edward Lake."

"That's fine, Mr. Lake. Just sign here. Why don't you find a table and I'll take your coffee and scone to you in a second."

"Thank you. That's kind of you." He picked up his bag and turned  to the tables. I noticed his cane, then, and that he wore his topsiders like backless slippers. He wasn't wearing socks! I wanted to buy him some socks!

Just as I brought him his order, my co-barista came back from break and I rushed off on mine. On the poetry shelf (only one and I knew it by heart) I grabbed a thick anthology. Back at the counter, I paid for it, even though I had the damn book at home, and I went over to Mr. Lake.

"Excuse me, sir. Would you autograph this for me?" I'd opened the book to one of his poems. Edward Lake and his wife Constance had written poems in their letters to each other during the two years he'd fought in France and Italy during World War II. Edward's first volume of poems was published in 1946, but his editor also collected the couple's letters and published them a year later. "Edward and Constance" became one of the most famous books about the war, even though it was poetry. It seemed every couple who had been separated by the war had read and found something of themselves in the poems. By 1950 it had gone into its third printing. (I knew all this, and much more, because I'd written a paper about the Lakes when I was an undergraduate. But, everyone knows something about Edward and Constance Lake. No, I'll amend that. Everyone should know something about Edward and Constance Lake. I think so.)

With great dignity, the poet took his magnifying glass out of his pocket and peered at the page. Then he looked at his wife's poem on the facing page.

"Constance died three years ago," he said. "Oh, she was a fine poet. And wife. A fine wife. I don't do so well without her… Yes! Of course I'll autograph this for you, my sweet girl. And after I finish my snack, I'm going to go buy some socks. Constance always did the clothes shopping, you know. She wouldn't like it if she knew I'd lost all my socks."

He beamed at me and signed his name under "You Saved My Life Today." It's my treasure, that book. Every now and then the author would show up at Borders for a snack and a few new books. I'd insist on having a break when he came in so that I could sit with him and talk about poetry. I didn't care if I got sacked, but somehow I didn't. After six months or so he stopped coming by. And a few months after that, I went back to grad school.

 

Lavender, a Liberal

Betty, batty from hormones, in a fanciful fit,
named her daughter Lavender. Husband Don winced.
Brothers Donald, John, Billy, and Tom
were puzzled and pleased by this sister, this girl,
who was a little bit like them, yet not like them at all.

Each night and most afternoons Betty told Lavender
stories, sang her songs, opened books full of pictures
where stout hearts bamboozled evildoers that lurked,
and rags became ball gowns glowing with pink.
Poor maids, Auroras, Swan Queens and their ilk
with true lovers, often princes, used cunning and tricks
to free castles from brambles, lift spells, smote the slick.

As happens, Lavender grew grown, moved on and away
from her mother's fine songs to live songs of her own.
She searched for a prince, found several at least,
vanquished evils and weasels, fiercely scolded some trolls,
got caught in the muck, found her footing, soldiered through.
No castles came calling; never mind she made homes.

With mostly good luck, Lavender aged right up to old.
Though her body got cranky,
she kept close to her heart
certain fluttery trills

Arthur Rackham

and persistent whisps,
of fast stallions,
wize wizards,
dances,
feasts,
and folk
loving out loud--
as dead dragons smoldered
in heaps on their hills.

Foolish Dancer

Late November, New York City, 1967.

An 18 year old dance student, let's call her Susan, woke up in a rebellious mood. She'd been craving a day to herself in the city, but never had the time. Every weekday she was at Juilliard from 9 to 9, and when she had a rare rehearsal-free weekend, her parents expected her to take the bus out to New Jersey to visit them. So Susan got up her nerve and called the dance department secretary and told her big lie-that she was sick and wouldn't be able to make her classes that day. She'd never have thought of doing this on a day when she was expected to rehearse, but on this particular Wednesday she wasn't needed by any of the choreographers who had cast her in their pieces. Susan's roommate had already left for her day of music classes and piano practice, so there were no witnesses to her tiny revolt.

The day was cold and sunny, and Susan had it all to herself. She didn't have much, in fact hardly any, cash, however. But the Metropolitan Museum was free and she could walk across Central Park from W.91st St. It would be a long walk, but Susan was young and strong and feeling adventurous.

This was a day of firsts for Susan: she'd played hooky, walked the width of the chilly park alone, and enjoyed hours of roaming the Metropolitan with only herself to please. She felt sophisticated, artistic, and, because she'd chosen her favorite outfit that morning,  stylish.

