Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Dana Gioia on Writing a Poem
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
"Munch" by Yonathan Berg
Munch
dark water growing in the evening
there is a field of moon trees
one human animal is trapped.
The crystal of the spirit abandons the child
from all he witnessed.
The shadow of the hill
corroded by violent night storms,
a grieving mother, Earth,
in the empty room arises
the face of the screamer.
From a wooden gate, the flowers are vanishing
into the dark water
the heart of everything is dead
Europe!
A curse is a scarf upon the possibilities of cerulean
These are exhales from broken teeth.
These are pure elegies in a demolished land.
By Yonathan Berg
Translated w/ Jennifer Styperk
2012
Monday, August 20, 2012
Yonathan Berg, poet
As a part of our H=ART artist residency program in Israel and the Palestinian Territories, we met with Israeli and Palestinian arts. Yonathan Berg, Israeli poet, living in Tel Aviv, met with us in East Jerusalem at the Gloria Hotel on Monday, July 30th, 2012. Yonathan shared his poetry with us, and in order to do so, shared his experiences growing up in an ideological settlement, serving in the Israeli army, traveling post-military service, and his current life as a poet and columnist. Most of all, he re-reinvigorated for me the ways in which the poet can and must deal with even the most intense topics.
Berg says, "As a poet, my toolbox is enough to deal with and approach everything. I can face 5,000 years of philosophy, art, culture, religion, humanity, history." Furthermore, Berg implores poets to have the courage to deal with intense topics. This is the very advice I take to heart as I blog stories from my artist residency trip.
Schooled in a strict, orthodox institution, Berg prays, sings and attends synagogue, though he cites poetry as the most exciting and correct replacement to the orthodox practice he left behind in his childhood. He implores all of modern man to be sure they sing, literally sing, and often.
When thinking of his childhood, he remembers green grass, playing outside and joy. Looking back on enlistment into the army at 18, he notes that service men and suicide bombers are the same, each in that gap between youth and having a family of one's own. He goes on to say each are equally confused and influenced by a strand of fundamentalism. This understanding he exercises in his own poetry, for example, he features an Israeli boy playing on a settlement noticing a Palestinian boy in the distance. "...the look of my neighbor from Ramallah..." is the same look of other children playing. "Earth becoming mud" from the storms of turmoil brings the reader to "how the present works." "...Step into rage as a living room....houses are set up as a punch." From small boys playing to homes being demolished, Berg shows in his own poetry the ways in which this art form uniquely holds contradictions and juxtapositions, and reveals forgotten similarities in just one short line.
"I lost dear friends," Berg says of his time in the IDF. "My best friend died in Hebron." Twelve from his unit died that day and, Yonathan, a senior soldier, had to go to the morgue to identify his best friend and other mates from his unit. Of his best friend, Yonathan feels that "I [Yonathan] am a living memory." I saw his face while I traveled after my service, whether in India, Malaysia, or at beaches in Columbia. Berg struggled with the fact that "I'm [Berg] here and he is not." As his friend's living memory, he believes his poetry serves as a living memory, a candle, remembering and honoring.
He advises current Israelis to discuss openly the effects of PTSD suffered by all the servicemen and how this widespread condition affects Israeli culture. When asked about the current politics of Israel and the Palestinian Territories, Berg says, "We need to give Palestine a state. Take out the settlements. Solve this through conversation."
My lecture followed Yonathan's and I was pleased stayed. After lunch, he and I translated two of his poems into English and two of my poems into Hebrew, marking a very meaningful collaboration for me and a highlight of my H=ART residency.
Roses of ice in the ash
dark water growing in the evening
there is a field of moon trees
one human animal is trapped
the crystal of his spirit
departed after all that he witnessed as a child
the shadow of the hill
destroyed by storm winds in the night
A grieving mother, Earth,
in the empty room
the face screaming
flowers are vanishing into the dark water
the heart of things is dead
Europe!
A curse is a scarf on the possibilities of the cerulean sky
These are escapes of breath from broken teeth.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Dheisheh Refugee Camp, near Bethlehem in the Occupied Palestinian West Bank
Monday, August 13, 2012
The Palestinian Territories & my H=ART residency
Olive Tree
Beit Sahor
Many thanks to everyone for inquiring after my artist residency and trip to Israel and the Palestinian Territories. Below is an outline of our tours, meetings and program over the course of July 23-August 5th.
