Walking in the desert

When time is slow

the company good

you walk and talk

then laying down

on the outside couch

I smell the time of desert sand

opening my eyes

the mass of pinpricked stars

in my skies of blues

I name them Billie Holiday, Miss Ella and Aretha

in my darkest hues

eyes closed the reflection

of the sun in orange yellow glow

then in these silences 

tweets of birds

a far plane and someone’s plan

a car, a truck, a trick

and slight of hand

then swimming

in the desert glass and singing sand

 

The magnificent chaos and women's lives

The magnificent chaos and women’s lives is to me the perfect title for a page about a contemporary female writer from India. The most famous author is without doubt Arundhati Roy. With her debut novel ‘God of small things’ she won the Booker prize in 1997. At the last count the book had been translated into 40 languages. The book is set in Kerala, India. She uses her own experiences as to what it is like to grow up in Kerala. Interestingly it is the place in the world where all the world religions/ideologies coincide: Christianity (her mother was Christian), Hinduism, Marxism and Islam.  One could call the book a tale of the decline and fall of an Indian family. Through a mixture of past and present, we learn about the night of Sophie Mol’s death. The book begins in 1969 when the twins are 7. They never have really grown up and still live in a world of their own making. The characters are exactly that: a character: the elegant grandmother, scheming Baby Kochamma, the house servant, the charming uncle, an Oxford educated Marxist taking over the family pickling business and of course ruining it. The untouchable carpenter is the only one who can influence life and not just accept it as it comes… When I read the book in 1997 I loved it for its sheer luxury of language: language like a Cirque du Soleil exuberant balancing acts, sharp and funny, metaphors and strange riddles and nonsense rhymes, nuanced and convoluted… I would love to quote from the book alas, somebody is reading it since a couple of years and I forgot who has the book…  Read the book, after all the drama, there is also a residue of tenderness and happiness that will stay with you after you closed the book. Take this roller coaster ride.

 Suzanna Arundhati Roy was born on the 24^th of November 1961. Her father was a Bengali Hindu tea planter, who was not really part of her life. She left home at the age of 16, living precariously in a squatter’s colony in Delhi. She was trained as an architect, and wrote two screenplays for films. She used the proceeds of her prize and book to become a full time social activist using her writing skills for political essays. She wanted to make a difference. Sadly she lost the fight against a large dam as construction started in 2003. Sometimes the bulldozer is mightier than the pen. She also is a travel writer, before going on holiday to India, look for travel books….

American elections - I voted early and you?

Being an ex-pat I voted early from abroad and yes I voted for Obama. I must admit it was with a bit less of enthusiasm than the first time. I have signed many petitions to the president, some of which he has taken on board, others not. My main reason to vote for him is that we share more of a caring approach, a world view for society than I will ever share with the other candidate. Climate change is at least acknowledged and thought about. The fact that in Arizona reproductive rights for women are not in the health insurance package but Viagra is, says something about the other party. Being a woman, the only to vote for me is Obama. With democrats we have the chance that we can autonomously decide about reproductive issues without an employer being able to influence what is included in one's health insurance. That is a personal issue and should not be taken away from women. I also thank the president for standing for GLTB rights. My beef with Obama is that, although less of a hawk than his opponent, although he has ended the Iraq war, for which I am grateful, he still uses drones and signs for each attack with them. And of course capital punishment in my heart, mind and soul is wrong. Not granting presidential pardons, commuting the sentences of people on death row is a lost opportunity. Yet I am deeply convinced that Obama is better for the world and the USA and that better options for good possible futures for all might be open.

