Friday Flowers: Marguerite Daisies

Argyranthemum Frutescens: Marguerite Daisies

World's Bliss
(By Alice Notley)

The men & women sang & played
they sleep by singing, what
shall I say of the most
poignant on earth the most glamorous
loneliest sought after people
those poets wholly beautiful
desolate aureate, death is a
powerful instinctive emotion—
but who would be released from
a silver skeleton? gems
& drinking cups—This
skull is Helen—who would not
be released from the
Book of Knowledge? Why
should a maiden lie on a moor
for seven nights & a day? And
he is a maiden, he is & she
on the grass the flower the spray
where they lie eating primroses
grown crazy with sorrow & all
the beauties of old—oh each poet's a
beautiful human girl who must die.


Well, I haven't much to say tonight. It's been a long week and I'm quite happy to see it come to an end. It may be 420 today, but, since I don't partake, I'll have to get my high off of good poetry. ;-)

Alice Notley brings the bliss of beautiful words, imaginative vision, and engaging concepts. Now, if only we could find a way to make brownies out of her poems. . .

Argyranthemum Frutescens: Marguerite Daisies

As for the Marguerites, I figured two consecutive weeks of daisies would be a nice way to celebrate a bright April. Anyways, they certainly are a lovely bunch.

Friday Flowers: Orchids and Vespers

Purple Orchid

Vespers
(By Louise Gluck)

In your extended absence, you permit me
use of earth, anticipating
some return on investment. I must report
failure in my assignment, principally
regarding the tomato plants.
I think I should not be encouraged to grow
tomatoes. Or, if I am, you should withhold
the heavy rains, the cold nights that come
so often here, while other regions get
twelve weeks of summer. All this
belongs to you: on the other hand,
I planted the seeds, I watched the first shoots
like wings tearing the soil, and it was my heart
broken by the blight, the black spot so quickly
multiplying in the rows. I doubt
you have a heart, in our understanding of
that term. You who do not discriminate
between the dead and the living, who are, in consequence,
immune to foreshadowing, you may not know
how much terror we bear, the spotted leaf,
the red leaves of the maple falling
even in August, in early darkness: I am responsible
for these vines.


I think Louise Gluck may be my favorite contemporary poet. I was reminded of her amazing artistry in the January issue of Poetry Magazine. And then, she had a reading at the Hammer Museum. Many people don't realize it, but, if you love poetry, the Golden Age is today!

A cluster of purple orchids

As regards the orchids, aren't they beauties? I don't often feature flowers from my garden, but I so adored these lovelies that I had to give them some front page time. ;-)

Friday Flowers: Rhododendron

Rhododendron: Vireya

Uncertainty
(By Edward Hirsch)

We couldn't tell if it was a fire in the hills
Or the hills themselves on fire, smoky yet
Incandescent, too far away to comprehend.
And all this time we were traveling toward
Something vaguely burning in the distance-
A shadow on the horizon, a fault line-
A blue and cloudy peak which never seemed
To recede or get closer as we approached.
And that was all we knew about it
As we stood by the window in a waning light
Or touched and moved away from each other
And turned back to our books. But it remained
Even so, like the thought of a coal fading
On the upper left-hand side of our chests,
A destination that we bore within ourselves.
And there were those--were they the lucky ones?-
Who were unaware of rushing toward it.
And the blaze awaited them, too.


I love the easy flow and conversational quality to Edward Hirsch's poetry. Some poets construct real tongue-twisting verses, which may be awesomely profound to read or hear performed, but are a total pain to actually recite. Hirsch has a natural talent at forming poems that almost leap off the tongue with a effortless elegance.

Rhododendron: Vireya close up

And what of the rhododendrons? Well, although I was at the Descanso Gardens to see the camellia show last weekend, I couldn't pass up photographing these pretties while I was there. ;-)

Friday Flowers: Lily of the Incas

Alstroemeria: Peruvian Lily


First Thanksgiving
(By Sharon Olds)

When she comes back, from college, I will see
the skin of her upper arms, cool,
matte, glossy. She will hug me, my old
soupy chest against her breasts,
I will smell her hair! She will sleep in this apartment,
her sleep like an untamed, good object,
like a soul in a body. She came into my life the
second great arrival, after him, fresh
from the other world - which lay, from within him,
within me. Those nights, I fed her to sleep,
week after week, the moon rising,
and setting, and waxing - whirling, over the months,
in a slow blur, around our planet.
Now she doesn't need love like that, she has
had it. She will walk in glowing, we will talk,
and then, when she's fast asleep, I'll exult
to have her in that room again,
behind that door! As a child, I caught
bees, by the wings, and held them, some seconds,
looked into their wild faces,
listened to them sing, then tossed them back
into the air - I remember the moment the
arc of my toss swerved, and they entered
the corrected curve of their departure.


