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This is your new reality

on Thursday, May 14, 2009 with 0 comments » | , ,

Found this rather haunting picture in a series of photographs by blind photographers.. part of a spectacular new exhibit at the University of California, Riverside which "raises extraordinary questions about the nature of sight."
Kurt Weston, Mask
(c) by the artist, courtesy of UCR/California Museum of Photography
A gay man who lost his sight to AIDS in 1996, Weston's work explores the stigma of disease and decay. His daily battle to stay alive is transformed into an unflinching look at his (and our) mortality: "These photographs are about the realization of loss," he says. "About losing your facade. They say, 'This is your new reality. This is your strange new flesh. Let's take a look." 

Reminds me of this excerpt from a poem (Embrace) by Mark Doty:
You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.  
Here's another great one from the series..
Gerardo Nigenda, Entre lo invisible y lo tangible, llegando a la homeostasis emocional
 (c) by the artist, courtesy of UCR/California Museum of Photography
Born in Oaxaca, Mexico, the 42-year-old Nigenda calls his images "Fotos cruzados," or "intersecting photographs." As he shoots, he stays aware of sounds, memories, and other sensations. Then he uses a Braille writer to punch texts expressing those the things he felt directly into the photo. The work invokes an elegant double blindness: Nigenda needs a sighted person to describe the photo, but the sighted rely on him to read the Braille. The title of this work translates roughly to: "Between the invisible and the tangible, reaching an emotional homeostasis."

Lots more gems at the link. Do go and enjoy the visions of these blind people. Like one of them (Pete Eckert) says: 'If you can't see, it's because your vision is getting in the way."

Like a dog meowing

on Monday, May 11, 2009 with 0 comments » |

If it's Britain's Got Talent, expect the unexpected! Especially this year...first Susan Boyle, then Shaheen Jafargholi, then Jamie Pugh, and now Greg Pritchard... quite a year at the BGT!



Simon: "Like a dog meowing - it just shouldn't do that" :)

I thought of starting a series of tweets with a haiku (and accompanied link) by a leading haiku master on Twitter but I think given the beauty and prolific output of many of the haiku experts, perhaps an occasional blog post with a collection of 17 haikus (5-7-5; get it? ;)) is better to help the reader enjoy a haiku moment from from time to time.

I could wax poetic about haikus a lot but will write - hopefully in simple terse terms - some other time. For now, let us start at pretty much the beginning and let me set you ...

...On the Poet’s Trail

Bashos Trail

Footsteps fall softly
Following the path
Of Japan’s haiku master.

National Geographic article by Howard Norman
Photograph © by Michael Yamashita

Of the hundreds of haikus by haiku master, Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694), I have chosen 17 to give us a sampling this morning...
Winter solitude --
in a world of one color
the sound of wind

Early fall --
the sea and the rice field
all one green

Not this human sadness,
cuckoo,
but your solitary cry

Even in Kyoto --
hearing the cuckoo's cry
I long for Kyoto

The crane's legs
have gotten shorter
in the spring rain

A solitary
crow on a bare branch-
autumn evening

A flash of lightning:
Into the gloom
Goes the heron's cry.


Nothing in the cry
of cicadas suggests they
are about to die 

A bucket of azaleas
in its shadow
the woman tearing codfish

Wrapping the rice cakes
with one hand
she fingers back her hair

By the old temple
peach blossoms,
a man hulling rice

Spring rain
leaking through the roof,
drippling from the wasp's nest

Now I see her face,
the old woman, abandoned,
the moon her only companion

Many nights on the road
and not dead yet --
the end of autumn

How admirable!
to see lightning and not thing
life is fleeting

Another year gone --
hat in my hand,
sandals on my feet

1st day of spring
I keep thinking about
the end of autumn
Lots more here.

Of course, I should add that a lot is perhaps lost or changed in translation from Japanese to English; not only in terms of syllable-count but also actual depth and serenity.

For example read these 31 translations & discussion of Basho's most famous haiku.

The old pond;
A frog jumps in —
The sound of the water.
Also another example of differing translations by 3 leading English language haiku specialists of 8 of Basho's haikus.

Like bricks onto a wall

on Saturday, May 9, 2009 with 0 comments » | ,

Neil Gaiman's Advice to Writer: "Read a lot and live..... Go do stuff. Go get your heart broken and then come back and write some more"



Go listen to the sentence about "like bricks onto a wall" too... pretty basic stuff but so tough to do, no?

Also, listen to this 2006 speech he gave in Berkeley on a book tour for Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders....

..and his recent interview on Colbert Nation:





Neil Gaiman

Incidentally, I have not read any of Gaiman's work though I have heard many friends rave. Maybe one of these days, I'll start.

Also, see this lovely short clip for Blueberry Girl, written and read by Neil Gaiman.
 

Lovely! He apparently wrote this for or Tash, Tori Amos's daughter (who is also Gaiman's god-daughter).

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

on Tuesday, May 5, 2009 with 0 comments » |

Louis Armstrong & Ella Fitzgerald singing Dream a Little Dream of Me (Also here: ♫ http://blip.fm/~5o9mw)

Also this version from 1967 by Mama Cass Eliot.

Leave you with two more gems from Louis & Ella


and this featuring Ella alone - singing Gershwins "Summertime" at a concert in Berlin/Germany

Also this Billie Holiday version of Summertime.

