Theory of the Case

There's a body at the bottom

of the stairs lying

in a pool of blood.

You call 9-1-1

and say there's been 

an accident.

Someone's fallen 

down the stairs,

don't mention

the pool of blood.

An accident?

(you let that slip out) 

All you see are a body,

some blood,

and a set of stairs.

Maybe she was pushed.

Maybe she threw herself

down the stairs.

Maybe she was brought there.

You see a body you recognize,

you see stairs

and immediately a story 

takes shape.

Like when you see a piano, 

rows of black and white keys,

you put them in order

in your mind,

think musical notes ascending 

and descending,

start hearing a familiar song

in your head. 

You see stairs

think up and down,

think stories,

and fill in the blanks

to the 9-1-1 operator;

Her body is pale, 

cold to the touch

and you remember 

what it felt like warm.

Blood is sticky.

You say, send help, please,

give your address, please,

you say, she's not breathing, 

send help soon

please,

and hang up.

The newspaper will write

'found dead'.

They will never know 

what you know.  

You will say only

what you've already said, 

please, send help,

please,

because you know 

when called they come.

They will climb the stairs

with their questions

collect evidence

they will construct

a plausible story

a theory of the case

to convince the jury

to get the verdict

they want,

they will say 

what you are capable of,

assemble witnesses to testify,

to cast doubt on your love,

your story

and you're prepared for it.

Micky Dolenz, I need to know

Last of the primates

you were chosen 

Micky Dolenz 

by the showbiz gods

the hitmakers 

the movers and shakers 

to play the drums

in a band

that didn’t really exist

and anyway

you didn’t play the drums, 

or write songs

and they made sure

you were forbidden

to try 

under contract;

but you were chosen

Micky Dolenz

to pretend

to be the drummer

in a pretend musical group

with pretend fans

LPs were made

(not by you) 

and according to plans

millions were sold

Micky Dolenz

more in ‘67 

(the summer of love)

than by the Fab Four

and Rolling Stones 

combined*

everyone knew 

and no one seemed to mind

you weren't real.

Tell me 

Micky Dolenz

what it's like 

to survive a pretend life

to hear pretend cheers

from pretend fans 

to feel pretend love

in a pretend world

and to try

to make it real.

I need to know

Micky Dolenz

how it feels to be 

the last one standing.

(*Mike Nesmith, who passed away this week, admitted that this was a lie that he spread on purpose to see how widely it would be reported in the media.)

The Weekend

Monday morning

I pull in to my spot,

the secretary

who parks next to me 

is sitting in her car. 

She's good at her job, 

organized and efficient,

parks straight.

She opens her door 

just as I exit mine,

and emerges slowly, unfolds

as if from a cocoon.

How was your weekend?

I ask, noticing right away

something is wrong.

I hurt my foot, she says,

was propped up all weekend, 

got nothing done.

She steps out daintily,

stands off-kilter for a moment,

then begins to hobble,

one foot en pointe

light as a ballet dancer's,

the other planted to the ground.

We walk together

awkwardly syncopated

I struggle to match her 

up and down tempo

and she feels it.

You go on ahead, she says,

I can't walk any faster. 

But I don't, I stay with her,

and don't ask how it happened,

the details don't matter.

Instead, I think 

of all the injustices

in the world

the inequalities, 

the homelessness and hunger.

I hope you had someone 

to cook for you this weekend

I say, in jest.

No, she says,

no one loves me,

and laughs.

How about you, she asks,

her voice weakened, 

the effort apparent as she works

to make conversation, 

how was your weekend?

Watched the big game, I answer,

on TV, 

my mind conjuring the image

of oversized brutes in battle gear

pounding each other repeatedly

ritualistically

to gain chalk-marked ground 

toward an endzone.

I see the hordes in the stands

in their colourful numbered jerseys,

fists raised,

waving banners with insignias, 

the chaotic hollering and hunger 

as if something important 

had to happen, something 

wanted desperately, 

some even praying for it,

a touchdown.

I hold the office door open

for my limping co-worker

to begin our workday

watch it squeeze shut gradually 

behind us as we enter,

and my arms 

suddenly feel weightless as wings,

my heart flutters and fills with warmth

for all the stupid people

and their misplaced passion,

all the love in the world 

stored away

waiting to be unlocked 

and ignited with a match 

like a room full of TNT.

Oh Ghislaine

Oh Ghislaine (hard g, silent h, silent s, a puzzle to pronounce) on trial, watching the stand as the little girl you once knew, now a grown woman, testifies against you, saying that the man you served needed to have sex at least three times a day, like breakfast, lunch and supper (my simile not hers). She's on the stand, remembering, conjuring the image of the man lying on his back, which echoes how he killed himself in jail with a knotted linen for a noose - no rafter and rope, no chair to stand on and kick away - did it in bed, used his prone bodyweight as a fulcrum, his neck cocked and snapped, which frankly seems physically impossible to me, but what do I know, and what does anyone know, the cameras were mysteriously turned off. Oh Ghislaine we can only speculate, like how to pronounce your name (hard g, silent h, silent s), how you lured the little girls home one by one (sometimes in groups), like the witch did to Gretel, to feed to an ogre. Oh Ghislaine, will you testify in your own defense? If you do what could you possibly say? That you were the victim? Just to hear words escape your mouth, sweetly accented words, upper-crust, seductive words, might be enough to provide a hint, a brief taste, a soupçon of the lurid spell you cast on the little girl who is testifying, the grown woman who is struggling to find the words for what she experienced. Oh Ghislaine. You are the dream of an evil man, the nightmare of a trusting child. But probably Ghislaine (hard g, silent h, silent s) you will remain hard and silent, like your name.

57

Wish me happy birthday 

I said, grinning,

call me Heinz

like the ketchup,

get it?

He looked at me balefully:

57

that's a make or break year -

I lost two close friends 

the year they turned 57,

both to cancer,

one lung,

the other pancreatic,

both worked-out daily,

athletic as thoroughbreds,

then bang

out of nowhere.

My smile dropped

to the floor

like a dish. 

I thought instantly 

about my brother, 

two years older and battling

metastatic melanoma

for the last two years,

did the quick math,

thought of  

slow death,

life oozing 

away, 

the anticipation

the anguish.

There must be 57 varieties

of cancer

or more,

a lot more.

Happy / Sad

There is happy love

and sad love 

the first love 

allows you to see another

fully 

for their complexity

the second love 

allows you to see yourself 

fully

for your inadequacy

it's pure physics

a magnet

has plus and minus 

poles

and electricity

is an oscillation 

between the poles

happy / sad

happy / sad

love 

is a force 

that cannot

be contained

"I'm Right Here!"

There is no greater horror in life than being in the presence of someone else, a person you care deeply about, a lover, a friend, a family member, having just shared some experience in their immediate proximity, and yet feeling at the same time that suddenly they are not with you, that you are alone. How can it be? You have just shared an experience, a dinner, a conversation, maybe even a moment of silence, you undeniably occupy the same general physical space. And yet, you suddenly have the unmistakable feeling that you have been expunged from reality in their mind, that they no longer acknowledge your presence. You feel as if your existence in reality suddenly bears no more weight or validity than a ghost's. At such moments you feel the need to confirm your existence so you touch your body, you literally pinch yourself to feel pain - your own perceptions are not enough because they can be deceptive - while another part of you feels overwhelmingly that you may not exist at all. And it is then that you begin to understand that your existence is comprised of two parts, one that is in your mind, an idea which itself may carry doubts, and even more consequentially, a part of you exists in the minds of others over which you have no sway. The acknowledgement of others is as necessary a validation of your existence as your own sense and idea of yourself. Even more, it is the acknowledgement of your existence by others that is more fundamental than the notion of your existence in your own mind. For what if this independent confirmation of your existence is absent? This moment of being in the presence of someone else and then suddenly feeling completely alone and unacknowledged, brings you back to one of the cruelest of childhood games. The sheer terror when your mom or dad feigns a sort of blindness, acting like you've inexplicably vanished, even as you are right in front of them. They say, "where's Johnny? I don't see Johnny? You've disappeared!" And you plead with them "I'm right here! Right in front of you!" "Yes, you were here just a second ago, and now you've disappeared. I can hear your voice but I don't see you! Where are you" "I'm still here! I'm right here." 

Rome

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It's early November

the clock's been turned back 

an hour

and I'm on the freeway 

after work 

the sky's already dark 

my eyes dart 

from the undecipherable plate

and flashing brakes

on the road

to the smiling moon

above 

and pinned next to it

in the sky 

a bright star

that isn't a star at all

it's Jupiter

I bet that none 

of the well-trained drivers

navigating

along side me

realizes it

and next to Jupiter 

less bright

and a bit down to the right 

is Saturn

Jupiter and Saturn

two gods of Rome

father and son

watching this routine

of machines

from on-high

this obedient procession

of twenty-first century

worshippers

in our daily

home to work to home 

orbit of ourselves

I stay in line

allow only my mind 

to wander

off course

to other worlds

and times

because that's

what mine

was made for

there's a sign up ahead

an exit

I've never taken

and it's tempting.

