I like this list that a friend of mine posted of the 100 Greatest Writers of All Time. Many fantastic poets are included along with some interesting facts and photography. I like the Saul Bellow photo myself.
A few excerpts:
Of Ezra Pound: "Somewhere between the worst person who was a great poet and the greatest poet who was an asshole"
Of Emily Dickinson: "She is in every poet we read, every word that is written. Even when she is not, she is there, in her lacks."
Of Ovid: "Invented eroticism."
Showing posts with label photography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label photography. Show all posts
Monday, March 28, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Poetry meet art. Art, poetry.
My dear friend Angela is coming to visit me in a couple weeks! I'm so excited to see her, it made me open a box of pictures that she had drawn for me one birthday. More than a few years ago, she illustrated some of my poems as a gift, and I had them framed and hanging on my wall in my old apartment. Since The Great Move of 2010, I haven't put them back up yet. I was trying to figure out why and I wonder if it's because I don't want to commit that much to this new place. I like the apartment okay, but it's just a place to live, not a home like the last one. Possibly this is because I haven't put up any pictures.
Anyway, I thought it would be fun to take photos of her artwork and post them here. At least I'll feel at home on my blog.
This one accompanies a poem written about a trip to Venice I took with my family. It's called "A Native's Dream":
I realize it might be hard to read, which makes me thankful for my shoddy photographic skills.
And finally this one you might be familiar with already:
Anyway, I thought it would be fun to take photos of her artwork and post them here. At least I'll feel at home on my blog.
This one accompanies a poem written about a trip to Venice I took with my family. It's called "A Native's Dream":
This one is "Through the Keyhole," written at a particularly angsty time in college:
I realize it might be hard to read, which makes me thankful for my shoddy photographic skills.
And finally this one you might be familiar with already:
A Native's Dream
Rain ruined my first impression
of Saint Mark's Square, flooded
enough to force people to balance, elevated
on wooden boards while we sought refuge
in the cathedral, guarded
by bronze horses,
with my father, quite taken
by the mosaic tile floors
slanting toward the altar.
"How long do you suppose,"
he asked, head bowed,
"it took them to piece this place together?"
I forgot to answer
in awe of those flashing cameras.
We struck out again into December
toward jade-colored waves that spilled over
concrete docks on the Grand Canal.
Gondoliers stood in the wet drops like needles
and called to us, offering
special deals "for only today."
One young man in a black cap promised
in exchange for 80,000 lira
to wipe down the vinyl seats on his gondola himself.
My father agreed, making his familiar declaration
that this was "his city" because he came from
a full line of Venetians with trademark blue eyes, dark hair.
Our guide squinted his brown eyes and held out his hand.
We sat rocking in the boat under our huge umbrella,
the young man at the helm like a tired god
informing us that he was also a fireman. Luca
told my father how one could only be a gondolier
if he father was, and his father before him.
As we passed under the Bridge of Sighs,
the trail of my fingers swirled the canal like marble.
Friday, March 4, 2011
"I'm going to the nut shop where it's fun!"
So there's this grocery store in my neighborhood. I used to drive past it every morning when I worked in Century City. It's on a stretch of Pico Blvd. that houses mostly kosher shops and restaurants. It also happens to be next to an establishment called the Nut House, which is I think what captured my attention in the first place. Also, the Nut House looks like this:
Nuts, candy, ice cream and wine??? This place must be heaven. And it always makes me think of You've Got Mail when Steve Zahn's character says, "This place is a tomb. I'm going to the nut shop where it's fun." For years I've wondered, what nut shop? Why is it fun? What do they do there? I guess this would be the answer.
Anyway, it's really the grocery store next to the Nut House that has intrigued me for a while. The grocery is called Elat Market. It was rumored to be this magical land full of the freshest of fresh and the cheapest of cheap produce and meats. It supposedly housed all sorts of Middle Eastern delights and spices. I'd read about it on food blogs. I'd stalked its page on Yelp. And now that I live about 5 blocks away from it, you might ask why I haven't ventured in yet. Well, just like every hero must have a weakness, this shop supposedly has crowds of cutthroat old ladies with big carts. I'd read horror stories of people stealing out of each other's carts, arguments erupting in Farsi, and customers elbowing each other in the face over iceberg lettuce. Let's just say I've been psyching myself up to visit for a lonnnnng time.
Suddenly, my intrepid roommate decided that today was the day that she would venture to the Elat Market. She returned about 45 minutes later, eyes wide and veins pulsing with bloodlust. No, I'm just kidding. She loved it. She took a detour to the Nut House and made friends with Amir who worked there. Then she skipped into Elat and bought sugarplums. I'm not even kidding. In case you needed further proof: Coward = Me.