In the abundant silence we proceed into ourselves

on Thursday, April 30, 2009 with 0 comments » | , ,

This morning, I was reading Kevin Brockmeir's short story, The Year of Silence in The Best American Short Stories 2008 and I found these lines interesting.
The silence siphoned out of the city and into our ears, spilling from there into our dreams and beliefs, our memories and expectations. In the wake of each fresh episode a new feeling flowed through us, full of warmth and a lazy equanimity. It took us a while to recognize the feeling for what it was: contentment.
Aah...so, methinks my verbosity & prolificity at my blog, on facebook, and lately on Twitter, is perhaps merely a sign of discontentment? The year of my discontentment. (It's been more than a season; else I'd have put the title as "the winter of our discontent" ;))
And unlike the silence of the story, this one is not "plain and rich and deep."
The silence was plain and rich and deep. It seemed infinitely delicate, yet strangely irresistible, as though any one of us could have broken it with a single word if we had not been so enraptured.
And so it goes.... to paraphrase from another line from the story: "In the abundant silence we proceed into ourselves." (The line in the story is exactly the same except it uses "proceeded")

Update: Just finished the story. Lovely! The last paragraph of the story reads:
Every day the silence that had engulfed the city receded further into the past. It was plain that in time we would forget it had ever happened. The year that had gone by would leave only a few scattered signs behidn, like the imprints of vanished shells in the curst of a dried lake bed: the exemplary hush of our elevators, the tangles of useless wire in our walls, and the advanced design of our subway lines, fading slowly into antiquation.
Some day, hopefully all this discontent also recedes "further into the past" and "fades slowly into antiquation"!
--
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. - last line of The Great Gatsby nu F. Scott Fitzgerald, arguably the greatest American novel ever written!

Mariam Doumbia and Amadou BagayokoAs those following my music blog posts may know, I am a big fan of music from Mali. And it seems two Malian singers - Rokia Traore (see my blog post for some videos) and the blind husband-wife pair Amadou-Mariam (youtube video) have won major awards at the inaugural Songlines World Music Awards (which I ran into on Twitter). 

More details here. Seems ..
The Songlines Music Awards were established to continue the tradition of the now-defunct BBC Radio 3 Awards for World Music, recognizing outstanding talent in world music.
Also, note the "newcomer" award winner -- an Indian musician, who I had not heard of before today.
Best Artist - Rokia Traoré   
Best Group - Amadou & Mariam  
Cross-cultural Collaboration - Jah Wobble & The Chinese Dub Orchestra 
Newcomer - Kiran Ahluwalia
To listen to Kiran's songs, go to her website. It starts streaming few of her songs, in full. On Twitter, she mentions recent collaborations for fusion with Italian aria and Hip-Hop. Interesting!!

Impressive project. Emphasis mine.
Africans have more genetic variation than anyone else on Earth, according to a new study that helps narrow the location where humans first evolved, probably near the South Africa-Namibia border.   The largest study of African genetics ever undertaken also found that nearly three-fourths of African-Americans can trace their ancestry to West Africa. The new analysis published Thursday in the online edition of the journal Science.  "Given the fact that modern humans arose in Africa, they have had time to accumulate dramatic changes" in their genes, explained lead researcher Sarah Tishkoff, a geneticist at the University of Pennsylvania.  People have been adapting to very diverse environmental niches in Africa, she explained in a briefing.  Over 10 years, Tishkoff and an international team of researchers trekked across Africa collecting samples to compare the genes of various peoples. Often working in primitive conditions, the researchers sometimes had to resort to using a car battery to power their equipment, Tishkoff explained. 
More at the link above. Also this kinda related study from the Scripps Research Institute. Variety, thy name is life!
A group of scientists at The Scripps Research Institute has set up the microscopic equivalent of the Galapagos Islands—an artificial ecosystem inside a test tube where molecules evolve to exploit distinct ecological niches, similar to the finches that Charles Darwin famously described in The Origin of the Species 150 years ago. As described in an article published in an advance, online edition of the journal Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (PNAS), the work demonstrates some of the classic principles of evolution. For instance, research shows that when different species directly compete for the same finite resource, only the fittest will survive. The work also demonstrates how, when given a variety of resources, the different species will evolve to become increasingly specialized, each filling different niches within their common ecosystem.

Uber-cool! Again, More at the link above.
--
“In the time of your life, live - so that in that wondrous time you shall not add to the misery and sorrow of the world, but shall smile to the infinite variety and mystery of it.” - William Saraoyan

Searching for an ever-escaping mutuality

on Wednesday, April 29, 2009 with 0 comments » |

In researching a poet every day for my tweets on Twitter in celebration of National Poetry Month, I read some of Langston Hughes' poetry over the last two days. In comparison to those poems, the struggles of the African American people have manifest itself in such a different voice through the poems of Amiri Baraka, (formerly known as Leroi Jones). The rhetoric (of the 1960s civil rights movement) of anger, political rebellion, and angst over the African American identity is captured well in his poetry.

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I ran into Amiri Baraka's poetry when I started reading poet Adrienne Rich's book A Human Eye, day before yesterday night. It is a collection of essays on Art in Society (1997-2008) and includes a wonderful essay (originally published in the Boston Review) about the poetry of  Amiri Baraka. Writing about Baraka's poems in The Dead Lecturer (out of print; most of the poems can be read in this collection), she writes:

It is the book of an artist contending first of all with himself, his sense of emotional dead ends, the limits of poetic community, the contradictions of his assimilation by that community, his embrace and rejection of it: searching what possible listening, what possible love or solidarity might exist out beyond those contradictions. It is the book of a young artist doing what some few manage or dare to do: question the foundations of the neighborhood in which he or she has come of age and received affirmation.
To further expand on that, here are some words from Baraka himself from the preface to the Baraka Reader:
My writing reflects my own growth and expansion, and at the same time the society in which I have existed throughout this confrontation. Whether it is politics, music, literature, or the origins of language, there is always a historical and time/place/condition reference that will always try to explain why I was saying both how and for what.

To quote from the Adrienne Rich essay again:
And it is a book, not an assemblage of occasional poems: a soul-journey borne in conflictual music, faultless phrasing. Music, phrasing of human flesh longing for touch, mind fiercely working to decipher its predicament. Titles of poems are set sometimes in bold, sometimes italics, implying structures within the larger structure. Drawing both on black music and the technical innovations of American Modernism, Jones moves deeper into a new poetics, what the poet June Jordan would name “the intimate face of universal struggle.”