Google him

for Rick Beato

Paul was always my favourite.

He wrote the Beatles' catchiest tunes,

and when that was over

didn't miss a beat with Wings.

I liked him best because

he didn't have John's moodiness, 

or George's aloofness, 

didn't hide in the back like Ringo.

He shined but could still be one of the boys,

someone you could imagine

sharing a joke and a pint at the pub.

Wasn't afraid to sing silly love songs 

full-voiced, and knew personal tragedy too,

loss, heartbreak, but never let it 

get in the way of a hummable melody,

and we all need that.

What do you think of the Beatles?

I ask my Uber driver as she fiddles 

with her cel stuck to the dash,

flipping between Waze and Spotify.

 

Hip-hop is playing, lots of rhyming words,

a thumping beat, no melody.

She isn't much older than my daughter,

the car is electric, almost soundless, 

zero emission.

Don't know them, she says.

What about Paul? 

I mean McCartney, 

ever hear of him? (I'm thinking she might know 

his solo stuff

Maybe I'm Amazed. Live and Let Die 

the Bond movie theme). 

Nope, she says. 

Maybe the greatest songwriter 

since Irving Berlin, I say, incredulous. 

A living legend. 

Blank stare

from the rearview mirror. 

Google him, I say. 

We're stuck in traffic,

car's not moving.

Feeling the pressure build,

I say, maybe we should turn here,

take a detour.

No worries, she says,

the car knows the way.

A Few Definitions

Poetry is the trail left by a soul on a page.

The present is a verb.

Mathematics is a language that describes relationships between aspects of physical reality.

Time

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You wait on the couch

I turn the faucet

counter clockwise

to fill the kettle

twist the stove 

dial to high

set the kettle down

the coil changes

colour 

black to orange

liquid hisses

 

I shape the filter

to a cone

fit it into the hard 

plastic holder

spoon out Folgers

one two and a half

spout steam signals 

water reaching boil

I lift the kettle tilt it

til it soaks the filter

brown grounds float

aroma releases

memory

mug fills

like an hourglass

counting

liquid rises 

I peek underneath

anxious, pour

a touch more

a touch

dregs drain

in the sink

mug warms palms

deep breath

you like yours 

dark and bitter

I like mine

dark and sweet

chest pounds

I steady myself 

for steps 

across the room

place the mug  

on the table

bend knees 

careful

not to spill

your eyes 

fixed to the page

I wonder

how long 

it will be 

until the next time 

we make love.

Understanding Time and Consciousness

 

Shmatta Business

The story began

yours, mine,

one day

and will end

one day

like a book it's said,

but that cliché

never worked for me,

because the story

is not just ours,

it begins before the beginning

and ends after the ending,

you read it one way

and I read it the opposite way

like a Jew does,

right to left, 

back to front,

and I wear mine

like a hand-me-down dress

old-style 

and inside out,

when you think of it,

a real bargain.

"America is a country of children... For years I have searched for a basis of ethics and gave up hope. Suddenly it became clear to me. The basis of ethics is man’s right to play the games of his choice. I will not trample on your toys and you will not trample on mine; I won’t spit on your idol and you will not spit on mine.... a sort of a universal Coney Island where everyone would play according to his or her desire."

from Shosha by I.B. Singer

Deer Crossing

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Out in the woods

of early October,

a sharp wind shearing

pine, birch, oak

and poplar

of their leafy fur,

the damp earth 

carpeted in oranges,

yellows and reds

crunching under boot.

The trail beneath is obscured,

but the view through

the surrounding forest

is clear as daylight.

Careful not to trip 

on sleek roots,

slip on mossy stone,

we walk side by side

as we have for years,

your head is bowed,

my hand cups your elbow.

I am saying to you,

'if we had faith

this is how we would pray'.

And then sudden 

as lightning flash,

movement up ahead - so fast, 

at first I think of mountain bikers,

tearing through the trees 

on two wheels, 

fearless and wild

as a wolf pack,

then quickly doubt myself,

no, it can't be -

the impression fades

as if entirely imagined.

We walk on and we talk, 

about our kids,

our parents, the future,

the past,

watch each step,

my doubts decomposing

amid the smell of rotting soil;

then unexpected

confirmation of a kind, three

in the distance, moving

but this time distinct.

Two adults and their offspring,

the upturned tail 

of the smallest signalling

like a white flag.

We stop dead.

Try not to make a sound.

We want to freeze time,

take in this sublime 

moment. 

But it's useless, 

we are heard

and they are gone

gone 

into the remaining weeks  

of hunting season.

The Device

When it

prompts

don't fall

for it, 

don't respond.

It's not really

interested 

in anything

you think,

or have to say.

Every time

you answer

it feeds  

and grows 

like a digital 

tapeworm -

an algorithmic 

parasite

that bores

holes

in your soul.

Ignore it

and it dies.

There's a child

in your room

and a dog.

 The difference between eccentricity and genius is time.

The Dream

In the dream

the train we are on slows

to approach the station.

We hear the rhythmic 

clacking of tracks 

underneath our feet

like a faltering pulse.

We are together in the railcar

you, me, our children, 

our family 

and small circle of closest friends,

everyone we know and love.

The air is thick

with inevitability.

We don’t speak.

Wheels grind, the railcar jolts

to a shrieking halt. 

Doors slide open,

I exit onto the platform,

without a word, alone.

It is white, antiseptic.

I face the doors of the railcar,

watch as they seal,

glimpse you through the window.

It’s as if you haven’t noticed 

that I’m gone. You’re mind 

is on your destination.

The train starts to slide

away.

I don’t react.

I don’t know where I am 

but it doesn’t matter. 

It’s enough for me

to know that you are safe.

The Machine

 “The Machine still linked them. Under the seas, beneath the roots of the mountains, run the wires through which they saw and heard, the enormous eyes and ears that were their heritage, and the hum of many workings clothed their thoughts in one garment of subservience”

from The Machine Stopped (1909) by E.M. Forster 

Towers

on the 20th anniversary

It's been said

that 9/11

was not a failure 

of security

but of imagination - 

it's hard to argue,

and even more

failure of love

and hope

those two shimmering towers

of heart and of mind

that we must build

and re-build 

every 

day.

The Hero

What will be said of him 

is that he muddled through,

and it will be true:

He kept his goals to himself

(if he had any at all)

because he didn't want

his failures on display

and he never had much clarity

on what success meant

anyway.

Then one day

someone came along

purely by chance

and he looked up

(from the book he was reading)

and fell instantly deeply in love,

he knew it was love

because he saw details

in someone else

he had never seen before

in anyone,

and he said 'here I am'

and he said 'I am here'

and he stepped forward

out of line

as a young man would 

who volunteers 

for a dangerous mission,

fearful but unafraid

to live.

Condolences

This is just to say

I'm sorry to hear

your dog died.

I know how much you loved 

that dog. 

She was a good dog,

one of the best,

learned some commands,

never chewed the furniture,

never shitted or peed in the house.

I know how you enjoyed 

taking her for walks

in the neighbourhood. 

How watching her

playing with the other dogs

at the dog-park brought you joy,

she never fought. 

How good-natured she was.

How she wagged her tail 

when you came home

from work at the end of the day -

and seemed to be able 

to read all your moods.

She'd come to you

when you were sad or depressed, 

and stay away 

when you were upset.

How attentive she was,

she seemed to understand, 

and easy to please,

all she needed 

was to have her fur stroked

or occasionally her belly scratched 

to be happy. I know you’ll

keep great memories of her,

as a member of the family.

Do you think you'll get another one?

Exit Strategy

You wanted

this entire time

to make the world a better place

in whatever way you could,

and if not the whole world

then at least, some tiny, 

forsaken corner of it,

but trust me, when I say,  

all your efforts will come to naught

without a good exit strategy.

There are few things in life

as difficult as leaving,

it rarely goes as planned

and there's never a good time,

so, ask yourself  

how will I make my escape?

Will I be the desperate soul 

waiting to be plucked

from the embassy rooftop

or will I be flying the helicopter

when the terrorists take over?

And what will become 

of the ones inevitably

left behind?

Consolation

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I first heard of consolation

when I was home from school 

with a fever. 

A daytime TV game-show prize

for the loser;

Hamburger Helper,

a year's worth of Uncle Ben's 

or Rice-a-Roni, the San Francisco treat.

