"I thank you all for coming in out of the pollen," poet Brian Henry began this afternoon's reading at the Visual Arts Center.
I'll take poetry over pollen any day of the week, even on a gorgeously sunny Sunday afternoon. And today's reading showed off two very different poetical styles to a large crowd gathered in the gallery foyer, the first time I'd ever heard poetry there (music, yes, poetry, no).
With sun streaming in from the front and back doors, it made for an allergy-free zone while still feeling connected to the day.
Many of the poems from Henry's new book were written in the late '90s and early aughts and dealt with violence in different kinds of ways.
"Even your dust shatters, even your air" from "Even, Even" and "A smattering of cirrus, no rain today" from "Elegy Belated" show the kind of evocative words Henry uses to draw mental pictures.
Acknowledging yesterday's violent weather, he read "You weep into my hands at the wind's first rush" from "Tornado Warning," referencing waiting out a storm in the clay basements of Atlanta.
David Wojahn began his part of the reading with a piece about his introduction to Richmond: Hurricane Isabel ("Not easy to wait that long, but possible") back in 2003. His references to downed power lines and toppled trees took me back to that pioneer period when I had no power for twelve days.
"Now it's the future that's bathed in possibility" from "Fetish Value" undoubtedly resonated differently for every person in the room, while ""Trite is the story, but in it we are lost" seemed to me a statement on the human condition.
After being fortified by such poetry, I was ready to head back into the allergen-filled afternoon to see what possibilities might bathe my future under the cirrus-less sky, open to anything.
Showing posts with label david Wojahn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label david Wojahn. Show all posts
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Still Living in That Time Before Cell Phones
I assuaged my guilt about my corny morning movie by going to the French Film Festival this afternoon, although I left with a guilt of a different kind.
For some real French film making, I chose Jacques Perrin's "L'Empire du Millieu du Sud," a documentary about Vietnam's endless struggle against invaders.
Things got off to a slow start when the sound failed, not once, but twice, so we got to see the beginning of the film three times before progressing any further. It was well worth it.
Director Perrin began by saying it had taken over ten years to edit the huge amount of unreleased archival footage of Vietnam gathered from all over the world.
Accompanying that was poetry and writings about Vietnam written by Vietnamese, French and American writers, all of whom had some association with the country.
Beginning with the French colonization of Vietnam in the 1860s ("Colonization is not a right, but a duty" claimed the French), the film traced the history of the country that has had no choice but to put up with outsiders.
The descriptions of the heat and the adjustments the French made when they moved to Vietnam were so telling. Tennis had to be played at 5 a.m. before the heat set in. 8-10:00 was for work and then it was lunch and nap time. Work resumed around 5, followed by dinner.
The evenings were devoted to pleasures; one writer spoke of dancing as much as possible to convince themselves that they were alive. Luckily, they had the Vietnamese to wait on them to make such a lifestyle possible.
As the film followed France's defeat by Germany in the 40s, the Japanese invasion and eventually the U.S.' intervention, the Vietnamese people are shown being wounded, killed, burned out of their homes and generally suffering in the name of aid. It was tragic to see.
As a major documentary dork, seeing so much actual footage (laying booby traps, parachuting out of planes, graphic shots of treating wounded soldiers, pulling artillery up massive hills by hand) was fascinating and utterly depressing. I was glad I had come.
To lift my spirits after such a dose of reality, I walked out of the Byrd and across the street to Chop Suey for a poetry reading.
David Wojahn began by saying, "It's so nice that VCU has more than just the top ranked Creative Writing program!" He introduced poet Gregory Kimbrell by saying he writes of Planet Kimbrell, a world away.
With references to Edward Gorey and schizophrenia, Kimbrell read his story poems. In "The Age of Miracles" he wrote of "Our great-grandfathers who had caught fire just looking at the forest."
"The Morning Ritual" yielded my favorite line: "Though sometimes the ship sinks and one did not know why," and resulted in two poets in the room nodding their heads as he read the last line. Poet-approved poetry.
Emilia Phillips had a wonderfully clear reading style, perfect for the musicality of her poetry. I loved "Creation Myth" and its line, "As a child, my grandfather ate dandelion sandwiches, nothing but Wonder Bread and weeds."