But intimacy is never simple, least of all in poems like these where “inept tenderness” (“A Poem for Neutrals”) searches for an ever-escaping mutuality. 
And identity is never simple either. In contrast to Hughes' poems, which incorporated into poetry the aesthetics of the blues as the experience of a race, Amari writes in his poem, Notes For a Speech:
African blues
does not know me. Their steps, in sands
of their own
land.

..

My own
dead souls, my, so called
people. Africa
is a foreign place. You are
as any other sad man here
american.
Like Adrienne Rich writes about his poem, An Agony. As Now., which deals with existential anguish but in a "surround of social hatred":
Here is self-wrestling of a politicized human being, an artist/intellectual, writing among the white majority avant-garde at a moment when African revolutions and black American militance seemed to be converging in the electric field of possible liberations. Experiencing the American color line—that deceptively, murderously, ever-shifting, ever-intransigent construct—as neither “theme” nor abstraction, but as disfiguring all life, and in a time when “revolution” was still a political, not a merchandising term, Jones’s poems both compress and stretch the boundaries of the case. “
Also this poem, which is included in Rich's essay:
  / the society
                           the image, of
                           common utopia.
                               / The perversity
                               of separation, isolation,
after so many years of trying to enter
     their kingdoms,
now they suffer in tears, these others,
     saxophones whining
through the wooden doors of their less
     than gracious homes.
The poor have become our creators. The
     black. The thoroughly
ignorant.

               Let the combination of morality
and inhumanity
begin.
Like Rich writes:

The poem’s structure spirals like a staircase, where “the society / the image, of / common utopia” turns sharply into “The perversity / of separation, isolation,” this turn signified by a full-stop and capital letter. And, since the poet is located between worlds, there is a necessary ambiguity to the pronouns, the “they” and the “our.” 
There is much more to read and enjoy, not only in Baraka's poetry but also in Rich's essay. I leave you to go read it in its entirety.

Related Reading: Essay in Dissent magazine on Amari Baraka's life and poetry.

The opposite of a poem

on Tuesday, April 28, 2009 with 0 comments » |


Tripping on some interview excerpts at the Paris Review archives, I ran into an interview with the "confessional" poet, Anne Sexton, from the Summer of 1971. They are talking about Sylvia Plath, whose life and suicide has been much discussed in the decades since her death in 1965. (Unfortunately, the Paris Review interview, is among the few that are not part of the wonderful archive online.)
Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem. Sylvia and I often talked opposites. We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric lightbulb, sucking on it.
Anne wrote about Sylvia's death:
Thief --
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
Sadly, Anne Sexton herself was to commit suicide three years later.
On October 4, 1974, Sexton had lunch with Kumin to review Sexton's most recent book, The Awful Rowing Toward God. Upon returning home, she put on her mother's old fur coat, locked herself in her garage, started the engine of her car and committed suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning.
Also see this fourteen-minute video (2 parts) where we see Anne Sexton at home reading, talking about poetry and about her family.
I myself will die without baptism,
a third daughter they didn't bother.
My death will come on my name day.
What's wrong with the name day?
It's only an angel of the Sun.
Woman,
weaving a web over your own,
a thin and tangled poison.
Scorpio,
bad spider ?
die!

Also, you can read some of her poems here and here and read more about Anne Sexton's life and career. Or better still read about her life, in her own words (some great pics too at the link.)
--
“That ragged Christ, that sufferer, performed the greatest act of confession, and I mean with his body. I try to do that with words” - Anne Sexton

Love and hate are the same thing

Many people seem to think that if you talk about something recent, you're in favor of it. The exact opposite is true in my case. Anything I talk about is almost certain to be something I'm resolutely against, and it seems to me the best way of opposing it is to understand it, and then you know where to turn off the button."
That's Marshall McLuhan. (via submitted for your perusal)

You just have to wait

with 0 comments » |

In my previous post, I wrote about a Paris Review interview with the current US Poet Laureate Kay Ryan. In the same interview, she is asked about her partner of 30 years, Carol and how the two are coping with Carol's cancer.
Here are some excerpts which I found particularly moving.
KR: When I first met Carol, I was so glad to find somebody I could really talk to. There were people who I could drop a stone down and hear it go plunk really fast. But I could drop a stone down Carol and never hear it hit the bottom.


I: How are you two coping with Carol's illnes?
KR: I was just down at the store this morning, and a man was talking on his cell phone and he was saying, It wasn't just a camping trip; it was a survival class. And I was thinking how funny that was, because I'm having a survival class at my house. You don't have to go out and get it. It will come to you. We're all having a suvival class; you just have to wait.
(Emphasis mine.)

Unfortunately, Carol lost her battle with cancer and passed away  in January this year. RIP, Carol Adair. Peace and strength to Kay Ryan as she deals with the loss.

P.S. Loved this line that Kay Ryan says later in another context about living an ordinary life. "I think extravagance in your life takes the energy from possible extravagances in your mind." Even if its just a 1 line post, I think that almost deserves its own post!

Loved these lines about poetry by Kay Ryan, who was appointed the Library of Congress's sixteenth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry in 2008, in an interview in Paris Review.
Interviewer: Do you feel that part of the laureate job is to convince the reading public that poetry is useful?

KR: It's poetry's uselessness that excites me. Its hopelessness. All this tal of usefulness makes me feel I've suddenly been shanghaied into the helping professions. Prose is practical language. Conversation is practical language. Let them handle the usefulness jobs. But of course, poetry has its balms. It makes us less lonely by one. It makes us have more room inside ourselves. But it's paralyzing to think of usefulness and poetry in the same breath.
And so it goes. My daily poetry tweets over on twitter are anything but useful but now I know they serve a purpose - they are a balm which help me make room within myself. 
From later in the interview, this lovely excerpt:
I: Why do you think writing attracted you?
KR: It's a way of thinking unlike any other. Brodsky considers poetry a great accelerator of the mind and I agree. Thinking takes place in language, and it's hard to say whether the language is creating the thinking or the thinkng is creating the language. If I don't write poetry, in the profoundest way I have no way to think.