Although Sharon Olds' birthday is November 19, I figured we could bump her up a day to showcase this wonderful poem from her Blood, Tin, Straw collection, published in 1999. Although I'm not the biggest fan of her works, I do feel as though she's become the "punching bag" for anti-confessionalist aesthetics in poetry. Moreover, the impact of her poetry is more often found in sound and structure, rather than "meaning" or premise. In this regard, her handling of cadence is really exceptional and admirable.

I wonder if contemporary critics bother to read poetry aloud anymore.

Altsroemeria: Lily of the Incas

And why the alstroemeria? They're hardy flowers, not flashy, not famous, low to the ground, but, when you take the time to examine them, their wild beauty and subtle color are wonderful to behold.

Friday Flowers: Bitter Roses

Rose: Prima Donna

This Is A Sin
(By C. K. Williams)

right off we started inflicting history
on each other day after day first thing this
is historical and we gave dollars for it
and this and we gave movies and sad poems
and obviously newspapers and a little less
valentines and sometimes it got right
up against us and into us we would squeeze
it out like a worm it would come back
by itself through the pancreas through
the eye or womb and with great tenderness
on the faces of wives and babies we
would reinflict it until there was
such beauty it was unbearable because
it was too much history too much suffering
and also birds suffering their leaps
from branches dogs
lifting their dark mouths the paths
of mantises cows plopping were we afraid
of what would be left of us? sometimes
a person was erased entirely
and children dead of shame stuck
upright in the snow like pipes the wind
screaming over them or I would forget
you darling your breasts the wind
over them our lips
moving darling the child the wind breasts
our lips over them


Today we're wishing a Happy Birthday to C. K. Williams, born on this day in 1936. The intensity of his poetry makes it a hard read, drumming a rough rhythm into the head, evoking images in disturbing juxtapositions, but it drives the mind into serious contemplation, which is what I most admire in poetry.

Rose: Lime Sublime

And I'm pairing his poem with roses because I want people to read it. No other flower gets flow through internet traffic like a rose. Not orchids, dahlias, fuchsias, magnolias, begonias, sunflowers, hibiscus, plumbago, marigolds, irises, or daisies. In the assessment of the Google Image search, roses reign supreme. ;-)

Friday Flowers: Fuchsias For Proserpina

Fuchsia: Mendonoma Belle


A Glimpse of Proserpina
(By John Hollander)

Clear, early mornings as I stride
Westward, the usual brick street
Grows meadow grass from its concrete:
The neighborhood turns countryside.

Huge structures hovering across
The river like excluding shades
Collapse into the Palisades;
The river burns away its dross.

If I went up a nearby hill
You would be there in sight, bent down
To gather flowers at the crown
Of my hill's twin against the sky;

We'd meet where, as in fields of wars
Forgotten, stones and daisies swarm,
Then turn back, arm in flowers in arm,
And bring them quietly indoors.


Almost missed our weekly Friday Flowers post, which would have been a shame because today marks the birth date of John Hollander, born in 1929.

Fuchsia: Bonnie Doan

As is the usual case with holiday weekends, I'm expecting posting to be erratic until Tuesday. Have a great weekend!!!

Friday Flowers: Sunflowers for a Gloomy August

Sunflower at the South Coast Botanic Garden

Dark August
(By Derek Walcott)

So much rain, so much life like the swollen sun
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.

Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.

She is in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,

she does not come out.
Don't you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly

to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

all with not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
The black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.


Here in the South Bay of Los Angeles, we have a local weather system called June Gloom. Towards the end of May and persisting until around the Summer Solstice, this region is blanketed by a thick marine layer that gives us a month of grey skies and mild humid weather. This year, June Gloom started in early May and has been with us ever since.

It's freakin' annoying!!!

Friday Flowers: Wildflowers for August

Wildflowers at the Madrona Marsh

Real Life

(By Lucie Brock-Broido)

Soon the electrical wires will grow heavy under the snow.

I am thinking of the fire of the possibility of fire & then moving

Across America in a car with a powder blue dashboard,

Moving to country music & the heart

Is torn a little more because the song says the truth.

Because in the thirty-six things that can happen

To people, men & women, women & women,

Men & men, in all these things the soul is bound

To be broken somewhere along the line,

That clove-scented, air-colored wanderer blushing

With no memory, no inkling & then proceeds

Across America

In the sap green of the tropics,

Toward the cadmium of a bitter sunrise to a new age,

At the white impossible ice hour, starving,

Past the electric blue of the rivers melting down,

Above the nude, snuff, terra cotta, maybe fire,

Over the tiny fragile mound of finger bones

Of an Indian who died standing up,

Through the heliotrope of a song about the sunset,

To live the thirty-six things

& never comes home.

Not much time tonight, so apologies for the brief post.

