Muse of Poetry

Yesterday Michel read some of "Paradise Lost" Milton. I really enjoyed it. Then he told me that in all Epic poems the writer begins by calling a muse for inspiration. 

I told him that every Sunday he and I should read our favorite thing of the week to each other. I just read Earnest Hemingway's first short story. "Up in Michigan" which he wrote in Paris in 1921. 

It's was like a slap in the face.

 I think it speaks to the truth about how men are different from women in love and life. And that maybe every young woman should have this read to them as a bedtime story. 

Kerry James Marshall exhibit at M.C.A

There is a Kerry James Marshall show until September 25th at the Museum of Contemporary Art, it features several of his paintings.

I saw the above painting about 20 years ago at the Museum of Contemporary Art.  I loved it immediately. 

The show features the video below where the artist explains his process. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2bmHE7MRQU

Now I'm even more of a fan after hearing him talk about his art. This artist should be known by everyone in my opinion, and he lives in Chicago.  

https://mcachicago.org/Exhibitions

Rennaisance Faire

Poetry and Short Story Salon

The great salon of 2016.
(Actually pretty small)(Great..I'm just saying, in my opinion)
I hosted a small poetry and short story reading last weekend.
I only invited a small number of poets, writers and poetry fans due to my own nervousness and because of my small house.
My parents were invited and as always, brought their A game.

This blog post is mostly to record the readings for my own posterity or any attendee that could not hear.
We started the salon with a reading of Jack Helbig's play "Mildly Depressed Man". Many of the good natured guests were hired on the spot by my dad to play roles from his good friends peice.

Giamila Fantuzzi read a poem in Italian by Gabriele D'annunzio entitled "The rain in the pinewood"
http://www.lifeinabruzzo.com/the-rain-in-the-pinewood-la-pioggia-nel-pineto/ 
She gave us the English translation to read while she read.

My mom told a story about an old friend Irene Keller and then read a few of her poems. Here is one:

Cynthia Gessele shared her writing, Entitled Tory's Dilemma

Jean Sotos read a few of her poems Www.lmtpoet.blogspot.com

Grace Quinn read from her blog

Barbara Ballinger read 3 Hopkins poems
Inversnaid http://www.bartleby.com/122/33.html
The Windhover  http://www.bartleby.com/122/12.html
and  As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame. http://www.bartleby.com/122/34.html

Linda Stolz read a memoir

John Platt read some of his own poems:
1970

Welcome party:

no curses,
no spit
or baby-killer cries;
and no jobs either. ….

Mundane tragedy
and war is all.

Kill-zone shadows spreading

to bleak apartments.

Welcome back boys.

BYOB …. a quart jar

of Black Beauties :

“... war trophy,” he laughed.

He cradled it the whole time.


 Nobody knew anybody,

 not really

 not anymore.

 Music too loud --- strange; words
 too empty.  Awkward. all
 split, and scattered early.

John Platt
 2009


    Trump Tells

The Hair: Mini-serious candied foxcox comb over

ghost-spray weave of playboy prick past

--- the crown at last!

The Eyes: Squint blue windows

to the sole consumer

of whys and wherefores

weighed in glaring error

scorn-constricted stares

the mirror's mirror. It shows.

The Lips: Smoochie sucky spitting self kissing

repulsed plosive punch line perseverators

pooh-poohing prehensile prevaricators.

Sly smilers.

The Hands: -Index (sometimes middle) fingers touched to thumbs.

Remaining fingers held like curtains beside the face.

(This is NOT the “OK” sign)

but: “Here's a special treat I

offer to a captive pet.

Beg for it.”

- Palms flat forward wrists bent back

arms extended: “STOP !

NO ENTRY BEYOND THIS

WALL (facade).”

- Index fingers pointing up

-or at you - hands closed tight: “Wait !

Just Be Quiet (and maybe

I'll give you a treat).”

- thumbs up from closed fists

aimed backward.

( This is also NOT an “OK” sign) ---

but: “ME. ME. ME.

All attention

belongs to Me.”

