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The Sunday Poem : Jim Daniels

 

 

 

 

 

Last Day in Coldwater


Our phone died due to lack
of payment. I left her a note
and trudged down
the gray splintered stairs.

She was sleeping the weekly
sleep of the dead,
the morning crash after the stairs
burned down beneath her.

After days of artificially sustained
floating above the scorched earth.

Paying bills required
a certain sustained attention.
We had cold water
and nothing more.

The unwritten debts were due.
They had the steepest
interest.

Listening to the blue music
of our veins, we had broken
the unwritten rules
and red-tagged our whereabouts.

I walked through dawn
and into hunger. I walked past
the smell of coffee and the shrinking
menu of our young lives.

We were close to Ohio,
closer to Indiana. Michigan
did not want us. We had no friends.
They had exploded

in one of our many miracles gone
wrong. She slept with hands limp
over the fold-out couch—our bed.

She’d want a fix when she awoke
to wind her clock.  How many pencils
can you have with hardened erasers
before you throw them all out?

Disconnected. Perhaps the recorded
message might briefly fool those out
to find us. Precision lost

its wings, then the wheels fell off.
We repossessed each other, in lieu
of fiscal responsibility. The wind swung wide
across the flat land. My face stung

with radioactive love. For her,
for it, and what came first? The drugs.
The drugs came first, so I mention them
last. Someone was going to climb the stairs

and it wouldn’t be me, and what
would they demand? I should’ve
woken her, but I did not. I should’ve
shaken the map in her face.

Look where we are,
I should have said.

 

 

 

About Jim Daniels

Jim Daniels’ recent books include Trigger Man: More Tales of the Motor City, fiction, Michigan State University Press, (Winner, Midwest Book Award), Having a Little Talk with Capital P Poetry, Carnegie Mellon University Press, (Poetry Gold Medal, Independent Publisher Book Awards), and All of the Above, Adastra Press, all published in 2011.

In 2010, he wrote and produced the independent film Mr. Pleasant, his third produced screenplay, which appeared in more than a dozen film festivals across the country, and From Milltown to Malltown (a collaborative book with photographs of Homestead, Pennsylvanie, by Charlee Brodsky), was published by Marick Press. His next book of poems, Birth Marks, will be published in 2013 by BOA Editions.

 

 

His poems have been featured on Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac, in Billy Collins’ Poetry 180 anthologies, and Ted Kooser’s “American Life in Poetry” series. His poem “Factory Love” is displayed on the roof of a race car.

He has received the Brittingham Prize for Poetry, the Tillie Olsen Prize, the Blue Lynx Poetry Prize, two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, and two from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts. His poems have appeared in the Pushcart Prize and Best American Poetry anthologies.

At Carnegie Mellon, where he is the Thomas Stockham Professor of English, he has received the Ryan Award for Excellence in Teaching and the Elliott Dunlap Smith Award for Teaching and Educational Service, and a Faculty Service Award from the Alumni Association. A native of Detroit, Daniels is a graduate of Alma College and Bowling Green State University. He lives in Pittsburgh with his family near the boyhood homes of Andy Warhol and Dan Marino.

 

 

Note: “Last Day in Coldwater” appears in The Plume Anthology, a new publication from editor Daniel Lawless and Plume, the popular online journal of contemporary international poetry. Almost seventy poets are represented in this inaugural volume, often with several poems, representing  a broad range of the best work by the best U.S. and international poets working today —  the latter with both originals and English translations. You can purchase a copy of The Plume Anthology on the Plume website or from Amazon. You can sign up for the Plume newsletter here or follow Plume on Facebook. Thanks to Jim Daniels and Daniel Lawless for permission to reprint this poem. 

 

 

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Also, don’t forget that the Gwarlingo bookstore has an assortment of book titles on my personal recommendation list, including poetry, fiction, art and photography books, and more. A portion of your purchases benefit Gwarlingo. You can also make purchases from your favorite independent bookstore through IndieBound. A percentage of your purchases made through this link also benefit Gwarlingo.

 

15+ Books Worth Reading from Hello Hello Books in Rockland, Maine

 

A Nancy Drew collection at Hello Hello Books in Rockland, Maine (Photo by Lacy Simons)

 

I do quite a bit of traveling for Gwarlingo these days and one of the best things about being on the road is discovering out-of-the way, independent bookshops. For me, walking into a deftly run, well-curated bookstore is almost as good as losing myself in a bang-up novel: there’s a sense of forgetting, as well as discovery.

That is exactly how I felt when I walked into Lacy Simons’ shop Hello Hello Books in Rockland, Maine, in late August.

I was fresh from a week on a boat and was literally finding my “land legs” when I stopped into the Rock City Cafe for a cup of coffee. Hello Hello Books is tucked away at the back of the cafe, but don’t let its location or size fool you. As one Hello Hello customer recently said, the store “is small, but powerful.”