I: How do you find the subject in a poem
KR: I don't know if I'm interested in combating an idea or just loosening it up. You have to make some room for your mind. You have to open something up. And you can't just slam it from the other side. You can't say, That's not right. This is right. You start fluffing it. You open up the picture, so you can know two things at once.
I love reading interviews with writers and poets! Love the way they think. Love the way they phrase answers. Delectable bits abound! (I flitted between "Poetry has its balms" to "poetry a great accelerator of the mind" to "know two things at once" for this post title!) 
Go pick up the Winter 2008 Paris Review issue and read the interview. Or, if you cannot get your hands on that issue, go to the Paris Review Interview Archive Index and enjoy interviews with the masters of the past. (Past interviews are archived for free as pdf files. (Thank you, Paris Review, for sharing these gems for free.)

Dispelled in mid-air & dissolving like clouds

on Friday, April 24, 2009 with 0 comments » | , ,

Am tweeting about Wallace Stevens today and in addition to his wonderful poetry, I am finding so many great quotes by this esteemed Modernist poet. Here is one that I liked:

To see the gods dispelled in mid-air and dissolve like clouds is one of the great human experiences. It is not as if they had gone over the horizon to disappear for a time;   nor as if they had been overcome by other gods of greater power and profounder knowledge. It is simply that they came to nothing. Since we have always shared all things with them and have always had a part of their strength and, certainly, all of their knowledge, we shared likewise this experience of annihilation. It was their annihilation, not ours, and yet it left us feeling that in a measure, we, too, had been annihilated. It left us feeling dispossessed and alone in a solitude, like children without parents, in a home that seemed deserted, in which the amical rooms and halls had taken on a look of hardness and emptiness. What was most extraordinary is that they left no mementoes behind, no thrones, no mystic rings, no texts either of the soil or of the soul. It was as if they had never inhabited the earth. There was no crying out for their return. They were not forgotten because they had been a part of the glory of the earth. At the same time, no man ever muttered a petition in his heart for the restoration of those unreal shapes. There was always in every man the increasingly human self, which instead of remaining the observer, the non-participant, the delinquent, became constantly more and more all there was or so it seemed; and whether it was so or merely seemed so still left it for him to resolve life and the world in his own terms.
The passage is from Stevens' essay "Two or three ideas" (from Opus Posthumous; NYT Review). Though written in prose, it is supposed to be "a great hymn to absence and to the heroically human self."

From an overclothed blindness to a naked vision

on Thursday, April 23, 2009 with 0 comments » | ,

Read this in the the write-up for the Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas, in The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemparary Poetry (vol 2)*
Dylan Thomas...
.. liked to speak of his poems as narratives, as in his reply to a questionnaire in 1934: "Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, moment from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision that depends in its intensity on the strength of the labor put into the creation of the poetry. My poetry is, or should be, useful to me for one reason: it is the record of my individual struggle from darkness towards some measure of light."
Emphasis mine, to highlight the beautiful words that capture the essence of poetry.
Later in the write-up, this quote from Dylan Thomas:
"I make one image, though "make" is not the right word; I let, perhaps, an image be made emotionally in me and then apply to it what intellectual and critical forces I possess -- let it breed another; let that image contradict the first, make, of the third image bred out of the other two, a fourth contradictory image, and let them all, within my imposed formal limits, conflict. Each image holds within it the seed of its own destruction, and my dialectical method, as I understand it, is a constant building up and breaking down of the images that come out of the central seed, which is itself destructive and constructive at the same time . . . The life in any poem of mine cannot move concentrically round a central image, the life must come out of the center; an image must be born and die in another; and any sequence of my images must be a sequence of creations, recreations, destructions, contradictions . . . Out of the inevitable conflict of images . . . I try to make that momentary peace which is a poem."
Lovely!

* This two volume set is precious. I'm reading a library copy (for the second time in my life - had read it 3-4 years back once). Some day I need to buy it - $37.50 for the 2 volume set is not that expensive, given how much treasure is in here!

(Not) Lost in Translation

on Friday, April 17, 2009 with 0 comments » | ,

Over on Twitter, I have been tweeting a poet-of-the-day [1] and wondered yesterday if I had had enough. Perhaps only half a month of celebration (April 1-15) is enough, I dithered. But then I realized that I had focused mainly on US poets. A few (Simic, Ondaatje, Levertov) may have been from other countries originally but they all write/wrote in English. There is so much wonderful poetry that is not written in English ...maybe it is time to celebrate them!

So, for April 16th and 17th (tweeting both together today as, caught in my waffling about whether to continue the series or not, I did not tweet about a poet yesterday), my poets are two poets who have astounded me with their poetry, even in translation. So much so, they have made me want to learn Spanish some day, to be able to enjoy their poetry in its original form. For If their poetry can be so beautiful in translation, imagine how it must be in the original! No... not Lorca (who I am yet to read) but the poets that have me in thrall are Pablo Neruda and Octavio Paz. I remember finding their poetry in the mid-to-late 1990s and they simply blew me away; especially Neruda. The music in his language, even in translation, is simply astounding. I remember it was a bi-lingual edition and just for the fun of it, I read the Spanish version aloud (not understanding it, of course). What lilt! What music in those words!

Some thoughts now on reading poetry in translation. In my mind, my experience with reading Neruda and Paz is unusual when it comes to reading poetry in translation. I think that in terms of what is lost in translation, it gets progressively worse as one goes from movies to music to books to poems. Over the years, I have read quite a few novels in translation and have wondered how much of the feel of the book was lost in translation. There is no doubt that a bad translator can ruin a book. But how much of the original is lost even when a good translator re-writes a piece? I believe Milan Kundera (one of my favorite authors - read completely in translation) has also battled with translators over this issue and has also written about the perils involved in translation in his non-fiction book, Art of the Novel. (Also read this article about the approach to translation.)

