Muddy roads & dusty trails

Bookpresentations I

2012-02-02T11:24:00.002Z

During the week around Unesco's World Poetry Day, March 21 world internet books will be presenting several books and turn a day into more than a week. The first author to be presented is Job Degenaar, Dutch poet with a trilingual book Ich bin-I am on March 17, at salon12b. Producer of the book is Fred Schywek, also responsible or the German translation and Annmarie Sauer translated the Dutch original in English and kept Translation notes by Ich bin - I am

The first Korrekturlesen/proofreading of some poems by Job Degenaar in their German version and some in English was on February 25, 2011. The concept was to publish a trilingual book by Job Degenaar: Ich bin. It is interesting to reflect upon the different 'poetry cultures' in the three language areas involved. The reading of the Dutch poetry is usually sober, straightforward- unless the poet considers himself a performance artist. In that case all is possible. In Germany, a poetry lover expects to understand what is read. Readers and listeners differentiate between silent (stille Gedichte) and loud poetry, (laute Gedichte). The silent poetry gains by being read, the loud poetry by being heard. This is an element to consider in the translation of poetry into German. A repetition, an extra word might be needed to turn the translation into a good poem in the target language. In my feeling about the English version, it might be actually the other way around. The English translation might well be a touch shorter, compacter... I enjoyed this first tri-lingual reading.

Achtung Hochspannung is the title of a poem in Dutch with German quotes in the text. This constitutes no problem in Dutch since both languages are rather close relatives. Translating such a poem into English is however not as straightforward as it may seem. American and British readers would probably not understand the German quote Abfall ist unser Fall or even the title of the poem. The Dutch poet however choose to introduce this foreign element in his poetry, albeit in a gentle way. In English I would not want to loose the exotic element, yet it would be far harsher if I just kept the German without mediating this for the reader. In another poem Ich bin I have opted to place the English translation as kind of an echo of the German quotes, just next to each other. This kind of option disturbs slightly the visual of a poem when printed side by side and the choice to try to be loyalty to the verse. I am looking for an interesting, playful ways in problem solving, ways readers can enjoy.

for further information: fourthandplum@gmail.com

poetry day in den Hopsack

2012-01-28T11:16:00.002Z

Eight poets were invited to read in den Hopsack by Frank De Vos, master of ceremony for the evening. Some people I knew well and their work, like Roger Nupie with serious poetry, poetry inspired by spirituals- rather chilling what he did with those in word and performance and lighthearted verse.

Here Frank listening attentively after having read a poem by the Burmese poet Zargana, recently released from a 39 year prison sentence for helping the people after the flood when the government did nothing to alleviate their suffering. Luckily he didn't have to do the full time. Also other poets were released, so maybe there is hope at the horizon...

Poets are not overly romantic souls who don't ware about the fate of the world. So at the end the words were spoken: Overigens ben ik van mening dat de NAVO afgeschaft moet worden, in English: Furthermore I am of the opinion that NATO has to be abolished.

Here the next picture is German poet Fred Schywek, an excellent performer with great poetry, the translations in Dutch were read by Annmarie Sauer who also performed.

Maris Bayar in frivolous reds, read about the sea, her fascination and love for it shone through

José Meyvis was the most playful poet even doing a Mahler concerto on her own on stage and perverting a recipe to a poem...

Also Richard Foqué, who writes in Dutch and English, and Erik Vandenwijngaerden did well Richard with some poems from Late Landscape and Erik with U-gedichten: You-poems.

Thank you all people from den Hopsack, always a nice crowd and good audience.

A date on a sunny day

2012-01-08T21:34:00.002Z

It was a nice bright day notwithstanding the threatening cloud over town, coming straight from the direction of the nuclear plant which most people here in the country think should be closed.I decided to take a walk and went to a small park I had often passed in the car, but never had walked it. It was lovely, with an adventure playground for children, an experience garden where without having to stoop one can feel and smell the kitchen and healing herbs. There is even a start of a wood-wall where all kind of critters can survive the winter. A little note explains, asking not to carry of the old wood. Once done, it will be a nice feature.

The big tree here is totally entwined in ivy. This is a parasitic relationship which can kill the big tree, It looks lovely however, yet I'll remind not to be clinging towards other people.

The tree stump covered in fungus and mushrooms. It made me realize the beauty of decay.

So my expedition was fruitful, I took the time to be and see, to notice, to enjoy. So, go out, enjoy the glorious light and listen to the birds.

ANC: 100 years

2012-01-07T12:03:00.000Z

Today 100 years ago the African National Congress saw the light. Today the festivities take place for 100 years of selfless struggle. As an interpreter I have been once or twice the voice of Nelson Mandela after he was released from Robben Island. When South Africa was freed from Apartheid, it became member of the ACP and had at their first attendance the meeting in Cape Town and were given a most moving and enlightening tour of Robben Island by a former prisoner who became a minister in the first Mandela government. It was non-violence which won freedom. was one of his messages and that the embargo gave support to the resistance because even when suffering they knew it was because people supported their struggle. At the opening of the ACP Meeting the African Anthem was played, well known by all who had worked for the abolishment of Apartheid and this is what I saw:

Sikeleli Africa

At the first notes

just two white people jumped up

one with his left fist in the air

she with her hand on

her heart

All peoples standing

the light skinned

rose

a few notes later –

The huge hall filled with

respect

I like to think

the white people were

slow

not recognizing the music in their

soul

or just older and stiffer and

slower

I like to think

Nkosi Sikeleli Africa

is the hope that touches us

all -

Traditions of transitions

2012-01-01T10:58:00.000Z

The winter blues chased away by a town in festive mood. Then having the blues can mean something different.
People mill around for a charity concert and visit the Christmas market.

The traditional fireworks were different: the private fuses at least as impressive as the official city fireworks. All around town the colorful flashes lit up and looked nice. At lot of noise was made to chase the bad spirits away and to hail in the New Year.

May your year be colorful and creative, bring peace and happiness to all of you. Let's practice ahimsa in word and deed.
Namaste.

Walk in a winterharbor

2011-12-12T18:57:00.002Z

Cities with harbors and water are special. The rivers give a city space, wide skies, bring tall ships with strangers and something to look at on the promenade, like the colorful ferries wheel.

I like to see the instruments of a harbor, the bollards, cranes, bridges and the multipurpose tugboats.

And then slowly the moon comes out in brings
coziness on a pre -X mas evening under the watchful still almost full moon, awaiting the return of light, love and peace.

Hugo van Montfrans

2011-12-11T18:16:00.000Z

I had a friend, Hugo van Montfrans, he passed away many years ago, about 20. He was Dutch and would correct me constantly when I made a mistake in speaking. that came in hndy much later professionally. Thanks for that. Once he gave me a set of six cups, now the last one has been chipped and I have been thinking of him. When I met him he worked at Madame Arthur in Antwerp, performing as Olivette, making paper wigs and weird dresses for his shows. He also made some nice, strange dresses for myself and my daughter. he also was a puppeteer and an artist working in white wool and lace on cotton. Hugo also wrote and played in a film by Fellini: 8 1/2 I think it was. So the last cup is on its way out, but not the memories.

Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941

2011-12-07T18:27:00.001Z

Today, 70 years later, the attack on Pearl Harbor is commemorated and the USA joined in WWII. Now I usually don't divulge personal information on the blog. But the way I tell my private history runs as follows: Without Pearl Harbor I wouldn't be there. My father was an American GI who had volunteered. He liberated my mother, loved and married her. She followed him to the USA on one of the ships with the war brides. I was born a good year later and for my mother American dream turned into American nightmare and she went back home with her bundle of grief under her arm...

I tell the story this way because many children my generation are just as I an aftermath of the war. So I try to be non-violent and words and deeds. Ahimsa, to all of you and blessed be the peacemakers.