I knew I was in the right place when I saw The McSweeney’s Book of Lists (funniest book ever), Mary Ruefle’s Selected Poems, and The Cloud Collector’s Handbook (an obscure, personal favorite) near the register and overheard the store’s owner, Lacy Simons, giving passionate, personal advice to a customer about a particular author.

Almost two hours later, I emerged from the shop with my arms full and my hunger for a little oceanside culture entirely satisfied.

 

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge. Click to Enlarge)

 

 

Lacy Simons assists a customer at Hello Hello Books (Photo by Michelle Aldredge. Click to Enlarge)

 

 

The Main Street entrance for Rock City Cafe and Hello Hello Books in Rockland, Maine (Photo by Michelle Aldredge. Click to Enlarge)

 

 

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge. Click to Enlarge)

 

 

Lacy Simons, owner of Hello Hello Books in Rockland, Maine (Photo courtesy Lacy Simons)

 

Simons grew up in Maine, worked as an AmeriCorps volunteer in Sitka, Alaska (which Lacy says, also has “an awesome bookstore), and then went on to earn her MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminar in 2003. For three years, she worked as the Managing Editor of Alice James Books, a forty-year-old independent poetry press based in Maine and one of my own favorite publishers.

Lacy is hardly new to the book scene in Rockland. “I worked for the previous business from 2003-2006 as the assistant bookshop manager (one of just two employees) and then returned in 2009 as the manager,” Lacy told me via email. “In early 2011, Susanne Ward (Rock City’s owner) decided she just couldn’t do the bookstore business anymore, and offered to sell it to me. I got my act together super quickly, and just a few months later, June of 2011, it became officially mine; in August of that same year, I officially opened for business!”

 

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge. Click to Enlarge)

 

 

(Photo by Lacy Simons)

 

 

(Photo by Lacy Simons)

 

 

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge. Click to Enlarge)

 

 

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge. Click to Enlarge)

 

At Hello Hello Books the shelves are teeming with unusual children’s books, quality magazines like The Paris Review, Uppercase, Lucky Peach, and The Believer, handmade cards, one-of-a-kind artist books, and funky finds like decorative Japanese tape and journals handmade from record album covers, as well as plenty of well-chosen books from every category under the sun. Simons doesn’t waste a single inch of space in her carefully curated store. There is a mixture of new, used, and sale books as well, which only adds to the fun.

Continue Reading…

The Sunday Poem : Joan Murray

 

Joan Murray (Photo by David Lee)

 

Today’s Sunday Poem is a special excerpt from poet Joan Murray’s project The Visitor: Poems from the Eastman House. The last time I saw Joan she was working on this series of poems at The MacDowell Colony. I asked Joan to tell us more about this project, which was inspired by photographs in the collection at the George Eastman House, the world’s oldest photography museum…

A few years back I was invited by the director of the Eastman House to collaborate on a project. He was aware of a few poems I’d written in response to works in the collection, and he offered to co-publish a book of my poems with the photographic images that inspired them. However, I was unable to find my way into the project—until last autumn when “voices began speaking” from the photos.

I was drawn to certain images because of the social or political ideas they stirred in me, and to others by the historic events or personal recollections they evoked for me, or by the opportunities they gave me for creative expression. Some poems touched on issues such as capital punishment, segregation, class disparity, gender attitudes, immigration, disability-institutionalization, and events such as the Depression and the Vietnam War.

All the poems are first-person, persona poems. In creating them, I’ve chosen an individual voice and pursued a particular narrative line—often an unexpected one—to make a point and create an effect. While inspired by the works of photographers, these are poems of my own perspective and concerns.

Most of the poems I’ve written so far were inspired by photographers working from 1900 to 1970. To complete my project, I’ll engage with more recent photographers, in particular women and minority photographers.

I kind of see this body of work as a social documentary of the 20th Century in verse.

I’ve selected two poems from Joan’s series to share with you today, along with the original photographs that inspired each piece. I’ll be eager to see the final publication when it comes out.

Enjoy your Sunday!

 

 

Gertrude Käserbier, Lollipops, 1910. (Photo courtesy Joan Murray. Click to Enlarge)

 

 

The Visitor

(after Lollipops, 1910, by Gertrude Käserbier)

Mother told me I must be kind to the gardener’s daughter.
Mother said some children are “less fortunate
than I.” Mother’s said the gardener’s daughter
had “a difficult life” before she came to live with her father.
The gardener’s daughter wore a dirty dress
the first time she came to play, so I gave her one of mine.
Next time she asked for my favorite shoes—
she’s not so fortunate as I—and her feet are just my size.
The gardener’s daughter told me she once had “another father.”
The gardener’s daughter taught me some of the words
he used to say. When we sit together at the bottom of the stairs,
we whisper them to each other. She calls me
a “silly bitch,” and I call her a “lazy slut”—
since she’s less fortunate than I.