The visiting poet was Sebastian Matthews, the son of a poet. He began by saying, "How great to know that VCU is going to the Final Four and twenty people are in this room for poetry." My sentiments exactly (and way to go, VCU!).
Matthews had recently collected some of his father's last writings into a book and began with some of his jokes.
What did the elephant say to the naked man? How do you eat with that thing?
Marriage #4 for him and #3 for her: These two believe in the format.
Laughter followed.
Given today's weather, it was fitting he read his father's "More Snow" with the line, "Roads were ramps to ditches."
His father's last poem, "Sad Stories Told in Bars, the Reader's Digest Version" was memorable for the line, "Not much of a story, is it? The life that matters, not the life I led."
Then he turned to his own work and read a jazz-focused one, "Live at the Village Vanguard," with references to the sounds in the room during the performance. "The laugh lifts up to step over the bass line." Just the imagery of that line satisfied me in that same glorious way that music does.
"In a Time Before Cell Phones" he as much as made my case for the unfortunate losses the devices have brought to the modern life (although happily not mine), things like "meeting by coincidence" and "we slept soundly in the dark spaces" referring to classrooms and waiting.
How lovely to have my afternoon end with a validation of my choice to live a life in the moment, with no chance of interruption or need to connect beyond those who surround me at that time.
I knew that poetry was just what I needed. Well, that and an Industrial sub from Coppola's Deli immediately afterwards, but not having a cell phone, I had to walk over there to order it.
It was my distinct pleasure to do so.
For some real French film making, I chose Jacques Perrin's "L'Empire du Millieu du Sud," a documentary about Vietnam's endless struggle against invaders.
Things got off to a slow start when the sound failed, not once, but twice, so we got to see the beginning of the film three times before progressing any further. It was well worth it.
Director Perrin began by saying it had taken over ten years to edit the huge amount of unreleased archival footage of Vietnam gathered from all over the world.
Accompanying that was poetry and writings about Vietnam written by Vietnamese, French and American writers, all of whom had some association with the country.
Beginning with the French colonization of Vietnam in the 1860s ("Colonization is not a right, but a duty" claimed the French), the film traced the history of the country that has had no choice but to put up with outsiders.
The descriptions of the heat and the adjustments the French made when they moved to Vietnam were so telling. Tennis had to be played at 5 a.m. before the heat set in. 8-10:00 was for work and then it was lunch and nap time. Work resumed around 5, followed by dinner.
The evenings were devoted to pleasures; one writer spoke of dancing as much as possible to convince themselves that they were alive. Luckily, they had the Vietnamese to wait on them to make such a lifestyle possible.
As the film followed France's defeat by Germany in the 40s, the Japanese invasion and eventually the U.S.' intervention, the Vietnamese people are shown being wounded, killed, burned out of their homes and generally suffering in the name of aid. It was tragic to see.
As a major documentary dork, seeing so much actual footage (laying booby traps, parachuting out of planes, graphic shots of treating wounded soldiers, pulling artillery up massive hills by hand) was fascinating and utterly depressing. I was glad I had come.
To lift my spirits after such a dose of reality, I walked out of the Byrd and across the street to Chop Suey for a poetry reading.
David Wojahn began by saying, "It's so nice that VCU has more than just the top ranked Creative Writing program!" He introduced poet Gregory Kimbrell by saying he writes of Planet Kimbrell, a world away.
With references to Edward Gorey and schizophrenia, Kimbrell read his story poems. In "The Age of Miracles" he wrote of "Our great-grandfathers who had caught fire just looking at the forest."
"The Morning Ritual" yielded my favorite line: "Though sometimes the ship sinks and one did not know why," and resulted in two poets in the room nodding their heads as he read the last line. Poet-approved poetry.
Emilia Phillips had a wonderfully clear reading style, perfect for the musicality of her poetry. I loved "Creation Myth" and its line, "As a child, my grandfather ate dandelion sandwiches, nothing but Wonder Bread and weeds."
The visiting poet was Sebastian Matthews, the son of a poet. He began by saying, "How great to know that VCU is going to the Final Four and twenty people are in this room for poetry." My sentiments exactly (and way to go, VCU!).
Matthews had recently collected some of his father's last writings into a book and began with some of his jokes.
What did the elephant say to the naked man? How do you eat with that thing?