The thunderstorm started a little after three. Susan was wandering around the Rodin sculptures, in love with them, but getting tired and a little worried about how she'd get back to her apartment before dark and with the storm. (She didn't know bus routes very well yet, and certainly couldn't afford a taxi.) A man in dark gray suit made a comment to her about the Rodin bronze of Balzac. The tall dark stranger was good-looking, older-at least in his thirties-and wanted to talk to her about art! Susan, flattered by his interest in her, did not have a moment of wariness about this guy. When, after a very pleasant conversation, he, let's call him Dick, mentioned that he lived across from the museum, had a car, and that he could give her a lift home if she'd like, Susan only thought, "he's lives in one of NY's best neighborhoods, he loves art, seems very nice, okay-fine-it'll be fine!"

Susan and Dick hurried across 5th Ave. to his car, a black Corvette (!) but he said his keys were in his apartment and would she come up for a drink while he got them. She wasn't quite sure she liked this, but it was windy and pouring, and it would be fine. Fine! But it wasn't.

Dick took her coat, poured her a glass of wine, and attacked. Within minutes of entering the apartment, Susan was on her back on the couch, fighting off a bastard who was trying to fuck her. But he gave up, because Susan, a dance major at Juilliard, had strong enough legs to push him off of her enough times to convince him he wasn't going to get off that way. So he masturbated. She wasn't a virgin, had gone all the way on her 18th birthday and then once with the young artist she'd started dating, but she didn't know about masturbation, had yet to even look at an erect penis properly, and was wholly, completely horrified by Dick, his cock and what he was doing to it and saying to her, being alone with him, and most of all, by what she thought of as her own stupidity. He insisted she watch him but she cried and refused until he started yelling and cursing. Dick finally finished, tidied himself up, gave Susan her coat, and actually drove her home! She didn't want to get in his car, but was too fragile to argue. And, little as she knew at the time about predatory men, she sensed he was spent and she'd be safe.

She saw Dick again a few months later in the Museum of Modern Art. She had to pass him on the staircase, and he glanced at her without a flicker of recognition. Susan left without seeing the Picasso sculpture exhibit. She did see it before it closed, but she went with her older brother.

She hated Dick, and what he'd done, but she kept it all a secret, because she thought she'd been so stupid, you see. So very foolish. She blamed herself. She went up to his apartment, didn't she? The whole sorry story remained her shameful secret  until well into her twenties when she told a friend, let's call her Linda, after a few glasses of wine. As she told the story, Susan finally unraveled her confused thoughts about that wet November afternoon, and she finally assigned all the blame for Dick's abuse to him. I've known about Susan and that guy, that dick, for ages, but it seems to me that right now is a good time to tell the story to you, because Susan and I are angry again-legitimately angry.

Robert in college

Nonnie and Robert are Leos

My brother Robert has always been five years older than me. Almost exactly-we both have August birthdays. His is today. Our sibling order is Robert, Drago, me and then Ric, who died in 2008. Ric died several times, I think. Certainly more often than most of us do. Alcoholism does that. Three out of four of us kids turned out to be alcoholic, but Robert and I were able to get out of the mire years ago. Ric sank with the weight of it all. I miss him. Drago is a social drinker. He has a glass of wine with dinner, not a bottle. He doesn't even want the bottle. I have become a sparkling water afionado. Robert is picky (in a good way) about his coffee.

So, when I was a little kid, Robert (we called him Bobby then) was big, smart, and having adventures way beyond my ken. He started high school when I started 4th grade. 4th grade! I didn't even have permission to ride my bike out of the neighborhood and he was a teenager in full throttle. Drago's only 18 months older than me and he teased me day in and day out as I remember it, but Robert didn't give me a bad time. He was sweet to me. Robert gave Drago hell, though. Growing up.

When I was 13, Drago was 14, and Ric was just a little kid in 2nd grade (but already playing his heart out on the drums) Robert came home from college with The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan and a Joan Baez album, thereby shifting his younger siblings' leanings decidedly to the left of wherever the hell they had been. His visits home from RIT and the University of Arizona (fine arts major) were hallmarks of our high school years. I listened to dinner conversations when Robert was home with intensity. It was, after all, the sixties and there was a lot going on.  They talked (I was pretty much still in my Silent Sam phase, although I loosened up a little if I got a glass or two of wine) about everything and I gobbled every morsel about the world, seen through Robert's eyes, that he brought to the table.

Dad was much more liberal than most of the dads we knew, although even he had a "Get a haircut!" period, and he and Robert could discuss most things without yelling at each other until they started on art. Dad painted, usually oceans or mountains, and he had no use for most modern art, no, I'll say all modern art; the good stuff stopped after Impressionism. They'd get into it and Mom would get tense, and we'd hear, "Not at the dinner table. NOT AT THE DINNER TABLE." Didn't do any good, though. The argument would escalate, reach a peak, then one or the other of them would cease fire-without any surrender on either side whatsoever.

