geneology in visayan

Mayan blood rises,
thinner than Antique’s salt
water so it floats,
pinkening in the
whitecaps. A single
root reaching beyond
the waterline of hightide
places coconuts in touch
with forgotten history.
Spanish skin, thick stained
in the gold foil vanity of
possession never reach
the tree’s ripest husks, hidden
in history’s crux
one green leaf at a time.
A single flame scars
its ocean face, its bark
a reminder that there
was once something
more poetic than blood
shed at this beach.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Cxoq1Q2DY0

Join us for First Thursday Poetry at the Bravo Cafe' in The GoggleWorks, 201 Washington Street, Reading, PA, from 6:00 - 8:00 pm. On Oct. 2nd, the featured poet is Jim Warner, reading from his latest book "Too Bad It's Poetry" (Paper Kite Press).

Open mic to follow.

This event is free and open to the public. Sponsored by Berks Bards, with support from the Friends of Berks County Public Libraries, and with a grant from the PA Partners in the Arts, administered locally by the Berks Arts Council.

Second Sunday, September 14, 2008
12:00 noon to 3:00 pm
 
The GoggleWorks, Room 238, at 201 Washington St, Reading, PA   610.374.4600
 
Liz Stanley and Jen Gittings-Dalton host 14 poets in performance.
The Poets' Showcase includes:
 
Ann Michael
Jen Gittings-Dalton
Marilyn Klimcho
Patrick Klimcho
Liz Stanley
Jayne Relaford Brown
Barbara DeCesare
Candy Kaucher
Michael Lear-Olimpi
Barbara Cassidy
Awilda Castro-Suarez
Irv Westerfer
Jim Warner
Doug Arnold
 
The event is free and open to the public.  Sponsored by Berks Bards, with support from the Friends of Berks County Public Libraries, and with a PA Partners in the Arts grant, administered locally by the Berks Arts Council.

For more information:
Liz Stanley
~Berks Bards
zilabets@hotmail.com

Hello All,

I will be in Harrisburg for a reading at Alpha Phi Alpha's Frozen Word Poetry Night on Saturday August 23rd. The doors open at 8 and the reading starts @ 9PM. The reading is at Rookie's Bar (2238 Derry St.). I've never been to this reading and have no idea what to expect, so it would be nice to see some familiar faces. . .

On Wednesday, Aug. 27, I will be appearing at Barnes and Noble (Red Rose Commons 1700 H Fruitville Pike) in Lancaster, PA for a book signing and reading.

If you live in Central PA, or have a severe cravin' for sho-fly pie, come out and support your friendly neighborhood misterjim.

"He learned almost too late that man is a feeling creature... and because of it, the greatest in the universe. He learned too late for himself that men have to find their own way, to make their own mistakes. There can't be any gift of perfection from outside ourselves. And when men seek such perfection... they find only death... fire... loss... disillusionment... the end of everything that's gone forward. Men have always sought an end to the toil and misery, but it can't be given, it has to be achieved. There is hope, but it has to come from inside, from Man himself."

If you can tell me who and where this quote originates. . . treats abound!

The following is from my column "Blank Verses and Open Mikes" in The Westsider (now called The Independent):

A little note, made public

The first time I heard Jennifer Diskin read was at this little coffee house in Scranton called Café del Sol. It was a weeknight and the place was full of boho riff raff and punk rawk kids. She was quiet but steady. There was no nervous waver in her voice; it bellowed like the low ripple of a church bell. Immediately, I thought of Mo Tucker, the backbeat soul of the Velvet Underground. If you don't get the allusion, don't worry—although you should probably listen to more music.

Our young writing scene, with fresh faces and lots of grand ideas, was allowed to dream big that summer. Beyond being just a bright-eyed group of writers and fools, we were learning what it meant to be in a community, and moreover, how to become friends. Eight years later, parts of this crew are still going at it—still reading poetry, still writing, still dreaming big. But sometimes we forget that there is something beyond blank verses and open mics. Sometimes life shakes you loose from the tree and you're reminded of how hard the ground actually is, regardless of how high up you've climbed.