The child has the father’s name

That is all he is

a name - a seldom-heard voice

a story lost

With the fading of his glory

he lives on in a dream

reconstructed the charming hero

that he was

or more muddled

motley

the bis-tris-dis-

illusion

of a mother’s life

So the child has a name

any name

The name of the wind

sitting in the rocking chair

with empty screeching

of wood on wood

The first name

that would last.

John Sinclair

2011-12-02T12:41:00.001Z

John Sinclair performs on tour with a band. The band plays according to the lyrics spoken. A lot of the poetry is influenced by Jazz, so we were treated with Monk, a bit of Coltrane, good old blues... and the words which flowed. The band prepares and then plays a set of songs, lyrics by Ken Post. After the break, after a moment of stillness and concentration, poet-activist, icon of American sub-culture performs. A love poem with a twist, a poem about being on the road and in jail with the beau of his mother and making money because the prison guards loved their performance and brought them out every night to another club.

Strong
moving
to the point
surprising
love
and struggle
freedom
and all that...
Here you see the band, Lenny on the sax had his work cut out for him.

A fun night, without any of the tediousness of officialdom.
Honest en open jazzy poetry.
If you have a chance to see John Sinclair perform, do go and listen.
It will warm the cockles of your heart.
Read the history of his struggle for the freedom to get high.

The occupy movement

2011-11-30T21:11:00.001Z

Why did I go to the occupy activity in Antwerp and why do I support it, I have been asking myself. I guess because it is a moral movement, it is not about practical demands. It is a joined dream of people who feel that in society we should care about each other, that the values reach far beyond money and assets and ratings, things that are so important to the 1% who hold so much power. I think the Occupy is about acting responsibly, towards each other, towards nature, thinking about ecology and non-violence, thinking and trying to live real democracy. Targeting nuclear power, resisting the transports of nuclear waste in Europe, it all stems from the same source. And yes money should be questioned, money and its use: for now in most countries the money factor is a huge element in elections.Of course the police does not defend this basis democracy, but uses violence, brute physical force. But remember 1% is not 'We the people".

The Heart of Darkness - Dark Heart - Duister Hart

2011-11-27T14:56:00.003Z

I love the theater, I love monologues and Josse De Pauw is one of the real good ones. Guy Cassiers is a formidable director who with seemingly meager means visible on the stage manages to evoque an array of moods and situations. If you have a chance to go and listen and watch and feel, don't miss 'Duister Hart'.

I also love this particular theater, the Bourla, with its ornate interior: the sciences and the continents are represented on the ceiling. This monologue is written by De Pauw based on the excellent Dutch translation by Bas Heijne of the novel Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad and deals with the Congo and a trading post where Kurtz gathers the most ivory of all the agents. The language is rich and at times chilling.

A good crowd showed up to listen to this monologue dealing with colonialism and the effects of greed and loneliness, the loss of a moral compass when one has nobody to talk to and the horror, the horror when looking inward at the state of ones soul. One will recognize the final scene as used by Francis Ford Coppola in Apocalypse now.

Kurtz has plundered the region, has been a violent and cruel representative of the firm, yet he is remarkable, intriguing, imposing, awe inspiring violent and even lovable man. The story is told by Marlow the Captain of a ship sailing up the Congo River in Africa for a Belgian Company. His goal is meeting Kurtz, who has been member of an international society to abolish rude manners and customs. Yet in Kurtz he meets a dark heart, without moral references or control. Josse De Pauw plays all roles thanks to a state of the arts technical approach, projecting the roles that have been 'taped' before and sometimes in the dialog, the actor on the stage is filmed and projected on the projected screen. Thus the meeting with Kurtz, becomes also explicitly a meeting with himself. One wonders why the company never intervened when they knew about about the plunder of the land and the violence against the indigenous inhabitants. The only reason would be greed, in other words capitalism and colonialism. Yet the play leaves one wondering whether one could lose one's own compass. Great art is food for the soul and food for thought. When the thin gilded layer of civilization is scratched away all that remains is a dark heart.

Funerals and the celebration of life

2011-11-23T13:58:00.001Z

In the span of a few weeks I attended three funerals and in this misty November it made me pensive. I learned from each of the services, which all three happened to be non-religious memorial services. In one case, I saw the person as a gruff, a bit rude, uncompromising, self-righteous man, yet I learned how he doted on his wife, how he was a kind father and kinder grandfather still, always preparing fun and grand holidays involving boats. In the second funeral, the character of the man shone through in the music his wife and sun had picked out. An ardent tango - they did dance together for years - spoke of the kind of love they felt for each other. And two rather irreverent songs about life and death and yes, it was in keeping with his mentality. I also learned how much he had been there for other people. And the third, a brother of a dear friend passed. The speakers were friends and the family, not professional speakers. Two different personalities emerged from the memories people held dear: from a cantankerous contrarian, who loved jazz and loved discussions. The heartfelt thank you was: thanks for the headwind you provided. And then out of the family's words there emerged the kind, attentive uncle or brother and brother in law, protective of those he loved. He used his stubbornness trying to beat the odds and his sister said: I couldn't have wished for a kinder, better brother...

Goodbyes are hard. Pain mixes in with cold of night and yet life has to be celebrated, their life and ours.

Soccer - Beerschot

2011-11-08T09:03:00.001Z

My interest in sports has been minimal, although I must admit that last year during the world championships I have seen most matches. And enjoyed it. So when a friend asked to come and join him and a bunch of his friends for a local premier league match Beerschot C A against Mons, to his and my surprise I said yes.

It will be clear that I'll never own a club flag signed by its players like the young boy who wore this flag around his shoulders.

The stewards did a good job, but it was a quiet crowd.

I must admit that I did really enjoy the match. Being in the middle of the event going on, hearing the comments of two tifosi on the bench behind me and from my friends was enlightening. I enjoyed the sounds: the chants from the supporters,, 10 % behind their team but with respect for the adversary of the day. I enjoyed hearing the thud from a foot hitting the bal hard, something I never heard on TV. The game seemed slower than what I had seen on TV, yet when I saw the highlights on TV the next day, it seemed not so slow after all.

The home team Beerschot won 2 to 0. I learned that different players have different qualities and that the best man was the goalkeeper from Beerschot. I also realize now how easily a player can get really hurt. In other words: the evening was well worth going to het Kiel for, to the former Olympic stadium. And this not only for the after party in the hall of fame.

Emden, an East-Frisian harbor

2011-11-04T15:51:00.003Z

Being on the road and in Zwolle for the presentation of Verbrande schepen by Paul Gellings on the Cultuurboot, it seemed a good idea to swing by Emden. My maternal grand uncle hauled from there. Every morning he used to drink Ostfrisischer Thee. A special mix, black and strong, they would let a child drink. So finally, I had my first, extremely delicious cup of East Frisian tea.

He also used to sing 'Where the seagull scream'...
Now I realize he was probably homesick for his pretty, friendly town. Old firetrucks on show and ships moored right in the middle of town, good food: what more does a tourist want. Shops are open on Sunday afternoons so even then you can get some tea to take home.

Occupy in Antwerp

2011-10-23T10:27:00.002Z

It was a beautiful fall day. Those not part of the 1% showed up in all its variety: Old politico's, alternative lifestyles, blond dread locked Rastafarian, between 7 and 10 police man in civilian clothes, at least two undercover guys and a bunch of policemen in uniform, babies, old friends, musicians, people with a tamburin, a djembe

Also people showing and flying their colors, showing what is on their mind and of course a stand with badges and some vegan food. The mood was serene, warm, meeting again people one hadn't seen in thirty years when we already marched and demonstrated together.

Discussion and dance, a motley crew taking a stance and for justice, for a better democracy, brighter futures for the kids, non-violent explorations of alternate ideas and a deep distrust towards the machinations and power of the corporations: in short a duty, a call for a world in which 99% have a voice.

Small park, architects and artists

2011-10-02T13:21:00.000Z

A small park, a bunch of kids, architects and artists nice weather and a convivial atmosphere in a troubled neighborhood in Brussels. The park had been closed for a long while and was opended on Friday. Immediately a flurry activities took place. Kids made excellent mint thé, two cups for 1€, sold their mom's delicious cookies 4 for 1€, artist devised activities...