When it comes to movies, I have enjoyed lot of foreign language movies (French, Italian, Chinese, etc.) through sub-titles. Although some of the nuances may be lost through the dialogue, one fares well with movies because a lot of the movie is still retained through the visual aesthetic and in some cases, the music. (Case in point, the music in one of my favorite movies - In the Mood for Love.) Coincidentally, just earlier this week I read some other interesting arguments made comparing movies vs. the written word but that will have to be the topic of another post. (The arguments were put forth by the author Mary Gaitskill in the Introduction to Best New American Voices 2009, which she is the editor of.)

Music, of course, is the universal language... for example, even when I cannot understand the words to the songs, the music from Malian singers that I have been listening to a lot the last few years has given me hours of joy. (Actually, photography, as an art, is also a medium that requires no language and hence does not have to deal with any such barriers.)

Anyways.. I'm off now to find some Neruda and Paz poems to share on Twitter. "Follow" me there.. if you care.
-

[1] After reading at Robert Lee Brewer's blog that some people were celebrating National Poetry Month by writing a poem a day, I decided to start this series of tweets for the month since I have been on Twitter a lot lately and while I do not have the talent or the discipline to write a poem every day, I figured I could put a few tweets every day about a poet of my choice. Its tougher than you think -- when something becomes a daily chore, the fun goes about it!

Poets featured during the first half of the month are:

  1. Wannabe poet once upon a time, myself... featuring my "poemkus" (haikus, really...but I use that word to not annoy the purists.)
  2. Mark Strand
  3. Tess Gallagher
  4. Donald Hall
  5. Mary Oliver
  6. W. S. Merwin
  7. Denise Levertov
  8. Mark Strand (again! Oops.. Noticing now that this is a repeat!)
  9.  -- missed it! -- 
  10. Philip Levine
  11. Michael Ondaatje
  12. John Ashbery
  13. Charles Simic
  14. John Burroughs (more famous as a naturalist, conservationist, and writer than as a poet but loved couple lines of his poem, Waiting)
  15. Mark Doty
Hmm.. in addition to repeating Mark Strand, I did not realize I missed a day there! I was pretty sure I tweeted one poet every day. #FAIL, as they say in internet lingo! Looks like just about a week into the month, I stumbled! Oh well...

No stranger to faltering and fear

on Thursday, April 16, 2009 with 0 comments » | , ,

Picked up a book by Willa Cather called Obscure Destinies at the library yesterday. Randomly opened it and came upon this paragraph that starts the short piece, Two Friends.

I loved it and decided to share it here.
Even in early youth, when the mind is so eager for the new and untried, while it is still a stranger to faltering and fear, we yet like to think that there are certain unalterable realities, somewhere at the bottom of things. These anchors may be ideas; but more often they are merely pictures, vivid memories, which in some unaccountable and very personal way give us courage. The sea- gulls, that seem so much creatures of the free wind and waves, that are as homeless as the sea (able to rest upon the tides and ride the storm, needing nothing but water and sky), at certain seasons even they go back to something they have known before; to remote islands and lonely ledges that are their breeding-grounds. The restlessness of youth has such retreats, even though it may be ashamed of them.
Not sure if one is ashamed to go back to such retreats but so it goes...
--
"Keep your fears to yourself, but share your courage with others."-Robert Louis Stevenson

A verbal earthly paradise

on Wednesday, April 15, 2009 with 0 comments » | ,

Just ran into this in reading an old essay by the poet, Mark Doty, my poet of the day. (Like I mentioned earlier, I am putting up a few tweets every day on Twitter about a chosen poet for each day this month to celebrate National Poetry Month.)

"We want a poem to be beautiful, that is to say, a verbal earthly paradise, a timeless world of pure play, which gives us delight precisely because of its contrast to our historical existence with all its insoluble problems and inescapable suffering; at the same time we want a poem to be true…and a poet cannot bring us any truth without introducing into his poetry the problematic, the painful, the disorderly, the ugly."- Auden
That's from Auden's book of prose, The Dyer's Hand. You can read a 1963 review of the book by poet, John Berryman. (Thanks to the New York Review of Books for putting up these old issues online. We would never be able to read these old gems otherwise!)

You can find a good collection of quotes from Auden's poetry via Wikiquotes.

Also, it seems, Auden was a big fan of Tolkien and his Lord of the Ring books! See his NYT Reviews of the first and third books. (Donald Barr wrote the review for the second book.)

Fine and Mellow

on Sunday, April 12, 2009 with 0 comments » |

Time for some jazz vocals this Sunday evening... Billie Holiday delights today! (Am tempted to link to my other two favorite jazz vocalists too - Ella Fitzgerald and Nina Simone - but links to their songs some other day.)






The lady CAN sing the blues! Delightful!

And what is invisible stays that way

on Wednesday, April 8, 2009 with 0 comments » | , ,

Found a beautiful poem this morning - The Next Time by Mark Strand, from his Pulitzer Prize winning book of poems, Blizzard Of One. You should go read the poem in its entirety but here are a few excerpts I really loved.

Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,
And what is invisible stays that way. Desire has fled,

Leaving only a trace of perfume in its wake,
And so many people we loved have gone,

And no voice comes from outer space, from the folds
Of dust and carpets of wind to tell us that this

Is the way it was meant to happen, that if only we knew
How long the ruins would last we would never complain.
Waking up from long dreams and short conversations with my dad, I find myself this morning in the throes of existential angst! Plus having seen The Motorcycle Diaries last night and having gone to bed wishing I could make my April Fool's bluff* a reality, these lines comes like a subliminal message!
Perfection is out of the question for people like us,
So why plug away at the same old self when the landscape

Has opened its arms and given us marvelous shrines
To flock towards?