I wonder if Mother knows her other father went to jail.
I wonder if Mother knows her mother got another—
she used to watch him run upstairs to punch
her mother in the nose. Sometimes she punches me
and tries to make me cry. But I don’t mind—she’s
less fortunate than I. And I love to hear the stories that she tells—
about the rats  in the alley, and her uncle who went crazy,
and her sister who’s a drunk, and her brother who’s a lady,
and the neighbor boy who pulled her bloomers
down in front of all her friends—but she’s my friend now.
She comes here every day, and Mother always gives us
lollies. I let her take the cherry—the one
we both like best—I take the yellow one that’s sour,
or the green one that’s the worst.

Now she’s crowding me into the banister
because she asked for my brand new bow—
I said I’d give it to her later—I always do—but she wants it now
so she can wear it to the gardener’s house for supper.
I hope she’ll invite me there someday. That way
I can see my teddy bear, and the locket father
gave me for my birthday, and the book I got from Mother
about a girl who has my name—she took my crayons
and crossed it out on every page, then made me
write her name—since she doesn’t know how.
She just asked me for my kitten. I pretended not to hear,
I pray she won’t ask me again. In fact I pray for her
each night since she’s less fortunate than I—I pray
that God will let her go and live with her mother.

 

 

Continue Reading…

The Sunday Poem : Judith Kitchen

 
 

 

(Note: Today’s Sunday Poem is part of Ted Kooser’s “American Life in Poetry” series and is made possible by The Poetry Foundation This one is for all of the gardeners out there!)

 

By describing the relocation of the moles which ravaged her yard, Washington poet Judith Kitchen presents an experience that resonates beyond the simple details, and suggests that children can learn important lessons through observation of the natural world.        -Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate, 2004-2006

 

 

 

 

Catching the Moles

 

First we tamp down the ridges
that criss-cross the yard

then wait for the ground
to move again.

I hold the shoe box,
you, the trowel.

When I give you the signal
you dig in behind

and flip forward.
Out he pops into daylight,

blind velvet.

We nudge him into the box,
carry him down the hill.

Four times we’ve done it.
The children worry.

Have we let them all go
at the very same spot?

Will they find each other?
We can’t be sure ourselves,

only just beginning to learn
the fragile rules of uprooting.

 

 

 

About Judith Kitchen

“Judith Kitchen is a gifted writer of immense humanity, grace, and depth,” says poet Naomi Shihab Nye. “Travel with her, trusting where she takes you.”

Judith Kitchen teaches nonfiction in the Rainier Writing Workshop, the Low-Residency MFA Program at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, WA. She is the author of five books: Perennials (poetry, Anhinga Press); Writing the World: Understanding William Stafford (criticism, Oregon State Univ. Press); Only the Dance (essays, Univ. of S. Carolina); Distance and Direction (essays, Coffee House Press), and The House on Eccles Road (novel, Graywolf Press; Penguin paperback), which was awarded the S. Mariella Gable Prize in fiction. A third book of nonfiction, Half in Shade, was published by Coffee House Press in Spring 2012. In addition, she has edited or co-edited three popular collections of nonfiction (In Short, In Brief, and Short Takes, all W. W. Norton) and, with Ted Kooser, an anthology, The Poets Guide to the Birds (Anhinga Press).

Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals, including recent essays in Prairie Schooner, Colorado Review, Great River Review, and The Georgia Review. Her awards include two Pushcart Prizes for an essay, the Lillian Fairchild Award for her novel, the Anhinga Prize for poetry, and a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. She has served as judge for the AWP Nonfiction Award, the Pushcart Prize in poetry, the Oregon Book Award, and the Bush Foundation Fellowships, among others. Kitchen is an Advisory and Contributing Editor for The Georgia Review where she is a regular reviewer of poetry.
 

 
A native upstate New Yorker, she grew up in Painted Post, a small town on the Pennsylvania border. After college in Vermont, a junior year in Edinburgh, Scotland, and some years living in both Scotland and Brazil, she returned to upstate NY where she worked as a part-time secretary, an assistant in a carnival supply business, with the New York state Poets in the Schools, and finally as an instructor at SUNY College at Brockport, where she taught courses in Creative Nonfiction, Poetry, and The Writer’s Craft.

For twenty years, she served as editor and publisher of the State Street Press Chapbook Series, producing a total of 76 chapbooks, two pamphlets, five full-length books, two translations, and one anthology. In 1997, she was named Writer-in-Residence at SUNY Brockport, and in 2003, she and her husband, Stan Sanvel Rubin, moved to Port Townsend, WA, where they act as co-directors of the Rainier Writing Workshop

For more information about Judith Kitchen and her writing, please visit her website.