Day 1
Bethlehem
Tour of the ICB (International Center of Bethlehem)
Church of the Nativity
Sheperd's Field
Dheisheh Refugee Camp Tour and Visit
Day 2
Jerusalem
Via Dolorosa
Western Wall
Dome of the Rock
ICAHD Tour (Israeli Coalition Against Home Demolition)
Day 3
Jerusalem
B'Tselem meeting
Yad Vashem; Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem
Day 4
Hebron
House of the Patriarchs
Souq
CPT (Christian Peacemaking Team) Meeting and Tour
Day 5
Dead Sea
Day 6
East Jerusalem
Arts Program; intros
lectures by Gassaf Gavron and Francisco Avila
workshops
Day 7
East Jerusalem
Arts Program
Lecture by Yonathan Berg & myself
workshops
Day 8
Bethlehem
Arts Program
Dar al-Kalima
Lecture: "Palestinian Art: Art of Resistance or Aesthetics" by Faten Nastas Mitwasi, Chairperson of the Visual Arts Department & presentation by Alynn Guerra
Day 9
Bethlehem
Arts Program
Dar al-Kalima
Lecture: "Palestinian Film" by Rama Mari
Painted on the Wall at Checkpoint 300
Day 10
Bethlehem
The Olive Tree Campaign Tour
Day 11
Bethlehem
Milk Grotto
Casa Nova
Open Studio Time
Day 12
Tel Aviv
Morning Mass, Grotto, Church of Nativity
Grand Beach Hotel Rooftop Pool and Mediterranean
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Dana Gioia Reflects on our Times
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Wislawa Szymborska
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Personal Capital
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Dana Gioia; poet and public intellectual
What's on your USC to-do list?
Friday, November 4, 2011
It rained in LA
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Go see the Bill Cunningham documentary!
Monday, February 7, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Unconditional Pittsburgh
A transplant to Pittsburgh recently called the city generous. The Pittsburgh "left," for example, allows for the car at the red light to make the left turn when the light turns green before the oncoming car proceeds down the straightaway. Driving consists of a series of waves to let your fellow driver through; the rule of the road is ‘you first.’ We all drive safely and politely over rivers and through mountains in order to reach the fountain at the Point downtown during the Arts festivals, regattas, light-up nights, the Cultural Trust’s gallery crawls, and First Night.
During the lead-up to 2011, the acapella group, In Acchord, sings on the grand lobby stairs of the Benedum Center’s lobby. The 88mph! Steel Town Fire Goes Back in Time, fire-eaters, perform next to outside music stages. Space and 121 Seventh galleries hosted musicians including WYEP’s best bands. Tango, swing, and foxtrot lessons run throughout the evening. Children learn how to make puppets. The Gab Bonesso Comedy Show ran several times with a few Capitals fans in the audience each time. I am most grateful to the Pittsburgh Gospel All City Choir, all of whom add soul and comfort to that strange hour from 10pm-11pm during which we sit in a year that has become stale. But best part of First Night is that, instead of the ball dropping, with that terrible sinking feeling in your gut, the Pittsburgh New Year’s ball rises to meet the new year.
A few days after the fireworks off rooftops for the new year, I shop at the largest grocery store: the Robinson Town Center’s Giant Eagle Market District. After lunch at the cafĂ©, I ask a cafĂ© chef where I could locate the closest shopping cart. As I wonder to myself whether I should have said buggy instead, he smiles, and tells me to wait by the door because it was too cold to go outside. After which he proceeds into the parking lot and a few minutes later returns with a cart for me. Still smiling from that help, a Pittsburgher in a Steeler cap hands me his number at the deli counter and takes the place behind me in line.
How do you describe the special culture and manners of Pittsburghers?
On Poetry: Snow and silence
By FLEDA BROWNLocal columnist
It occurs to me that today of all days, right after whatever hoopla we got ourselves into this weekend, a little silence might be welcome. This poem may help....