The host always apologized

as 'Johnny', the disembodied voice of reassurance,

described the fabulous parting 'gifts'

they would receive

for being a good sport,

a set of American Tourister luggage,

a Mr. Coffee (slugger Joe DiMaggio's favourite), 

an endless supply of Dentyne

for fresher breath and cleaner teeth.

Sadly you didn't get the car,

but here's some Turtle Wax

lots of Turtle Wax.

I was riveted by those second placers,

how grateful they seemed, 

smiling as the host's delicate consoling hand 

gently shoved them off stage

so he can get on with the show.

A curtain inside me would open 

as they disappeared 

into the unlit wings

of their private lives,

something in me 

wanted to follow them,

needed to know 

if it all turned out okay for them, 

if the consolation they'd received 

had been enough,

and I took to heart 

the message

that whatever happened,

whatever disappointments, 

none of us leaves this life

empty-handed.

Billionaires in Space

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They can't wait to leave behind 

the boredom of high-priced cars, 150-foot yachts, 

and palatial estates with tennis courts 

and private golf courses -

sooo yesterday.

To keep up with the Jones's

billionaires nowadays, head to outer space,

exit the planet on phallic rockets 

(one called Virgin for heaven's sake)

'cause this crowded sphere can no longer contain

their magnificent cosmic egos -

one small step for a man

one giant leap for hubris

at Mach speeds.

When they cross the Karman line, 

break free of the earthbound force 

holding you and me here,

they will look down at us

(which is actually the point)

through an atmospheric haze,

unstrap themselves from their capsule seats 

and float upside down

giddy as kindergarten children 

flouting the class rules.

After a few minutes, parachutes deployed,

they will land safely

in the desert

and hold a press conference

on the spot. 

They will thank the hyper-educated folks 

who made it possible, say that today 

they realized a childhood dream, tout

the future of space travel for everyone,

and declare they've been changed personally 

forever,

while the rest of us ponder

what if anything 

has been learned. 

Death Fugue by Paul Celan

A new one for me. A translation. I'm talking to my eldest daughter and we're talking about language, one of our most favourite subjects, because she is completing an MA in Occupational Linguistics (essentially how to teach language), and we're talking about the poem she has written for me for Father's Day. I ask her to read it for me (which she resists doing). And this gets us onto the subject of the performance of poetry, which is something I've been thinking about a lot. I tell her that I've come to the conclusion that poetry is truly a spoken form and when I write it these days it's with performance in mind. I tell her that I've been listening to poetry being read and recited and it makes all the difference, it completely changes the experience of the poem. And she says, "You have to hear Paul Celan reading 'Todesfuge'." Of course, I know the poem she is referring to. It may be the most famous poem about the  Holocaust. But I hadn't re-visited it in a long time, and hadn't been aware that recordings existed of Celan reciting it, which got me excited. Also, I don't speak German (my daughter does, she studied it in university) so any time I've read the poem it was in English translation, and the translated poem left me cold, it seemed extremely opaque. My daughter convinced me to give it another try, saying that my knowledge of Yiddish would help with the German. I took her advice and suffice to say, she was right. Celan's recitation of Todesfuge is deeply moving. I listened to it repeatedly, not understanding half of what I was hearing, but getting the gist, and simply allowing myself to be carried away by the timbre of his voice, the sounds and rhythms he was producing. His recitation builds and builds to a dramatic climax and denouement in an unexpected way. Then I began delving more closely into the texts and the meanings of the words. I found several translations online, and frankly was fairly disappointed. Most of them simply didn't square at all with what I heard in Celan's propulsive performance of the poem: the way the contrapunctal repetition emphasizes the growing darkness and ominousness of his themes, the underlying moral outrage that courses through the poem, and the political resonances of Germany under fascism that he is conveying. The best translation I found online was performed by Galway Kinnell, and it's worth a listen, but there's something too loose about the translation that nagged at me, thought it needed to be tighter and sharper. 

There is something about 'Todesfuge' that both begs for translation, and defies translation. It is a deceptively simple poem in some respects. The language is not complicated, and it's that mixture of the banal and an underlying darkness that makes it so compelling. I decided to give translating it a shot (pun not intended). In the process of my efforts the poem opened up to me in surprising ways. And of course I became familiar for the first time with the limitations of translation, and the problems associated with finding but not overstepping the boundary between translation and transformation. How far can a translator stray from the literal words in order to convey their meanings? What I've produced is admittedly a failure, as all translations are. I may have pushed the boundary too far in some aspects, and yet in other ways I believe I hit on some resonances of the poem that other translations have missed. For example, in the poem, the phrase 'Ein Mann wohnt im Haus' means literally 'A man lives in a house' which is how all the translations I read translated it. But I read it differently for a number of reasons, and decided to translate it as 'A Man of the House'. My reasoning is manifold. First, I wanted to maintain the capitalization of the 'Man' and 'House' of the original which signifies to me that the poet is not simply referring to any man in any house. I don’t believe he is referring to himself, the poet. Rather he appears to mean ‘a man’ in both the banal sense and also the mythical sense of the German man in the German house. His meaning may be intended to resonate with the 'master of Death' he later refers to, and the idea of Germans being the political and racial masters of their house/country (which also resonates with other racial references 'blue eye' and 'golden hair'). Second, my knowledge of Yiddish told me that 'Mann' can also mean 'husband', so translating the phrase as 'Man of the House' resonates with the references to the women of the poem 'Margarete' and 'Shulamit' in a new way. Another example of a translation choice I made that differs from other versions, the word 'schreibt' literally means 'writes' and is usually translated that way. I use 'scribbles' and my reasoning is because I think the sound of 'scribble' more closely resembles the original 'schreibt' and also conveys in sound a frenzied feeling. These are just two examples of some of the thinking that under-girds my choices. There are dozens of others, and no doubt I will be making many more, as the poem evolves for me in re-readings and re-listenings.  

Without further ado, here is my version, with the original German underneath. 

DEATH FUGUE by Paul Celan

translation B. Glen Rotchin (with help from many other translations)

Black milk of daybreak we drink it in evening

we drink it at noon and in morning, we drink it at night

we drink and we drink

we grave-dig the sky where no one lies crowded.

A Man of the House plays with serpents  

and he scribbles, he scribbles as Deutschland darkens, your golden haired Margarete,

he scribbles and steps out from the house 

and the flashing stars, he whistles for his dogs,

summons his Jews to grave-dig the ground.

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night

we drink you in morning and at noon, we drink you in evening

we drink and we drink

A Man of the House plays with serpents 

and he scribbles, he scribbles as Deutschland darkens, your golden haired Margarete,

your ashen haired Shulamit,

we grave-dig the sky where no one lies crowded.

He shouts to dig deeper in the ground, sing and play for each other,

he grabs his holstered iron, he swings, eyes of blue,

spades dig deeper, while they play for each other to dance.

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night

we drink you at noon and in morning we drink you in evening

we drink and we drink

A Man of the House, your golden haired Margarete,

your ashen haired Shulamit, he plays with serpents

he shouts 'play sweet as death', Death is a master from Deutschland,

he shouts 'stroke the violins darker', then rise in the air as smoke

to your grave in the clouds where you don't lie crowded.

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night

we drink you at noon, Death is a master from Deutschland

we drink you in evening and in morning we drink and we drink,

Death is a master from Deutschland, eyes of blue,

he pumps you with lead, his aim is true,

A Man of the House plays with serpents, your golden haired Margarete

he hunts us with his men, grants our grave in the sky,

he plays with serpents and dreams Death is a master from Deutschland

your golden haired Margarete

your ashen haired Shulamit.

Todesfuge

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
wir trinken und trinken
wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er pfeift seine Rüden herbei
er pfeift seine Juden hervor läßt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng

Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singet und spielt
er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau
stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen

Er ruft spielt süßer den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft
dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken
er Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau
er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete

er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft
er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland

dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith

Kill a desire to learn, condemn the person to despair

 

“The best thing for being sad,’ replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, ‘is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in you anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then – to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags in it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting'.”

― T.H. White, The Once and Future King

Lemon Wedges

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for Eden 

Lemon wedges in a dish

placed around our home.

I come upon them

in the bathroom,

in the hallway corner

at the foot of the back stairs,

in the basement next to the condemned fireplace.

A test for ghosts, my daughter says,

if our house is haunted

the lemons will grow mold,

if not, they'll dry and shrivel up.

Some nonsense she read online.

Waste of perfectly good fruit, I say.

They're here, she says, I feel their presence,

hear creepy sounds in the walls 

and beneath the floor,

and didn't a previous owner

die in your bathroom, she asks.

What about that water stain 

on the ceiling that keeps coming back

no matter how often we plaster and paint?  

Have you checked the attic?

We don't have an attic, just a crawl space,

she's seen too many movies. 