 


 
Don’t miss the next Gwarlingo feature. Stay up on the latest art news by having Gwarlingo delivered to your email inbox. It’s easy and free! You can also follow Gwarlingo on Twitter and Facebook.

Also, don’t forget that the Gwarlingo bookstore has an assortment of book titles on my personal recommendation list, including poetry, fiction, art and photography books, and more. A portion of your purchases benefit Gwarlingo. You can also make purchases from your favorite independent bookstore through IndieBound. A percentage of your purchases made through this link also benefit Gwarlingo.
 

Shop Indie Bookstores     

 

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation, publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright © 1986 by Judith Kitchen, whose most recent book is Half in Shade, (Coffee House Press, 2012). Reprinted from Perennials, Anhinga Press, 1986, with permission of the author. Introduction copyright © 2012 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts. Note: Author biography courtesy of Judith Kitchen’s website.

 

The Sunday Poem: Natalie Diaz

 

 

New poetry publications have been piling up in my post office box, a sure sign that the fall book season is here. One of the best surprises that’s appeared in my mail in recent weeks is Copper Canyon’s When My Brother Was an Aztec by poet Natalie Diaz.

Diaz, a member of the Mojave and Pima Indian tribes, began writing poetry in college. Many of her poems deal with the harsh realities of reservation life: poverty, teen pregnancy and meth-amphetamine drug addiction. There is violence, as well as tenderness in her work—a brutal honesty that is both personal and  far-reaching. Her ideas and descriptions of reservation life come from a deeply intimate place, but are also panoramic in scope. Diaz acknowledges the larger social and political ills that have led to poor health, drugs, and poverty on the reservation, but she prefers to focus on how these issues play out in her own life and the life of her family and neighbors. While her language is visceral and unstinting, it never falls into the trap of didacticism or self-pity.

“I guess, when we see someone’s heart ripped out,” Diaz told Ploughshares magazine, “we tend to look away—we question why we had to see it. I do not deny that violence, not in real life or in my work. I cannot unsee what I’ve seen. But I hope my poems also remind people of the humanity that exists in the midst of it.”

We can hear Diaz’s dark, humorous voice in her poem ”A Woman with No Legs,” which she wrote about her great grandmother, Lona Barrackman, a double-amputee. “The image of the amputee haunts many natives,” Diaz explained to Ploughshares. ”The parts of her that were gone turned the parts of her that were there electric. Through her, I learned to see the body as a blessing, an altar, even. I know how to appreciate its presence because of her.”

 

 

Two years ago, Diaz felt a calling to return to the reservation to help preserve the Mojave language, which is rapidly being lost. “Mojave language work is empowering,” Diaz told Ploughshares. “It is a reversal of sorts. It is like rounding up a bunch of English words at night and tying them together behind a horse and dragging them away (which was done to our Mojave people). It looks like stripping them down, cutting their hair, and demanding, What do you mean? Shouting, We don’t understand you. Then, starving them, until we can see their bones, then asking, Is that what you mean? But we don’t wait for their answer. We answer for them, You aren’t who you say you are. You are who we say you are, or you are nothing. Finally, we relearn what our Elders have meant their whole lives: birds cry instead of sing, kissing is falling into the mouth of another, making love is a hummingbird, the Milky Way is the trail of the Mojave salmon across the night.”

I simply couldn’t be satisfied with a single poem from Natalie Diaz’s knockout collection, so I’ve selected four of my favorites to share with you. If you enjoy Diaz’s work you can also hear her read two poems on PBS’s NewsHour in the below video. I’ve included the NewsHour’s story about Diaz and her work with the Mojave tribe, as well. The seven-minute piece is an excellent introduction to the the Mojave language program she’s started and is well-worth watching.

Enjoy your Sunday and your Labor Day. Thanks for reading.

 

 

 

 

Why I Hate Raisins

 

And is it only the mouth and belly which are

injured by hunger and thirst?

-Mencius

 

Love is a pound of sticky raisins

packed tight in black and white

government boxes the day we had no

groceries. I told my mom I was hungry.

She gave me the whole bright box.

USDA stamped like a fist on the side.

I ate them all in ten minutes. Ate

too many too fast. It wasn’t long

before those old grapes set like black

clay at the bottom of my belly

making it ache and swell.

 

I complained, I hate raisins.

I just wanted a sandwich like other kids.

Well that’s all we’ve got, my mom sighed.

And what other kids?

Everoyone but me, I told her.

She said, You mean the white kids.

You want to be a white kid?

Well too bad ’cause you’re my kid.

I cried, At least the white kids get a sandwich.

At least the white kids don’t get the shits.

 

That’s when she slapped me. Left me

holding my mouth and stomach—

devoured by shame.