A Poem, on the Supposition of an Advertisement Appearing in a Morning Paper, of the Publication of a Volume of Poems, by a Servant-Maid
The tea-kettle bubbled, the tea things were set,
The candles were lighted, the ladies were met;
The how d’ye’s were over, and entering bustle,
The company seated, and silks ceased to rustle:
The great Mrs. Consequence opened her fan,
And thus the discourse in an instant began
(All affected reserve and formality scorning):
“I suppose you all saw in the paper this morning
A volume of Poems advertised—’tis said
They’re produced by the pen of a poor servant-maid.”
“A servant write verses!” says Madam Du Bloom:
“Pray what is the subject—a Mop, or a Broom?”
“He, he, he,” says Miss Flounce: “I suppose we shall see
An ode on a Dishclout—what else can it be?”
Says Miss Coquettilla, “Why, ladies, so tart?
Perhaps Tom the footman has fired her heart;
And she’ll tell us how charming he looks in new clothes,
And how nimble his hand moves in brushing the shoes;
Or how, the last time that he went to May Fair,
He bought her some sweethearts of gingerbread ware.”
“For my part I think,” says old Lady Marr-joy,
“A servant might find herself other employ:
Was she mine I’d employ her as long as ’twas light,
And send her to bed without candle at night.”
“Why so?” says Miss Rhymer, displeased: “I protest
’Tis pity a genius should be so depressed!”
“What ideas can such low-bred creatures conceive?”
Says Mrs. Noworthy, and laughed in her sleeve.
Says old Miss Prudella, “If servants can tell
How to write to their mothers, to say they are well,
And read of a Sunday The Duty of Man,
Which is more I believe than one half of them can;
I think ’tis much properer they should rest there,
Than be reaching at things so much out of their sphere.”
Says old Mrs. Candour, “I’ve now got a maid
That’s the plague of my life—a young gossiping jade;
There’s no end of the people that after her come,
And whenever I’m out, she is never at home;
I’d rather ten times she would sit down and write,
Than gossip all over the town every night.”
“Some whimsical trollop most like,” says Miss Prim,
“Has been scribbling of nonsense, just out of a whim,
And, conscious it neither is witty nor pretty,
Conceals her true name, and ascribes it to Betty.”
“I once had a servant myself,” says Miss Pines,
“That wrote on a wedding some very good lines.”
Says Mrs. Domestic, “And when they were done,
I can’t see for my part what use they were on;
Had she wrote a receipt, to’ve instructed you how
To warm a cold breast of veal, like a ragout,
Or to make cowslip wine, that would pass for Champagne,
It might have been useful, again and again.”
On the sofa was old Lady Pedigree placed;
She owned that for poetry she had no taste,
That the study of heraldry was more in fashion,
And boasted she knew all the crests in the nation.
Says Mrs. Routella, “Tom, take out the urn,
And stir up the fire, you see it don’t burn.”
The tea-things removed, and the tea-table gone,
The card-tables brought, and the cards laid thereon,
The ladies, ambitious for each other’s crown,
Like courtiers contending for honours, sat down.
-Elizabeth Hands
Nuts, candy, ice cream and wine??? This place must be heaven. And it always makes me think of You've Got Mail when Steve Zahn's character says, "This place is a tomb. I'm going to the nut shop where it's fun." For years I've wondered, what nut shop? Why is it fun? What do they do there? I guess this would be the answer.
Anyway, it's really the grocery store next to the Nut House that has intrigued me for a while. The grocery is called Elat Market. It was rumored to be this magical land full of the freshest of fresh and the cheapest of cheap produce and meats. It supposedly housed all sorts of Middle Eastern delights and spices. I'd read about it on food blogs. I'd stalked its page on Yelp. And now that I live about 5 blocks away from it, you might ask why I haven't ventured in yet. Well, just like every hero must have a weakness, this shop supposedly has crowds of cutthroat old ladies with big carts. I'd read horror stories of people stealing out of each other's carts, arguments erupting in Farsi, and customers elbowing each other in the face over iceberg lettuce. Let's just say I've been psyching myself up to visit for a lonnnnng time.
Suddenly, my intrepid roommate decided that today was the day that she would venture to the Elat Market. She returned about 45 minutes later, eyes wide and veins pulsing with bloodlust. No, I'm just kidding. She loved it. She took a detour to the Nut House and made friends with Amir who worked there. Then she skipped into Elat and bought sugarplums. I'm not even kidding. In case you needed further proof: Coward = Me.