Then, Drago and I were in college and Robert was an adult. Then we were adults and eventually my little brother was in the ranks of "out of the house." We've stayed close and kept on talking (I talk now, too, a lot and without wine) as we've limped, zoomed, changed, and grown all this way up. My big brothers are my rocks, you know. Happy Birthday, Robert!


       

Gene Kerrigan wrote this in the Irish Independent on Sunday, July 29. (Croke Park is a sports stadium that seats 82,300.)

"Imagine a million dollars. Imagine it sitting on a seat in Croke Park. Imagine every seat in the stadium had a million dollars wrapped and stacked on it. Altogether, that would be upwards of $82bn. Now, imagine 12 Croke Parks, each seat similarly decorated with money. Now, you've got a trillion dollars.

Now multiply that by 21. We're looking at over 250 Croke Parks, each holding $82bn. Now, unless the batteries on my calculator are dodgy, we're looking at something approaching the amount of money hidden offshore by the super-rich in 2010.

The figure of $21trn is the conservative estimate (it could be up to $32trn) in a report published last week by the Tax Justice Network (TJN). The research for the report was done by the former chief economist of McKinsey, a consulting firm that's hired by major corporations and governments."

I didn't know this. Did you know this? There is plenty of money out there, isn't there? For things like malaria tents, clean water, low cost housing, FOOD!

What are these people who have hidden all this money made of? I think they are aliens. I admit, when I was a kid, I thought I might grow up to be Sister Saint Nonnie, but I became more realistic about the chances of that happening long before I discovered sex, alcohol, drugs and assorted behaviors that go along with the aforementioned. However, even if I abandoned my try for sainthood, I always shared my chocolate bars, metaphorically, with my friends.

My mother, and yours probably, used to tell us to eat our vegetables because there were starving children in China (or somewhere) that didn't have any. (Never mind the logic regarding the "how" of this Motherism-we all argued with Mom but had to eat our string beans anyway.) The point was that there were others, not just our best friends, who needed pieces of our chocolate bars. There were invisible others in the world who had less than we did and our mothers wanted us to think, or better, care about them.

In spite of my career choices, which have been sort of anti-wealth-accumulation (dancer, teacher, poet) I've earned enough to be taxed by the government and I've paid. On time, even. I figured that was how parts of life worked. I couldn't build a new school, but I could pay my property tax and so do my part. And so on and so on. I have also thought that , on the whole, most people have a heartstring that tugs the "fairness," principle that was lodged in their brains by assorted adults when they were very young. We feel a good firm yank, or the slightest possible tweak, but, if we're sane, we live somewhere in the land of people who try to have a "good conscience" in their behavior towards their fellows. We struggle with this, of course.

Damn. I keep saying "we." I've slowly, over a lifetime, been absorbing the truth that "we" is an idiotic pronoun to use when talking about values. Those guys with the 21 to 32 trillion in hidden accounts? They don't use that money to share, help, support, etc., etc. anyone.  They keep it for themselves. If you've already forgotten how much money is in these black money holes, re-read Gene Kerrigans's excellent imagery.

Dylan Thomas wrote,"I hold a beast, an angel and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, downthrow and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.” Thomas exhorted us to "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."  We need (there's that "we" again) to rage against these aliens, these super-rich, so that they cannot consume our light. They are bastards.

Link for Kerrigan article: http://www.independent.ie/opinion/columnists/gene-kerrigan/gene-kerrigan-rich-hiding-250-croke-parks-of-cash-3182543.html



   

After Another Reading of Raymond Carver's "All of Us"

Young, strong, brave me, doing all that!
Dancing, teaching, performing, making this,
making that. I drank great draughts
of art, all kinds, you name it.
Used the fine work out there
to define, refine, defend my being,
my sincere effort to soar. And let
me tell you it was almost glorious.

There was, of course, a catch. For many
of those potentially triumphant years,
I helplessly slogged through a swampy mess
each night.Yes, every night. I'll stand by that.

Same old, same old. So and so loved me, but
I wanted you and you wanted her, then her.

And for all that time I couldn't get free,
couldn't toss you off, over, away, used Scotch
to dull my fury and so became more pitiful.

From here, out of all that, well-rested,
I can see that awful catch of mine
has a place at the table, in fact, near
the head, across from the almost glory.
My foolishness can be read, watched,
listened to, painted. And it has been.
Will be. Now it's time for some lunch.