I still hate raisins,

but not for the crooked commodity lines

we stood in to get them—winding

around and in the tribal gymnasium.

Not for the awkward cardboard boxes

we carried them home in. Not for the shits

or how they distended my belly.

I hate raisins because now I know

my mom was hungry that day, too,

and I ate all the raisins.

 
 
 
 
 

Downhill Triolets

 

SISYPHUS AND MY BROTHER

 

The phone rings—my brother was arrested again.

Dad hangs up, gets his old blue Chevy going, and heads to the police station.

It’s not the first time. It’s not even the second.

No one is surprised when my brother is arrested again.

The guy fell on my knife was his one-phone-call explanation.

(He stabbed a man five times in the back is the official accusation.)

My brother is arrested again and again. And again

our dad, our Sisyphus, pushes his old blue heart up to the station.

 

GOD, LIONEL RICHIE, AND MY BROTHER

 

Ring, ring, ring at 2 a.m. means meth’s got my brother in the slammer again.

God told him Break into Grandma’s house and Lionel Richie gave him that

feeling of dancing on the ceiling.

My dad said, At 2 a.m.God and Lionel Richie don’t make good friends.

Ring, ring, ring at 2 a.m. means meth’s got my brother by the balls again.

With God in one ear and Lionel in the other, who can win?

Not my brother, so he made a meth pipe from the lightbulb and smoked

himself reeling.

Ring, ring, ring at 2 a.m. means my brother’s tweaked himself into jail again.

It wasn’t his fault, not with God guiding his foot through the door and

honey-voiced Lionel whispering Hard to keep your feet on the ground 

with such a smooth-ass ceiling.

 

TRIBAL COPS, GERONIMO, JIMI HENDRIX, AND MY BROTHER

 

The tribal cops are in our front yard calling in on a little black radio: I got a

10-15 for 2-6-7 and 4-15.

The 10-15 they got is my brother, a Geronimo-wannabe who thinks he’s

holding out. In his mind he’s playing backup for Jimi—

he is an itching, bopping head full of “Fire.” Mom cried, Stop acting so

crazy, but he kept banging air drums against the windows and ripped

out all the screens.

This time, we called the cops, and when they came we just watched—we

have been here before and we know 2-6-7 and 4-15 will get him 10-15.

His eyes are escape caves torchlit by his 2-6-7 of choice: crystal

methamphetamine.

Finally, he’s in the back of the cop car, hands in handcuffs shiny and

shaped like infinity.

Now that he’s 10-15, he’s kicking at the doors and security screen, a 2-6-7

fiend saying, I got desires that burn and make me wanna 4-15.

His tongue is flashing around his mouth like a world’s fair Ferris wheel—

but he’s no Geronimo, Geronimo would find a way out instead of

giving in so easily.

 
 
Continue Reading…

The Sunday Poem : Hayden Carruth

 

 

 

 

 

For Geof

 

I’m eighty-four now. Now I know what I

Should have done. After the war I should

Have stayed in the army. And now I’d be

A retired sergeant or captain with a pension

Much bigger than social security. Instead

All those years of puzzling with a stubby pen-

Cil over a dog-eared tablet of scrawly lines,

Synonyms listed in the margins and arrows flying

This way and that. Years, I say. Thinking

Of words, words, words, nothing but words

Zipping or fluttering above a cotton field

In the dull Louisiana of my consciousness.

And all the recompense was now and then

A moment’s elation or a tipsy smile

From one passing female or another. Now

What have I left to do? Only this penta-

Metric shuffle in the checkout line with my

No Advantage Card clutched in my greasy hand

While Frank Sinatra is eating soup on the Muzak.

Give me a break, man. I’m doing the best I can.

Oops.

 

 

 

For Wendell

 

For the light is changed.

For the song of the brook is

Changed. And we too are changed.

So select a pod and pick it.

Press it to make it split

And run your thumb along

The spine to gather the green

Peas and throw them into

Your mouth, and taste—

And taste the green spring!

 

 
Continue Reading…

Samein Priester on Fatherhood, Film, & Loss of His Wife, Artist Denyse Thomasos

 

Filmmaker Samein Priester with his daughter Syann (Photo courtesy Samein Priester)

How do you learn to be a father, particularly when there are no fathers around to be an example?

This is the question at the heart of Samein Priester’s personal documentary 1st&4ever. The dilemma of fatherhood has taken on new significance for Samein since the tragic loss of his partner, artist Denyse Thomasos, last month.

Denyse’s visit to the hospital on July 19th was supposed to be routine. She was there for an MRI, but during the procedure she suffered a fatal allergic reaction. Her sudden death has left her husband, friends, family, students, colleagues, and the New York art community in shock. Denyse was only 47 years old.