...

Life should be more

Than the body’s weight working itself from room to room.
A turn through the forest will do us good ....
* My April 1st bluff was to put the following status update on Facebook.

...  has decided to quit this stupid job-search, live off my savings, ride time out till the economy recovers, and take a long 3 month trip to South America.
And so it goes....
It could have been another story, the one that was meant
Instead of the one that happened. Living like this,
...
           ... What else would there be
This late in the day for us but desire to make amends
And start again, the sun’s compassion as it disappears.
Actually, leave you with another short poem by Mark Strand, reproduced here in its entirety. This one really vibed with the aforementioned existential angst I am feeling.
Keeping Things Whole

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
Keeping things whole - the essence and struggle of life, no? Or as Che put it in the movie yesterday:
"You gotta fight for every breath and tell death to go to hell."
Update: Just saw this article in Time magazine. Despite it being said to be medicine for the soul" and a healer of body and mind, somehow I have a feeling that this won't be part of my South America experience, if and when I get there! For some, the travel itself provides the high! Though strangely, this does sound alluring, no? :)
The agony is part of the allure. "You get these near-death experiences. And once you see life from the perspective of death, you become a bit more philosophical and have a better sense of what's important and what's not."
Hmm..

Sometimes, its just too late

on Monday, April 6, 2009 with 0 comments » |

Finding a message in a bottle has happened many times previously... but the last line of this report made me ponder about life.

1913 message in a bottle found


The pencil-written note was dated March 30, 1913, and signed by Emmett Presnell of Rockford, Wash. It asked the finder of the bottle to write him back. The newspaper noted that Presnell died at age 85, on May 13, 1978. 
Ok..its nothing significant - just one of those moods this Monday, I suppose.

Feast on your life

on Sunday, April 5, 2009 with 0 comments » | , ,

Just found this wonderful poem by the Nobel laureate Derek Walcott here.

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
The beginning made me smile - greeting myself, would I smile?(I think it depends which me it was - the 20-something year old or the 30-something year old).

Where the snow hangs still

on Saturday, April 4, 2009 with 0 comments » | , ,

I'm celebrating National Poetry Month by tweeting every day with a few links about a random poet of my choice. I kind of got carried away and tweeted more than normal today and thought I'd cut-n-paste the content here to have them all in one place.

The poet I chose today is Donald Hall, who was the poet laureate of the US couple of years back. And I started with these lines, which resonate with me -- given my family's recent experience with death.

“Dying is simple,” she said.
“What's worst is… the separation.” 
In 8 simple words, Hall has captured here the entire essence of loss and all the feelings that my mother has been experiencing in the 14 months! The lines are from the poem Last Days by Donald Hall. I suggest you read the poem in its entirety (can be read here) and come tell me if you don't tear up! The poem was one of many heart-breaking poems in his 1998 book of poems, Without, in which Hall commemorated the loss of his wife, Jane Kenyon. I remember tearing up repeatedly reading the book in 2002-2003.
“Remembered happiness is agony; so is remembered agony.” - from Without
Seemingly, the same sense of loss and helplessness against the fragility of life percolates through his 2002 book of poems, The Painted Bed, which I have not yet read. I just read a few poems from the book (through Google books) and it promises to wrench my heart and leave me teary again!
"Let us stifle under mud at the pond’s edge and affirm that it is fitting and delicious to lose everything." - from Affirmation, The Painted Bed.

It seems, this wonderful couplet by the Urdu poet, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, serves as an epigraph in The Painted Bed.
"All poetry is about the death of the beloved."
Although I had picked up a book of Kenyon's collected poems last year, I have not read much of her poetry. Seems she also could pack a punch, as evidenced from these lines from her poem: It Might Have Been Otherwise.

I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
I will leave you with these beautiful lines..
Love is like sounds, whose last reverberations
Hang on the leaves of strange trees, on mountains
As distant as the curving of the earth,
Where the snow hangs still in the middle of the air. 
which is from an older poem by Donald Hall, which is included in the recent collection of 50 years of poetry by Hall -  White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems 1946-2006.

Polar explorers

on Tuesday, March 31, 2009 with 2 comments » |

I will likely never go to the poles...but I remember getting so engrossed and feeling like I had been taken away to the frigid poles when back in 2005 I read the book (later saw the documentary also) about Shackleton's famous failed (or successful, depending on how you see it - #Fail for not reaching the South Pole; #WIN for surviving the Antarctic winter for that long and the entire team - more or less, if memory serves me right - coming back alive) expedition.

So, I am familiar with the Amundsen-Scott rivalry and Amundsen's successful conquest of the South Pole but there seems to be high adventure and intrigue about the conquest of the North Pole too.

Fascinating story this, from this month's Smithsonian magazine.

Who Discovered the North Pole?
A century ago, explorer Robert Peary earned fame for discovering the North Pole, but did Frederick Cook get there first?

On September 7, 1909, readers of the New York Times awakened to a stunning front-page headline: "Peary Discovers the North Pole After Eight Trials in 23 Years." The North Pole was one of the last remaining laurels of earthly exploration, a prize for which countless explorers from many nations had suffered and died for 300 years. And here was the American explorer Robert E. Peary sending word from Indian Harbour, Labrador, that he had reached the pole in April 1909, one hundred years ago this month. The Times story alone would have been astounding. But it wasn't alone.

A week earlier, the New York Herald had printed its own front-page headline: "The North Pole is Discovered by Dr. Frederick A. Cook." Cook, an American explorer who had seemingly returned from the dead after more than a year in the Arctic, claimed to have reached the pole in April 1908—a full year before Peary.