The Deal: The slogan the sell the slur repeat

invert subvert beat resistance beat

beat competition pound table slam

door bang babe the deal repeat

until submission. Sale.

Then cheat.

Repeat.

The Skin: Thin: a thing

made out of lampshades.

                                                                     

                                                                         John Platt 2016

Linda Platt's blog is here http://lindiart2.blogspot.com/http://lindiart2.blogspot.com/

I read a poem which is more of an explanation of my last several years than anything else.

Rhyme of an ancient Marrier
When I am caught in the snarl of a net
My m.o. is to take on a rescue pet

It all started with my creation, a fish pond
instead of facing my marriage was a flawed bond

the next year brought results of infertile
but wouldn't the pond be better with a turtle

another hard year, anxiety depression, fog
I looked across facebook lines and fell for a dog

The marriage got worse we resorted to all but kickin
 then we agreed, we would like to raise chicken

relationship over, I was in deep muck
first thing I did was babysit a duck

Now I'm banned from every pet shop
but I love critters and I'm not going to stop.

I also read "Envy of Other peoples poems" By Robert Hass
http://www.poemsbypost.com/?p=308



 




 

CranioSacral therapy 1

I just took a 4 day intensive class on CranioSacral therapy.  A Doctor of Osteopathy, Upledger, discovered that there is a rhythmic flow of cerebro-spinal fluid between the cranium and sacrum.  The flow can be felt and even manipulated to relieve pain.
This has been something I've wanted to learn for a long time. Some of my teachers at both acupuncture and massage school loved this type of therapy and gave dramatic demo's often leading to a crying student. Crying but feeling better.
The therapy is very very light so the crying was a mystery to me.
The class was taught by a man that, to my great surprise, I had worked with at a clinic in Chicago ten years ago. He used to eat my snacks while I was in a room with a client. I'd come out of the room and find an empty bag.  He lives in Iowa on a transcendental meditation commune where the residents meditate for world peace. They must share snacks.
There were several volunteer teaching assistants. They all introduced themselves and I thought one had an aura. But then I realized that she was standing in front of a wall sconce. 
We had to go around the room and introduce ourselves. I said that my teachers could make people cry with this therapy and I am interested in making people cry.
The thing about CranioSacral therapy that remains a mystery is, It starts with feeling for the flow of an actual biological rhythm, but then you mostly imagine changing it. No one batted an eye at how it switches to energy work. These students were people who wore shirts that said, "We are all Connected" Or "Gratitude" These were the kind of people that when the teacher asked what makes up the body, one immediately yells "Spirit". One student said "I just had a colonic." while the teacher used her head to demonstrate moving the frontal bone. What did that have to do with her frontal bone I'll never know. I felt that maybe I have become too cynical in life. I was vasalating between excitement about these new techniques and major crises of faith in this type of healing.
Also, I should mention that the Chiropractor I work with, Dr. Jill Dortch, loves this type of medicine and she is of sound mind and a great healer of people.
The teacher was really good, he was entertaining, knew the info, and did several demonstrations. Two of which testified to an alleviation of symptoms. I forgave his snack transgressions. But he had a microphone clipped to his head and we would hear crunching noises at times and see that he was hiding in the corner snacking. Once we heard water running and we all realized he was in the bathroom with the microphone on. Luckily he was just washing his hands. One woman broke out crying the moment someone placed their hand on her chest, that seemed suspicious, and reminded me of some kind of church healing.
My biggest problem is how to work on a person using the light pressure that is necessary for some reason. I need to hold my hand up off a person a little to do that. Most of my clients would not stand for even 5 minutes of that kind of light touch. But I am going to practice on Michel, unbeknownst to him. Or anyone interested.
This therapy is supposed to be good for T.M.J. headaches. hearing, sinus problems. There is also evidence that it alleviates the symptoms of Autism and A.D.H.D.
 I now know how to move the bones of the skull by request.

This I received for simply attending

 

It was hard not see my yard this week. The garden is coming up better than ever.