Since 1995, Denyse taught in the Arts, Culture and Media Department at Rutgers University, Newark. When she met Samein, he was preparing to complete his undergraduate degree at Hunter. It was Denyse who pushed Samein to apply to graduate school at the City College of New York. “When I first got into grad school,” Samein explains in 1st&4ever, “my mother didn’t even know what that was, but she knew it was something big.” In December 2009, during his first semester, Samein’s mother passed away. She was the glue that held the family together, and her loss was a terrible blow to the family. In June of 2011 Samein graduated from City College.

 

Denyse and Samein were not only best friends, but also partners in life, work, and parenthood. In June of 2010 the couple adopted their first child, Syann, a joyful event that Samein chronicles at the end of his documentary 1st&4ever. (Photo courtesy Samein Priester)

 

Denyse and Samein were not only best friends and spouses, but also partners in life, work, and parenthood. In June of 2010 the couple adopted their first child, Syann, a joyful event that Samein chronicles at the end of 1st&4ever. “I’m going to be the best father that Syann can possibly ever have,” he says in his film. Samein repeated the same sentiment when we spoke at length on the phone last week. He is clearly stunned and grieving the sudden loss of his partner, but he is also focused on his daughter and creating a healthy, stable life for her in spite of Denyse’s absence.

“From the moment I met Denyse my life turned around,” Samein told me today via email. “She really made all of my dreams come true, down to my baby girl Syann. That was a name I had since I was 15. I always knew I’d have a daughter and her name would be Syann.”

 

Denyse Thomasos’s visit to the hospital on July 19th was supposed to be routine. She was there for an MRI, but during the procedure she suffered a fatal allergic reaction. Her sudden death has left her husband, friends, family, students, colleagues, and the New York art community in shock. (Photo courtesy Samein Priester)

 

 

The final version of Denyse Thomasos’s Arc, 2009, also shown above (Photo courtesy Olga Korper Gallery)

 

Samein and Denyse were both fellows at The MacDowell Colony. I met Samein at the Colony in the spring, just as I was leaving my job after 13 years to work on Gwarlingo full time. “Denyse told me I should apply,” Samein told me. “She knew I needed time to work, but she also thought the experience would be good for me as an artist.” Denyse clearly was supportive of her husband’s film career, just as he was supportive of her residencies, teaching job, and career as a painter. Tending to work and parenting was clearly a juggling act, but he said that he and Denyse were up to the challenge.

While in Peterborough, Samein talked a lot about his daughter, Syann, and how hard it was to be away from her, even for a short time. Each day when I ran into Samein returning his lunch basket in the main building, he smiled and expressed gratitude for the time, space, food, and community that MacDowell was providing him. He was well-liked by residents and staff alike, and we were all sorry when family obligations required him to return to New York after only a brief stay in New Hampshire.

But none of us forgot Samein or his powerful, short film 1st&4ever, which he screened during his residency. Half of the audience was in tears by the time it ended, but 1st&4ever is far from a sentimental tearjerker. It’s an honest, intimate portrait of a family doing their best to overcome the absent fathers who have left gaping holes in their lives. The minute the film was finished I knew that I wanted to share 1st&4ever with Gwarlingo readers.

Priester’s film won “Best Documentary” in the Newark Museum Black Film Festival 2012, as well as “Best Documentary” and “Best Cinematography in a Documentary” in the 2011 Citivision thesis show.

 

“Donte’s father was never around. My father wasn’t ever around. Really nobody’s father was around. They were in jail, dead, or missing in action. It was like no-man’s land. I thought it was normal, but it’s really not.”

 

The central focus of the film is Samein’s nephew, Donte Clark, a football player whose mother was only 18 years old when he was born. Donte has had contact with his father only twice in his life — once by phone and once through a letter his father sent him from jail. Samein was 13 when Donte was born, but he stepped up to the plate to help his sister Vanessa by mixing baby formula, changing diapers, and babysitting. “When you’re in the hood,” Sameine says in his film, “you don’t have a choice. It’s like all hands on deck. You don’t set out to be a father figure. You just start to multitask…There’s no daycare or nannies. There’s just family.”

“Donte’s father was never around. My father wasn’t ever around. Really nobody’s father was around. They were in jail, dead, or missing in action. It was like no-man’s land. I thought it was normal, but it’s really not.”

These intimate glimpses of Samein, his mother, and Donte are interspersed with memorable images of Harlem, subway trains, and the distant skyscrapers of New York City. But these views are mostly seen through mesh screens or chain-link fences. In Priester’s film, there is always something standing in the way.