A Poem, on the Supposition of an Advertisement Appearing in a Morning Paper, of the Publication of a Volume of Poems, by a Servant-Maid
The tea-kettle bubbled, the tea things were set,
The candles were lighted, the ladies were met;
The how d’ye’s were over, and entering bustle,
The company seated, and silks ceased to rustle:
The great Mrs. Consequence opened her fan,
And thus the discourse in an instant began
(All affected reserve and formality scorning):
“I suppose you all saw in the paper this morning
A volume of Poems advertised—’tis said
They’re produced by the pen of a poor servant-maid.”
“A servant write verses!” says Madam Du Bloom:
“Pray what is the subject—a Mop, or a Broom?”
“He, he, he,” says Miss Flounce: “I suppose we shall see
An ode on a Dishclout—what else can it be?”
Says Miss Coquettilla, “Why, ladies, so tart?
Perhaps Tom the footman has fired her heart;
And she’ll tell us how charming he looks in new clothes,
And how nimble his hand moves in brushing the shoes;
Or how, the last time that he went to May Fair,
He bought her some sweethearts of gingerbread ware.”
“For my part I think,” says old Lady Marr-joy,
“A servant might find herself other employ:
Was she mine I’d employ her as long as ’twas light,
And send her to bed without candle at night.”
“Why so?” says Miss Rhymer, displeased: “I protest
’Tis pity a genius should be so depressed!”
“What ideas can such low-bred creatures conceive?”
Says Mrs. Noworthy, and laughed in her sleeve.
Says old Miss Prudella, “If servants can tell
How to write to their mothers, to say they are well,
And read of a Sunday The Duty of Man,
Which is more I believe than one half of them can;
I think ’tis much properer they should rest there,
Than be reaching at things so much out of their sphere.”
Says old Mrs. Candour, “I’ve now got a maid
That’s the plague of my life—a young gossiping jade;
There’s no end of the people that after her come,
And whenever I’m out, she is never at home;
I’d rather ten times she would sit down and write,
Than gossip all over the town every night.”
“Some whimsical trollop most like,” says Miss Prim,
“Has been scribbling of nonsense, just out of a whim,
And, conscious it neither is witty nor pretty,
Conceals her true name, and ascribes it to Betty.”
“I once had a servant myself,” says Miss Pines,
“That wrote on a wedding some very good lines.”
Says Mrs. Domestic, “And when they were done,
I can’t see for my part what use they were on;
Had she wrote a receipt, to’ve instructed you how
To warm a cold breast of veal, like a ragout,
Or to make cowslip wine, that would pass for Champagne,
It might have been useful, again and again.”
On the sofa was old Lady Pedigree placed;
She owned that for poetry she had no taste,
That the study of heraldry was more in fashion,
And boasted she knew all the crests in the nation.
Says Mrs. Routella, “Tom, take out the urn,
And stir up the fire, you see it don’t burn.”
The tea-things removed, and the tea-table gone,
The card-tables brought, and the cards laid thereon,
The ladies, ambitious for each other’s crown,
Like courtiers contending for honours, sat down.
-Elizabeth Hands
Friday, February 18, 2011
Dead presidents, frozen cavemen, and frozen coke
I'm excited about this weekend because a friend of mine that I've known since 8th grade (!) is coming to see me. I don't think I've seen her in about eight or nine years, but I have no doubt we'll pick up right where we left off. To quote what she wrote about her upcoming visit on her blog,
"we're planning to re-visit 8th grade, which means lots of frozen coke, popcorn, face cream, nail polish, and of course watching our favorite movie from that time, Encino Man. We'll probably use phrases you won't remember like "Owwwww Buddddy" and "Weeze the Jui-uice."
Well said, April! And then she posted an 8th grade picture. I won't do that. I'll just post this senior year pic instead:
In other news, my dad complained that I was including too much "contemporary poetry crap" on here, so here's an oldie but a goodie (just like you, Dad).
If
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run--
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
-Rudyard Kipling
"we're planning to re-visit 8th grade, which means lots of frozen coke, popcorn, face cream, nail polish, and of course watching our favorite movie from that time, Encino Man. We'll probably use phrases you won't remember like "Owwwww Buddddy" and "Weeze the Jui-uice."
Well said, April! And then she posted an 8th grade picture. I won't do that. I'll just post this senior year pic instead:
In other news, my dad complained that I was including too much "contemporary poetry crap" on here, so here's an oldie but a goodie (just like you, Dad).
