HILTON OBENZINGER'S TREYF PESACH

I'm one of those people who believes the arts can actually save lives, because I feel like poetry saved mine. I also believe the arts can change lives, and that as futile as writing a poem to protest politicians or governments or movements or etc. may seem, It's still worthwhile, even if it only changes one mind, or none but still bears witness to the protest.

I was fortunate to have a few poems in CAMPFIRES OF THE RESISTANCE, a poetry anthology edited by Todd Gitlin, that came out of the Civil Rights and Anti-Vietnam War movements of the 1960s. I don't remember Hilton Obenzinger having any poems in that collection, but he should have. (You can spy him in photos of the famous 1968 Columbia University takeover by protestors.) I included his poetry in an anthology I edited in the 1970s, NONE OF THE ABOVE.

I always liked his independent spirit and critical eye and ear, and thanks to the Internet, we're back in touch. When Hilton's latest book, TREYF PESACH, was put together, he asked me for a blurb, which I will quote here as my take on it:

"Testament and testimony, Hilton Obenzinger's Treyf Pesach embraces echoes of The Old Testament/Torah, Whitman and Dickenson, Robert Frost and Rosa Parks, incorporating all that and more into the poet's bearing witness to the travails of our times in what one poem describes (referring to Frost) as 'American plain-talk verse,' verse that refuses to be silenced, watered down, placated, compromised or ignored."

There's a little more, but that'll give you the idea of why I believe, if you want some great poetic and prose takes on how to view current events and challenges, you should check out this book. I'll leave you with one of the poem/psalms in it:

Be Here

If the soldiers come, 
If the holy ones come,
If the trees come walking through the doors,
If you unscrew the locks from the doors,
If the mountains come, stumbling through the doors,
If you unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs,
If you open doors in the middle of dreams,
If you sanction love without murder,
If the refugees come, muddy and drowned,
If you have joined their stream, ready to drown,
If the Border Patrol covers the earth with shackles,
If the Border Patrol covers the earth with lost doors,
If you make miracles of simple survival,
If you resist all icy embraces,
If the Coast Guard decides there is no coast,
If you can find no doors,
If the holy ones require a forwarding address,
If love needs a place to hide,
If the soldiers come,
You can stay here,
You can hide here,
You can stay by my side,
Be here

MID-AFTERNOON MINI-RANT

I propose that anyone who can't prove they are descended from someone who was living in this country when it became The United States of America, i.e. 1776—or '78 or '82 depending how you figure, but let's say 1776—should be considered an immigrant and have to prove they're making a real contribution to the country in order to stay here.

HAPPY LABOR DAY

JOHN ASHBERY R.I.P.

John Ashbery is one of the seminal figures in the literature of the USA, and the world. And there's plenty you can read about him online and in books, and if you don't know about him, you should. But as in all my posts about the passing of the famous, the infamous, and the not either, the ingredient I get to add is the personal connection.

In 1972 or '73, I was part of a reading series at The Smithsonian Institute in Washington DC that featured six "major American poets" (the organizers' words in the publicity for it) with two poets reading over three nights. I was paired with Lucille Clifton and felt I should support the other four poets—one of whom was Ashbery—by checking out the other two nights. I knew John's work from his first couple of books that friends had touted to me. But at the time I found his work almost too technically brilliant, without the humor and warmth and connection I looked for in the poetry I liked.

I went to his reading with some friends, all of us younger than Ashbery, or most of the staid audience, dressed as if for a formal occasion (we were in our best hippie garb and stoned as well). But I became immediately defensive for Ashbery when the professor who introduced him seemed to be apologizing ahead of time for how difficult John's work was, almost as if he were embarrassed to have to be introducing him.

Then John read his Popeye sestina, as I like to call it ("Farm Implements And Rutabagas In A Landscape"—look it up, really) and I started laughing so hard I had to steady myself by putting one hand on the carpet to keep from entirely falling out of my chair, while most of the audience didn't even crack a smile. But John paused, in his nasally monotone reading style at the time, and stared right at me with a little gleam in his eye, and that was that. For the rest of the reading I finally could hear not only the technical brilliance, but the humor, the passion, the curiosity, the warmth, and insight, and the profundity, whether accidental or incidental or calculatingly intended.

Afterwards he approached me, and I invited him to join me and my friends at an old warehouse in an industrial part of DC, that had been turned into a gay disco (a new phenomena at the time) called Pier Nine. We all danced and laughed and had a great time, and he invited me to visit him in New York, and I did, and we became intimate friends for a number of years. He generously introduced me to his old friends, like the poets Jimmy Schuyler and Kenneth Koch and Barbara Guest and Kenward Elmslie and Edwin Denby and more, and they all welcomed me warmly, thanks to John.

When I moved to New York in early 1975, I spent even more time with him. He was the most delightful host, and one of the most knowledgeable conversationalists I've ever known. Pretty much anything I brought up he could spew facts about, but always in a humorous way, either with an ironic or campy slant, or sometimes with the timing of a stand-up comic. I loved spending time with him and I loved him. And he taught me so much, for instance turning me on to the novels of Ronald Firbank by lending me his own copy of Firbank's novels—which had been a gift from his late friend Frank O'Hara.

I got married for the second time in 1982 (he and his partner, now husband, David Kermani were at my wedding, I have his wedding gift in my archives, an elaborate 19th-Century giant pop-up wedding card, as well as some antique advertisements that I had framed). Then I moved to L.A. later that year and saw him a few times when he visited there. Back before the Internet it was letter writing that connected us and I mostly sent what I thought were funny collages etc.