But I've heard the noises -

smile at her doubtfully.

Why lemon wedges, 

why not potatoes? Or tomatoes?

Stymied by my logic she has no answer,

not that it matters,

my daughter is at that irrational age;

spends too much time online,

wears too much make-up and

tight clothes that show too much skin,

listens to loud, angry music, 

smokes pot, drinks booze, and curses

like a sailor.

That age when there are no limits,

too much is not enough, 

the days stretch out ahead without end,

and anything is possible,

except death.

I think about me, when I was her age, 

what my parents thought,

how I drove them mad with my antics,

and the love I felt in spite of it. 

I too believed that anything was possible,

because feeling loved 

does that to you, 

makes you believe.

Lately, I check the lemon wedges

for mold.

Forgive Me This Edit

I am fortunate to have friends who are also poets. I wrote a poem about that a few weeks ago and shared it with a couple of my poet/friends who had cameos in the poem. I didn't expect the poem to come back all tidied up. But here it is, courtesy of Karen Shenfeld, a fine poet and editor, who responded to my email with a classic Canadianism - "Forgive me this edit..." So for Karen's version I've decided to re-title the poem. Here it is. The original, if you care to compare, was called "Just A Poet" and posted on June 7th. Let me know which one you like better. 


FORGIVE ME THIS EDIT


there was the farmer

who raised chickens, livestock

picked apples and pears

the family doctor

who made house calls


one ran a big insurance company

another practiced law


one was a banker

one a politician

another a mail carrier

who eventually moved up

to sorter


one was a government bureaucrat

another the heavyweight boxing champion

of the world


and the teachers, the teachers

so many teachers


not one

just a poet

not one


some I know only by reputation

others I call friends


me, I’m a rent collector

sometimes call myself

a property manager


and also a poet.

The Building Fell

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The building fell,

12 floors,

fell down,

fell.

No earthquake.

No hurricane.

No tropical storm.

No warning.

No reason.

The residents

came home

slipped between sheets,

slept. Then

the building

fell

just fell,

floors folded

in the dark,

flattened

in thunder and dust

and

silence;

water gushed 

from severed pipes,

power arced and sparked,

mattresses smoldered and smoked,

rescuers swarmed

amid fumes and rubble

with devices and dogs

to listen and sniff

for signs;

families cried,

hoped,

prayed,

waited

for answers.

Ocean surf roared 

broke on shore

disappeared into the sand

the tide rose

and fell

rose

fell.

The Secret

You can not become happy.

You can only be happy.

Colour is Life

For Stanley Solomon (1947-2021)

Colour is life.

You need only the confirmation

of startling red seeping

from a finger

caressed by the serrated edge

of a brand new blade left in the sink

sticking up between the dishes - a knife

that moments before was in your hand

carving the pulpy flesh of a tomato

into thin wedges

for your lover’s kale salad:

The gash shocks and excites,

as if time itself was sliced open

from the loose sack of routine,

the heart-pump speeds, pulse flutters

and the frantic search is on

for a tourniquet to stem the oozing colour.

And not 24 hours before the same hand

held a pale cardboard box,

‘A bit heavy’ the man said, smiling,

presenting it like a gift to be wrapped.

The familiar name was laser printed in black ink

above a cremation ID (his last official number)

evoking the Holocaust

(it's no wonder we Jews typically don’t do this).

Summoning remnants of courage

I inspected the contents;

not all of him was incinerated,

granular bits of dry bone were visible

through the clear cellophane,

reminding me of shards of broken pottery

from a lost civilization

sifted by wind to the surface

of a sun-bleached biblical desert.

And now his kin

are turned archaeologists

deciphering who he really was

and asking why he didn’t care enough,

or like children trying to colour 

between the lines,

making up a story.

Stanley David Solomon (July 23, 1947- June 14, 2021)

The legend has passed. Long-live the legend.

Born with the gift of a golden voice, as Leonard Cohen put it, uncle Stanley was first a singer, then a storyteller. He had more lives than a cat, and if you gave him the time, he'd tell you about all of them.

I've written about him before on this blog as the lead singer and songwriter of the legendary Israeli rock band from the late 1960s (The) Churchill's. For me that's really where the legend of Stanley Solomon starts. When in '67 on the cusp of his twenties, he decided to become a volunteer for Israel for the Six Day War. By the time he got to Israel the war was over and he ended up living on kibbutz doing odd jobs, like painting tanks. In Florida, Stan had been fronting local Miami bands since his early teens, notably, The Mystics who played high-school dances and the like. So when he got to Israel putting a band together came naturally. He started doing a solo James Brown/American Soul-type act opening for a band called the Churchill's at the live music clubs in Tel-Aviv - at a time when live American music was a bit of a novelty in Israel and the local club scene was just starting to take off. The act was building a bit of a following and the manager of the Churchill's asked Stan to officially join the band. When two of the original Churchill's members had to report for army service Stan got guitarist Robb Huxley, a Brit who was in Israel on tour with The Tornados, to join the band. Stan and Robb had hit it off and started rooming and writing songs together. The second 'breakthrough' version of the Churchill's line-up was complete - Stan, Robb, Miki Gavrielov, Ami Treibich and Haim Romano. They continued to perform covers of popular American music but slowly started including original tunes in their sets, usually to the chagrin of their audiences. By 1968 they had enough material for an album, the now legendary eponymous LP (also called "Songs for the film 'A Woman's Case'") on the CBS - Hed-Artzi label, with most of the songs written by Robb and Stan, and with Stan producing. The style of their recording was unusual, in fact revolutionary for Israel. The songs were a mixture of British pop, American psychedelia, and Mediterranean flavours and instrumentation. It pushed the boundary of the familiar national folk-type Israeli music of the time, with backward tape and odd sounds. It represented the beginning of the nascent Israeli rock music recording industry. Through 1968-69 the Churchill's toured in Europe, and went on to record with Israeli musical legend Arik Einstein, with Stan co-producing Einstein's third solo album, 'Poozy' (generally regarded as the first homegrown 'rock' music album in Israel). Stan produced a handful of other Israeli bands as well. One of Stan's legendary musical productions was a star-studded Hebrew version of 'Give Peace a Chance', the Lennon-Ono/McCartney bed-in song recorded at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel in Montreal (Stan's hometown). All this happened before Stan had reached the ripe old age of 23.

Even after sidelining the music business for other entrepreneurial ventures through the 1970s, including in the fashion business (a designer jeans company) and as a fine art dealer, Stan kept an interest in music. He maintained friendships with a number of musicians, sound engineers and producers, bought and rented out the first synclavier (early digital musical synthesizer and sampler) in Florida, he helped to finance Black Sabbath's 1980 Heaven and Hell album when they reportedly ran out of money, and he had a small 8-track recording studio of his own where local bands could record demos. One of my fondest memories of uncle Stan was on a visit in the early 1980s. I was 15 or 16 years old and had recently started playing in my own high-school rock band. Imagine what a thrill it was when Stan took my brothers and me to visit Bill Szymzyck's Bayshore Recording Studios in Coconut Grove, where the Eagles had recorded their album The Long Run the previous year. 

Sometimes Stan's stories about his connections to famous people were hard to swallow. He talked about being friends with guitar legend Jeff Beck, or said that Aretha Franklin stayed at his home, and then just when you thought he was blowing hot air something would happen to prove it all true. Stan's attraction to the rich and famous goes back to his childhood in Miami Beach. When (CNN legend) Larry King had his weekly radio show in the early 1950s broadcasting from Pumpernick's restaurant, little Stanley Solomon was a frequent guest and would sing a song for the audience. One of Stan's childhood playmates was his neighbour Jake Lamotta Jr., son of the former middleweight world champion. Apparently the Lamottas considered Stanley like a member of their family. My grandmother told a story that one day when Stan was a little boy he asked if he could bring a friend home from the golf course for lunch. A limo pulled up outside the house and Stanley got out with Senator Stuart Symington. It seemed that Stan was born with a 'gift for the gab'. He could talk anybody into doing almost anything. 

But it was music, I believe, that was always closest to his heart and soul, and his god-given talent from birth. His mother, my grandmother Betty, had a beautiful voice too, and said that as a little girl she saw herself on stage one day. That never happened. The apocryphal story she told about Stanley's talent was that at his bar-mitzvah the cantor was so awestruck and moved by his singing of the Torah that after Stan finished he presented the bar-mitzvah boy with his cantor's hat, a sort of coronation.

So in honour of Stan, go on Youtube and listen to the Churchill's album. And if not the whole thing I'd recommend what I consider to be their masterpiece, "Subsequent Finale."   

Uncle Stan (on the left) at the helm of the "Give Peace A Chance" recording session. 

