Elegy to Cookie Wookie

Before you appeared
in my vicinity, I dreamed—

A pair of white, well shaped feet
peeking under a sage cloak
each toe inspired poetry.

The face was shrouded,
except for two cat eyes
intent on an object it placed in my hand.

Today my white bathrobe
worn from clingy nails
became your shroud.

Seven years of guarding.
Seven years of purrs.
Each morning
green eyes and snaggletooth.
Each night
a dainty ginger flower.

The April sun
has warmed the soil
in the lily garden.
A blade of weed
among the burial callas.

My eyes are painted
like an Egyptian princess.
I tread soundlessly from room to room—
a kungfu master would never
reveal the depth of her skill.

White stones
for the color of your paws,
brown stones
for the markings on your back,
the Sahara
and its black sand
after sunset.

What takes us away from this earth
is neither old age nor diseases
but a lack of intention.
If the intention remains
then we’re never taken away.

You had placed in my hand
the entire universe
even though I could not read
your mystery.

Photo by Julia Hsu.

His beloved Linda assured him that he will be remembered, and there was nothing in this physical world that he needed to worry about. He was kissed and touched and loved and touched and loved.

He often brought flowers that had passed their prime and over ripe fruits to the Poetry Salon. He saw beauty in things that people discard. Time was neither enemy nor friend. Mostly it was not so important to pay attention to. He would sing to a cynic as well as to an ant. He was not ashamed of his tears.

Carlos Ramirez stepped over the threshold a little after midnight on March 10, 2013—a new born, leaving his skin behind. We are left to dance, leap, and sing through the remains of our days.

Photo by Marlene Aron.

WHY I’M GLAD YOU CAME INTO THE WORLD, WHY I WISH YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY NOW (2013), AND MANY MORE

—Jack Foley

Listen to the poem!

The Poetry Hotel
Imagine paying for a night at the hotel with a poem…
—Clara Hsu

(Clara) At the Civic Center Bart Station
Carlos, Dan and I had a vision
to take possession of the Mission Street Marriott
after we win the lottery.

(Jack) When I heard this poem,

We will renovate the building
knock everything down to its bones.
With imagination, joy, and persistence
we give birth to the Poetry Hotel.

I wanted to join up.

When you enter the Poetry Hotel,
observe the grand reception hall.
Poets check in with a poem
check out with a new chapbook.

I’ve got poems, I’ve even got

The ground floor is reserved for first drafts
the second floor is for revision.
From the third to the twentieth floor
there are chutes and ladders built especially
for the out of bounds writers.

a rhyming dictionary,

All the rooms have the essential
desk, chair and bed,
an unlimited supply of paper, and
ink gel pens to write.

though I don’t use it.

There are numerous libraries
each named after a poet.
Collections of works are readily available
for reference, research and reading.

Clara came to me

As for dining, the Poetry Café
serves daily a scrumptious buffet.
Muffins, puddings and all sorts of pies,
thick soups, black coffee, exotic teas
to nurture the poetic belly.

and asked whether I could bring her to a “break-through.”

Every evening there is a gathering
new and old poems are read.
Cakes and champagne are served afterwards
to celebrate the creation of words.

I notice now

This enterprise is run so successfully
it is franchised throughout the world.
All the poets in this planet
come home to the Poetry Hotel.

that she brings me to “break-throughs.”

Carlos, Dan and I blinked
as we stepped into the train.
It was filled with sleepy people
who wanted to get home quick.

When I’m weary, at night, it’s late, near bed time, my mind a blur,

Days of work and nights of toil
weaken our eyes and hearts
But tonight we lay the cornerstone
for the Poetry Hotel.

she sends me poems from her own “poetry hotel,”

that boiling consciousness,

and suddenly:

(Both) I waken.

*

Photo by Dore Steinberg.

Good morning sun. Goodbye rain and wind that came before the sun. The sense of renewal is ever present on such a day, no matter what age you are celebrating.

There is a big field to play in. Perhaps we begin with facing each other. Here is my birthday poem, with a response from Jack Foley.

Birthday

fifty-seven knots
back to the threshold
of unknowing
zest
with style
ecstasy
with flair
one eye toward the gyre
whole body traverses
this universe
as big and as tiny
as all other universes
pushes pulls
into out of
forms and proportions
distance is memory
the fire
fueling
the present.