The kids were asked to write down what their wish was and the in a photomaton their picture was taken while holding the message. They played, enjoyed themselves, no screaming, no fights.

A meeting was held. The about twenty year olds, many out of a job, implore the people to keep the small park open so that their younger brothers don't have to grow up on the streets. They would like a guardian of the peace to keep an eye on the park, they would like fun and stimulating activities, so that in playing their siblings would learn certain necessary skills/

Artists presented some of their projects like a robot-drummer. Fun. It would be nice to have a bunch of them playing together somewhere in a public space.

The locals build this climbing tower for the kids to play on with scrapped pallets. I was impressed by the task the guardians of the peace fulfill. They are not part of the police, they are responsible to the federal minister of the interior. They are mediators, are a presence in the neighborhood and seem well trusted. They have quite a task in this neighborhood with an impressive mix of nationalities or ethnicities: all kinds of North Africans, black African, Pakistanis and Indians. Some of the kids were three lingual speaking French and Dutch and the language of heir parents. Belgium is a strange country an the countries of the Arab spring look it how it works. There is no government since over a year, there are three official languages and the distinction North/South going through the country. The people who come and visit want to know why there is no civil war, how the Belgians do this... I think it is because people and groups keep talking to each other. Communication and exchange, sometimes heated, but it is understood to be a way of learning to respect the other and to eventually work together. All this can be learned in a small park in Kuregem/Cureghem. The local people have the key to the park for four months, there is hope for a gentler way of living together thanks to these small scale projects.

The Festival

2011-09-23T20:30:00.000Z

Last Saturday was the day filled with beauty and warmth, words whispered and shouted, poets of the page and great performers. We worked in 4 languages and the audience got it. We had a great crowd, appreciative and warm. We found help for letting people in, for the bar, for a bookstand of the authors. There was a table of the writers in prison comittee and a Free Leonard Peltier flag. The poets who were featured alone read well and the groups that created a performance created a ballance that ballanced and lead to enjoyment and thoughtfulness. The anti war and pro peace section was an imposing statement in its beauty and strength.

The next day two of our invited poets- devorah major and Olivier Cousin- were invited to another literature festival. They didn't think about the translation, so we had to pick up the slack of others, which we gladly did for our two poet friends. And then on monday night there was a small Barbershop reading which probably will evolve into something bigger. Devorah enjoyed the old countryside hotel, near the Rhine and we filmed her speaking, performing some poems. Then The next day we dropped her of at the airport and she is now in Sarajevo at a Festival.

You'll find the slideshow and many more items at world-internet-books.com

Now the administative stuff has to be taken care of and the books with the great poetry in several languages have to be produced.

Susan Birkeland was honored end remembered... Her poem was read by Fred Schywek and myself in

German and Dutch.

Troy Davis

2011-09-21T06:34:00.000Z

For Troy Davis a thought by Albert Camus:
But what then is capital punishment but the most premeditated of murders, to which no criminal's deed, however calculated it may be, can be compared? For there to be equivalence, the death penalty would have to punish a criminal who had warned his victim of the date at which he would inflict a horrible death on him and who, from that moment onward, had confined him at his mercy for months. Such a monster is not encountered in private life. -Albert Camus, writer, philosopher, Nobel laureate (1913-1960)

Leonard Peltier

2011-09-14T09:29:00.000Z

Happy Birthday Leonard Peltier. He turn 67 in the Federal Transfer Center in Oklahoma City. It would be an act of kindness and correctness to transfer him to a prison nearer to his family. Further more his case papers should be made public for general scrutiny of his case. Free Leonard Peltier.

9/11 Casa Louisa, Hoboken

2011-09-10T10:16:00.001Z

When reading on the ominous date of 9/11, 10 years later one has to acknowledge that fact that brought so much suffering to world. It will be a reading full of peace and love and the will to resist. Yet there also will be pleasant, cozy moments, instances of pure poetry and music at Casa Louisa in Hoboken.
Participating poets: Peter Holvoet-Hanssen, Bert Bevers, Leila Boukhéfit, Bart Stouten, Annmarie Sauer,
Fred Schywek, and musicians Jokke Scheurs, Quirilan, Bateau Feu and Ken Post, eye witness of 9/11, singer/songwriter.
A short poem, original German by Fred Schywek and an English and Dutch version: KLANG

2nd European Poetry Festival, 9/17/2011

2011-09-09T08:04:00.001Z

In a week the first guests of the Festival will arrive. First early in morning flying in from San Francisco is devorah major who has advise and strong thoughts to offer. The first poem she'll read is: tempest. Storm in Dutch.

does the ocean understand
the land she smooths and softens

put a value on the minerals she extracts
from shells she has pounded
from bones she has chewed
from wood she has sucked
from iron she has bathed

does the ocean see her color
liquid crystal transformed
when painted by sun and dusted by silt
until she becomes gray and brown
blue and silver, sparkling green froth
as she grows and recedes
paying no attention
to the sufferance of humans
beyond offering the gift of her song
that hums in singular contentment
or howls a deep enduring sadness

does the ocean feel the shape
of each mountain she contains

how some of her lithe torso
with the gentlest of rotating currents
or through the thrusting of storms
cuts paths and rounds ridges
spoon caves and craft nooks
where life finds sanctuary
or meets destruction

does the ocean plan her lessons

stillness without quiet
light inside darkness
how she nurtures life
and how she ends it
without pity or remorse

The Master of Ceremony

2011-09-04T16:02:00.001Z

Roger Nupie will be the MC at the 2nd European Poetry Festival on September 17th, 8 PM in Antwerp, Permeke Library. He does this with flair, yet we shouldn't forget he is a poet in his own right. On the anti-war day he read the following poem in dutch.

Landmines (How big)

How big is man

juggling words like

bomb, shell, rocket, rocket bomb,

and fills them with smaller bombs.

How big is man

if his ammunition ends up in trees,

on roofs or under wretched

African sand.

How big is man

if in the aftermath of wars

not cleaned up antipersonnel mines

still cause daily harm.

How big is man

if he paints these bombs

in bright colours

- attracting mainly children.

How big is man

who because of this takes

an arm or a leg

of a child.

How big is the rat

who locates explosives

of landmines

with its nose.

How big is man,

who with a metal detector

only manages thirty, forty square meters

per day.

How big is the rat

who in half an hours

time checks

one hundred square meters.

How big.

How big.

from the upcoming book: Lighthouse, world internet books.

Worldwide day against war also at salon 12b

2011-09-03T15:06:00.000Z

Whatever small gesture, one has to do what one can to denounce the horrors of war in all its facets. A bunch of poets held a reading at salon 12b. Poems about old wars and new situations, an eyewitness song about 9/11, intimate readings about light and fire and loud performance supported by music... The next performance will be on 9/11 in Casa Louisa in Hoboken and then there will be the 2nd European Festival of Poetry September 17/201 in Antwerp, in the Permeke lbrary at 8PM. There will be a special anti war performance under the name of the Moorsoldaten.
The poets featured here will also be there...

Here you see Fred Schywek and Bart Stouten reading the Hama poem I have posted before, the rhythm flowed apart and together, beautiful performance.

Here you see the current city poet laureate of Antwerp Peter Holvoet-Hanssen on the harmonica, one of the attributes which is always near at hand in a reading.

The first verse of what he will perform on the 17th...