If
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run--
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
-Rudyard Kipling
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Pale Blue Dot
I was cleaning out my hard drive and came across this picture, which blows my mind every time I look at it:
That is called the Pale Blue Dot. It was taken in 1990 by the Voyager 1 spacecraft. The "dot" is Earth, depicted against the vastness of space. It looks so lonely; it's hard to imagine how teeming with life the planet is. The best part of the picture, for me, is that it looks like Earth is caught in a shaft of light. Really it's not a beam of light shining on it directly but a refraction of sunlight in the Voyager's camera optics. But look at how tiny we are! Earth is taking up less than a pixel of this photograph.
Carl Sagan wrote a book called Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space. In it, he references the photograph, saying,
"The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds . . . It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known."
Sir, Say no More
Sir, say no more.
Within me ’t is as if
The green and climbing eyesight of a cat
Crawled near my mind’s poor birds.
-Trumbull Stickney
That is called the Pale Blue Dot. It was taken in 1990 by the Voyager 1 spacecraft. The "dot" is Earth, depicted against the vastness of space. It looks so lonely; it's hard to imagine how teeming with life the planet is. The best part of the picture, for me, is that it looks like Earth is caught in a shaft of light. Really it's not a beam of light shining on it directly but a refraction of sunlight in the Voyager's camera optics. But look at how tiny we are! Earth is taking up less than a pixel of this photograph.
Carl Sagan wrote a book called Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space. In it, he references the photograph, saying,
"The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds . . . It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known."
Sir, Say no More
Sir, say no more.
Within me ’t is as if
The green and climbing eyesight of a cat
Crawled near my mind’s poor birds.
-Trumbull Stickney
Friday, January 7, 2011
"I gave you love, you gave me asthma."
That is what a sign said as I drove by a bus stop today. Amazed, I quickly tried to capture a photo with my phone, but it came out all grainy:
You're just going to have to trust me when I tell you that some genius marketing person decided that a picture of a baby with an inhaler and the caption "I gave you love, you gave me asthma" was something that would really get people riled up about this issue. It wouldn't make them laugh. Not at all.
Man, I love this so much that I have to let it stand on its own. No poem today- unless you can come up with one. It might help their campaign.
You're just going to have to trust me when I tell you that some genius marketing person decided that a picture of a baby with an inhaler and the caption "I gave you love, you gave me asthma" was something that would really get people riled up about this issue. It wouldn't make them laugh. Not at all.
Man, I love this so much that I have to let it stand on its own. No poem today- unless you can come up with one. It might help their campaign.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Air - Color TV
There is a sign on Olympic Blvd that I have passed hundreds of times, and each time it fascinates me. It's nothing special to look at. In fact, it's kind of ugly. Behold:
I love it because it advertises color TV as if that is still a major selling point. It makes me wonder what else this motel could brag about: a remote control connected by cable, hot water, deadbolt locks? I realize that this sign must be pretty old, a relic of days when a color TV was something new and special, but these days I think a 15" black and white TV would merit more of a mention.
I was curious to see when color television sets really came into wide use. I found a nifty "invention of television" timeline that laid it out. Apparently, the first color television broadcast was in 1946. By 1967, most broadcasts were in color. And by 1972, half the TVs in homes were color. So I'm going to guess that this sign is left over from the late '60s or early '70s.
The motel itself has only one review that I can see online, and it is scathing. I don't expect I'll be recommending it to any visitors, but I'm glad it's still around just the same.
Ozymandias
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Rich man's problem
Somehow I have amassed a collection of aprons. I say "somehow" because it is not something I ever thought of doing. It just happened. A couple of years ago my roommates and some friends of ours decided to do our very own version of Top Chef, except it was more like Iron Chef and The Next Food Network Star all rolled into one. We called it Next Top Iron Chef. There were two teams of two and I was the sous chef on my team. My chef friend and I took it very seriously. The secret ingredient was egg, and my team won. During the competition my chef friend had let me borrow one of her aprons so we could look all business. When it was over she let me keep it. This is what it looks like:
Simple, straight-forward, practical. I used this apron consistently when I made dinner, especially after coming home from work so I wouldn't mess up my clothes. Over the course of the next year, my friend who had given me that apron moved to New York. I was sad to see her go because she is awesome and I missed her. On my birthday, she surprised me by sending me a new apron. What?! I was so excited to have such a wealth of aprons. This one had a little more pizzazz:
I tended to gravitate more to it for cooking and the other for baking. I didn't want to get flour all over my new apron. Then on my birthday this year, a different friend gave me a brand new home-sewn apron that was a little more girly and frilly than the others. It's so pretty! I couldn't believe my good luck. I wear it when cooking for guests:
But now, my dear friend Angela has upped the ante. She embroidered me an apron that is so darling that frankly I don't know what to do with it. I'm actually afraid to use it. It's dainty and reminds me of those old-fashioned pinafores that women used to wear. I hate the thought of getting grease or chocolate all over it (don't you want to know what I'm cooking). I even had trouble figuring out the best way to photograph it in order to do it justice. I'm still not sure I did:
My apartment is from the 1920s, so there's an old ironing board built into the wall in the kitchen. I thought it would be a nice match for the apron. Now I just need to figure out the perfect occasion to wear it (the apron, not the ironing board).