Frederick Cook and Robert Peary
Frederick Cook and Robert Peary both claimed they discovered the North Pole.
© North Wind Picture Archives / The Granger Collection, New York
Anyone who read the two headlines would know that the North Pole could be "discovered" only once. The question then was: Who had done it? In classrooms and textbooks, Peary was long anointed the discoverer of the North Pole—until 1988, when a re-examination of his records commissioned by the National Geographic Society, a major sponsor of his expeditions, concluded that Peary's evidence never proved his claim and suggested that he knew he might have fallen short. Cook's claim, meanwhile, has come to rest in a sort of polar twilight, neither proved nor disproved, although his descriptions of the Arctic region—made public before Peary's—were verified by later explorers. Today, on the centennial of Peary's claimed arrival, the bigger question isn't so much who as how: How did Peary's claim to the North Pole trump Cook's?

I think some day I should go read another such book - this one perhaps, The Story of Polar Conquest by Logan Marshall. (Indeed - no physical activity for this geek -- reading about such adventures is all I can indulge in! ;) But hey... at least I don't drive an Explorer ;) I remember this from Paul Reiser's book, Babyhood:
“Suddenly you understand those behemoth station wagons your parents had.  But because we [baby boomers] are, as a group, so very much more clever, we now surround ourselves instead in hulking tanks - uglier by far than anything we sat in the back of when we were 5.  But this time they have much cooler names.  Names reeking of adventure: Explorer, Expedition, Outback, Range Rover, Land Cruiser, Four Runner, Trooper, Pathfinder... Where do we think we’re going?  We’re picking up diapers and dropping off a video.  We’re not bagging a cheetah and lugging it across Kenya.”  
I love those lines and always remember them - especially the "We’re picking up diapers and dropping off a video" part! :)
P.S. In similar vein, I will never go mountain climbing but back in 2003 or so, I got so immersed in reading Eiger Dreams, a book of essays by Jon Krakauer about climbing various mountains, incl. the Eiger in the Alps. I have not read his more famous book - Into Thin Air - which I think, if I remember right, Sumit, you own and were reading at one time when I was visiting you. Did you ever finish reading that book?

And so, for more vicarious living, I share with you these two videos of high-adrenaline rush activities.
Youtube - Ski-Gliding the Eiger

YouTube - Speed-Riding Down The Eiger
P.P.S. Yikes.. reading the wiki entry for Eiger, note that 2 people died on that mountain just last week!
24 March, 2009: Two Swiss climbers froze to death near the summit after successfully climbing the North face.

And so it goes...

Walk on Water

with 0 comments » |

What a beautiful picture!

Walk on Water
Walk on Water
© Hayden Carlyon (Fort Collins, CO)
Photographed January 2008, Uyuni, Bolivia 

That's one of many amazing pictures submitted to the Smithsonian Magazine's 6th annual Readers Choice Photo Contest. You can go and see the pictures and vote here.

Smart Chips

with 0 comments » |

A smart chip, indeed!

An international team of scientists in Europe has created a silicon chip designed to function like a human brain. With 200,000 neurons linked up by 50 million synaptic connections, the chip is able to mimic the brain's ability to learn more closely than any other machine.  Although the chip has a fraction of the number of neurons or connections found in a brain, its design allows it to be scaled up, says Karlheinz Meier, a physicist at Heidelberg University, in Germany, who has coordinated the Fast Analog Computing with Emergent Transient States project, or FACETS.  The hope is that recreating the structure of the brain in computer form may help to further our understanding   of how to develop massively parallel, powerful new computers, says Meier. 
Picture © Karlheinz Meier 
But well nigh impossible (yet) to make something that functions like a human brain, I think... but this is an interesting small step towards that sci-fi-ish goal!

Understanding life

on Tuesday, March 24, 2009 with 0 comments » |


Found here; via here.

As if in a subliminal note being sent to me, have run into wwo articles in the last 2 days that emphasize the importance of social interaction and human company in life. The second is specifically talking about friendship between women and though I'm not one, the learnings about the need for friendships in getting through troubled times apply as much to men as to women, I think. The flight-and-fight vs. tend-and-befriend responses to stress need not be independent of each other.

1) This piece by Dr. Atul Gawande in this month's New Yorker is more about solitary confinement & torture but it begins with a good introduction about the human need for social interaction.

Human beings are social creatures. We are social not just in the trivial sense that we like company, and not just in the obvious sense that we each depend on others. We are social in a more elemental way: simply to exist as a normal human being requires interaction with other people.

Children provide the clearest demonstration of this fact, although it was slow to be accepted. Well into the nineteen-fifties, psychologists were encouraging parents to give children less attention and affection, in order to encourage independence. Then Harry Harlow, a professor of psychology at the University of Wisconsin at Madison, produced a series of influential studies involving baby rhesus monkeys.
He happened upon the findings in the mid-fifties, when he decided to save money for his primate-research laboratory by breeding his own lab monkeys instead of importing them from India. Because he didn’t know how to raise infant monkeys, he cared for them the way hospitals of the era cared for human infants—in nurseries, with plenty of food, warm blankets, some toys, and in isolation from other infants to prevent the spread of infection. The monkeys grew up sturdy, disease-free, and larger than those from the wild. Yet they were also profoundly disturbed, given to staring blankly and rocking in place for long periods, circling their cages repetitively, and mutilating themselves.

At first, Harlow and his graduate students couldn’t figure out what the problem was. They considered factors such as diet, patterns of light exposure, even the antibiotics they used. Then, as Deborah Blum recounts in a fascinating biography of Harlow, “Love at Goon Park,” one of his researchers noticed how tightly the monkeys clung to their soft blankets. Harlow wondered whether what the monkeys were missing in their Isolettes was a mother. So, in an odd experiment, he gave them an artificial one.

In the studies, one artificial mother was a doll made of terry cloth; the other was made of wire. He placed a warming device inside the dolls to make them seem more comforting. The babies, Harlow discovered, largely ignored the wire mother. But they became deeply attached to the cloth mother. They caressed it. They slept curled up on it. They ran to it when frightened. They refused replacements: they wanted only “their” mother. If sharp spikes were made to randomly thrust out of the mother’s body when the rhesus babies held it, they waited patiently for the spikes to recede and returned to clutching it. No matter how tightly they clung to the surrogate mothers, however, the monkeys remained psychologically abnormal.