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Kiss
Those suffering from mesothelioma often feel as if their bodies are on fire. For this reason my Grandfather sucked on broken pieces of banana popsicles until he could no longer swallow. He was fortunate, they said. There are many sayings that come up through the ranks of Pittsburgh steel mills, coal mines, and nuclear power plants, and become integrated into my family’s coping strategies, often through humor at seemingly inappropriate times or in inappropriate places. My father always says that life is a shit sandwich for everybody, it’s just a matter of how much bread you have. My Grandfather’s death was fortunate compared to his brother. Bob Kramer, aged 36, choked on his own bowel until it caused his death.
“How are you?” I ask my Grandmother on the phone. “I’m fine honey.” A strain in her voice detectable for only a moment as she reports that she is removing red polish from a fingernail in preparation for her manicure later today. I let my Grandmother introduce the topic. Once she mentions the twenty-second anniversary, I tell her that I know. I ask again, “How are you.”
“I was twenty-two when he married me. We were married for forty-two years. And now he’s been dead for twenty-two years.” She continues, “You don’t realize how fast you grow old, honey,” Anna Marie Kramer says. “Have a good time. Live it up.
I had a hard time sleeping last night, honey. I prayed for him for a long while. I relived the kiss. It’s funny, you know, that night, at one point in the middle of the kiss I thought, ok Jim, let me go to sleep now.”
Then she begins talking joyfully about her great-grandchildren’s visit. My cousin Molly brought her two little girls over and my Grandmother could not have been more delighted. She retold the story of the younger one, Anna, asking her why she had wrinkles. Before explaining wrinkles to Anna, my Grandmother said, “Why, I didn’t know that I had wrinkles. Everyone tells me that I don’t have them.” I’m not sure if four-year olds understand sarcasm, but there is truth in her joke. For eighty-six years old, my Grandmother has beautiful, smooth skin with only a few smile lines around her eyes and mouth.
My Grandmother’s salmon colored Cadillac, (don’t you dare refer to the color as peach), was bought sometime after my Grandfather’s death that same year. My cousin’s eight-year-old daughter, Julia, looked at the twenty-two year old Coupe de Ville, put her hands on her hips and said, “Boy, you don’t see cars like this anymore, do you.”
My Grandmother explains that Julia turned down an offer to be in a commercial for Pepperidge Farm Goldfish because “I don’t like to say Pepperidge Grandma.” Not skipping a beat my Grandmother moved on to tell me that she magnifies the picture of Grandpap kissing her at the Elks Club, and thinks of all the nice memories. She honors her husband recalling these days with her platinum blonde hair and his thick hairline. “He was so handsome, you know. I often think had I married that other fella I had gone with in high school, since he had such big ears, I would have had seven dumbos. My children all have pretty ears.” That other “fella” my Grandmother dated until his mother, a German woman, made him break up with my Grandmother because she was Slovak. Luckily, for my existence, Granny Goodwitch, my Grandmother’s German mother-in-law was a bit more liberal on ethnic politics for her time.
Sometime while hearing that Uncle David likes his new job, Molly looked beautiful in a black sundress, my Mom is taking her to get her nails done this afternoon, I start to do the math. “Grandma,” I say. “I’ve been doing the math.” She laughs. I continue, “twenty-two more years.”
“Well, honey, I was thinking twenty more. That way I’ll be widowed the same number of years as I was married.” At eighty-six her math is better than mine. I tell her that I’ll accept one-hundred and twenty-eight instead of one-hundred and thirty. “My children have to know Great Anna Marie, or Granny Annie as some of the great-grandchildren call her.” We agree that she will live until one-hundred and twenty-eight.
Despite my Grandfather working all day as a foreman on commercial insulation jobs and then all night as a train engineer, he always ate dinner with his wife and seven children, afterwhich they prayed the rosary as a family. When my Uncles read this they will all snicker because it is euphemistic of me to say that my sleep-deprived Grandfather, with a crazier than hell Granny Goodwitch for a mother, was not always in the best of moods, but he did instill within my Mom the peace available in prayer.
The kiss that my Grandmother relived last night was the gift and legacy that my Grandfather left us. My Grandmother retells the story: “I got into bed. I realized that I forgot to replace the rosary around his neck. He could no longer speak. After I replaced the rosary, I went upstairs, said my prayers and went to sleep. An hour and fifteen minutes later, Jim walked into my bedroom wearing blue silk pajamas. He looked thirty-five years old. He held my glance. He walked over to me. He bent over me. He kissed me. Really softly. He licked my bottom lip very slowly. I felt his tongue along my bottom lip. It was warm. Then he left.”