Why I Am Not a Painter
-Frank O'Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
Simple, straight-forward, practical. I used this apron consistently when I made dinner, especially after coming home from work so I wouldn't mess up my clothes. Over the course of the next year, my friend who had given me that apron moved to New York. I was sad to see her go because she is awesome and I missed her. On my birthday, she surprised me by sending me a new apron. What?! I was so excited to have such a wealth of aprons. This one had a little more pizzazz:
I tended to gravitate more to it for cooking and the other for baking. I didn't want to get flour all over my new apron. Then on my birthday this year, a different friend gave me a brand new home-sewn apron that was a little more girly and frilly than the others. It's so pretty! I couldn't believe my good luck. I wear it when cooking for guests:
But now, my dear friend Angela has upped the ante. She embroidered me an apron that is so darling that frankly I don't know what to do with it. I'm actually afraid to use it. It's dainty and reminds me of those old-fashioned pinafores that women used to wear. I hate the thought of getting grease or chocolate all over it (don't you want to know what I'm cooking). I even had trouble figuring out the best way to photograph it in order to do it justice. I'm still not sure I did:
My apartment is from the 1920s, so there's an old ironing board built into the wall in the kitchen. I thought it would be a nice match for the apron. Now I just need to figure out the perfect occasion to wear it (the apron, not the ironing board).
Why I Am Not a Painter
-Frank O'Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
Monday, October 25, 2010
I have a cold, and I'm supposed to feed it.
This is not a cooking blog, but I can't help sharing what I've been up to over the weekend, which includes this fabulous coffee cake:
It's actually the Barefoot Contessa's recipe, but I altered it ever so slightly and I was pretty proud of how it turned out. Lately I've been so focused on eating vegetables and trying to stay healthy that I haven't been much in the mood for cooking or baking. I mean, if I bake something, I'm going to feel like I earned the right to eat it. But in the interest of trying to use up the insane amount of grapes I had leftover from the last CSA pickup, I also decided to make a grape focaccia recipe I've had my eye on. Grapes and focaccia? It's actually a Tuscan thing and it is delicious:
Never before have I tried to make my own bread, but I reached way down to my Italian old lady roots and kneaded that dough like a genuine nonna. It felt so good, I seriously considered opening a pizzeria for about 5 seconds. Eh, I'm over it now.
Monday
The birds are in their trees,
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.
They are at their windows
in every section of the tangerine of earth--
the Chinese poets looking up at the moon,
the American poets gazing out
at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.
The clerks are at their desks,
the miners are down in their mines,
and the poets are looking out their windows
maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea,
and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.
The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.
Which window it hardly seems to matter
though many have a favorite,
for there is always something to see--
a bird grasping a thin branch,
the headlights of a taxi rounding a corner,
those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.
The fishermen bob in their boats,
the linemen climb their round poles,
the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs,
and the poets continue to stare
at the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.
By now, it should go without saying
that what the oven is to the baker
and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,
so the window is to the poet.
Just think--
before the invention of the window,
the poets would have had to put on a jacket
and a winter hat to go outside
or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.
And when I say a wall,
I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper
and a sketch of a cow in a frame.
I mean a cold wall of fieldstones,
the wall of the medieval sonnet,
the original woman's heart of stone,
the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.
-Billy Collins
It's actually the Barefoot Contessa's recipe, but I altered it ever so slightly and I was pretty proud of how it turned out. Lately I've been so focused on eating vegetables and trying to stay healthy that I haven't been much in the mood for cooking or baking. I mean, if I bake something, I'm going to feel like I earned the right to eat it. But in the interest of trying to use up the insane amount of grapes I had leftover from the last CSA pickup, I also decided to make a grape focaccia recipe I've had my eye on. Grapes and focaccia? It's actually a Tuscan thing and it is delicious:
Monday
The birds are in their trees,
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.
They are at their windows
in every section of the tangerine of earth--
the Chinese poets looking up at the moon,
the American poets gazing out
at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.
The clerks are at their desks,
the miners are down in their mines,
and the poets are looking out their windows
maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea,
and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.
The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.