Pain of War

(background: Flemish traditional: drie schuin tamboers, die kwamen uit het Oosten)

I marched by the most abhorrent horrors to the youngest anguishing wail

From the 25.000 throats of Béziers – in solidarity with the Cathars

I swept over pyres – over blood and the stench in the streets

rimbombo, rimbombo, I drummed in the rue Rivoli

danced on a flamethrower with fixed-bayonet

with the 15-inch-Howitser hewing at the cold

over Brandhoek, Ieper, Hellblast Corner, no-man’s land

ay the muster gas scorched us off the world

I sank down next to G. E. Ellison, lancer who fell last

mixed myself in the intercourse and rooted

in forgotten graves – Solferino, time upon time

Debate on climate change, culture and art

2011-08-29T14:53:00.000Z

The panel

Plastic bag for culture, yet biodegradable

I went to listen to a debate about ecology and culture. Basically the question was 'what can the cultural sector do to prevent climate change which, when nothing is done, will make children sick in about 20 years'. There is a radical solution: Insulate your house, don’t eat meat or fish, don’t fly and in 20 years we would have avoided that the temperature would go up with the fatal 2°C. I learned that working half an hour equals drinking a glass of water. Each worth one unit, and the bad news is: one person has only 40 units per day for a good ecological footprint. Many solutions are at best tentative or even misleading. I try to buy organic and fair trade food and products, I have paid to carbon offset flights but it seems that is not the right system. Many artists have renovated their house in order to leave a smaller footprint, some installed solar power, others make artwork with low ecological impact. As a poet and literary translator I wonder whether I do have to feel guilty for using my laptop extensively, for using a lot of paper to check in print for mistakes. I wonder that people speak about not eating meat or fish, not flying, making tickets more expensive but don’t really deal with social injustice or the cost of war, cost in lives, in destruction, in pollution by the heavy armored tanks, the war planes. I wonder what the ecological cost is of war. Or is war just considered to be a branch of polluting industry? And if you want to know how I went to this debate: I walked, I shared one cup of coffee (bio & fair trade) and connected to people.

Studies in light

2011-08-28T14:50:00.001Z

From my window the summer-sunsets dress the city in extravagant colors.
Sometimes etching the silhouette of the city. Other times almost erasing the city, plunging it in darkness without being foreboding, cloaking the nuclear power plant. A vision of nuclear free futures.

Then there are the rainbows, warming the city, promising happiness or pots of gold at the foot of them, almost in reach. The light against dark skies is forever changing and enchanting.

No death penalty - No more executions

2011-08-25T19:04:00.000Z

Troy Davis, whom I truly believe to be innocent could be executed in September.

I don't believe that the death penalty is acceptable punishment.

Over the years, the case of Troy Davis has inspired many people to take action. It is a painfully clear example of the many flaws of the death penalty. Serious doubts about guilt have persisted, yet many people have still not heard about this incredible case more fit for a legal thriller than reality:

A flawed investigation, alleged witness coercion, police "tunnel vision", flimsy evidence, and a clumsy legal system that cannot seem to do the right thing. Several times we all who have written letters or signed petitions for him and Amnesty International have been able to postpone the execution date. After the Supreme Court refused to hear Troy Davis' appeal, I feel compelled to help spread information about him and his case.
Poetry for life: Jeez us by Fred Schywek in English translation or read the German original.

JEEZ US

Thou shalt not kill

Thou

Anti-War-Day, September 1st, 2011

2011-08-21T10:04:00.002Z

Freedom and peace for all – No more war!

European trade unions called for freedom and peace for the whole world in May 1961. This appeal, this summons is today more topical than ever.

It’s been ten years now since the war in Afghanistan began. News about victims of battles, attacks and war actions reaches us almost on a daily basis. What the population needs is work and stability instead of instability and violence. We demand the retreat of all troops out of Afghanistan and strong support for civilian society.

Troops in Afghanistan, planes in Libya are signs of the willingness of the West to deploy troops in any place in the world. We do not want intervention armies, but a strong basis democratic control of all military decisions.

This years spring saw the massive protests in the Arab world. A wave of democratic protest rolled from country to country over North Africa and the Arab Peninsula. The regimes of Tunisia and Egypt were toppled. Especially the young generations hold high hopes that in these societies the democratic process will unfold peacefully, in solidarity and progressively. These processes need to be supported financially, with medical aid, assistance of suffering civilians.

Lessons from the past spell it out clearly that the weapons the ruling governments used against their own population for the major part had been sold to them by the European armament industry: Germany, Belgium, Spain, France ... The selling of arms to regions in crisis should be classified under crimes against humanity. Defense spending has to be curbed in a a sustainable way.

The farewell to nuclear energy should also entail the end of all nuclear weapons! After the end of the cold war today there are still 23.000 nuclear weapons ready to be deployed. Our wish is a nuclear free world!

Every form of contempt for people, glorification of war and chauvinism is an affront to human dignity and unworthy in a democracy. The extreme right, hate mongering groups instigating violence and racism shall not find a foothold in our society.

Fred Schywek

Annmarie Sauer organizers of the 2010 and 2011 European Poetry Festival

Text on the basis of a position paper of the DGB (German umbrella organization of trade unions)

September Days of Peace (Campaign of world internet books)

September 1: Salon 12b: Worldwide Anti-War-Day: 8 PM

Participating September 11: NINE ELEVEN TEN Performance, Organizer Frank De Vos, Casa Louisa

September 17, 2011, European Poetry Festival Antwerp

8 PM with the city poet laureate Peter Holvoet-Hanssen and the support of the Permeke Library

Follow up on high end ghetto

2011-08-18T09:34:00.001Z

I need to correct something I wrote in the last posting: high end ghetto. I transpired this morning that the weapons the man brandished were FAKE. The policeman got injured by a rubber bullet from one of his 'toy-guns'. His ploy was to commit suicide by policemen shooting at him.

In these economically difficult times, people get deeper and deeper in trouble and more and more psychologically imbalanced people live in the streets. We saw it in San Francisco where after two days you knew who slept where, who begged where, what route another followed. One also knew who was slightly aggressive and who was not. We live in difficult times.

High end Ghetto

2011-08-14T10:21:00.004Z

The other night my blind and almost deaf griffon was restless, barked. I checked things out and found nothing amiss. I remained unaware of the events developing around the building.

A former psychiatric patient, know by the courts and the police (among others for shoplifting) ran amok, brandishing according to eyewitnesses, two revolvers and a machine gun... Shots rang out.

The police responded... The other man finally shot a policeman in the leg. His colleagues replied in kind and shot the perpetrator in the leg so that he couldn't cause more harm. How did the poor man get his small arsenal with the strict gun laws. I guess the street provides.

50 shots in all where fired, right across these venerable old houses...

Obviously every one tells me their story, obviously some people were shaken since some visiting friends upon leaving the building got caught up in the situation. I's like Chicago here. It seems we're living in a high end ghetto, my neighbors commented.

The picture I didn't take was where the blood still is coloring the sidewalk, not withstanding a night with pouring rain.

devorah major

2011-08-09T18:28:00.004Z

devorah major is one of the featured poets who will perform and read at the 2nd festival of European poetry. She will travel from San Francisco to Antwerp. She has been invited to read and perform poems from the upcoming anthology Harbors of the West and some powerful anti war poems. You can read a poignant poem about her ancestry.

I am a California born granddaughter of West Indian documented and undocumented immigrants, and Eastern-European immigrants (all documented I believe but I am not as aware of this side of my family line.) As a second generation writer I have found the universe of words, where one can create other worlds, other times, or freeze time or place as it is, to be a place of power, comfort, terror. Poetry found me first, later it was fiction and still later creative nonfiction found a way to carve a place in my writing soul. Words stuck, cut through my tongue, healed, confronted, questioned, demanded, flowed. I wrote while single, while in and out of love, as a new mother, and then as a poet in residence at a cultural center while my second child grew in my womb. I wrote through the painful dissolution of a difficult marriage and through biting poverty as a singe parent. And I still write- as woman black and proud, born in a family which has for generations struggled to make a better way , a more just world. And my writing has borne fruit. Thus far four books of poetry, two poetry chapbooks, two novels, and myriad single poems, short stories and non-fiction essays have been published.