UPDATE: After posting, I received the following reminiscences from Stan's dear friend and Churchill's bandmate Robb Huxley, which he has given me permission to share. Robb also suggested a few corrections to my original post. Incidentally, Robb has written a highly recommended multi-volume detailed memoir of his musical career including an excellent account of his days in Israel with the Churchill's called "Subsequent Finale" that features poetry and lyrics written by Stan:

Hi Glen here is a some additional material of interest on Stan and a few minor changes. When Stan went to Israel and the six day war was over he had the opportunity to work on a Kibbutz. It was Kibbutz Afek. When Stan arrived they gave him a list of jobs that were available and he was told he could choose whatever he would like to do. One of the opportunities was fishing and as Stan loved the ocean he envisioned going out on a fishing boat every day and found the thought of that quite appealing. However his aspirations were dashed when “fishing” turned out to be standing up to his knees in water in large artificial fish ponds on a fish farm. His job was to scrape and clean all the muck and build up from the ponds, a far cry from sailing out on the ocean blue enjoying the sea breeze and sunshine. When Stan notified the Kibbutz authorities that he did not like that kind of work and that nothing else such as picking olives or tending goats appealed to him he was told that his only other choice was to be a volunteer in the Israeli Army. Stan opted for the army and was sent to an army base outside of Haifa. That is where one of his jobs was to paint tanks. While there he met and became friends with the famous American actor Larry Storch from the American TV series “F” Troop. Larry had also gone to Israel as a volunteer. One day Stan was sent to an outpost to do some work there when a group of high ranking Israeli army officers showed up led by the famous General Moshe Dayan. General Dayan approached Stan and shook his hand and thanked him for his services as a volunteer. He did make one remark though which was he suggested that Stan cut his hair! While at the army base Stan met an Israeli guitarist who had a band called the Saints. Very soon after a get-together Stan was asked to join the Saints, which he did. On one occasion when they appeared in Tel-Aviv Stan was spotted by up-and-coming band manager Yehuda Talit R.I.P the manager of The Churchills and was asked to join the group.

When Stan played in the Mystics in Miami he used to go and hang out at the famous Criteria Studios where he met and became a part time assistant to the famous record producer Bob Crewe. Crewe was famous for a string of hits he produced for The Four Seasons. Stan obviously picked up a lot of experience at Criteria Studios which no doubt helped him a few years down the road when he produced the iconic Churchills Album.

Stan also entered into a business venture where he wanted to create what he called the Rolls Royce of concerts at the famous Gusman Hall auditorium in downtown Miami. The concept was to offer gourmet food and drinks during the intermission. The concept was very high class. He was unable though to entice, Bob Dylan or The Rolling Stones to top the bill. He did however put on two shows one with Leon Russell topping the bill with an incarnation of the Byrds opening up and also a second show with famous Latin singer Camillo Sesto. Unfortunately this concept was way ahead of it’s time and Stan abandoned the venture soon after the second show.

I agree with you that some of Stan’s tales were a little hard to believe sometimes. Nobody from the original Churchills believed him when he told them that he was the son of the great Canadian clothing manufacturer millionaire Sam Solomon but that was proven to be correct when Mr. Solomon was invited by then Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir to come to Israel and to offer advice and training in mass production of clothing. Sam Solomon did come to Kolinor Studios in Tel Aviv to see Stan producing the Churchills Album. By the way, the original first pressing copies of the album have reached a staggering high in value and have been selling for $8,000.00.

Very best regards

ROBB.

The Invalid

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And what if, like me,

you are an invalid,

can't do it,

whatever 'it' is,

whatever the rest do

with such seeming ease,

unthinkingly;

and you live at home

with your ma and pa

even though 

you're an 'adult'

and they never let you 

forget

that you owe them

for the roof over your head,

for the food you eat,

for the bed where you sleep, 

for the clothes you wear,

for the constant care,

and that you stand 

to inherit

from your cripple's seat

on wheels,

everything

they have, 

down

to their resentment.

Random Thoughts : Consciousness

I've been watching some lectures by a well known American philosopher named John Searle. He talks about the science of consciousness, saying that he believes it's the most important emerging field of scientific study. There is certainly a lot of scientific value in studying the biology and chemistry of how the brain works in terms of how it may relate to consciousness. But consciousness also suggests pseudo-scientific connotations, crossing over into philosophical, religious and spiritual subject matter. And maybe that's why it's such an interesting subject to think about, it's so multifaceted. Searle's talks are engaging. He's a pretty plainspoken guy so the use of philosophical jargon is kept to a minimum. He does talk a little about epistemological and ontological objective and subjective reality. But the subject of consciousness is eminently understandable from a layman's perspective I  believe. And the questions are interesting: How to define consciousness. Whether a machine can be conscious (the so-called Turing test). At what point does pure computation become consciousness. Is consciousness simply an advanced level of algorithmic computation, in which case will super-powerful computers eventually develop consciousness (AI)? What about animals? Are they conscious, and if they are, what does that imply morally in terms of how we need to treat them.  

The simple definition of consciousness is the state of being awake ie. as opposed to being unconscious, which is being asleep. These are the two opposite general cognitive states and I think the basis of any understanding and discussion. It needn't be much more complicated than that. We know that we cognitively process data in both states, awake and asleep. We talk in our our sleep, even walk in our sleep. And most importantly we dream. So we may conclude that being awake and asleep, conscious and unconscious, is nothing like turning a computer on and off. If we hear an alarm in the morning to wake up it is a clear indication that we experience external stimuli even when we are unconscious. So the experience of stimuli can't be the difference between being conscious and unconscious. When we are asleep there is no doubt that we cognitively process information (images, sounds, feelings etc.) stored in our minds. Some of that unconscious processing of information is remembered when we wake up, we call this a dream. But it's only when we wake up that we ask ourselves what our dreams mean. That expresses the essential difference between unconsciousness and consciousness. 

The essential difference between a conscious and an unconscious state is that only in a conscious state do we derive meaning from stimuli. Sentient beings derive a multiplicity of meanings when they are conscious, and those meanings are idiosyncratic in nature. Some may be standard and generalized, in the sense that they are shared within a community, and others may be strictly personal. So for example, if I see a certain type of chair, I may think of the word 'chair' (a taught conceptual meaning) and think of sitting on it (a meaning taken from experience), but if that type of chair was where my parents used to punish me with a 'time-out' I may also have negative feelings, such as fear, associated with it (a personal meaning that others don't share.) In this way meaning, can be divided into at least two categories, conceptual and experienced, and two subcategories, shared and personal. 

If we agree that the essence of consciousness is that we generate meanings from the stimuli/data, how precisely that works remains a mystery. There are many levels of scientific study to parse that out, from the chemical and neural-biological to the psycho-social. We know that consciousness comprises a complex form of neural computation of information. But if the crux of consciousness is deriving meaning from this process, it's clear that no amount of computing power will ever constitute consciousness. Machine algorithms, no matter how complex, will never be able to generate meaning.     

Random Thoughts : Love and Work

Consider the way two concepts have changed over the last two hundred years; 'love' and 'work'. Up until about a hundred and fifty years ago, say around the time that the industrial revolution was in full swing, having a paying job, any kind of paying job, was generally considered roughly the equivalent to slave labour. It was something to be pitied. It meant that you had little or no personal liberty, that you were beholden to a master, under someone's thumb and required to do their bidding. It meant that you were limited in your ability to partake in the truly meaningful and broadening aspects of life, enjoying the arts, reading, learning, philosophy, the natural sciences, assorted enriching social, creative and recreational endeavours etc. The idea that a job could be a point of pride, that it could comprise something meaningful, and represent the crux of one's self-definition would have been considered strange if not utterly depraved. 

Love as a concept has changed radically over the last several hundreds of years, but it has mostly expanded, in the sense, I think, that it has become more elusive, and perhaps more individual and self-centered. While work is something we can trace definitionally, love is more slippery. Ask a hundred people and you will get as many different definitions, that will span the chaste Shakespearean romantic, transcendent notion of love to a sexualized more playful and youthful idea of love. Love is both something that is innocent, pure and unmarred by experience, and it gets better with age, growing and ripening into something richer and sweeter. While the old idea of work seems remote to us, eclipsed by a new supercharged definition that is all-encompassing, the definition of love seems to retain all its past meanings even as it evolves. 

Because work is so all encompassing in the way we think of life's value, our culture so built around it and consumption of product, shunting all other pursuits to the margins, I wonder, does the way we think of work today represent progress or a challenge to our sense of personal and social well-being? 

Does the way we think of love enrich our lives, or does it encumber our relationships and add to personal confusion? And what about how love and work fit together, or don't. Is there any room for both? Am I wrong to think that the pursuit, appreciation and cultivation of love relationships has become problematic for people these days?