Unsung hero

Rose vdw is one of my unsung heroes. She is gentle and compassionate, a good friend and poet. She is quiet spoken, a lover and supporter of art. She bakes a mean apple cake which I savor with relish. She is also a help in working through my feelings concerning my mother who is suffering with dementia. Rose, for about 16 long years, visited her mother with Alzheimer in the ‘Cocoon’. This soft spoken soul however was a power house when she felt her mother had not been dealt with as she deserved. The institution offered ‘comfort care ‘, which turned out to be mainly comfortable for the nurses. The patients would be bedded down every day and every night. They were no longer dressed, nor would they sit at a table to eat, or sit in a comfortable chair in the afternoon. Then the daughter became the advocate who trembling with emotions of sadness and anger would defend the quality of life of her mother and thus also of the other patients. When my mother's illness began, Rose would answer my questions, sometimes sketch what awaited me in the logical evolution that was to follow. She gave invaluable insight and thus acceptance of what was to come.

Here a moving poem about her mother’s reaction when Rose's father passed away.

I have loved him so much, she said.

A month before he died - he couldn't

eat a bite - she had set out there

the same stack of sandwiches

already for fifty years. He fumed.

A wounded lion. The berry jam, soon a

bloodstain on the carpet. In almost

a scuffle he was felled by her as if a feather.

I have loved him so much, she said

while crying and unknowing of the days,

now angry, then again fearful was left behind.

On her own a passport with a spotless past.

Familiarity

I know A. since she was 11 and I was 12. Being very bright she had been schooled a year early, so we ended up in the same secondary school class, both having chosen Latin and Greek. She remembers whom and how I was in the difficult years of puberty and the fear of a stepfather. I remember her 'normal', yet strict family. We followed each other's lives and marital turbulences. We knew about each other's jobs, crushed longings, unfulfilled expectations and moments of joy and happiness. We are friends, even if I fall often short on being there for A. when she needs it. She knows that I know and thus we get together every so often to exchange, to tell about the latest episode of our lives's road. She is ebullient and talkative, I am a good listener. While listening I recognize old patterns, habits, griefs, resulting for me in a sense of peace stemming from familiarity. The normality of our encounters is also the glue that keeps us in each other's life. She is adventurous and does volunteer work in the field of alternative cultural events. She is brave, yet needs a structure which grants her her freedom without making her feel lonely or isolated. 

I once wrote a poem for her:

Ach A,

Ik wilde komen

maar voor ik zo vertrekken

moet naar nieuwe straten

ander licht en vreemde bedden

koester ik mij in stilte

het alleen zijn thuis

en vergeet dan

dat om 11 uur

zondag de wereld

nog bestaat

Ik wilde komen

maar nu bij koffie

wachtend op de pendelbus

is het te laat.

*

Oh A,

I wanted to come

but just before I have to leave

for new streets

different light and strange beds

I cherish my silence

being home alone
and forget
that at 11 o'clock
on Sunday the world
still exists

I wanted to come
but now with coffee
waiting for shuttle bus
it is too late

(on the road to Strasburg, France)

American Sign Language and Poetry

 

© sms:foto duisburg/rhein 2012

Dori Vaughn works in a school as an interpreter/assistant for children who cannot hear. She even, in her lunch break, thought hearing children to sign, so that the deaf children would be less isolated. When I asked her whether she could sign some of my poems, she hesitated a moment and said yes. Signing is interpreting. American Sign Language (ASL) is not “English”. So she practiced while I spoke the text and she looked for the best rendering of the image or the concept. She also practice ‘off the page’. Working from a written text is a job not many interpreters like to do, and poetic language of course is an extra challenge. She also discussed the content of the poem, what I had meant, how it came about. I however wanted to know how she read the poems, because a poem once written, is read and interpreted by the reader and might carry a different weight or connotation. Dori does a great job and adds to the beauty of the event of April 30, 2012: desert poetry night.

Animal Dreams - Barbara Kingsolver

What to do on a blustery day with showers except photographing the light and shadows of life.

Just find a warm place inside and read.