I have written of family, of the streets, of struggle in both poetry and prose, fiction and non-fiction. I have performed my poems on war and peace, love and survival in England and Wales, in Bosnia, in Northern and Southern Italy, and at innumerable cultural and political gatherings in the US. I have served as Poet Laureate of San Francisco 2002-2006. Poet, novelist, internationally touring performer my books include street smarts, where river meets ocean, and with more than tongue, An Open Weave and Brown Glass Windows. For over twenty years I performed and recorder with Opal Palmer Adisa as a part of the poetry jazz performance group “Daughters of Yam.” I am featured on two Daughters of yam CDs as well as four other music and poetry compilations. Completed forthcoming collections are teardrops in the mouth of the moon and treasure hunting. I write as witness and as questioner. I write as one who loves. I cobble together my living as a writer, performance poet, poet in residence in community and/or institutional settings, and part time lecturer at an art college.

DEVORAH MAJOR

Marcinelle mine desaster

2011-08-08T13:52:00.001Z

On august 8 1956 a fire broke out in Marsinelle, a coal mine in the French speaking part of Belgium; 262 people perished. 136 Italian miners and 65 Belgian. The death toll of Italian immigrants in coal mines and caused by other work related accidents comes to over six hundred in Belgium alone between 1946 and 1956...

The English translation of a traditional miners poem from the Ruhr area:

Glückauf

Glückauf! GoodLuck! The words you hear from all,

Who stand by us down in the mine;

It speaks of loyalty and standing tall

Also in the worst of time.

Glückauf! The song that everyone sings,

Who with us hand in hand

The black gold to the surface brings

For the good of the fatherland.

Glückauf! You hear it all around

In shafts dark and deep.

St Barbara protect, do safe us keep

From the Tommy knockers cracking sound.

Glückauf! Be it also your last hello,

When you take your leave

On that road we all must go,

The one that gives nobody real reprieve.

You'll find the original German poem Glückauf here

August 6, the bomb and all things nuclear

2011-08-06T08:16:00.002Z

On this day it seems wise to think about the dangers of most things nuclear: be it for military use or for the production of energy. The use of nuclear in medicine seems to help people with certain cancers, so that seems ok within our present knowledge.

But throwing a nuclear bomb on Hiroshima, an abomination and crime, the nuclear accident in Chernobyl, the Three Mile Island meltdown of the core, Fukushima, all are part and parcel, proof even that nuclear power in human hands turns deadly. So Nuclear energy: no thanks...

The long now

the long now

10.000 years

who can then

read this

understand

the symbol

who knows then

looking

for the cause

of double timing halftime

short selling

of what how log

then still

has to come

now

10.000

years from now

the late burden

of moot mushrooms

and fantasies of fission

we all live

in the halftime

of the long

now -

Nuclear energy no thanks, nuclear bombs and other dirty uranium enriched weaponry, no thanks. Old nuclear plants are kept open longer in Belgium among other countries. Germany takes the lead in decommissioning nuclear plants...

Find the Dutch translation of the poem here.

Hama

2011-08-05T11:22:00.001Z

It is sad that one has nothing else to offer but the words of a poet in the face of the political upheaval in Syria, where governess troops have killed over 2000 of their own people, have imprisoned scores, disregarding civil rights and freedom of expression by their citizens. The governement bullets found even a barely one year old baby. Violence does not work, brings only grief.

The poem Hama was written in Dutch by Bart Stouten when peace reigned for a while. See salon12b for the Dutch original and the German Translation

HAMA

This summer weeds turned on

the watermills of Hama.

Shredded memories?

The old aqueduct won't ever again

cast them off. Where once was the field

now the consolation of a poster Old Hama:

it is Assad, father and son

and 30.000 dead. Look

how explosive they grow,

overgrowing a year

about which the city doesn't speak.

Like a child feeling found out,

twenty years later:

collective memory,

waiting for my ride.

A cart jolting and jerking

with no where to go.

The set repertoire of a folktale-teller

no one has seen.

Somewhere I'll find him

says Lonely Planet.

His world invitingly

ajar. Like the window.

Elsewhere, other-worldly:

two old people

in a mobil home at the Orontes river.

Belgians sure enough.

She peels an apple,

he tells the story,

in bits and pieces.

Hate got stuck, like a record,

lack of understanding, like a memory, in awful hunch

like stale beer after closing time,

while the rain wails on the sidewalk

and the sidewalk slowly turns to leaves

from a drunken dessert with the wobbly camel

of an awful hunch.

Like a record that got stuck, the muezzin wails

that you are dead, like lost sheep

in a late afternoon sun. Not a shepherd to be seen

as far as history still goes, and that is further

than your oath of secrecy. In unreadable reality

comes an Arab newspaper with strangle-sounds

and arabesques for show, with glasses Nescafe

paid for by the Baath party.

Hate hung around, on the shore of the Orentes river,

in my sub-chilled dessert, air-conditioned

in the reflection of the high minaret

which this morning continues to cry out my old love.

The Love Parade: One year later

2011-07-24T09:41:00.006+01:00

I couldn't do a better post than what you find here, posted by Fred Schywek, honoring the people who died. Silence and respect and yes the Mayor Adolf Sauerland has to go. You can follow the memorial service at /www.nrw.de/. Warning: Probably these links in German will only function during about a week.

Het motregent verdriet

massaal in de wereld gezet

stilaan worden we allemaal

nat

Love parade

Duisburg
*

One year after the Love Parade disaster, I see and hear the sorrow in others as it lives on, as it is brought back in all its vividness by the memory of fear for loved ones.

Sorrow brings loneliness. The only connection possible is one is held physically and feels supported. So memorials are a help. Survivors see their pain acknowledged, realize that others people know and understand that the survivors are still suffering in body and/or soul of the consequences of that fateful day. People who lost their loved ones can feel the solidarity and understanding of a mass of strangers and maybe just a feel a touch comforted by it. Twenty one people died, yet one young woman was pregnant. So a father to be lost two, just as grandparents lost a child and grandchild at once because of sloppy planning in the organization of the event. I understand the anger one feels at the dignitaries of Duisburg who refuse to take personal responsibility and refuse to leave their post. The kids just wanted a day of fun and dance and partying and they didn't find the joy of life, but panic and pain and death. Those who survived and the witnesses to the drama who were powerless to do more than what they did- some saving a life- some being wounded or unconscious and saved by a turn of fate are not yet healed.

It is three days after the bomb in Oslo, after the shooting of young people on a Nordic island, where they came together to look into ways on how to make a better, more just world.

It is Sunday and sadness reigns.

The flight back

2011-07-15T17:40:00.002+01:00

The flight back was as it should be uneventful. I was fascinated by the clouds. International travel becomes harder and harder, control upon control, not always in a friendly way. Random check of hands, random check of bags...

Yet traversing the continent is interesting.

The snow in Nevada, the ripples of mountains further East and in the plains one could actually see the flooding. And then the glorious sunset from my window again. it is hard not really knowing where is home. Home is where the heart is, I guess.

Music and Jack Kerouac alley

2011-07-14T13:59:00.001+01:00

After a congenial meal of Fish and Chips - no not wrapped in newspapers, just served on a plate - at the O'Reilley's a down town evening stroll brought street musicians with wonderful rhythms and Jazz sung by Lisa and the band. That is one of the many gifts of San Francisco one finds in one of the bars and watering holes.

Of course, since poetry was on the agenda in San Francisco we walked as a last tribute Jack Karouac Alley, reading the moral or literary thoughts one finds there. No it is not poetry but interesting none the less.

Hippie days and Ana's memorial

2011-07-13T10:48:00.002+01:00

For peace loving aging hippies Haight & Ashbury Streets in San Francisco are almost a place of worship, a pilgrimage to take. The area is still full of love and peace, of cute shops and all things alternative: eco, bio, piercings, drunks totally out of it sleeping on the sidewalk ... and patches for the soul.

Jimmy Hendrix watches over all this.

After the walk down memory lane, Ana asked to visited the Holocaust memorial: I repeat the motto: Remembrance is the beginning of redemption. Ana was right about this place a stark and moving beauty held up against the horrors of war and the concentration camps where Jews, gypsies, trade union people, resistance members, communists and many more perished... No more- never again.