In a later study on the effect of total isolation from birth, the researchers found that the test monkeys, upon being released into a group of ordinary monkeys, “usually go into a state of emotional shock, characterized by . . . autistic self-clutching and rocking.” Harlow noted, “One of six monkeys isolated for three months refused to eat after release and died five days later.” After several weeks in the company of other monkeys, most of them adjusted—but not those who had been isolated for longer periods. “Twelve months of isolation almost obliterated the animals socially,” Harlow wrote. They became permanently withdrawn, and they lived as outcasts—regularly set upon, as if inviting abuse.

The research made Harlow famous (and infamous, too—revulsion at his work helped spur the animal-rights movement). Other psychologists produced evidence of similarly deep and sustained damage in neglected and orphaned children. Hospitals were made to open up their nurseries to parents. And it became widely accepted that children require nurturing human beings not just for food and protection but also for the normal functioning of their brains.

We have been hesitant to apply these lessons to adults. Adults, after all, are fully formed, independent beings, with internal strengths and knowledge to draw upon. We wouldn’t have anything like a child’s dependence on other people, right? Yet it seems that we do. We don’t have a lot of monkey experiments to call upon here. But mankind has produced tens of thousands of human ones, including in our prison system. And the picture that has emerged is profoundly unsettling.

Among our most benign experiments are those with people who voluntarily isolate themselves for extended periods. Long-distance solo sailors, for instance, commit themselves to months at sea. They face all manner of physical terrors: thrashing storms, fifty-foot waves, leaks, illness. Yet, for many, the single most overwhelming difficulty they report is the “soul-destroying loneliness,” as one sailor called it. Astronauts have to be screened for their ability to tolerate long stretches in tightly confined isolation, and they come to depend on radio and video communications for social contact.

The problem of isolation goes beyond ordinary loneliness, however.

2) UCLA study on friendship among women - Tend and Befriend vs. Fight or Flight response to stress 
 
Of course, this is nothing new. Some would argue it is stating the obvious. Afterall, Alfred Adler wrote in the early 20th century..
"Man is a social being. Expressed differently: The human being and all his capabilities and forms of expression are inseparably linked to the existence of others, just as he is linked to cosmic facts and to the demands of this earth." - Critical Considerations on the Meaning of Life, IZIP, Vol.III, 1924
 
And since true happiness is inseparable from the feeling of giving, it is clear that a social person is much closer to happiness than the isolated person striving for superiority. Individual Psychology has very clearly pointed out that everyone who is deeply unhappy, the neurotic and the desolate person stem from among those who were deprived in their younger years of being able to develop the feeling of community, the courage, the optimism, and the self-confidence that comes directly from the sense of belonging. This sense of belonging that cannot be denied anyone, against which there are no arguments, can only be won by being involved, by cooperating, and experiencing, and by being useful to others. Out of this emerges a lasting, genuine feeling of worthiness. " - Individual Psychology, Einführung in die neuere Psychologie, 1926
Even Mahatma Gandhi is said to have said:
Interdependence is and ought to be as much the ideal of man as self-sufficiency. Man is a social being.
And also Rochefoucaul:
What men have called friendship is only a social arrangement, a mutual adjustment of interests, an interchange of services given and received; it is, in sum, simply a business from which those involved propose to derive a steady profit for their own self-love. 
And so it goes....

A charmed life

on Thursday, March 19, 2009 with 0 comments » |

A heartrending and yet inspirational story! (I could hardly bear to read it at times for fear of tearing up!) I would not do justice even if I tried to summarize what this article is about. Go read it in its entirety.

Anyone who is in love is living a charmed life, especially if you’ve been in love for many years, through good times and bad.
Quotable quote these lines that end this article.
We are two, but we are one. And I love those numbers.
More power to Layng Martine and his wife as they take on life - with all its uncertainties, challenges, and unforeseen indignities.

P.S. Another well written and moving article that I saw yesterday in the LA Times. This one is about a simpler matter - a blood stained $100 bill. But how nicely the story has been developed and written about!
A Note of Suffering

Nobody wants blood money. Nations spend billions of dollars to wage war, but a $100 bill smudged with a man's blood makes the superstitious queasy.

Some days I feel like this - like I'm that man walking with life's ominous uncertainties creeping up on me...



Maybe I'll try to inspire myself with some quotes (A quote is like "bread for the famished", the Talmud says!)

“Uncertainty is the only certainty there is, and knowing how to live with insecurity is the only security.” - John Allen Paulos



“Uncertainty and mystery are energies of life. Don't let them scare you unduly, for they keep boredom at bay and spark creativity.”   - R. I. Fitzhenry 

“The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next.” - Ursula K. LeGuin 

The quest for certainty blocks the search for meaning. Uncertainty is the very condition to impel man to unfold his powers.”   - Erich Fromm 


Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing, through the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly of the chase.”  - William Congreve


Certainty is the mother of quiet and repose, and uncertainty the cause of variance and contentions”   - Edward Coke


Uncertainty will always be part of the taking charge process.”  - Harold S. Geneen
And so it goes...

The Future is Now

on Wednesday, March 18, 2009 with 0 comments » |

This is a must see!

This talk was the buzz at TED Talks this year -- Game-changing wearable tech



Related article in Wired: MIT students develop a wearable computing system that turns any surface into an interactive display screen.  

"The wearer can summon virtual gadgets and internet data at will, then dispel them like smoke when done."

My first thought was that this was like the movie Minority Report! Actually, this is quite different. I googled to remind myself of what Tom Cruise did in Minority Report and I think that was something like this "intuitive, interface-free, touch-driven screen".... also presented at TED Talks earlier.