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Category Archives: Napa Valley Writers Conference

Jack Gilbert, Master Poet dies

14 Wednesday Nov 2012

Posted by Tea-mahm in Jack Gilbert, Napa Valley Writers Conference, Poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Dorianne Laux writes: “This photo was reclaimed from a box left out in the rain. Even water was turned to a great fire when it came to Jack.”

I was saddened by the news that the great poet Jack Gilbert just died today. Here is a very good bio and interview from years ago in The Paris Review.<http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/5583/the-art-of-poetry-no-91-jack-gilbert&gt;

and here is a tender beautiful piece on Linda Gregg… and Jack: <http://alexdimitrov.tumblr.com/post/36726870922/meeting-jack-gilbert-and-linda-gregg&gt;

from Burning (Andante Non Troppo)
 
We are all burning in time, but each is consumed
at his own speed. Each is the product
of his spirit’s refraction, of the inflection
of that mind. It is the pace of our living
that makes the world available. Regardless of
the body’s lion-wrath or forest waiting, despite
the mind’s splendid appetite or the sad power
in our soul’s separation from God and women
it is always our gait of being that decides
how much is seen, what the mystery of us knows,
and what the heart will smell of the landscape….
 

I went back over a poem I wrote in Jane Hirshfield’s class at Napa Valley Writer’s Conference over 5 years ago.I re-worked it, and will continue to do so for awhile.  The bones of his poems are so strong, you can build a house or another poem from the inherent structure of his words. So here’s my tribute to Jack Gilbert and his poem it sprouted from. There are references to other poets and I use the titles of two of Ruth Stone’s poetry books,  In an Iridescent Time, and Simplicity, as well as lines from Shelley and Gilbert.

 Retail  – [after Jack Gilbert’s Going Wrong] ~  by Tamam Kahn               
                                                                  For Ruth Stone
 The dress is beautiful. Pleated shibori.
Folded shivers. Sculpted silk that eases
toward the hem and respects the line
of a woman’s hip. It’s like nothing else
in the shop. In an Iridescent Time,
the woman hums, smoothing it.
 “What can you know of my silks!”
demands the Malicious Muse. Simplicity,
the woman answers as she lifts the mannequin
to the display window, rotates the base.
The muse gestures dramatically. “I have shown you fabric
dyed with lines from Shelly: “God save the Queen!”
All you come up with is  –– simplicity?”
The woman walks outside, tilts her head slightly
and takes in the whole window. She steps back in
and selects a branch of forsythia. “You have lost
the elegant link between word and textile,” She takes
a chenille scarf and scrunches it. “Your references
are obscure, color choice at odds with Caucasian skin.
Silk worms would find your efforts clumsy.”
I am not clumsy, she thinks, watching the
edge of the silk end in “three knots and a space…”
She smiles and picks up the smooth tagging gun.
Not clumsy.    Ferocious.
 
 <>
Notes:
In an Iridescent Time, Simplicity: books by Ruth Stone
Shelly wrote “A New National anthem” which repeats: “God save the Queen.”
Jack Gilbert, “Having the Having:” “…three knots and a space…”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Going Wrong   by Jack Gilbert
 
The fish are terrible. They are brought up
the mountain in the dawn most days, beautiful
and alien and cold from night under the sea,
the grand rooms fading from their flat eyes.
Soft machinery of the dark, the man thinks,
washing them. “What can you know of my machinery!”
demands the Lord. Sure, the man says quietly
and cuts into them, laying back the dozen struts,
getting to the muck of something terrible.
The Lord insists: “You are the one who choses
to live this way. I build cities where things 
are human. I make Tuscany and you go to live
with rock and silence.” The man washes away
the blood and arranges the fish on a big plate.
Starts the onions in the hot olive oil and puts
in peppers. “You have lived all year without women.”
He takes out everything and puts in the fish.
“No one knows where you are. People forget you.
You are vain and stubborn.” The man slices
tomatoes and lemons. Takes out the fish
and scrambles eggs. I am not stubborn, he thinks,
laying all of it on the table in the courtyard
full of early sun, shadows of swallows flying
on the food.  Not stubborn, just greedy.
 

It is sobering to see how ordinary and even the language is. It reminds me of great musicians who seem to be doing very little, as they pull on your heartstrings and move you to tears.

I am grateful to have read his words, even the titles are wonderful. Here are a few:

Haunted Importantly, Scheming in the Snow, Having the Having, The Container for the Thing Contained, Naked Except for the Jewelry, Failing and Flying, and Half the Truth…

Jack Gilbert, by Robert Toby

Thank you Jack Gilbert for all I have learned from your poetry.  <>   <>

A Taste: Napa Valley Writers’ Conference

29 Sunday Jul 2012

Posted by Tea-mahm in Arthur Sze, Brenda Hillman + Bob Haas, Events, Forrest Gander, Napa Valley Writers Conference, Poetry, Wendy Taylor Carlisle

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brenda hillman, writing

Every year there is a delicious writers’ conference in St Helena, about an hour and 15 minutes from my house. A couple of times I’ve attended for the week, but usually I go up for a day and immerse myself in a poetry craft talk offered at 9:00 in the morning by an admired poet.  This year I joined my friend poet Wendy Taylor Carlisle and her husband David for a talk by Brenda Hillman. Brenda is a poet with a brilliant mind and very good heart. My mind and body loves the way her talk makes me feel – often on the edge of aha – that’s it, but deeply relaxed in my own trust of her surprising word choices.