Which window it hardly seems to matter
though many have a favorite,
for there is always something to see--
a bird grasping a thin branch,
the headlights of a taxi rounding a corner,
those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.
The fishermen bob in their boats,
the linemen climb their round poles,
the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs,
and the poets continue to stare
at the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.
By now, it should go without saying
that what the oven is to the baker
and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,
so the window is to the poet.
Just think--
before the invention of the window,
the poets would have had to put on a jacket
and a winter hat to go outside
or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.
And when I say a wall,
I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper
and a sketch of a cow in a frame.
I mean a cold wall of fieldstones,
the wall of the medieval sonnet,
the original woman's heart of stone,
the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.
-Billy Collins
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The horror of health
The vegetables in my refrigerator are causing me anxiety. It's not that I don't want to eat them. I do. It's just that there's so damn many of them, they can't last. I'm afraid to open the fridge for fear of witnessing the last throes of a tomato. When it's dinner time I hesitate between the eggplant and the zucchini. Which one faces a greater danger of expiring? I pick up the zucchini. "I'll come back for you, eggplant! Tomorrow! Just hold on!" Then later, guilt: "More. I could have cooked more. Why didn't I make ratatouille? I could have used two for it. And I didn't!" It's a regular Schindler's list up in my kitchen.
Here's how it all started: a couple months ago I joined a CSA. It's great. Everything is fresh and vibrant. The colors are rich and coursing with nutrients. It's all so plentiful:
It's also a lot of veg. I didn't realize it at the time, but even between the three people in our household, it takes some considerable menu planning to use each and every one of those little life-givers. First I took the approach of showing respect to nature by trying to feature each vegetable, but I soon came to grips with the fact that I am not creative enough to feature that many scallions. Then it became a how-many-vegetables-can-I-cram-into-this-stir-fry type of deal. I mean, we're only getting these boxes of veggies every other week so you'd think it wouldn't be so difficult, but the other thing to take into account is the time and effort that goes into cooking each meal. My name is not Ina Garten. I wish it was, I really do. Where's Jeffrey?
So now I'm left with the race to save the escarole from the garbage. I've practically given up meat I'm eating so many fruits and vegetables. This is what I get for pursuing a healthy lifestyle. And yet, every night, triage: The lemons are shriveling! I run for the juicer. The grapes are two degrees left of raisins. Pick out the good ones, refresh in cold water, leave the weak behind. The plums are growing mushrooms! There's nothing more we can do. Body bag (trash).
I'm not ready to give up on the CSA yet or my veggies. The situation is serious. It calls for constant vigilance. And a limerick:
The stress that healthy eating gives
cannot be the right way to live.
The veggies are crying,
the fruit's quickly dying.
How I long for some preservatives!
Here's how it all started: a couple months ago I joined a CSA. It's great. Everything is fresh and vibrant. The colors are rich and coursing with nutrients. It's all so plentiful:
It's also a lot of veg. I didn't realize it at the time, but even between the three people in our household, it takes some considerable menu planning to use each and every one of those little life-givers. First I took the approach of showing respect to nature by trying to feature each vegetable, but I soon came to grips with the fact that I am not creative enough to feature that many scallions. Then it became a how-many-vegetables-can-I-cram-into-this-stir-fry type of deal. I mean, we're only getting these boxes of veggies every other week so you'd think it wouldn't be so difficult, but the other thing to take into account is the time and effort that goes into cooking each meal. My name is not Ina Garten. I wish it was, I really do. Where's Jeffrey?
So now I'm left with the race to save the escarole from the garbage. I've practically given up meat I'm eating so many fruits and vegetables. This is what I get for pursuing a healthy lifestyle. And yet, every night, triage: The lemons are shriveling! I run for the juicer. The grapes are two degrees left of raisins. Pick out the good ones, refresh in cold water, leave the weak behind. The plums are growing mushrooms! There's nothing more we can do. Body bag (trash).
I'm not ready to give up on the CSA yet or my veggies. The situation is serious. It calls for constant vigilance. And a limerick:
The stress that healthy eating gives
cannot be the right way to live.
The veggies are crying,
the fruit's quickly dying.
How I long for some preservatives!
Friday, October 1, 2010
Bathroom haiku
I would like to thank my dear friend Angela for sending me this image and making my day:
To whoever is responsible for authoring this brilliant poem, I feel your pain. Well done. And to the nice person who replaced the roll in the photo, well done to you, too. (from www.passiveagressivenotes.com)
To whoever is responsible for authoring this brilliant poem, I feel your pain. Well done. And to the nice person who replaced the roll in the photo, well done to you, too. (from www.passiveagressivenotes.com)
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Dog
I want a dog.