A moment later my Mom, the night nurse on duty in the family room with her father, walked up the stairs. As she opened the bedroom door, my Grandmother was already sitting up in bed and said, “I know honey. Daddy came to say goodbye to me.”
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Project Rebirth
The gorgeous cinematography captures the fireman shifting on his feet in the shadows of the service honoring his best friend. Clearly a body and soul feeling out of place and not worthy of living, these shots make palpable the intense remorse and survival’s guilt that nearly crushes him. Unapologetic footage and interview reels, expose the trials of a survivor and burn victim who undergoes over 40 surgeries in order to partially perform everyday tasks. Just when you think her spirit will never recover, she reasserts control over the medical care of her body, accepts her plight and recognizes the ways in which she was fortunate.
One of the many successes of this documentary in particular is the intense focus on each character’s interview. Prolonged camera pauses captivate the audience. For example, the young man who lost his mother looks intently and lastingly into the camera after recounting his feelings toward Osama Bin Laden. This son chose to walk in his mother’s footsteps by taking a position with his mother’s former employer Lehman Brothers. He walks in his mother’s ghostly shadows to recover a deeper understanding of the woman he lost. Throughout the interview clips it is clear that the interviewees, as much as the viewers, are gaining from the process of documenting their grieving and road to recovery. The young fiancĂ© must escape the city of New York in order to guiltily begin a new life without her beloved, Sergio. She is frank and forthright as is the native New Yorker and construction worker who lost his brother from local #20. He tells us outright that he yelled at his wife and his crew while suffering from severe PTSD resulting from excavating human remains at ground zeros. He worked from the years of relief and rescue to excavation to the building developments for the Freedom Towers.
Project Rebirth is moving, honest and intimate. The journeys of these four beloved survivors help the viewer to progress in their own personal or national mourning process. This story provides the never-before-told story of excavating, reconstructing and raising one’s life; this decade long work provides the heart and soul behind the raising of the Freedom Towers.
http://www.projectrebirth.org/
http://www.causes.com/causes/159503?recruiter_id=31903299
Friday, July 23, 2010
Sneaky Like a Puppy
Thursday, July 8, 2010
“Then suddenly electric”: an art review of Sarah Walko’s recent work X-Ray Series and acrylic, collage, ink series
The pains and joys of life charge and propel us. An electric socket, a book carved into the shape of an ocean wave, and a found book page reading “This is the kind of book—rare in our arid age—which takes root in the heart and grows there for a lifetime” in “X-Ray Series (the contents of our stomachs)(there are two types of electricity, playful static and lightning)(we swallowed them both). 2010.”
Delicately and intricately, “5 Line Staff (fiction of the wide river)” speaks to all levels of human need according Maslow’s hierarchy. A book of matches holds the potential for fulfillment of food, warmth and even love, since a campfire calls for community and conversation. Yet the matches also hold the power to destroy. To ward against such hazards and secure shelter, warmth, and love, “5 Line Staff” shows the intricate urban planning of humans juxtaposed to the community planning also evidenced in nature. The viewer is called to honor the past and continue building toward an enlightened future.
Having the gift of S.Walko’s work in my home affords me the opportunity, in the artist’s own words, to take pause and appreciate the ways in which “One moment is three moments.” Her acrylic, collage, ink on paper paintings, such as “This Land (sails, sailors, begin, how clean the sun)” is but one of the many paintings that inspire the viewer to manifest their dreams. Of the many pieces by contemporary artists in my living room, it is the work of Sarah Walko’s that is by far complimented the most. Many of these admiring guests have purchased their own Sarah Walko piece. Luckily, there are pieces currently on-sale which capture the expansive spirit of Walko’s installation work which have been installed in houses and large scale gallery spaces. Her work captures the essence of the latest in contemporary art being exhibited from Echo Park to SoHo to Shoreditch and beyond.