*

 *

image by Doc Ross.

Langston Was Found

Langston was found in El Salvador
great big frosty beard
discovered on the library shelf
Langston, Langston Hughes
dances in schoolyards, they called him
Santa Claus
silver liquid drops, he loved the rain.

Pete Seeger was found in Dolores Park
white sleeveless undershirt
Mime Troupe on the Fourth of July
Pete held his arms up
turned turned turned
sun on his brown skin
sun in his brown eyes.

El Poeta de la Treinta
shy in front of the midwife
she penciled a question mark
a spark, a mite
each leaf a time.
“Carlos, Carlos
don’t be afraid.”

He came out
who-ooo, who-ooo
swore not to grow up
El Zipote
met an angel
rolling down the slope
pushing an ice cream truck.

*

Notes:

“silver liquid drops” April Rain Song by Langston Hughes.
Carlos named himself “El Poeta de la Treinta” in his book, My Heart in the Matter.
Photo credit: Mike Kepka, The Chronicle

Photo credit: Jennifer Cheek.

The time artists spend in advancing their skills is no less than someone who goes to school and earns a degree. Just as law students have to pass their bar exams before becoming lawyers, the arts have standards too.

It is of course important to share the joy and encourage others to create. But empowerment is not the same as entitlement.

John F Kennedy famously said, “Ask not what your country can do for you–ask what you can do for your country.” Substitute “your country” with “poetry”. Isn’t advancing the course of poetry the job of every poet?

Image taken from: Boycott Bad Dentists.

Alejandro was certainly pleasing. He accepted the title “in the name of the community” and kept reminding the audience that “Everyone is a poet until proven otherwise.” Perhaps this can be said to a group of people who have no interest in poetry. For those of us who work hard and dedicate our lives to the art, his was a very curious statement. It is like saying you are an architect or a surgeon until proven otherwise. Poetry, then, is meaningless, if we were all poets.

We are definitely all poetic and capable of self expression. But then we should draw the line right there.

Photo from SFPL.

 True Frog

          When maid met frog in nature’s place
          The world was innocent and fine
          But Mama named a tasty dish
          That drew a cruel, unkind line.

Deep in the woods in an ancient slimy well,
Forgotten, spurned by man and beasts alike
Except by miracle a frog did dwell,
Alone was he who’d never thought to hike.
But once a while would sit up on the dike
To greet the sun and croak a little song.
Though not at all sure if his name was Ike,
His heart was pure his tongue and spittle long;
His spotted green coat gleamed, his armor subtle strong.

A puckish wind sent forth a maiden fair,
Who wandered freely from her family
To find a well so old and lacking care,
With moss and flies and smelling gamily.
She had no fear this dainty Emily,
Soon took a stick and poked around the ground
With pretty hands so smooth and dreamily,
And laughed full blithely when she heard a sound
From something green and small that crouched upon a mound.

Four dark eyes, nostrils and two mouths did meet.
They liked each other’s look and furthermore,
One leapt, one jumped, both showing off their feet
Around the well, behind the sycamore.
The games they played could go forevermore,
And then she held him on her palm to kiss
A big smack on the mouth as ne’er before.
The sky turned mauve the trees gave out a hiss.
What miracle could happen to a frog in bliss?

The maid was maid and frog remained a frog.
There was no change as changes all abound
When nature cleared its way out of the fog,
For maid and frog to frolic all around.
But lo, cried mother, “Daughter, lost and found!
To Oakland’s Binh Minh Quan we go to eat.
They serve great food that’s ready to astound.
That frog with lemon grass is quite a treat.
They make it hot and spicy…HONEY? Don’t you bleat!”

*

image taken from http://www.elimoody.com/tag/frog/

Frog was another staple food. The sweet and delicate meat, almost translucent, steamed and flavored with scallions or with black bean sauce, resting on a bed of rice, was one of my school-lunch favorites.  Many years later I was ecstatic to find frog in a Danville grocery store. But when I cooked the meat it emitted a horrible smell. That, unfortunately, became part of my frog memory.

When Jack Foley discovered frog dishes in Binh Minh Quan, a Vietnamese restaurant in Oakland, my desire for frog returned. It was important for me to erase the bad memory and preserve the good one.

“Have to try it,” I told him.

They offered the frog in butter, with lemon grass or curry. I chose lemon grass.

It was delicious.