I had a labrador once, growing up. Everyone thinks their dogs are the best, and I am no exception. Look at this face and tell it that you do not think it's the best:
We called her Bella. She liked spaghetti. She was trained to not go past the point where the kitchen tile turned into the family room carpet. She excelled at digging and barking and generally being a dog. She lived to a ripe age of 13.
Since then I haven't owned any pets, except briefly a cat. She showed up outside our apartment door one day, mewing and looking pitiful. We took her to get a bath and then to the vet. If we were going to keep her, she would have to be an indoor cat. Her name became Bacon:
Sadly, this arrangement couldn't last as it became clear that two of us were far too allergic. Bacon was adopted by Russians. Her name changed to Behkon, I like to think she sits on a pillow and eats caviar all day.
So, by process of elimination I am a dog person (I also eliminated fish, but that is a different story). I hope to adopt a dog whenever I decide to become a real adult with a stable job and a yard. In the meantime, I came across this poem written by Billy Collins, or rather by his deceased dog:
The Revenant
I am the dog you put to sleep,
as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
come back to tell you this simple thing:
I never liked you--not one bit.
When I licked your face,
I thought of biting off your nose.
When I watched you toweling yourself dry,
I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.
I resented the way you moved,
your lack of animal grace,
the way you would sit in a chair to eat,
a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.
I would have run away,
but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
while I was learning to sit and heel,
and--greatest of insults--shake hands without a hand.
I admit the sight of the leash
would excite me
but only because it meant I was about
to smell things you had never touched.
You do not want to believe this,
but I have no reason to lie.
I hated the car, the rubber toys,
disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.
The jingling of my tags drove me mad.
You always scratched me in the wrong place.
All I ever wanted from you
was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.
While you slept, I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
It took all of my strength
not to raise my head and howl.
Now I am free of the collar,
the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater,
the absurdity of your lawn,
and that is all you need to know about this place
except what you already supposed
and are glad it did not happen sooner--
that everyone here can read and write,
the dogs in poetry, the cats and all the others in prose.
I had a labrador once, growing up. Everyone thinks their dogs are the best, and I am no exception. Look at this face and tell it that you do not think it's the best:
We called her Bella. She liked spaghetti. She was trained to not go past the point where the kitchen tile turned into the family room carpet. She excelled at digging and barking and generally being a dog. She lived to a ripe age of 13.
Since then I haven't owned any pets, except briefly a cat. She showed up outside our apartment door one day, mewing and looking pitiful. We took her to get a bath and then to the vet. If we were going to keep her, she would have to be an indoor cat. Her name became Bacon:
Sadly, this arrangement couldn't last as it became clear that two of us were far too allergic. Bacon was adopted by Russians. Her name changed to Behkon, I like to think she sits on a pillow and eats caviar all day.
So, by process of elimination I am a dog person (I also eliminated fish, but that is a different story). I hope to adopt a dog whenever I decide to become a real adult with a stable job and a yard. In the meantime, I came across this poem written by Billy Collins, or rather by his deceased dog:
The Revenant
I am the dog you put to sleep,
as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
come back to tell you this simple thing:
I never liked you--not one bit.
When I licked your face,
I thought of biting off your nose.
When I watched you toweling yourself dry,
I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.
I resented the way you moved,
your lack of animal grace,
the way you would sit in a chair to eat,
a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.
I would have run away,
but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
while I was learning to sit and heel,
and--greatest of insults--shake hands without a hand.
I admit the sight of the leash
would excite me
but only because it meant I was about
to smell things you had never touched.
You do not want to believe this,
but I have no reason to lie.
I hated the car, the rubber toys,
disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.
The jingling of my tags drove me mad.
You always scratched me in the wrong place.
All I ever wanted from you
was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.
While you slept, I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
It took all of my strength
not to raise my head and howl.
Now I am free of the collar,
the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater,
the absurdity of your lawn,
and that is all you need to know about this place
except what you already supposed
and are glad it did not happen sooner--
that everyone here can read and write,
the dogs in poetry, the cats and all the others in prose.
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Waste Land
I mentioned the other day that my neighborhood sometimes resembles the Gaza Strip.
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
I was thinking about perspectives. When I'm up on the roof, you can usually tell how I'm feeling about things/life at that moment by which direction I'm facing.
The urban palm tree view makes me feel inconsequential when I look out there and think about how many people are in this city. Then I realize that I can't see any of them from where I stand so I imagine it's a post-apocalyptic neighborhood. No matter how bad a problem I might be facing at the moment, there could always be zombies or flesh eating viruses that wipe us out. Things are looking up!