Work can be purchased at:
http://sarahwalkowork.bigcartel.com/
Artist website:
http://www.sarahwalko.com/index.html
Monday, May 24, 2010
Interview with Poet Stephanie Young Editor of Deep Oakland the Mills College Archival Project
An map of the Oakland is the homepage. The viewer returns again and again to the image of the neighborhoods, and, by rolling their cursor over specific neighborhood’s, projects from each are listed. The viewer enters the site from the visual and physical representation of the geographic factors of the community. According to Young, the goal of the Deep Oakland Mill’s College archival project is to generate dialogue “among groups of folks who enter the site sharing and some overlapping sets of interests.” While she is working to further develop and “facilitate more viewer participation,” Young is excited about the diversity of the poetry texts, “Deep Oakland Literary Objects” which is a recent reading, and Dan Thomas Glass’s project “880.” A reader may go to the Deep Oakland site for a specific poet’s chapbook and then find work from the women’s press collective, for example. This joining of disparate poetry groups also occurred at the recent reading, “Deep Oakland Literary Objects.” The reader’s ranged from Barbara Jane Reyes to Adam Cornford and Young says that “as someone who attends a lot of poetry readings in the bay area…I was enormously excited to see how this Deep Oakland reading operated totally outside of any one given scene. The crowd felt all over the place. I knew a small group of people there but there were many I had never met. Suddenly it felt like there was a conversation across social groups and poetries and scenes.” Young goes on to explain that the readers found common ground in “concerns about place, language,” and the representation of place. Just as the poetry reading gave a physical space for various poetry scenes to interact, converse and overlap, the Deep Oakland website aims to give a space for the art being created in Oakland to be archived and therefore a physical space for the viewer to go to experience the variety of work coming out of Oakland. Dan Thomas Glass’s “880” “physicalizes or performs or unsettles the way we experience place. These images are loaded randomly onto the main photo page and therefore it is highly unlikely that any one viewer will ever view each picture in the same context twice. That is to say that each photo is randomly sorted so that every time you click on an image the photos are rearranged and thus viewer in an alternate context. This speaks to the ways in which Deep Oakland is showing the physical space while also pointing to the constant evolution of place through community intervention.
In my two-part interview with Young, we also touched upon the problematics of representing a sense of place. Just as Glass’s randomized image collisions evidence, the evolution of place can not be simply linked to the neighborhood names. The privileged position of declaring a name of a place terrifies Young and she is in constant conversation with co-editors and interested participants on how to investigate and trouble the site’s use of neighborhood names. One idea may be to use street corners rather than names, or have several names, or the history of a specific locations past, present and potential future names. Another representational problem of which Young is acutely aware is the ways in which it is very easy to fall into a booster mindset. In a conversation with Brad Flis, a poet living in Detroit, they discussed the importance of place being “saved from the stories that get constructed around it.” Young is “interested in work that thinks critically about constructions of place, and investigates oppositional or hidden narratives to those constructions.” Since discussion and representation of place is never neutral, multiple modalities of representations are very useful in achieving the site’s central mission, without over simplifying, or creating a pep rally for Oakland, CA.
Stephanie Young is a talented poet in her own right; she generously shared her talents by engaging each and every one of my questions and answering generously.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Poems-for-All
Poetry opens the reader to a microcosmic universe. It is the opportunity, if only for a moment, to access the eternal calm that spiritualists speak of. It is, as Sara M. Larsen writes, to “show me the room/ with sliding doors/ i am a child.”
“Writing Poems is a Saintly Thing” says Peter Orlovsky “to welcome me/ into your early rise of bacon and / rolls.” Poetry helps people to share in delights, relief, and a sense of humanity. “What good is my room if/ it can’t hold all the people in the world and / chairs lonely because built for only one?” Poetry is the room that allows us to embrace contradiction. Merleau-Ponty tells us we only see these as contradictions and paradoxes because of the blind spots in our perception.
Recently a friend, or to be more honest, a guy looking to set up a third date with me, wrote a list of things he likes about me. He writes, “this whole poetry thing is awesome. It gives you the opportunity to save people like myself from Heidegger's 'everyday world' and to balance out the powers of the 'they.'”
Thank you Richard for helping to save people from the everyday drone that threatens to numb our thinking and block us from moments of calm.
It is of no surprise that Book Collector receives a five star rating on yelp. http://www.sacfreepress.com/poems/blog/2006/05/book-collector.html
And to check out images of these enchanting gifts go to Poems-for-All:
http://www.sacfreepress.com/poems/covers.html