Marriage #4 for him and #3 for her: These two believe in the format.
Laughter followed.
Given today's weather, it was fitting he read his father's "More Snow" with the line, "Roads were ramps to ditches."
His father's last poem, "Sad Stories Told in Bars, the Reader's Digest Version" was memorable for the line, "Not much of a story, is it? The life that matters, not the life I led."
Then he turned to his own work and read a jazz-focused one, "Live at the Village Vanguard," with references to the sounds in the room during the performance. "The laugh lifts up to step over the bass line." Just the imagery of that line satisfied me in that same glorious way that music does.
"In a Time Before Cell Phones" he as much as made my case for the unfortunate losses the devices have brought to the modern life (although happily not mine), things like "meeting by coincidence" and "we slept soundly in the dark spaces" referring to classrooms and waiting.
How lovely to have my afternoon end with a validation of my choice to live a life in the moment, with no chance of interruption or need to connect beyond those who surround me at that time.
I knew that poetry was just what I needed. Well, that and an Industrial sub from Coppola's Deli immediately afterwards, but not having a cell phone, I had to walk over there to order it.
It was my distinct pleasure to do so.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Afterlife and Where the Rain Slips Through
How long is a group of poetry lovers willing to wait for the poet to show up?
In the case of poet Colin Cheney, it was about three quarters of an hour, but, in fairness to him, he mistakenly thought that the reading was at 4:00 rather than 3:00.
Silly poet, Chop Suey's Saturday readings are always at 3.
Darren Morris began with a poem about an intersection, where one week a truck jack-knifed and spilled watermelons everywhere and the following week another jack-knifed and spilled pigs everywhere.
Apparently pigs eating rotten watermelons was disturbing to passersby as well as poem-worthy.
"Poets don't tend to be sports fans," he said as a way of introducing his poem about baseball in the afterlife.
The poem "Battery" contained my favorite line: "Naivete has always been my best quality."
I can't count the number of people in my life who have commented on my naivete, although I'm never told that it's a good quality.
Afterlife was the recurring theme in Morris' poetry, mainly he said, because he doesn't see it as black and white as heaven or hell, but more interactive.
As the writer who had selected Colin Cheney for the National Poetry series, VCU's David Wojahn introduced the poet he had found "eccentric, quirky and deeply weird" and likened his book Here Be Monsters to a map.
Cheney's poetry was indeed beautifully weird. Introducing "Decline of the North American Songbird," he said, "I think that's what you need to know. I'm going to butcher the German language."
Noting that he lives part-time in Bangkok, Cheney said that his wife, who was presently sleeping there, had requested that he read "Watson the Shark," based on the John Singleton Copley painting of the man about to be eaten by a shark and "the instant before whatever happens happened."
The original hangs in the National Gallery of Art and a copy in Boston, where Cheney grew up seeing it.
On rainy days, he said his Mom would take the family to stand in front of the painting, which terrified him (as did the original in the NGA whenever I saw it as a child).
The beauty is that that terror eventually became the inspiration for a poem, and not a terrifying one.
The closest we got to terrifying today was Morris' evocative reference to "an almost profane fear of being alone, loneliness."
As a friend and I were just discussing earlier today, busyness can be a mask for loneliness.
But that's a subject for another day.
In the case of poet Colin Cheney, it was about three quarters of an hour, but, in fairness to him, he mistakenly thought that the reading was at 4:00 rather than 3:00.
Silly poet, Chop Suey's Saturday readings are always at 3.
Darren Morris began with a poem about an intersection, where one week a truck jack-knifed and spilled watermelons everywhere and the following week another jack-knifed and spilled pigs everywhere.
Apparently pigs eating rotten watermelons was disturbing to passersby as well as poem-worthy.
"Poets don't tend to be sports fans," he said as a way of introducing his poem about baseball in the afterlife.
The poem "Battery" contained my favorite line: "Naivete has always been my best quality."
I can't count the number of people in my life who have commented on my naivete, although I'm never told that it's a good quality.
Afterlife was the recurring theme in Morris' poetry, mainly he said, because he doesn't see it as black and white as heaven or hell, but more interactive.
As the writer who had selected Colin Cheney for the National Poetry series, VCU's David Wojahn introduced the poet he had found "eccentric, quirky and deeply weird" and likened his book Here Be Monsters to a map.