Being a fan of Barbara Kingsolver’s writing I was pleasantly surprised to find her book in a small town for $2. I have read five of her books, this being the sixth one. She writes rich stories, with a tapestry of characters which ring true. In Animal Dreams Codi, the main character is at a juncture in her life, and goes back to Grace, Arizona where she grew up with her sister Hallie, who is in Nicaragua, helping the people with  their crops, and a distant father. Codi is in the habit of running to another place when life doesn’t turn out the way she wanted. One could say it is all about the luxury of forgiveness and living a sweet life so one has sweet dreams... Her memories seems unreal until the day she fully participates in life with loss, love and belonging. Some quotes which touched my heart:

* I couldn’t ask Emelina for directions to my own childhood home; I didn’t want her to know how badly dislocated I was. I’d always had trouble recalling certain specifics of childhood, but didn’t realize until now that I couldn’t even recognize them at point-blank range.

* Children robbed of love will dwell on magic.

* ”Insomnia’s different,” I said.  “You know the light that comes on when you open the refrigerator door? Just imagine it stays on all the time, even after you close the door. That’s what it’s like in my head. The light stays on.”

* The winter rains would soon dry up. Then there would not be another drop till July. During those brittle months the taste and smell of rain would be lost to us, beyond the recollection of children and the deepest root tips of trees. That is the way of the seasons in a desert place.

My Grace is Chloride, AZ.

Seven things to do... in small towns

In a small town with no road going through, all off them stopping at a mountain, at tailings or a wash there isn't much to do. Favorite activities are improvements: Putting up a water tank with a backhoe and resting under the result.

 One could browse the local shop which holds surprises but no fresh food. I found a second had copy of Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver. I have read several of her novels and some of her essays: great work. The first one was Pigs in Heaven starting at the Hoover Dam, the very first time I crossed it.

Women gathering to discus the last and to prepare the next event at the local VFW. One is a biker chick, one is a belly dancer, an American Sign Language educational assistant, a poet, a cook and a former cow girl...

 You could watch the changes in the Alpenglow on the mountain or watch another splendid sunset...

And on Sunday nights there is a free movie at the theater: Easter Sunday it was the wonderfully moving Green fried tomatoes...

I don't know about other small towns, but here there is a special spirit which brings people together.

And now I go back to my book...

Small Town Bake Sale

To me this is an iconic picture of a small town in the West: The swamp cooler sticking out the window, the ladies in the shadow wearing their shades. Also I love seeing the king cap white pickup truck and when  you click on the picture you'll notice the quad...

The guys, members of the E Clampus Vitus are up the mountain to paint the C in bright white so that when one walks around one is reminded of where one is.

The women, in real community spirit have been baking: I got Brownies, pound cake, chocolate-chip-almond bars, and peanut butter  and raisin cookies. They also have fresh white bread. One lady proudly shows us her blueberry muffins... Note the red nails and the bangles.

Of course the obligatory warning is posted that all the goodies are not from a health authority inspected kitchen...
I have eaten some of my stash I took along and can assure you the quality is excellent. So munching along while blogging I help pay for the white paint and the 'brotherhood' of a day out on the mountain.
Small town... great people

devorah major

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

Desert View: Watchtower at the Grand Canyon

 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.

Stop selling weapons

If they ask you what I think about war, tell them I am against all wars. Too simple? I am astonished at the women of my generation like Hillery Clinton, Rice and others who urge to go and intervene with full might and weaponry. I can understand the emotional, even passionate reaction, the compassion with the people of Libya. I have been in Rwanda 10 years after the genocide and have  seen the emptiness in the eyes of people there, I have seen the old machetes and know about the one million  people murdered in one hundred days. I have friends in Croatia who had a son in Vuckovar. Massive killings without intervention. Maybe these women feel guilty for the loss of life and the pain that was not prevented. Yet the hypocrisy of bombing the planes the west sold to dictators or tribal leaders. Fighting the Taliban armed by the US to resist the Russians are all acts that show that the west doesn't have the moral high ground. Talk, negotiate, use economic power, all possible peaceful means. And yes stop selling weapons now.