If I have writer's block, I like to sit on the top of the steps that lead to the roof and face the Hollywood sign. I try to get past the horrible conventionalism of it and focus on the idea behind the sign. Then I immediately flash to Pretty Woman where the guy in the street is yelling, "Everybody who comes to Hollywood's got a dream. What's your dream?" Then I wish that I could write Pretty Woman.
If it's just a really gorgeous day out like most days in LA, I might take a beach chair up and face the sun. I will open the latest issue of Bon Appetit magazine and I will plot ways to cook an enormous green tomato.
Today, well, you're getting a limerick so guess which direction I'm facing.
Ode to the Spider I Killed Last Night
You're the second one I've seen so far.
As big as the freakin' Death Star.
Though your game was well-played,
you were foiled with Raid.
Yet I still wonder where all your friends are.
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
But then if I stand on my roof and turn slightly to the left, I see this:
And if I turn even further and tilt my head up I see this
I was thinking about perspectives. When I'm up on the roof, you can usually tell how I'm feeling about things/life at that moment by which direction I'm facing.
The urban palm tree view makes me feel inconsequential when I look out there and think about how many people are in this city. Then I realize that I can't see any of them from where I stand so I imagine it's a post-apocalyptic neighborhood. No matter how bad a problem I might be facing at the moment, there could always be zombies or flesh eating viruses that wipe us out. Things are looking up!
If I have writer's block, I like to sit on the top of the steps that lead to the roof and face the Hollywood sign. I try to get past the horrible conventionalism of it and focus on the idea behind the sign. Then I immediately flash to Pretty Woman where the guy in the street is yelling, "Everybody who comes to Hollywood's got a dream. What's your dream?" Then I wish that I could write Pretty Woman.
If it's just a really gorgeous day out like most days in LA, I might take a beach chair up and face the sun. I will open the latest issue of Bon Appetit magazine and I will plot ways to cook an enormous green tomato.
Today, well, you're getting a limerick so guess which direction I'm facing.
Ode to the Spider I Killed Last Night
You're the second one I've seen so far.
As big as the freakin' Death Star.
Though your game was well-played,
you were foiled with Raid.
Yet I still wonder where all your friends are.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Roid-mato
Look at the size of this tomato!
I got it yesterday at the CSA (there's your assonance). Whatever farm that supplies them is supposedly organic, but this is a juicehead gorilla tomato if I've ever seen one. To give you some perspective of scale, here it is beside your normal Trader Joe's variety:
I actually think it's closer in size to this watermelon:
This called for a line-up reminiscent of the scale of planets in our solar system:
And then I got carried away:
I included Pluto as a planet even though I know it's been downgraded because the strawberry was so cute next to the tomato. And isn't the plum Earth pretty? Hey, look at all that consonance. Consonance and assonance in one post? That's a lot for a Friday. Therefore, no rhyming for you. Much like the planets revolve around the sun, many things in my life revolve around food and bugs, and with this ham-fisted segue, I leave you with this old poem I wrote:
A Morning Miracle
I happened to see Jesus one day in a line of ants.
Around my bathroom sink
they walked the curved
and narrow, careful
to avoid the temptation
of going for a swim for a bit
of sticky toothpaste.
It wouldn't fit God's will to get
out of order for pure greed,
and gluttony is a deadly sin.
So they plodded across
the great white virginal countertop,
I suspect on their way to turn a cracker crumb
into loaves of bread for thousands.
I got it yesterday at the CSA (there's your assonance). Whatever farm that supplies them is supposedly organic, but this is a juicehead gorilla tomato if I've ever seen one. To give you some perspective of scale, here it is beside your normal Trader Joe's variety:
I actually think it's closer in size to this watermelon:
This called for a line-up reminiscent of the scale of planets in our solar system:
And then I got carried away:
I included Pluto as a planet even though I know it's been downgraded because the strawberry was so cute next to the tomato. And isn't the plum Earth pretty? Hey, look at all that consonance. Consonance and assonance in one post? That's a lot for a Friday. Therefore, no rhyming for you. Much like the planets revolve around the sun, many things in my life revolve around food and bugs, and with this ham-fisted segue, I leave you with this old poem I wrote:
A Morning Miracle
I happened to see Jesus one day in a line of ants.
Around my bathroom sink
they walked the curved
and narrow, careful
to avoid the temptation
of going for a swim for a bit
of sticky toothpaste.
It wouldn't fit God's will to get
out of order for pure greed,
and gluttony is a deadly sin.
So they plodded across
the great white virginal countertop,
I suspect on their way to turn a cracker crumb
into loaves of bread for thousands.
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