Fog over the Golden Gate

2011-07-09T08:06:00.002+01:00

Fog on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco is an almost daily occurrence. Yet it doesn't deter the tourists, although some are a bit disappointed when the picture of the full elegance of the mythical bridge can't be taken. The fog however lends mystery, and since above there is nothing to see the exploration yields a view of the construction and its beauty. Friends have taken the time to share parts of the city they love. For Ana this includes this Holocaust Memorial. And yes remembrance is the beginning of redemption...

The quiet beauty of the Golden Gate Park with ponds and lakes a botanical garden, museums is a pleasure to the eyes.

Frienship's crossing

2011-07-07T02:03:00.001+01:00

The water, the bay, wind in your hair, a shawl is advisable, is a quiet time on the way to see an old friend in Sausolito. Friendship requires crossings, letters, phone calls but always a hug, a touch will erase the time of distance.

The rewards are manifold, the Golden Gate Bridge in a quiet fog, lifting above the tide.

Alcatraz, where a few students stay for a couple of months to repair the salt eroded steps,where tourists flock to to see the place of the movie or the occupation by AIM in 1969.

Here the Sausolito Bay where my friend grew up, and the hills with her father's house. She grew up a wild child without mother and became a strong and independent spirit. Friends try to let one grow and become the best one can be.

Goodbyes are hard, the distance to bridge is vast and friendship is priceless.

Like beauty friendship is its own reward.

San Francisco Mime Troupe

2011-07-04T19:36:00.002+01:00

In the Dolores park the San Francisco Mime Troupe offered a free play in the park. The Troupe has been performing their old style type political theater for 53 years: Death to the pigs! The fascist capitalist conglomerates, accepting money from the 'wrong side' is being a whore of the corporations. The singing and dancing is professional. The audience consists of colorful and happy people and pets. Pick nicks and wine and water, chairs and pillows, make shift blankets, music and fun. Here two flower-children discuss the task of the mayor to come.

View of the fog drifting into the bay as seen from Twin Peaks

San Francisco, the city, the bay, the café...

2011-07-02T19:45:00.004+01:00

People make a city, from union activist to musicians playing on an array of discarded bins and pots and pans, from editors to singer/songwriters to poets. And then there is the Bay, the bridges, the hustle downtown, the tourists, the stylish locals.

And the Bay Aria with the Golden Gate Bridge (the color is actually international orange), the Secret Beach and the China Beach. near Land's End.

A bit of nature soothes the heart, calms the mind from an overactive city, which seems big yet where circles pulse, growing and shrinking, a heart beat for friends and like minded people. Accidental meetings, meetings which change or strengthens one's path.

San Francisco Poetry

2011-07-01T01:40:00.002+01:00

Shawn at the Paradiso studio

One of the reasons to come to San Francisco was to record Susan Birkeland's poetry. Through Nicole Savage's website of San Francisco heart, and indeed a big heart and a fountain of information, some poetry friends of Susan gather at the Paradiso Studio and will record in their voice, Susan's poetry.

The first to read was Bill Mercer choosing three of Susan's poems. The next friend and poet was Ana Elsner reading one and afterward sharing about her friendship/sisterhood with Susan and their shared life experiences like having overcome cancer... Clara Hsu with her melodious reading of Flashlights of Innocence, was followed by Nicole Savage who brought this group together and reading 6 poems. Also Jerry read two poems.

After those voices and words are secured, devorah major read from tears in the mouth of the moon and Dark Love from where rivers meet ocean. A powerful display and moving performance. The studio is very professional: in three hours all the poetry that needed to be recorded was on cd's, all this under the watchful eye of the organizer.

It never rains in San Francisco?

2011-06-29T19:00:00.006+01:00

The spirits of San Francisco come greeting cloaked in rain... Nighthawks have a good time with food and wine and the waiter at Tosca ready to close up after we left.

With talk at the Specs about poetry, poets and books

meeting new people, warm embrace

the meaning and urgency of words

And then again the night and touched by light.

Old miners day

2011-06-27T20:16:00.002+01:00

Old Miners day intended to honor the miners who lay at the origin of the small community of Chloride. In 1916, since the price of minerals was high, Chloride boomed. More than 2000 people living there, some sources say almost 4000 people. The parades over the years became smaller and less mining directed. The main group portraying miners were the E-Clampus-Vitus, The Lost Dutchman Chapter, a Historic Drinking Society or a Drinking Historic Society. Through humor they try to preserve the past and are respected throughout the West for their selfless efforts. Of course the Western reenactors where present and added to the fun: The Long coats and lace and the Wild Roses and even a group called The old West from Kingman.

The real hero is the fire brigade who was supposed to be in the parade but got called out to douse a fire. So the truck stood at the corner of the parade and the firemen watched it, taking of their warm protective gear. The old cars were great yet the cutest group was the kids with the goats and dogs and horses.

More Grand Canyon

2011-06-26T17:55:00.003+01:00

Take your time give it to the Grand Canyon, avoid the over populated places. The first time I visited the canyon I went to the visitors center, saw the movie, read the warning signs and was totally bewildered at what it meant: take two gallons of water per person , wear sturdy shoes - while I saw people on flip-flops without water venturing down the trail. Understanding the desert so many years later, I get what the dangers of the canyon are. Extreme temperatures, high winds, steep ravines, slippery paths. Yet the beauty of survival and death, weathered trees is breathtaking.

Who or what is responsible for all this: Father Time, Sister River, Rains and droughts and winds, frost and snow, heat and dust... and the pitter patter of feet en hoofs and pats, the elk, mountain lions and chipmunk all contribute to the slow splendorous decay of a high plateau which used to be an ocean.

Desert View: Watchtower at the Grand Canyon

2011-06-25T17:47:00.004+01:00

Ann Coulter not only was responsible for the Museum of Northern Arizona, but also for la Possada in Winslow and the Watchtower at Desert View, on the desert View drive, either from Flagstaff or the visitor center in the Grand Canyon. Her buildings harbor you, make you feel good. Her sense of place and material is wonderful.

In the watchtower, and in the other buildings I have seen, she uses strong local materials incorporating all the variations she can find: slate, pebbles, rocks.

Elements of surprise are petroglyphs, natural statues, wood, whatever would give the building beauty and substance.

I should have called this post Room with a View. She chooses cut outs, interesting perspectives and even adapts the shape of the windows to the landscape. That is respect for the spirits of the place. Her windows draw you out and immerse you in the grand beauty of nature.

Museum of Northern Arizona

2011-06-24T01:27:00.009+01:00

The Museum of Northern Arizona just out of Flagstaff in its idyllic surroundings is a soul-soothing stop when one is in need of nourishment. The archaeological work supported and shown by the museum, the changing exhibitions, always centered on the regional nations : Hopi, Navajo, Zuni, Hualapai, Havasupai and other Pai people. Beautiful ancient pottery, jewelry in its distinctive styles, a partial mural of an ancient Hopi kiva. All that is there.

The museum is nestled on the high plateau leading up to the Grand Canyon. Ann Coulter's famous and bold South western architecture is still instrumental in making it look and feel like it is just perfectly balanced in it's surroundings.

Navajo rugs, which I'll never be able to afford do please my eyes. And of course the bookshop is well stocked, so one can find some contemporary Navajo and Hopi poetry by Luci Tapahonso and by Ramson Lomawatewa. The heritage program features dances and programs from Hopi, Zuni and Navajo. Saturday 25, You can enjoy Hopi dances at the Museum.

Typical representation of Hopi, Navajo and Zuni.

Laundry day

2011-06-23T03:20:00.003+01:00

For a very temporary resident in this desert laundry day requires finding a friend who has a washing machine and possibly a dryer. The friend wasn't in, so I chased her down at the communal coffee table

of Lean who tries to keep this small town together. Like in redneck country the washer and the dryer stands outside under a tin roof. Part of the back wall had been taken out because a beehive had installed itself in the wall of the house, honey making drip marks on the siding. Hot or cold water, not that simple, but finally all works. Then the dryer, and old Maytag from a Laundromat, one put in 3 quarters and waits. Talking and listening and rabbits and a roadrunner made the waiting short.