But eventually life's challenges and events left us more or less out of touch in more recent years. The last time I saw him was after I moved back to Jersey and he did a reading at Seton Hall University in the town I grew up in and now live nearby. I went to see him and David, and when he saw me in the audience he announced, "Michael Lally's here, the author of the famous South Orange Sonnets," which none of the mostly student audience seemed to know or care about, but it was, as usual, very generous of him to acknowledge me that way and remember the connection of my poems to the town he was reading in.

I don't think he ever knew how much he meant to me, but I hope he did. He had a well-rewarded poet's life and a wonderful partner in the always supportive and kind David Kermani. I offer my condolences to David and to all of John's many friends and fans. There was never a poet or a person like him and never will be again.

Here's a short poem from his book A WORDLY COUNTRY:

Anticipated Stranger,

the bruise will stop by later.
For now, the pain pauses in its round,
notes the time of day, the patient's temperature,
leaves a memo for the surrogate: What the hell
did you think you were doing? I mean...
Oh well, less said the better, they all say.
I'll post this at the desk.

God will find the pattern and break it.

MID-DAY MINI-RANT

The good going on and going to, and coming out of, Southeast Texas after Harvey elevates us all with the truth that there's a lot of love in most humans, especially manifested in caring about others, including and most importantly, strangers.

The bad going on and going to, and coming out of, Southeast Texas, is the direct result of corporate greed and the actions of those who serve it, like the deliberate ignoring of and deregulation of safety standards in the construction of oil refineries and chemical plants and pipelines and urban planing and flood control, etc.

Human need versus corporate greed.

LAST OF THE QUARTETS

me reading my poetry, with poets Doug Lang and Terence Winch looking on, and my then lady, Gloria, at Folio Books in DC c. 1976 

Terence Winch reading his poetry with poet Doug Lang and me & Gloria looking on at Folio Books in DC c. 1976 

novelist Jane DeLynn, my son Miles, me, & composer and my love Rain Worthington in my apartment in what was becoming "Soho" c. 1979

performance artist and poet Eric Trules, my son Miles, filmmaker Carol Dysinger, & me in Santa Monica c. 1987?

my then love and housemate the late Joan Baribeault & me with my visiting brother Buddy (AKA Jimmy) & my late sister-in-law Catherine, the last time I saw him alive (he was visiting a friend in L.A. and stopped to see me) c. 1990 

me, the multi-talented writer/poet/producer/director/etc. Eve Brandstein, with actors Stephen & Alec Baldwin L.A. c. 1990

me & a friend of my late oldest brother, Father Campion (AKA Tommy, who lived in Japan for most of his adult life, he's taking the photo) and her children, Japan c. 1993

me, on a  vist to DC, sitting with poets Beth Joselow & Lynne Dreyer, and the late novelist William McPherson c. 1994?

me, "MemoryMan", Bara Byrnes, and my then love Krystal, at a restaurant in Malibu c. 1995?

can't remember the man in the white tee shirt, but next to him are Malachy McCourt, me (those are our new books on the podium, the two of us were giving a reading) and the late writer/professor Dan Cassidy, in a San Francisco restaurant/bar I can no longer remember the name of 1997

actor Scott Johnson on big conga drum, me at piano, actors Karen Allen playing harmonica behind me and Kale Browne playing guitar next to me, at my 60th birthday party at Karen's place in The Berkshires 2002

two horse wranglers being extras on the set of Deadwood, with Peter Coyote as General Crock and me as Captain Bubb (both out of uniform for this scene) c. 2003 

my grandson Donovan, oldest son Miles, younger son Flynn, and me, in Jersey c. 2006?

my grandson Donovan, son Flynn, me & granddaughter Eli in Great Barrington MA c. 2007

my son Miles, grandson Donovan (in red shirt), me, & son Flynn on location for one of the Transformers movies as guests of the film's still photographer Robert Zuckerman (who took the photo) Princeton NJ 2008 

Claire Danes, two people I don't know, and me, reading at The Bowery Poetry Club NYC c. 2009?

old friends Doug Pell, Willy Farrell, Terence Winch, & me in NYC c. 2010?

My sons Miles and Flynn, & me, leaning over the photographer Robert Zuckerman at a show of his Kindsight photo/prose artwork in NYC c. 2012

my musician son Miles, me, and poets (and more) Ben Brandstein and Eve Brandstein at The Cutting Room NYC after a Poetry In Motion evening that we all performed at c. 2014

poet Susan Hayben, musician John Restivo, poet Bob Holman & me at The Cutting Room NYC before Susan and Bob and I read our poetry in a Poetry In Motion evening c. 2015 

poets Eve Brandstein, Susan Hayden, me, & Rachel E. Diken at The Gotham Comedy Club NYC where we read at a Poetry In Motion evening 2016

THE GLASS CASTLE

In times of trouble I turn to art. Usually poetry—either reading someone else's or writing my own—but also prose, paintings, live performance, movies, etc. During this tough week, I took a break last evening to go see THE GLASS CASTLE, which got mixed reviews but a friend had recommended. The friend was right. It is totally worth seeing.

Based on a book by Jeanette Walls, it's skillfully directed by Destin Daniel Cretton (and pretty well written by Andrew Lanham) who saves even the most seemingly contrived story turns with either unexpected grace and humor, or compelling emotional resonance. And the cast is terrific.

Woody Harrrelson gives an Oscar-worthy performance as the alcoholic dreamer/destroyer father, and Brie Larson as well, as the daughter who grows up to write the story of their relationship. There's several child actors who play Jeannette and her siblings at various stages, and they are all good, but Ella Anderson as the pre-teen Jeannette gives another of the award-deserving performances in this film.

Naomi Watts is great as the mother, though for my taste a bit miscast. And there are other minor characters played beautifully as well. The soundtrack is worth praising too. All in all, an emotionally satisfying movie that kept me engaged and entertained, despite it's tough subject, and subjects.