Football is a lifeline for Donte. While other kids are “getting beat-up or shot,” he spends time in the park playing football. New York Venom head football coach Booker T. McJunkins says that his job is to be a foster father by helping each individual ball player. He explains that being a father figure is more important than accolades or the team’s success as a whole:

“A lot of these kids don’t know how to be men, they don’t know how to raise a family. They don’t know how to show compassion. That’s why we have the problems we have in the city, because a lot of these kids don’t have male figures in their lives…People look at these 18, 19-year-olds, 2o-year-olds, 21-year olds, even 22-year-olds as grown up men, but those are still little boys wrapped in a grown man’s package.”

Samein lost his own father when he was three. “He wasn’t there to teach me how to be a man or to teach me how to be a father,” Samein says in 1st&4ever. “None of us have role models for that. Helping raise Donte made me want to be a father, but how do you learn to be a father without examples?”

 

“From the moment I met Denyse my life turned around,” Samein told me via email. “She really made all of my dreams come true, down to my baby girl Syann. That was a name I had since I was 15. I always knew I’d have a daughter and her name would be Syann.” (Photo courtesy Cityvisions)

 

 

Denyse, Syann, and Samein (Photo courtesy Samein Priester)

 

The intimate images of Syann, Denise, and Samein that conclude 1st&4ever are supposed to be a hopeful ending to this story of a close-knit, fatherless family. Seeing the three of them together during and after the adoption, we’re confident that some old patterns have been broken at last.

But as I watched the film again today, it was impossible not to feel the sting of Denyse’s loss. Being “a good father” is challenging under the best of circumstances. Now Samein must tackle the job without the support of his wife and partner. I can only admire Samein’s dedication to Syann and his nephew Donte. The path to fatherhood has been, and will be, hard-won for Samein, but he has a strong support network, including the help of Denyse’s family in Canada.

When I asked Samein to share some of the directors who inspire him most, he mentioned John Cassavetes, Spike Lee, and Francis Ford Coppola. Favorite movies include Fight Club, The Conversation, True Romance, Reds, The Piano, and She’s Gotta Have It.

Priester has two new projects in the works. The first is a film called Harlem Sons about three men from Harlem who are released from prison after serving nearly 30 years. Like 1st&4ever, Harlem Sons focuses on family and redemption.

While continuing the search for a full-time film teaching job, Samein has also been piecing together a film about Denyse for Syann. “I have received cards and calls from around the world with people wanting Syann and I to know how sorry they are,” Samein told me by email. “Every card or call is a message of love. Every person has a personal story to tell about Denyse. I plan to take the road trip and capture each story, no matter how short the story or how far away the person lives. When the time comes, I’ll be able to show Syann who her mother was.”

 

Sorting out the intricacies of Denyse’s estate is going to take some time, Samein told me on the phone. Friends have set up two different funds in Denyse’s honor to help Syann. One is a college fund for Syann, which she can use for her education in 2034; the other fund will help with her immediate needs. (Photo courtesy Samein Priester)

 

 

Denyse “was the kind of person you were very attracted to — fun to be with, smart, talented, outspoken, generous. She had a real creative sense about how to make her life rich and bring that to whatever she did. She was really an admirable creative woman.” (Photo courtesy Samein Priester)

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The Sunday Poem : Frank O’Hara

 

Frank O’Hara by Alice Neel, 1960. Oil on canvas (85.7 x 40.6 x 2.5 cm). Gift of Hartley S. Neel. National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution. © Estate of Alice Neel.

Art critic and New York School poet Frank O’Hara studied piano at the New England Conservatory in Boston from 1941 to 1944 and served in the South Pacific and Japan as a sonarman on the destroyer USS Nicholas during World War II.

With the funding made available to veterans he attended Harvard University, where artist and writer Edward Gorey was his roommate. He then attended graduate school at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor and received his M.A. in English literature in 1951. That autumn O’Hara moved to New York City where he began teaching at The New School.

Known for his extreme sociability, passion, and warmth, O’Hara had hundreds of friends throughout his life, many from the New York art and poetry worlds. Soon after arriving in New York, he was employed at the front desk of the Museum of Modern Art and began to write seriously.

As his biography on the Poetry Foundation website details, he brought a refreshing new casualness and spontaneity to poetry, making deliriously funny and surprisingly moving verse out of everyday activities recounted in conversational tones. What he called his “I do this I do that” poems often featured glimpses of his adored New York City or anecdotes about friends—most of whom were themselves poets or painters.

Friends with artists like Willem de Kooning, Grace Hartigan, Larry Rivers and Joan Mitchell, O’Hara also worked as a reviewer for Artnews, and in 1960 became Assistant Curator of Painting and Sculpture Exhibitions for the Museum of Modern Art.