Eight venerable poetesses

Lucienne Stassaert here performing 'Leben-Leven-Life' with friend and great improvising musician Jean Demey. She opened the evening which turned out to be very enjoyable. She got a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine signed by all present as a memento of her 75th birthday. Not slowing down in her creativity, an example for all of us.

Hungarian born Adriana Kobor, the youngest of the bunch, closed the evening with some disquieting poetry. She leaves an impression of daring and honesty.

The eight poets reading that night: Vera Alexander Beerten; Patrica De Landtsheer; Adriana Kobor; Xinte Mässer; Annmarie Sauer; Lucienne Stassaert; Hilde Van Cauteren; Yerna Van Den Driesche. Intermission music on the piano Marc Clement.
organizer: Frank De Vos: the guy on the left side.

It is a bit hard to get eight poets coordinated, but the mildly wild bunch is seen here. The third and fourth of the left chose some slightly naughty poetry which lend a light air to the evening.

The public as always at that specific literary café was attentive and generous with applause.
For a sample of 'Leben-Leven-Life' click here

November 20 - Women against Nato

> Dear friends,
You know that Muddy roads cares about peace and non violence. hence this message from the Women in Black, Women against Nato and writers for peace:
>
> We would like to tell you about a women's anti-NATO action some of us
> are planning in Central London on November 20, to mark the NATO
> Summit which takes place in Lisbon that weekend.
>
> Four of our women's networks are involved - Women in Black, Women's
> International League for Peace and Freedom, Aldermaston Women's Peace
> Camp and women of Trident Ploughshares.
>
> We are gathering an affinity group of 25 women for this activity.
>
> We shall be wearing specially prepared T-shirts. Eleven women, each
> with a large letter stencilled on the fabric, will, side by side,
> together display the message SAY NO TO NATO. Women in plain T-shirts
> will fill the space between the three words. Thus, fourteen women in
> total will constitute this 'living message'.
>
> The T-shirts will be pale mauve (traditional women's colour) and the
> letters stencilled very boldly in black. Letters will also be printed
> on the reverse, but different ones, so that, whether seen from front
> or back, the message will read from left to right. The 'O' in NO will
> be a women's sign.
>
> We shall progress around London from site to site, stripping off our
> overcoats here and there, linking arms and displaying our message for
> some minutes, wherever we can achieve the most dramatic visual
> effect...on steps, on bridges, across roads on pedestrian crossings,
> lying on the ground etc. etc.
>
> Some women of the affinity group will distribute to the public
> informative leaflets about NATO developments and the feminist case
> against NATO. The leaflet will carry the names of our four
> organizations, and will make demands on the British government.
>
> Other women of the group will look after coats and bags. We shall
> have a steward, and a legal observer, and women concerned with
> photography, video and media contacts.
>
> These supporting women will wear T-shirts in the same colour, but
> stencilled with a women's anti-NATO logo. (I can send this when it
> is designed, if you are interested.)
>
> We would very much like to know whether you are planning women's
> actions in your cities and localities to mark the NATO summit - and
> if so, what you plan to do.
>
> If any of you would think of doing a similar T-Shirt Action, it would
> be a great joy to us to know we are joined with you in a simultaneous
> and co-ordinated event!
>
> We have prepared a 'Background Note' about developments in NATO and
> women's case against it, as a resource in planning our Nov 20 action.
> It can be seen on the website of Women and Life on Earth. You will
> find a link on the home page at . The paper is titled
> "Making NATO visible to women; making women's opposition visible to NATO".
>
> Let's share ideas!
>
> Best wishes, Cynthia
> Women in Black London.
>
> _____________________________________

Friends

A small group, five, six, sometimes seven with different challenges and lives meet about twice a year when everyone can be in the same place. We know each other, appreciate each other and are a loud and fun group dealing with life and its challenges, health, age and ailing parents, daughters, only daughters in this group, poetry, language, literature, travels and staying home by necessity, animals. It is a strange homecoming in the diversity of the other's life.

For the first time my mother asked my name. Our conversation though was a happy one. Smiles touched with melancholy.