I had help from an amazing person and artist, Linda Platt, her blog here.
http://lindiart2.blogspot.com/
Her latest blog has an incredible film she made on her family's history during the mid 20th century

Traveling Molly's

I went to a poetry reading last night
http://myemail.constantcontact.com/May-9-at-The-Buzz-Cafe--Molly-s-features-Timothy-Yu-and-Donna-Vorreyer.html?soid=1103180195612&aid=QRNC3gtxue4

I went with Jean, one of my nine or so muses. She is a poet and has had several poems published.

Jean in the foreground and Donna Vorreyer reading in the background

And I read a poem I wrote about my boyfriend Michel

Ode to Michel (my bell)

Michel was a black and white picture. Even taken with color film. Achromatic and anachronistic it turned out he spent most of his life looking into old books and reading older texts. So many that he too was black and white. His hair made up of black or white letters, a language lost today. His eyes periods..

His smile in quotes. His front teeth old tablets. Perhaps of Moses.

His skin Papyrus, only sees the sun when running from one book to another

He told me he was reading

The Aeneid by Publius Virgilius Maro, in Latin.

He told me that in the classic Greek and Roman tales,  such as The Odyssey and the Aeneid, the hero tends to go into the underworld.

I told him to be a hero already, and save me, in Berwyn.

I read it to a whole twenty or so people. And I didn't shake or cry. Yay

I enjoyed the other poetry a lot.  

I aquired art from a high school alumni

James and I with his painting above

I awaited James in the “Buzz Cafe”. It had been more than 25 years since I had seen him in person. To say he was a friend in High school would have been an exaggeration, probably. For the most part I saw him through the smoke at parties in the late 80’s where many teenage boys with long hair and “Iron Maiden” shirts converged to “get fucked up”. I was a young woman who would not leave the side of my dream-man Dave. I followed him everywhere. Even when his band practiced, I was sitting there. I should have been studying. When a party was happening, one person would always get on the phone, the 80’s phone, the one in which the receiver is a couple pounds and you need to use a rotary to dial 7 numbers. Someone would call a friend and say, “Dude you gotta get over here.” He would name the people and I was always just “Dave’s girlfriend”.

It used to bother me a little but I was nearly silent at all times, and when I attempted speech, I stammered. The ironic thing is,  I was in track freshman year and the preps told me they did not like that I stammered and I was not let into their group. (That really happened).

But when I stalked Dave and followed him around in his colorful world, the “Stoners”

were more accepting.

So, here I am in present day trying not to revert to Sarah in 89, who isn’t really that different. I am waiting for a man who once helped carry me out of the woods when I had too much cheap vodka, threw up and passed out. He also was loud and fearless and funny as hell. At the graduation ceremony of H.S. there was a loud cheer when my name was called. My parents expressed surprise that someone cheered. I knew it was him and Dave.

So I have him on a bit of a pedestal for being nice to me, but also for being funny. He once asked me to write a paper for him, and that he could pay me with a “six pack and a bucket of chicken”.

So I was waiting in this “buzz” cafe. Perfectly named for our shared past.  There is art all over the walls, two of them were his and I was going to buy one. I love his style, photo realism. I feel that I see a sense of humor in them. He shows up and we discuss our shared past, that was more like two ships passing in the night. He tells me that he and Dave were buddies in “on campus,” a special classroom for kids who caused problems. (I had forgotten)

James says that they were catered to there and he would do things like, if there was a substitute, pretend to be another student and mess with the sub, even taking tests for unsuspecting other students; and when the sub figured it out, he would call the guards and escort him out. I also found it interesting that he said the guard’s names, that he was on a first name basis with the guards.

James has become a great artist and drummer. He toured all over with a famous band, The Blacks.

I felt exactly like George that time he was totally taken with a cool guy

I am so happy I reached out to him. Buying his art means more than having a great new piece. It’s a chance to see someone who was simultaneously cooler and more accepting in H.S. He’s like my dad in that way.

Last thing, I was inspired to collect art by Jean Sotos. She picks art that she has a gut reaction to. I can't afford to get more for a while but I love the stuff I have.