Just A Poet

One was a farmer

raised chickens, livestock,

picked apples and pears,

another was a family doctor

back when they made house calls.

There was one

who ran a big insurance company,

and another who practiced law.

One was a banker,

one a politician,

another a mail carrier

who eventually moved up

to be a mail sorter.

One was a government bureaucrat,

another the heavyweight boxing champion

of the world.

One made documentary films,

and one studied to be a rabbi

but made his living

as a financial planner.

And the teachers, the teachers,

so many teachers.

Some I know only by reputation,

others I call friends,

not one

just a poet;

not one.

My heart aches for them,

the farmers, executives, bureaucrats,

doctors, bankers, mail carriers

and sorters

who were also poets.

Me, I’m a rent collector,

sometimes call myself

a property manager,

and also a poet.

My heart aches.

Airplanes

If we say airplanes fly

why don't we say submarines swim?

Moving The Bed

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A father moving 

his daughter's bed

to a new apartment.

"I need your help," she says,

"just this one time." 

I doubt it will fit

inside the sedan

I tell her, and I can't drive 

across the city in broad 

daylight with your mattress 

bungee-strapped to the roof

like an advertisement,

like a lit-up taxi sign meaning available.

Next excuse: My sciatica,

I say, and then, without thinking -

you must know some guys 

with overdeveloped biceps 

and a van.

"I could never 

count on you," 

my daughter says, 

without any idea

how much that hurts,

or maybe some idea.

She's always been right

when she said (to her mother)

Dad can be an asshole.

Damn the uselessness of shame

and small cars.

Damn the helplessness

of fatherhood

and one-way love.

Tryptych

TRUTH     TRUST    TRUTH

TRUST    TRUTH     TRUST 

TRUTH    TRUST     TRUTH 

TRUMP    TRUST      TRUTH

TRUST     TRUMP     TRUTH

TRUST     TRUTH     TRUMP

TRUTH     TRUST    TRUTH

TRUST    TRUTH     TRUST 

TRUTH    TRUST     TRUTH 

Bear In My House

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There's a bear in my house

and he won't leave.

He's eating my food,

made a nest for himself

out of leaves and branches 

dragged in from the woods.

I try chasing him away,

he's gone for a few days

and we feel safe,

but he always returns

because the house is warm,

the kitchen's well stocked,

and he knows the place.

In my house he lives 

in the half-hidden space

above the stairs.

He's not a huge bear,

but big enough 

to tear me to pieces 

if he wants to.

He's not an angry bear, 

but I've seen him get angry.

When I'm lying in bed at night

I smell his fur,

hear him munch and slurp

(on God-knows-what 

he's always eating something)

and I hear his heavy breath, 

his grunts and moans

when he's sated.

In the morning

I can't go to work without 

thinking about the bear,

whether he's still there

in my house,

or gone, and if he'll come back,

and I think about my wife

if she's safe at home alone,

all day long,

and who

she's been fucking,

I need a gun.

Smokers

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I smoked for about 5 years

1/4 pack a day, maybe 1/2 at most

when a pack had 25 cigarettes

(so 7 to 13, never more)

and cost about $5.

I stopped in my early 30s, 

so haven't smoked in 20 years, 

and never thought of myself 

as 'a smoker' and that's important, 

somehow. For those who do (or did, 

think of themselves) 

a pack of cigarettes 

is a pocket-size calculator

keeping track, 

marking days 

before or after quitting, 

like BC/AD,

or like a punch-clock card, a pack

keeps an hourly schedule,

a smoke with your morning coffee, 

at break-time, after lunch, and so on.

Smoking defines you in ways 

few things do, you're a smoker, 

a non-smoker, or once-smoker;

my dad was a smoker,

a 'Craven A' man,

a pack-and-a-half-a-day man

all his life till the day he died,

but smoking didn't kill him,

other things did,

and that's how he knew,

he could tempt fate,

and that all things considered, 

he was pretty lucky in life.

Mom smoked too 

but wasn't devoted like him,

only half-a-pack, and quit

when they divorced,

the marriage run its course.

Dad taught me 

in the way he smoked,

how a man looks

when he loses himself in love, eyes closed

drawing in, exhaling, slowly, 

like he's praying,

smoking is like meditation,

you concentrate on every breath.

Dad would cross a border

just to buy a carton at the duty-free.

He was at ease 

when he smoked,

did his best thinking 

when he smoked,

couldn't be touched 

when he smoked.

I tried to be like him,

for a while, 

then around the time 

my first child was born, 

I realized I couldn't 

and actually didn't want to

be like him,

AD, after dad.

Renaissance

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for Annetta

In the beginning we shared a vegetarian pizza

in a corner booth at the bistro  

above the metro station,

split a carafe of house white wine,

and spoke in hushed tones, laughed, 

as the train arrived underground, 

came to a rumbling stop,

and then left to the next the station

with a piercing electric hum

that we felt deep down 

inside.

We ditched restaurants, 

partly out of time, partly out of cost, 

and you started cooking for us

in a practical kitchen that was too small

and getting smaller every year.

We got used to the uneven linoleum floor 

scuffed by the creaky wooden legs 

of our wobbly melamine table, and our high-chair 

with squeaky plastic wheels 

and removable tray. You fried eggs 

and potatoes, boiled noodles -

made pesto, soups and stir-fries,

pureed carrots and peas

in the food processor

that was my anniversary gift.

When the kitchen got bigger, 

like the kids did, you graduated 

to quiches, asparagus, broccoli and mushroom,

you reached backward to master 

your grandmother's sweet and sour meatballs,

your mother's spinach lasagna, and signalling 

your culinary wanderlust for a transcendent sphere, 

you started baking breads:

braided challahs and multi-grains, 

zucchini loaves with walnuts or pecans, 

cornbreads with raisins or blueberries, 

and olive bread with tomatoes, to dip

in exotic spiced oils, 

your ovens wafting heavenly aromas 

making a home that transported the soul.

These days we are more settled,

drink filtered coffee from souvenir mugs

collected over decades,

crunch on crisp homemade cinnamon biscottis

sitting across from one another at the island,

I fill in the Times crossword in pencil 

(ask you for a 'type of cheese 

made with goat's milk'), and we watch

the fruit you lovingly selected 

from the grocer's mound mid-week,

oranges, bananas and pears, ripen 

in the bowl you thrifted for a song

from the Renaissance store.

Fighting

I hear them fighting

all day long

I hear them fighting

in this office 

and the next office

in this room

and the next room 

in this house 

and the next house

on this street

and the next street

I hear them fighting 

in this city

and the next city

in this country

and the next country

I hear them fighting

and they fight

for what's mine

and what's yours

for who's right 

and who's wrong

I hear them fighting 

about making money

and losing money

I hear them fighting

about having too much 

and not enough

about who's to blame 

and who's not to blame

I hear them fighting

about promises

about expectations

about what was meant

and not meant

about what was said

and not said

I hear them fighting 

for compensation 

I hear them fighting 

for restitution

reimbursement 

redress

repayment 

retribution

retaliation

revenge

I hear them fighting

all day long

and it sounds 

like a clock

that will never stop.

The Screen

Between me and you there is a screen

That shows us what cannot be seen,

How you appear and what I perceive

How you think and what I believe.

I see you in a room, body 'neath a face,

Almost lifelike inside flattened space

An assemblage of mind from pixilated lights 

Charged by a million million bytes.

Between us a distance as thin as glass

And thick as questions left unasked,

Something I think I hear you say

Is misconstrued by time delay.

Moved by an urgent need to bond  

I touch the screen, (this kind won't respond)

And for an instant you do feel close

'Til your expression freezes - and they're exposed 

Those gremlins that make resentments rise

When we lose faith in the compromise

On which our love is supposed to work

So easily sabotaged by a technical quirk.

We wait, and wait, and press refresh,

But the spirit has by now departed the flesh,

Disconnected, we simultaneously log out,

Each to his room, wracked with doubt.

Alone with thoughts and sweet memories 

That access passion's energies,

A desire resurfaces for what has been,  

And we seek each other again, through the screen. 

Exhibit A

CLICK HERE TO HEAR THE AUTHOR'S READING

I 

am Exhibit A:

I make the case

for myself

and against myself

every day.

I make the case 

for love

and against love.

I make the case

for joy

and despair,

for truth 

and lies,

for reason 

and against reason

for passion 

and against passion,

for flesh

and for spirit,

for God

and against God.

It's not a trial

there's no defendant

or prosecutor,

no judge

no jury

and no law

there's just

Exhibit A

and a case made

every day

for and against

for and against

for and against.