Friday Flowers: The Crimson Garden

Terrace

(By Honor Moore)

A plane tree, leaves green as if polished,

the reddened tips of fruit trees, a stand

of cypress, and through the blackened green,

a yellow field, slant of roof. Nearer,

the castle gate, pale brick flecked with stone

like cream with nutmeg or cinnamon,

and climbing, vermilion of roses.

As swallows shriek and dive, their shadows

loop to mark the wall, then disappear.

Another week finished. Let's look forward to a funny-filled Friday night and wild, wonderful weekend. ;-)

Friday Flowers: Orchid Edition

The Orchid Flower

(By Sam Hamill)

Just as I wonder

whether it's going to die,

the orchid blossoms

and I can't explain why it

moves my heart, why such pleasure

comes from one small bud

on a long spindly stem, one

blood red gold flower

opening at mid-summer,

tiny, perfect in its hour.

Even to a white-

haired craggy poet, it's

purely erotic,

pistil and stamen, pollen,

dew of the world, a spoonful

of earth, and water.

Erotic because there's death

at the heart of birth,

drama in those old sunrise

prisms in wet cedar boughs,

deepest mystery

in washing evening dishes

or teasing my wife,

who grows, yes, more beautiful

because one of us will die.

Yeah, it's about time we got some orchids on this blog. ;-)

Friday's Flowers Are Fuchsia Again

Angels' Earrings Dainty

Mars Being Red
(By Marvin Bell)

Being red is the color of a white sun where it lingers
on an arm. Color of time lost in sparks, of space lost
inside dance. Red of walks by the railroad in the flush
of youth, while our steps released the squeaks
of shoots reaching for the light. Scarlet of sin, crimson
of fresh blood, ruby and garnet of the jewel bed,
early sunshine, vestiges of the late sun as it turns
green and disappears. Be calm. Do not give in
to the rabid red throat of age. In a red world, imprint
the valentine and blush of romance for the dark.
It has come. You will not be this quick-to-redden
forever. You will be green again, again and again.

Just because I'm away on vacation doesn't mean that I can't give you all a Friday Flower post. ;-)

Takin' a Vacation

Vacation

(By Rita Dove)

  

I love the hour before takeoff,

that stretch of no time, no home

but the gray vinyl seats linked like

unfolding paper dolls. Soon we shall

be summoned to the gate, soon enough

there’ll be the clumsy procedure of row numbers

and perforated stubs—but for now

I can look at these ragtag nuclear families

with their cooing and bickering

or the heeled bachelorette trying

to ignore a baby’s wail and the baby’s

exhausted mother waiting to be called up early

while the athlete, one monstrous hand

asleep on his duffel bag, listens,

perched like a seal trained for the plunge.

Even the lone executive

who has wandered this far into summer

with his lasered itinerary, briefcase

knocking his knees—even he

has worked for the pleasure of bearing

no more than a scrap of himself

into this hall. He’ll dine out, she’ll sleep late,

they’ll let the sun burn them happy all morning

—a little hope, a little whimsy

before the loudspeaker blurts

and we leap up to become

Flight 828, now boarding at Gate 17.

Well, I'm not taking a plane trip, but I will be going on vacation. So, expect posting to be very light until after July 4th. I might be able to pop in now and then for a brief post, but I can't promise it. Anyways, I've got over 160 posts on this blog. Certainly there must be something you'll find of interest in the archives. ;-)

Signaling in the Library

Event organizer, Dana Vinke, prepares to introduce Traci Kato-Kiriyama

In celebration of National Poetry Month, the Torrance library scheduled a poetry reading by Traci Kato-Kiriyama. She read from her recent poetry collection, Signaling. They were really good, precisely the type of poetry that I enjoy most. They all had a premise to explore, be it on coming to terms with the death of her father, commenting on an emotionless partner, or contemplating a future undead meeting with the children of the children that she doesn't have.

Stylistic concerns took a backseat to the points of narrative or commentary. But these were definitely poems, with engaging structure and incisive word choice. Her reading had a engaging cadence and rhythm. Most importantly, these poems have the feel of authenticity to them. They come from the deep emotions of real life experiences. There is an honest vulnerability and intimacy in these poems.

Additionally, Traci is an entertaining speaker and clearly has a love for poetry and artistic performance. She was very supportive of the audience's poetic potentials. She's involved with the Tuesday Night Cafe in Little Tokyo, which features open mic nights to help foster LA's poetry and performance scene.

Traci's such a friendly person that she even took a photo with me. ;-)

Traci Kato-Kiriyama and LJ pose for a photo

Anyways, I'm very happy that I was able to attend this event. I look forward to catching another of Traci's recitals sometime soon. Here are a few vids featuring a couple of the poems that she read at the Torrance recital:

Los Angeles

War

Here's a link to Traci Kato-Kiriyama's website.

And here's a link to her blog with a nice collection of some of her works.

Finally, here's a link to the Tuesday Night Project.

Enjoy!!!