Cheney's poetry was indeed beautifully weird. Introducing "Decline of the North American Songbird," he said, "I think that's what you need to know. I'm going to butcher the German language."
Noting that he lives part-time in Bangkok, Cheney said that his wife, who was presently sleeping there, had requested that he read "Watson the Shark," based on the John Singleton Copley painting of the man about to be eaten by a shark and "the instant before whatever happens happened."
The original hangs in the National Gallery of Art and a copy in Boston, where Cheney grew up seeing it.
On rainy days, he said his Mom would take the family to stand in front of the painting, which terrified him (as did the original in the NGA whenever I saw it as a child).
The beauty is that that terror eventually became the inspiration for a poem, and not a terrifying one.
The closest we got to terrifying today was Morris' evocative reference to "an almost profane fear of being alone, loneliness."
As a friend and I were just discussing earlier today, busyness can be a mask for loneliness.
But that's a subject for another day.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Six Burner Follows Poetry
"For so long I wanted my past back," read David Wojahn from his poem "Fetish Value" at tonight's Poetic Principles reading at the Virginia Museum. Wojahn, a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize and a local VCU treasure, regaled the audience with his emotional and relevant style of writing.
One poem, directed at the President of the NRA, invoked both robbery victim Tyler Binstead and Dante's Circles of Hell. Another ranged from placenta soup (exactly what it sounds) to bongs, LPs and spliffs. Several poems were tributes to other poets. "Mix Tape to be Brought to Her in Rehab" was introduced by explaining the mix tape concept to the younger members of the audience and Wojahn saying,"The lore of making a mix tape was so ritualized. It happened in real time." An outstanding reader, Wojahn could make a poetry lover out of the most adamant poetry hater, not that there were any of those present tonight.
All that poetry was making me hungry, so I stopped at Six Burner for a bite to eat and some conversation. Dave was quick to suggest the Vilarnau Cava upon my arrival and after Wojahn's references to cheap champagne, I already had bubbles on the brain anyway. To accompany it, I ordered a plate of the house-made charcuterie with homemade pickles. The enormous serving contained duck ham, mortadella and pancetta (the meats were a perfect blend of fat and lean), pickled cuke slices and onions and grilled bread. I finished what I could and shared the rest with Josh. By this time, Josh and I were already knee-deep in conversation about the Debashish Bhattacharya Folk Fest performance. I predict that in years to come, this Folk Fest will be legendary for those shows. No one (T also witnessed it) can get over how impressive it was or how lucky we were to witness it. More cava followed, for discussion purposes, of course.
Just another rainy night in River City, where we're lucky enough to have poets like David Wojahn reading and house made charcuterie for enjoying...in the present, not the past.
One poem, directed at the President of the NRA, invoked both robbery victim Tyler Binstead and Dante's Circles of Hell. Another ranged from placenta soup (exactly what it sounds) to bongs, LPs and spliffs. Several poems were tributes to other poets. "Mix Tape to be Brought to Her in Rehab" was introduced by explaining the mix tape concept to the younger members of the audience and Wojahn saying,"The lore of making a mix tape was so ritualized. It happened in real time." An outstanding reader, Wojahn could make a poetry lover out of the most adamant poetry hater, not that there were any of those present tonight.
All that poetry was making me hungry, so I stopped at Six Burner for a bite to eat and some conversation. Dave was quick to suggest the Vilarnau Cava upon my arrival and after Wojahn's references to cheap champagne, I already had bubbles on the brain anyway. To accompany it, I ordered a plate of the house-made charcuterie with homemade pickles. The enormous serving contained duck ham, mortadella and pancetta (the meats were a perfect blend of fat and lean), pickled cuke slices and onions and grilled bread. I finished what I could and shared the rest with Josh. By this time, Josh and I were already knee-deep in conversation about the Debashish Bhattacharya Folk Fest performance. I predict that in years to come, this Folk Fest will be legendary for those shows. No one (T also witnessed it) can get over how impressive it was or how lucky we were to witness it. More cava followed, for discussion purposes, of course.
Just another rainy night in River City, where we're lucky enough to have poets like David Wojahn reading and house made charcuterie for enjoying...in the present, not the past.
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