He Was Right

for Charles Bukowski

He was right

about one thing:

He had to write

not because he was so good

but because the rest 

were so bad -

and that was before 

smartphones

that tell us

what we want to hear 

all the time,

study us

like rats in a maze, plus

stimulate us

reward us

with digital kibble

for every dumb idea 

in our heads

every prejudice 

in our hearts

and we can't get enough

of ourselves 

so we engorge

until we die, fat

stupid and twisted

as the smiles 

on our faces.

Weather

What's the weather

like today

she asked.

I said

let me check

my phone.

The Way My Father Suffered

for Randy and Dean

The only time I remember 

seeing my father suffer

was on an airplane.

Mother would dress us up,

my brothers and me, 

for the Boeing 747 flight to Miami 

where we flew twice yearly 

(Christmas and Easter)

our seats were in the smoking section

back when airplanes had them.

You could not see my father's suffering 

in his eyes

but I could tell he suffered

inside his head

when he squeezed his palms together

in front of his face

made a steeple of his fingers

like he was about to recite a prayer

and blocked his nostrils

with his thumbs

as the jet engines rumbled 

and the nose of the fuselage rose

with all the vacationing families 

locked into their seats,

gaining altitude;

for my father there was no escaping

the pressure building 

inside his head

and he would seal his lips

puff-up his cheeks 

like Miles or Dizzy 

and blow an invisible horn

that made no music

sounded no alarm

(but made me giggle 

under my breath);

because my father was born 

with only one ear

which was why 

my mother used to say 

he only heard half

of what she told him.

My father never said a word 

about his suffering 

when we flew

or what he was thinking

and I never heard the tiny explosion,

the pop in his head

that released the pressure,

and then one day

he was gone.

When Blacks turned the musical (turn)tables on Whites

Still thinking about Dylan, and also about the relationship between African American music and the way it has influenced white music, in a sort of colonial way. Black music grew out of slavery and the hardscrabble life of sharecropping, and the whites essentially exploited and marketed it. One question that nags is the one-way street aspect of that relationship ie. that it's black music that has influenced white music and not the other way around. In fact, as one friend asked, can you name a single black artist who has been influenced by a white artist? Take the most influential white songwriter of the post-war period, Bob Dylan. Virtually every white singer-songwriter of note has been influenced by him, but can you name a single black songwriter or performer who has? The answer is, if there are any, they are most certainly the exception that proves the rule. In fact, has there ever been a black songwriter or performer of any importance, or a poet, or a novelist for that matter, that was influenced by a white? It's hard to think of any. The cultural influences of blacks have been blacks, and what has inspired them is exclusively the black experience. 

And then it hit me, rap duo Run-DMC doing Aerosmith's mid 70s hit 'Walk This Way'. I remember the first time I heard it. I hated it. Thought it was garbage, a joke. In fact, the story goes that the duo themselves thought it was a bit of a joke. Rick Rubin (white, Jewish) co-founder of Def Jam records, had the idea. The duo had heard the infectious powerful 'Walk' beat cause it had been widely 'scratched to' in the dance clubs for years. But they had no idea who Aerosmith were, and had never heard the song's lyrics, later calling them 'hillbilly jibberish'. "Me and Run thought Rick (Rubin) and Russell (Simmons) were trying to ruin us," said Darryl 'DMC' McDaniels. Well, he could not have been more wrong. The collaboration was a smash hit, and even managed to resurrect Aerosmith's floundering career. So what does Run-DMC doing Aerosmith's 'Walk This Way' have to do with anything? It's a watershed moment in American culture is all: a black rap duo taking a white song, which of course derived from R&B, and turning it back into a mega-hit rap song that opened rap music to a broad white audience. The move heralded the beginning of black artists appropriating and exploiting white musicians (who had exploited and appropriated black music) to sell their music to whites. The practice of sampling 'white' songs, including everyone from Steely Dan (Kanye West, De la Soul) to Led Zeppelin (Ice-T, Schooly D, Puff Daddy) subsequently became popular with rap and hip-hop artists. 

So why do I think this is a watershed moment (if a moment has to be pinpointed, in truth it was probably an evolution)? It signified more than just blacks turning the tables on whites. I think it represents a cultural (even a political and economic) shift - blacks transitioning from a community in crisis due to segregation and oppression to a community being culturally accepted, even embraced, in mainstream white society, which in turn precipitated another sort of 'crisis' among black artists. This new 'crisis' elicited the expression of ambivalence in their music about acceptance by whites. I am thinking now about the way hip-hop artists rapped about the symbols of wealth, status and fame. I perceived in that a discomfort with these symbols of white society. Under the guise of celebrating the money and power they were achieving, they also seemed to be asking what it meant. At the same time that they celebrated it, they satirized it. So the struggle for cultural acceptance shifted to the struggle about it. Many hip-hop artists took a step back and started singing about experiences that were much closer to the 'traditional' ones, gang life, oppression by (white) authorities, ghetto poverty, exploitation etc. To be influenced by white culture would be tantamount to identifying with the oppressor, and this became very problematic for some. That was in the 80s. These days the era of the singer-songwriter is long gone. Hip-hop music is the predominant, most profitable and most influential music of our time. It is now the de facto mainstream of the industry, unless you're talking about that 'hillbilly jibberish' music. 

On the day they legalized weed

for Kelp

On the day they legalized weed

finally

after decades of lobbying

I bought the company stock

because weed grows like weeds

and stalks grow in the sunshine

and even if money doesn't grow

on trees (as they say)

a mind works

metaphorically

and I imagined a lush garden 

and beauty

and that I'd become rich

from all the potheads getting high

as the government collected its taxes

and everyone would be happy

(from the potheads to the bureaucrats)

and so would I 

cause this time 

I didn't miss the bus,

the train hadn't left the station,

the ship hadn't left port

without me onboard

and for once

I didn't feel alone.

Dylan (part 2)

Dylan - the singer-songwriter who spawned a hundred books, and will no doubt spawn a hundred more. The singer-songwriter who has inspired a million young singer-songwriters to write a million bad songs because they thought they could change the world with their music. To be fair Dylan, it has to be acknowledged, has also inspired plenty of good songwriters too, even some great ones. Dylan is unquestionably the single most influential songwriter since WWII. I can't think of one (white) songwriter who hasn't credited Dylan with being a main influence, from Joni Mitchell to Bruce Springsteen to Kirk Cobain. The 'white' caveat is extremely important, because I don't think Dylan has had nearly the same influence on black musicians and performers, and in fact, it's the black artists (the blues and gospel singers of the 20s and 30s) who influenced Dylan. But if you are going to credit Dylan for the good, you've also got to blame him for the bad, and there's been a lot of bad. By 'the bad' I mean all the half-baked, incomprehensible pop songs that take themselves way too seriously, the heady songs that aspire to 'high-art'. By bad I mean the thousands of pop music critics who got stars in their eyes under the misguided notion that they had something 'important' to say when they wrote reviews of pop music albums, Dylan's and other ones. By bad I mean the hundreds of academics who love Dylan, write about Dylan, and even teach Dylan; the so-called 'Dylanologists' (the term makes me cringe.) Academics, in particular, love Dylan to demonstrate why Dylan is 'important'. I recently listened to one lecturer, a classics professor from Harvard no less, (classics scholars in particular seem to have a thing for Dylan), who was positively giddy in comparing the work of Dylan to Homer. Even if Dylan sees himself as a modern-day Homer, most people don't care, either about the Greek one, or Simpson. I guess if some people like Dylan, for whatever reason, it makes them feel extra justified if they can connect him to the classics. By bad I mean Dylan fans, the 'aficionados' who are obsessed with deciphering what Dylan is 'saying' and tracking his career 'periods' (a la Picasso). But the average pop music fan doesn't care about that stuff. Dylan's 'significance' doesn't matter. They love the music because it makes them feel good, or makes them want to dance, or offers them a bit of comfort. The one thing, maybe the only thing, I understand about pop music, is that the notion of 'importance' is utterly antithetical to the very essence and spirit of it. Any effort to remove popular music from its common, humble roots is to my mind utterly absurd, like putting a urinal in a museum and calling it art. 

But separating Dylan's music - which is sometimes good and sometimes bad - from something we might call the 'Dylan phenomenon' for a second, by which I mean all the extraneous noise that surrounds Dylan's music. Here's another way of looking at it, and why we might even be a bit wary of all the fuss. It relates to what I pointed out earlier, that Dylan owes much of his inspiration and craft to the black singers of the pre-war period. Dylan pilfered from black artists, and he makes no bones about it. In this respect Dylan is one of thousands of white artists who derived inspiration from black culture. They pilfered because black culture possessed something that they lacked, an honest and genuine means to express an authentic experience. It reminds us that black culture has penetrated the culture of white society, but the inverse is not very true. Black culture has been absorbed and subsumed in white culture with the lion's share of the benefits (both cultural and financial) accruing to whites. In this light, one may consider the cultural apotheosis of Dylan in popular white culture, with academics providing the legitimacy of 'importance', an example of the way cultural colonialism works. 