At the end of last year, Jennifer called me at work to tell me she was going in for tests. Jennifer has had cancer twice already but this was before I knew her. When we talked a couple of days later, she told me she was sick for the third time. It was mid-December, nights were already getting longer, and I remember sitting in my office for a good long while in the dark. I hadn't had more than a couple of words with Jennifer in months. You know the drill, the routine—work, family, hobby, more work, even more work, and even more work on top of that. When you're as one-track minded as I can be, sometimes you put your head down to write a poem in July and the next thing you know it's Thanksgiving and you have 15 lines to show for it.

After Jennifer called, I remember looking at all this work, stacked happenstance on my desk, all pen-marked and over-drafted. Instinctively I thought about running, running like a 10-year-old who has broken a neighbor's window. I thought about the scatter of papers in my wake. I thought about how I had no way to deal with the news that my friend has cancer. And then I thought how arrogant and ridiculous I was to be so self-involved. It wasn't about how I was feeling, it was about how I could be there for my friend.

Friend. Not fellow poet. Not next month's feature. Not Wilkes alumna. Friend.

I think all of us in the writing community feel the same way. Poetry takes a back seat when it comes to the people we care about within this circle; but, poetry also helps bring us together. We share, we create, we continue to revise the living daylights out of each other's work. We listen. Most importantly, we are there for one another in one way or another.

We can get too caught up in ourselves, though, even those of us who work hard, not to take it all so seriously can't help but navel gaze more often than we care to admit. We talk, talk, talk to fill the void in the line breaks between us and them and me and you, sometimes out of habit, sometimes out of a fear that this stillness could go on forever.

It should never be so quiet between those you love, or rather, the disquietude of pausing shouldn't be so desperately dammed by empty conversation. I know that this is much more of a rant than I ever thought I would write, but that's the point. Writing is not enough. Pages and phrases and turns on a tongue are not enough if we forget our community. If we can't be there for one another, if we can't celebrate the people we love while they are still alive, then everything we create is hollow.

I guess that's why I wanted to write about Jennifer now, not later. Too often, we waste all of our good words on people when they're gone. This is not a eulogy, this is a little note, made public, that says this world right now is better with Jennifer Diskin in it. And if you don't know her or her work, you should. Both are vulnerable and strong, fragile and beautiful, quiet and achingly overwhelming.

Very Mo Tucker indeed.

So I'm writing a column for the online 'zine Unbound Culture called "All Things Reconsidered." It's basically a review of albums that flew under the radar the first time around. This issue, I'm doing The Replacements' third release, Hootnanny.

Taken from the review: It's easy to over romanticize The Replacements as the beautiful losers—a band unable to get out of its own way.  Self-destructive, self abused, self deprecating, self (un)aware—the perfect band for the uncool teenage nowhere that was the gap between Friday night and Monday morning.  Unfortunately, with such a categorization, it is easy to see such a band as a relic, trapped behind the cellophane and adhesive backing of a photo album—the yearbook photo with bad hair and crooked smile.  In the rearview mirror of nostalgia, typically a band so wrapped up in youth can only hope to become an album occasionally revisited when the big picture is fragmented in the latticed-glass confusion of late night blurry stagger.    The Replacements refuse to be scapbooked to obscurity; the music resonates with an awkward poignancy no one truly outgrows.  What's remarkable is the consistency Paul Westerberg and company can echo from the bones of this insecurity without it being condescending, revisionist, or most importantly, sad.  There is a solace in the damaged and the damned; The Replacements offer the keys to the kingdom, one blown chord after another. You can read the rest of it here.

I also did a review of a band called Mad Tea Party--they are a great little band that is powered by foot drums, a ukulele, and some southern quirkiness. 

From the review: The world of Southern eclecticism in music evokes images of retro-revivalism that separates itself from the ironic stance of its northern counterpart.  There is earnestness to the South that spills over into their music—the artists are not image centric in their decision to employ the odd and obscure instrument.  It's natural and almost bred into their sound, as if the boundaries which translate into Billboard categories never existed.  Over the last ten years, the Carolinas have produced artists that refuse classification without defiance; it's in their blood and to be anything else would not be true to their art.  Whiskeytown, Squirrel Nut Zippers, Southern Culture on The Skids, and The Avett Brothers are all examples of the fluidity of style that is marked more by back porches than fire escapes—record collections serve as influence rather than education.  It's a subtle difference, but it's one that bares consideration.  Even reaching further back into the world of Sun Records, the world of country, blues, rockabilly, and gospel were never so close as kissing cousins as they were in Sam Phillips' studio.Check out the rest of their review here.