As you can gather from the pictures the sun, aided by the wind and some artwork, had to do the rest.

Fluffing and folding of the travel gear done by your blogger while remembering that a lady living in town told me one day that when she first rode into town, I had the laundry out somewhat like this and that she thought: in such a town I want to live...

Corvette in the drive way

2011-06-21T20:39:00.003+01:00

In the Corvette driveway
there it stands
all perfect she is -
not an it -
in red & white
& silver chrome

a photo-opportunity
for passers by

and every time
she smiles -

A friend of mine, Petra, saw the car about four years ago and now is the proud owner of her own Corvette in almost mint condition, driving it on the roads in Belgium.

Small rural towns

2011-06-21T04:32:00.003+01:00

Rural yet not as in agriculture and pastures but as in old forlorn desert hamlets with between 200 and 300 inhabitants, some of them seasonal.

The door is open, people drop in. Meet Mike, Alaska Mike or Woodstock Mike. At age 13 he helped his dad Whitey Davis, who assisted Hanley Sound responsible for the sound system. Mike with fingers painted orange, adjusted the speakers on the towers in the crowd and with the orange the sound mixer could see what he did or signaled with binoculars.

He had a youth without school, working as a roadie, making good money and partying with pa and the big guys. The names of the players, technicians, rental trucks (Reyders), type of motorcycles driven (BSA's, Triumph's and Honda's, I seem to remember) and organizers who went broke and the names of musicians trip of his tongue. He speaks of the security provided by the Red & White and so forth... He is a font of information. His heart is in Woodstock and Alaska, yet in June's sweltering heat, the Mojave desert is his home.

On the snapshot he shows a picture a friend of his in Alaska did about duck hunting and feeling restless in that special period of the year.

One day it will hang in a nice Western house in Washington State he assures me. His heart and head is filled with wishes, dreams, memories and plans that fill and feed the soul.

The West lives on

2011-06-19T04:58:00.004+01:00

What to say: the man got caught red-handed on film and it is his wife filming him fooling around with a floozy.

In this picture she turned bounty-hunter and doesn't wait to shoot, nor to collect the money from the sheriff.

The troupe, missing four actors reshuffled and redistributed roles and put up a fun performance.

In these small western towns one finds often Western Reenactment Groups, partially because they are history buffs, or also because it is just a good thing to do to create friendships and a sense of community over the generations. Special in the Longcoats and Lace is that a bit of background on the past is given as an introduction to the skids. The new actor had a hard start: he was shot in each one of the scenes...

The smiling Lady had her 80th birthday and still a dangerous schoolmarm.

Tradition and black powder... in Chloride, AZ there are even two troops.

Route 66 II -Kingman-Hackberry-Seligman

2011-06-17T00:14:00.004+01:00

I love the Route 66 in AZ: the steady change in the landscape, the sparse traffic consisting mainly of locals, aficionados and bikers.

I love the small places: funky Hackberry with its red and white Corvette, and the forlorn gas stations. Every time less and less. This time of two the pumps were gone.

I see Valentine's stone building and think about the Navajo and Hopi and Hualapai children brought here to be thought English and Religion as if not having any of their own.

Yet when in Seligman the saga, this boulevard of broken dreams, the myth is turned into a '50's theme park without a thought for those who out of dire need left family behind, home and hearthstone for an uncertain destination. Many fell by the wayside and staying where they fell they found alfe of menial jobs sometimes over several generations.

Yet living on Route 66 what destination is left to dream of? Can one get away from only candied past to pure present fed by a ream of doing. They may miss the majestic mountains, the long vista's, panorama and space? Do they wonder how much space there is at the golden shores?

The silence and loneliness of men staring in their beer.

I love the train, the Sante Fe, Atchinson and Topeka line meandering along the road.

I love the Route 66. It touches me by its tragic beauty & brass commercialism.

Yet it doesn't shine in everybody's eyes-

Route 66 - Kingman to Oatman - get your kicks

2011-06-15T04:25:00.002+01:00

Route 66, carrier of dreams and hopes and also of loss and hardship.

In all kinds of vehicles people packed their belongings, their kids, their pets, the grown up sleeping under the car next to road and the kids in the car.
Once in Kingman there was still the hard stretch to Oatman

They would pass on winding, narrow roads, going over mountains and passing the Goldmine road. Part of it still in operation today.

Yet danger awaited the travelers at every twist and turn. And if their car broke down, more often than not crooked mechanics would take advantage of the poor desperate people.

The road itself still holds its warnings for today's tourists. Unguarded cliffs, give a majestic view of these imposing multicolored mountains.

Yet once in town other risks still exist: the local residents, human and animal will try to take advantage of you in this one street tourist town with high noon shootouts, aegfrying on the asphalt contest and their donkeys.

Full moon in the Mojave Desert

2011-06-14T05:48:00.000+01:00

The moon moves fast
crawls out of the mountain
is on her way
this wandering sister

I see her trek
her rise
her arching back

and wonder whether the sea
of silence
is really still
or does the moon-wind
sing to sand
does the sand screech or howl
in the chase

or does all fall
still
on deaf ears
and does she so feel
filled

her predictable
migration
and the north star
as linchpin
to the turning
of the unheard movement
of the solace
of the sun

From one gas pump to a third in the time to write the poem...

The Mojave Desert in Bloom

2011-06-13T02:47:00.001+01:00

The winter was long and harsh in the Mojave Desert. Late frost squashed many blooms and the flowering is late.

From prickly pear cactus to hierba buena was flowering today

Here half of the plant dried up during winter yet the other half is alive and kicking. That to me is the lesson of the desert: life is precious and worth caring for.

Walking through the foothills of the Cerbats, I am at once grounded in the here and now and enjoying and seeing the beauty and frailty of it all.

Old rusted plates from the old mining days have their function here. A quail thought it was the perfect protection for her covey of chicks.

My eyes feasted on all the colors, from gentle to vibrant. Yet i thread carefully, since Arizona is known for its poisonous creatures: the most poisonous snake: the Mojave green rattlesnake, Gila monsters, scorpions... And also majestic birds of prey: Ravens, falcons, Hawks and the sanitary service of the desert: the Turkey buzzards.

Hierba Buena is a powerful plant with healing properties for body and soul. If something is wrong with you, take a slow walk through the desert and you'll feel your strength return.

If you click on the pictures they open up for you.

Nashville to Chloride

2011-06-12T05:36:00.000+01:00

From the wide open road through Virginia and Tennessee there was the fun and music in Nashville and a flight away was Las Vegas and a long wait for our luggage.

Friends offered a great oriental meal on the way to the Mojave Desert which I supposed would bring quiet and peace and relaxation. Of course repairs have to be undertaken since after a harsh winter the water pipes are broken, the bushes and shrub stand high and there is the meeting of old neighbors and friends and meeting new folks who just stop by, drop in and chat. The stories of peoples lives unfold, their courage and resilience shines through. Their warmth and willingness to share is overwhelming because it speaks of trust. The desert itself unfolds a hidden beauty, fascinating in its sparseness, rich in its teachings of survival... for humans and beast. The hare is an art lover looking at a statue of Bob Stordahl.

all pictures by

The first song of the CMA Awards Music Week in Nashville, TN

2011-06-08T03:49:00.004+01:00

The start of the CMA Awards Festivities was at the Plaza of the Grand Ole Oprey. The first song was by Thomas Rhett: Something to do with my hands. Strong, compact, interesting lyrics was what he offered in the four songs to warm up the public. Rhett, singer, songwriter also performed: I don't know where I am going with this and What have you got in that cup and Tobacco. A worthy start to a week of of high quality country and mountain music. His act was followed by the auction of a guitar signed by many artists. It sold for 925 $. The proceeds go to helping Country artists who need it.