Dylan

It's taken me about 55 years, but I've finally started appreciating Bob Dylan. So what took me so long? The answer my friend is 'blowin in the wind' whatever that means.

I think Dylan is derivative, an impostor, a fraud, and that's his best quality because he's sincere about it. He's a poseur, in the way that we're all poseurs, it just takes some of us longer to admit than others. He can't really sing, but he sings, and doesn't much care that he can't sing. He doesn't play guitar all that well (or piano, or harmonica) but doesn't much care, and keeps on playing. As for the songs themselves, the musical structure and arrangements? Well they're repetitious and rudimentary. People who've worked with him in the studio say he doesn't come in prepared with much more than a musical scaffolding in mind and the rest gets improvised. Take a song like "Like A Rolling Stone" or "The Hurricane", for example, and you realize that this is obviously the case. In 'Rolling Stone' it's Al Kooper's improvised organ lick that makes the song musically interesting and catchy, in 'Hurricane' it's Scarlet Rivera's plaintive violin. I guess you've got to give Dylan credit for relying on the real musicians to make the music work, and recognizing what works musically when they hit on it.

As for the lyrics - Dylan doesn't know what his songs are about and he's said as much publicly. When asked, he answers that the songs are about whatever you want them to be about. He just writes them, and whatever comes out, comes out. I don't think he's being cute or evasive. Read his lyrics, and the only conclusion any reasonable person can draw is that Dylan is telling the truth. He has no idea what he's writing about, or maybe he has some vague idea. The words he uses are nothing special, by design one can suppose they're ordinary, because he's writing in the folk narrative or blues idiom. Sometimes his words are more narrative, and sometimes more 'poetic'. When they are on the poetic side, what he comes up with is often opaque gobbledygook, a hodgepodge of images and metaphors vomited out, that may or may not amount to anything much. Sometimes, cause he uses so many words, like an archer shooting arrow after arrow, he hits on something that sticks, a few of those arrows even strike gold. One thing is for sure, Dylan likes words, really likes them, and his songs are full of them. He writes a lot of songs, and a lot of long ones too. So chances are he'll occasionally put words together that seem to mean something. The one amazing innate talent that Dylan unquestionably has is a memory for words. It's quite impressive that he can remember all those lyrics when he performs. 

Bob Dylan was born Robert Zimmerman in Hibbing, Minnesota. From the beginning it was all about adopting a persona, or rather several personas. He's worn more than a few of them over the years; the Woody Guthrie-esque dust bowl balladeer, the Billy The Kid-esque outlaw individualist, the gospel singing born-again Christian, persona after persona, each one in its own way embodying an aspect of the American myth. Meanwhile he was always really a middle class Jewish kid from the northern mid-west. But his most enduring trick, the trick of being derivative, reminds us that we're all derivative, we're all poseurs, and being a poseur is the very quintessence of being an American. The entire culture is derivative, and most Americans have themselves fled a past, a former country, shed a former identity to adopt a new one. The very quintessence of the American myth is that our identity is whatever we want it to be, that's what makes America great, that's what freedom actually means. It's not that you can become rich in America. It's that you can become someone else entirely. A Napoleon in rags, whatever that is.

As for whether he should've gotten the Nobel Prize for Literature, in case you're wondering? Not a chance. They should go back to giving the Nobel to authors most of us have never heard of before. Everyone's heard of Dylan. And give it to actual authors of literature, not songwriters. I mean can Kazuo Ishiguro win a Grammy? 

The 'idiot box' and the thrill of serious discussion

My recent interest in the physics of time has led me to the time-machine of our time - YouTube. 

Specifically, I've taken to watching on YouTube old broadcasts of Firing Line, the show hosted by William F. Buckley Jr. that aired on PBS from the mid-1960s until 1999. I'm sort of addicted to it. The reasons for this are many, but primarily, because it's refreshing to hear articulate thoughtful people discussing a prescient and (sometimes) contentious matter on television. Buckley's roster of varied guests included great writers, artists, scholars, activists and politicians. And the discussion was always penetrating not superficial. Initially I was drawn to it because I wanted to see how the time we live in was reflected by the politics of earlier decades. How, for example, the BLM movement of today had its roots in the civil rights movement of the sixties, or how Watergate led to the Trump presidency. My continued interest went beyond simple nostalgia, the more I watched the more I appreciated the fact that the television was not in fact the proverbial 'idiot box' that my parents said it was back when I was an adolescent. A lot of it was thoughtful, instructive and even inspiring. The 'idiot box' is what television has become in the intervening years. A result of the competition for viewers in the 1000 channel universe and the internet. It has reduced much of what is seen on television to garbage like Big Brother, The Bachelor, and the Real Housewives of Malibu. For those like me interested in current events and analysis, news programming is filled with 'Breaking News' every 15 minutes and nightly punditry with indignant hysterical hosts and aggrieved politicians trying to score political points with their audiences. Yes, there is Discovery, History and the National Geographic channel, but who has the patience to wade through the abundant weeds? I don't need the drama or the fake outrage to get my kicks, just give me the thrill of serious discussion.   

Buckley always treated his guests respectfully. His sharp mind and incisive style demanded that his guests be their most thoughtful and articulate, whether they were Muhammed Ali or controversial Nobel prize laureate William Shockley who was on his show attempting to promote a racist philosophy and public policy he called 'dysgenics'.   

It's been most interesting for me to watch Buckley's interviews with the famous and the infamous, including Mark Feld, who would decades later be revealed as the informant 'Deep Throat' during Watergate, together with disgraced lawyer (and donald trump mentor) Roy Cohn discussing 'Subversion and the Law'. In another program from the late 70s Buckley's guest was G. Gordon Liddy (who died last week) and they talked about whether he had any regrets about not ratting out Nixon. On another show from the late 60s Buckley talked with activist Ed Sanders, scholar Lewis Yablonsky and author Jack Kerouac about 'The Hippies'. Kerouac is clearly inebriated during his appearance, making bizarre unpredictable outbursts which Buckley never fails to handle with grace. One show from the early 70s featured arguably the most influential psychologist of the last 50 years behaviorist BF Skinner and his colleague Leon Festinger, famous for developing the theory of cognitive dissonance, arguing about whether people genuinely have free will. Another intriguing show featured a very young Alan Dershowitz together with hardcore porn film star Harry Reems who at the time was defending himself against conspiracy to traffic obscenity across state lines charges related to his film Deep Throat. Of course, shows like these have increased interest seen though the prism of the present and with the benefit of hindsight. 

Buckley also delighted in conversations about culture. For instance, he spoke to the author Tom Wolfe about his books Radical Chic and The Painted Word, both of which spawned quite a bit of controversy in the art world at the time of their publications. But less controversial, two of my favourite shows were about music, one in which Buckley talks to JS Bach scholar and master harpsichordist Rosalyn Tureck (it turns out that Buckley himself was an accomplished harpsichord player) and another with Jazz pianists Billy Taylor and Dick Wellstood about why Jazz music is being neglected.

One of my favourite shows from the mid 70's had Buckley talking to the novelist Anthony Burgess. Burgess wrote my favourite novel as a high-schooler, A Clockwork Orange. On the show Buckley and Burgess discuss the ignorance of the youth of today, because Burgess, who is British, had been teaching in New York and had recently published an article in which he expresses his feeling that his students were self-centered and deficient in basic skills and knowledge. Burgess argued that young people were too focused on the latest trends, and bemoaned their lack of interest in history and literature, as well as their poor writing and language skills. Burgess's manner of speaking during the interview is utterly charming. He is haltingly careful, seemingly unsure, and frequently prefaces his opinions with 'I may be wrong about this'. He always seems to be testing out his ideas as he is expressing them. At one point he talks about the arrogance of American youth culture, saying that there was a time when young people were really just adults-in-waiting, and that's how they were treated by their elders (he doesn't mean this in a bad way). For their part, children couldn't wait to grow up to become full participants in adult life. These days, Burgess says, the opposite is true. In the rebellion of young people, the counter-culture and rejection of their parents' generation, there is a sort of cult of youth - remember he is talking about the mid-seventies. There is a romanticizing of youth. Of course, nowadays youth culture has completely overtaken popular culture and commercial enterprise. Adults have become infantilized in their effort to 're-capture' their youth, or to stay young. From the clothes they wear to Botox, our culture is obsessed with staying young. It feels like that obsession has also given us to feel entitled, indulged, and whiny. If the pandemic has taught us anything, I hope it's that the neglect of our elders is our current greatest shame, and that a return to thoughtful, respectful discussion (not to mention decency) in our public discourse, would be welcome.