The talk began with a “bacteria” conversation, linked by scientific statements. Then she picked up the six questions listed below. There were poems to illustrate her points. Forrest Gander read a Cesar Vallejo poem in  Spanish. Eavan Boland read Cascando by Samuel Beckett. Brenda mentioned this poem touched her long ago and still does:

…the hours after you are gone are so leaden
they will always start dragging too soon
the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want
bringing up the bones the old loves
sockets filled once with eyes like yours….
 

Brenda spoke rapidly and the mic was lower than I’d have preferred, so I can only throw out a few kernels of her

Brenda Hillman and Forrest Gander

talk: something about the mysteries of sound and sense, the balance of sound and image in her poetry. Some phrases: “Poetry that does not connect to the heart is worthless.”  ~~ “Is there an original mystery?  Mystery of language (goes into creating poetry), mystery of the non-human world, including everything that is observable that is not us. That is the shape upon which my observations and longings are formed.” ~~~ “I think of myself as disheveled wildflowers rather than a single poppy.”

She created her lecture around 6 questions to begin and end with. I loved copying them for this blog, since they are thought provoking and profound.

1  How do we find a balance between the use of language combinations chosen for their sound qualities(weird / cool diction) vs. meaning based or more image-based word combinations…?

2  The dilemma is how to write about the mystery without destroying it… This is what I know about poetry–– it is the shape on which my observations and longings are formed.

3  As a narrator, I frequently feel unreliable. Sometimes I read my own writing and I don’t know who wrote it. Might I write as someone for whom kindness is an instinct? My poems can tell stories which are true but not mine.

4  Poems as individual units and also as parts of a collection: I’m wondering about the process of putting together a poetry collection (or different ways of conceptualizing a whole made up of these individual poems or sets of poems). [I’m] wondering how much of this is determined in the initial writings vs. while you are putting together a collection… I can’t quite formulate a question, but my poems have been coming in sets for a while.

5  When / how to try to structure poems in relation to each other (rather than just as individual units)?

6   How is it going?  (Depression? Energy?  All energy in poetry is your guide). Here is a poem I like by Brenda:

Street Corner  by Brenda Hillman

There was an angle
where I went for
centuries not as a
self or feature but
exhaled as a knowing
brick tradesmen engineered for
blunt or close recall;
soundly there, meanings grew
past a second terror
finding their way as
evenings, hearing the peppermint
noise of sparrows landing
like spare dreams of
citizens where abstraction and
the real could merge.
We had crossed the
red forest; we had
recognized a weird lodge.
we could have said
song outlasts poetry, words
are breath bricks to
support the guardless singing
project. We could have
meant song outlasts poetry. 
<>   <>   <>

Other excellent poets were at the conference. Here is a taste of Forrest Gander and Arthur Sze:

A fragment from prize-Wining Poet and translator, Forrest Gander:

Citrus Freeze by Forrest Gander
 
To the north, along Orange Blossom Trail,   
thick breath of sludge fires.   
Smoke rises all night, a spilled genie
who loves the freezing trees   
but cannot save them.
Snow fine as blown spiders.   
The news: nothing……

Words from Forrest: “Art is not the waging of taste only nor the exercise of argument, but like love the experience of vision, the revelation of hiddenness.” ~~  “Perhaps eros is the fundamental condition of that expansion of meaning necessary to poetry, and of cognition itself. The father of western logic, Socrates, claimed that he had only one real talent: to recognize at once the lover and the beloved“…. from essay: Nymph Stick Insect: Observations... http://forrestgander.com/poetry

<>   <>   <>

A poem and some words from poet Arthur Sze:

The Shapes of Leaves  by Arthur Sze
 
 Ginkgo, cottonwood, pin oak, sweet gum, tulip tree:
our emotions resemble leaves and alive
to their shapes we are nourished.
 
Have you felt the expanse and contours of grief
along the edges of a big Norway maple?
Have you winced at the orange flare
 
searing the curves of a curling dogwood?
I have seen from the air logged islands,
each with a network of branching gravel roads,
 
and felt a moment of pure anger, aspen gold.
I have seen sandhill cranes moving in an open field,
a single white whooping crane in the flock.
 
And I have traveled along the contours
of leaves that have no name. Here
where the air is wet and the light is cool,
 
I feel what others are thinking and do not speak,
I know pleasure in the veins of a sugar maple,
I am living at the edge of a new leaf.  
 

 Sze said it is important to study poetry for many reasons. ~~  “Regardless of whether you go on to become a writer, all students need to understand language,” he noted, adding poetry is the most compressed and expressive writing form. “(Poets and aspiring poets) use a small number of words to create a large effect.” ~~  “Poetry asks us to  slow down and experience deeply that connection to ourselves and our world.”

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