The main act Jerrod Niemann was as good and strong, pleasing the crowd enormously. His band had a few mean guitar players, one made the guitar sound like a violin...

Jerrod sang songs most fans in the crowd knew how to sing without any help. Good traditional songs, love and loss and gentle naughtiness. All in a positive way: A is for Alcohol, B is for beer, C for Mrs Carter, sleeping here... Good vibes were send out by Thomas Rhett and the star with a liberal stanze that Jarrod now is.

Without roadies, nothing goes. So lets salute these workers, before and after the performances.

And also the crowd has to be saluted, in their Country garb and attitudes. The music week has started in a pleasant way on a hot an sultry day in Nashville Tennessee.

500.000 Country Music fans are expected in Nashville:Enjoy, live the atmosphere.

Nashville,TN

2011-06-07T13:23:00.008+01:00

Nashville, Music city, endless bars with life music, The Grand Ole Oprey, lively streets. Modern and old mixed, but yes, the first city one can walk around in because there actually is a human sized down town.

BB KIng, Willy Nelson, all the assorted country paraphernalia, the legends surround you here. Music from the bushes, music coming at you from every open door. The city breathes, lives music, certainly in the days of preparation before the MCA Awards. From Thursday on there won't be a bed to be had in town.

All is tradition and the TV plays a loop of stars to be promoted.
Sweltering, hot and humid afternoons in Nashville at the banks of the Cumberland River in a dream of Country.

Emmylou Harris on MTR

Kingsport-Knoxville-Nashville

2011-06-06T14:22:00.002+01:00

On the road again and what does one see? Car places with festive streamers, sparkling cars, many big gas hogs for sure and in the smaller places along the road junk yards pretending to be repair shops.

Even in Kingsport where the city center was restored, it is not a walkable city, no place to sit down and watch the world go by. Cars are king, without a car nothing goes in this country, whereas at home, sometimes I don't use my car for a week or more, taking trams or walking.

At the end of the road one needs a drink. One. But which one. The liquor store straight across from the motel. Of course being in Tennessee it became the smallest Gentleman Jack...

In Knoxville stumbling upon one of the hundred best Asian restaurants and proud of it.
It sure was a good meal and a customer taking a picture of the boss and her helpers... Go there Hashi in Knoxville. Excellent light tempura and hibashi veggies.

The road to Dante

2011-06-05T12:49:00.003+01:00

Railroad, river and church at a crossroad in Dante. Faded publicity and green mountains and hill and meadow: from deep viridian green to lime, to verdi gris, Green is the Appalachian color and of course the black of coal. Driving the coal heritage road gives one matters of life and death to consider. Mine disasters, poisonous effluents, small faraway villages where the old lady's, two were born in Dante, keep the local museum open.

Dante was a union mine. Massey Big Upper Branch mine is not.

Sweet and glad that strangers are interested in their heritage.

Friend caring about their roots and place.
Doing bake sales, repairing old buildings, keeping the past alive.

That was Coal Heritage Road, a good way to see the country.

A video about MTR

Upper Big Branch Massey mine explosion, April 5, 2010

2011-06-04T13:01:00.004+01:00

In the explosion at the longwall of April 5, 2010 of the Massey mine near Whitesville 29 miners died. 29 helmets with their names on remind the passerby's of the disaster. Some families like Davis family lost 3 members.

While thinking and taking some pictures a car drove up and Delbert got out of the car.

Delbert happened to have a scheduled day off and the young college was changed shifts, they both were part of the crew that lost 29.

There are several memorials along the road, very moving. Eating a bite at the local diner, one can see all the names on the window. That brought it home to me: The whole community is affected when something like that happens. It are not just fathers and husbands, brothers and nephew, but friends and acquaintances and neighbors and customers, all that share the life of the miners.

Delbert is a certified electrician: this is his helmet with the names of all his workmates on the helmet among little stars. He with Skeen Grover installed the first long-wall and the last. A long-wall is like a big slicing machine, cutting of a few inches of coal at the time over a length of 1000 feet. It was at the end of such a wall, where ventilation probably wasn't too good that the explosion occurred. The evidence seems to point to the fact that safety came not first, notwithstanding that Massey's motto was: Safety first, productivity second. Another memorial has the names of the 29 miners written on a piece of coal. The mine has just new owners Alpha operations. Their motto is Do what is right. Let's hope the miners are safer from now on. Glück auf! Delbert and all the crews.

Exhibition Coal Mine

2011-06-03T16:04:00.001+01:00

Exhibition Coal Mine docent Marvin, ex miner explains the tools and work methods of miners in this area. On a small flatbed train we enter the mine, a coal mine, mined out. Empty tunnels, hollows.
The miners mad a good wage for those days: 2 $ a day. Of course they had to bring their tools, their blasting powder, food and water.
All the mine company provided them with was a place where to start working and digging.

In these pictures you'll see some machinery. That is purely for educational reasons that they are exhibited here. The miners her only worked with a pick and a shovel, and some blasting powder. Of course they had a type of lamp to to check on CO in the mine and coal damp.

Just today in the regional newspaper of Beckley The Register Herald I saw an article stating that the Pinnacle Mine is shut and flooded with water because of elevated Co levels...

Here the miner showed the working of a carbide lamp: put the powder in, add a few drops of water, close the container and you have a light for up to five hours. And the miners knew how to refill the lamp in total darkness. They would lay on their side and pick away at the seam of coal. Their pail for food was in metal to keep the rats out, it also contained half a gallon of water for a hard days work.

The banks of the Ohio

2011-06-03T14:57:00.001+01:00

Having crossed from Ohio to West Virginia one encounters the river flowing proudly and wide, even having flooded some farmland with the month long rains in the area. It is immediately clear that this is coal country. The barges are loaded, waiting to bring their load to the coal burning plants. Good or bad? A good thing for sure is that after the Three Mile Island nuclear disaster that the Americans aren't too hot on more and more nuclear power plants.

Yet it isn't all industry here, walking I stumbled upon the crushed bones and hoofs of a doe and was enchanted by the Jasmin smell in the lush greenery.
Then to Huntington, don't miss the visitor center, nice area, friendly service and follow that up with a Japanese meal and rest for the night planning the sights of tomorrow.
American towns aren't meant for walking; that is a pity.

Memorial Day

2011-06-02T14:43:00.003+01:00

Memorial day is the when we remember all wars. We know about Arlington, but also Dayton, Ohio has a huge Military Cemetery starting at the Civil War, WWI, WWII, Vietnam and Korea, Iraq and Afghanistan and I may be forgetting one or other war like troops in former Yugoslavia... Seeing the flagged graves of all these people having been in a war, saddens me and strengthens my pacifism.

Here a Civil War Canon and red white and blue streamers... These colors pervade everything. People walk along the the green grass in a solemn mood, bringing flowers, tokens of remembrance and caring.

Brothers and daughters, two children, about seven and eight at the grave where it says Cathy M. Soldier and other of two.
Memorial Day

A hot humid day in Dayton Ohio
row upon row
white stone after stone
bronze plaques
names and dates
rank and specific
war
engraved
scratched in souls
on stone
flag upon flag of endless ages
of flag after flag
the sad and sorrow price of
war -

By the way: war is not inevitable, it doesn't make us safer and humans are not naturally violent.
Peace takes more guts!

Easter

2011-04-30T12:00:00.000+01:00

In some parts of Europe the night before Easter big bonfires of the vanities are blazing away. People bring over old wood, broken boards old trim and such. Everything wood and burning that can start the spring cleaning frenzy. That is, when there no restrictions because of unseasonal droughts. So the fire had to be a safe one, but it didn't quite burn all last years junk and crap and useless stuff we carry around. The burning also burns away the emotional ballast and gives the spectator/participants a clean slate to start spring and a new cycle of life again. Of course Easter eggs and a good meal on Easter Sunday are part of the tradition.