Walk to work

This morning in this water city I walked early to work and was carried by the stream of people and kids. In the flotsam I wondered whether to change my route, following the kids following the piper. But then I spied 'Occas' Livres' on my regular path: a secondhand bookshop. Closed at that time of day yet magnetic. I saw, thus will have to return to find it open: a nice edition of Les Feur du Mal by Baudelaire and a Boulgakov novel I haven't read. That is a translation, but since I don't read russian I don't care in what other language it is. Most russian authors I have read in italian. Then I saw swans in love, gliding on the river while behind me the trafic roared. They seemed so effortless and it was hard to keep up with them walking along the shore. There was rain, there was wind and also the breath of an old woman passing...

Ralleys

Working in the capitals of Europe it is often hard to get to where one needs to be. Where there is perceived power, there will be demonstrations of all kinds. The ones I do not brave are those by the metal workers and the farmers: they cause quite some 'debri'. This time the people from Sri Lanka ask the EU to stop giving money for genocide. The Tamil Tigers have quite a reputation as a fierce fighting force. This demonstration was non-violent and colorful. I walked through it to get to work taking some snapshots. Yes Stop the War...

Hillary

In the same room I was, saw and heard her.
Our Secretary of State knows her stuff, listens and is a great speaker.
Granted, I saw her from behind the camera line and a strong tele is not part of my camera.
Of course TV sets were organized for those who didn't have a chair.

The invitation was for youngsters and she impressed all ages. The economy, defense and peace were the main subjects. Europa has felt the new wind coming out of Washington... Change brings hope.

Birthed from Scorched Hearts

Birthed from Scorched Hearts Women respond to War was compiled and edited by MariJo Moore. She produced an important, powerful book. 54 women from all over he world have sent in their words, their feelings, their insights, their stories. Some give courage, some are heart wrenching, some are wise. Reading the book I learned about old, historic violence beginning with Medusa and the daughters of Celtic Boudica. We learn about massacres and forgotten people, the plight of indigenous peoples in the USA and in the rest of the world. The chronology then brings WW I and WW II, Korea, Vietnam, Kuwait, Iraq, followed by the protesters and peace workers. I am moved, humbled by the creativity and life lessons of these women. I like the historic fiction by MariJo Moore writing about Creek War and the Indian boy Andrew Jackson took home. MariJo imagines the mother’s tale about her lost boy’s life. Great. Then another important piece is by Rebecca Bevins Faery about Vietnam and the repackaging now of Nam as a tourist destination. She was married to a soldier in that war and was a peace activist. It deeply resounded in me as it was my first confrontation with war and as a consequence peace work. I should mention Laura Tohe’s testimony about her brother. Molly Mc Glennen writes about Native American women’s poetry and the reinterpretation of war: insightful and moving. We need to understand creative expression as sacred and to acknowledge the continuum among the speaker, writer, reader, listener, creative spirit and the word. Doing so, your writing will have political implications. Your love flowing out can change the world.

Braveheart

In my daughters words after the facts: I came home on an overfull train and saw a small seat behind the buggy of a Jewish family with four kids. The lady made some formula for the tiny baby and I messed with my papers. Upon arrival at my stop we all got out of train. Two young guys followed us and shouted: 'Judenhunde'! I was shaken and had a surge of adrenaline. I turned around barely a few centimeter from them and said: what did you say, now you have to deal with this blonde. Look in my beautiful blue eyes. Nobody intervened, nobody said anything although there were a lot of people and all had heard it. Then the train was leaving and the guys (one sporting a Were Di badge) went back on the train. The family walked slow with the kids in tow and so I met up with them. The Lady said 'thank you' and I apologized for the unconscionable attitude of these guys. That poor family. It was the first time I heard a thing like that, but i wonder how often had they to hear things like that. I didn't know that was still possible...

I am proud of my daughter's reaction and wonder about the risks of fearlessness. She did the right thing!