 

“Back Table at the Five Spot” by Burt Glinn. Gelatin silver print. Worcester Art Museum, Worcester, Massachusetts. At the “back table” are (left to right) Frank O’Hara, Larry Rivers, and Grace Hartigan. (Photo courtesy the Special Collections Research Center at the Syracuse University Library)

 

In 1966 Richard O. Moore produced and directed USA: Poetry for National Education Television. The twelve part documentary series showcased many poets including, O’Hara, Anne Sexton, John Ashbery, Allen Ginsberg, Robert Creeley, Gary Snyder, Kenneth Koch, Ed Sanders, Michael McClure, Philip Whalen, Richard Wilbur, and Denise Levertov. This classic film of Frank O’Hara reading “Having a Coke with You” is one of my favorites in the series.

Tragically, O’Hara’s brilliant career as a writer and art curator was cut short by a freak accident just four months after this film was made. In the early morning hours of July 24, 1966, the poet was struck by a dune buggy on Fire Island beach. He died the next day of a ruptured liver at the age of 40. He was buried in Green River Cemetery on Long Island. The painter Larry Rivers, a longtime friend of O’Hara’s, delivered the eulogy.
 

Frank O’Hara in 1958 (Photo by Harry Redl)


 
As part of the New York School, O’Hara’s poetry shows the influence of Abstract Expressionism, Surrealism, Russian poetry, and poets associated with French Symbolism. In the introduction to The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara, the poet John Ashbery says, “O’Hara’s concept of the poem as the chronicle of the creative act that produces it was strengthened by his intimate experience of Pollock’s, Kline’s, and de Kooning’s great paintings of the late ’40s and early ’50s and of the imaginative realism of painters like Jane Freilicher and Larry Rivers.”

O’Hara discussed his own approach to writing in Donald Allen’s New American Poetry:

“What is happening to me…goes into my poems. I don’t think my experiences are clarified or made beautiful for myself or anyone else, they are just there in whatever form I can find them…My formal ‘stance’ is found at the crossroads where what I know and can’t get meets what is left of that I know and can bear without hatred…It may be that poetry makes life’s nebulous events tangible to me and restores their detail; or conversely that poetry brings forth the intangible quality of incidents which are all too concrete and circumstantial. Or each on specific occasions, or both all the time.”

 

 


 
 

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Being André Gregory : Before and After Dinner

 

Self-portraits by actor and theatre director André Gregory (Photo courtesy Atlas Theatre Company)

 

We gathered around André Gregory like children eagerly assembling around the librarian for story hour. André perched in a picture window inside Winsome Brown and Claude Arpels’ fashionable Tribeca apartment. Behind him, the sun was setting over the Hudson River. On the wall hung a series of striking self-portraits by Gregory.

We were gathered in Tribeca with some of André’s closest friends and supporters to hear the legendary raconteur tell stories. The event was also a party for Before and After Dinner, a new documentary about Gregory directed by his wife, filmmaker Cindy Kleine. The genuine affection the guests felts for André was palpable as he moved around the room embracing old friends and asking questions of acquaintances and strangers. The passion, empathy, and sincerity Gregory radiates on screen also comes through in person, a fact that is quite remarkable when you consider André’s personal history.

“How many of you have seen the film The Shining?” he asked. “That’s a documentary about my childhood,” André said with a laugh. And he wasn’t kidding.

On May 18, 2009, the opening day of Wally Shawn’s Grasses of a Thousand Colors in London, which was directed by Gregory, André received a disturbing phone call from his brother, who informed him of a document implicating their prominent Jewish father as an economic spy for Hitler. The next day, André came down with a severe case of shingles.

As André told us that evening in Tribeca, most people would have balked at receiving word that their father was potentially a Nazi collaborator, but in his case, the disturbing revelation, while unexpected, was not unbelievable. The quest to confirm or disprove this shocking story would become the centerpiece of Kleine’s film. The filmmaker’s marriage to André placed her in a unique position to capture intimate stories about Gregory’s dysfunctional childhood—stories that took on new meaning in light of his brother’s discovery.

 

As André told us that evening in Tribeca, most people would have balked at receiving word that their father was potentially a Nazi collaborator, but in his case, the disturbing revelation, while unexpected, was not unbelievable. (Still from Before and After Dinner courtesy Cindy Kleine and Atlas Theatre Company)

 

 

André Gregory and his father (Photo courtesy Cindy Kleine and Atlas Theatre Company)

 

As Klein’s documentary reveals, André’s parents were “Jews who forgot to tell their kids they were Jews.” Fugitives from Stalinist Russia and Nazi Germany, the family was on the last ship to leave England before the war began. Looking back, André’s family was often one step ahead of the Nazis, a fact that raises further questions about his father’s connections with Hitler. The fact that Hitler’s foreign minister also visited his parents’ home was another worrying piece of the family puzzle.

During our evening together, André described his father as “non-human”—a manic depressive with “no empathy.” His parents would leave André and his brother in the care of a babysitter, then disappear. Instead of returning home as scheduled or sending home news of their whereabouts or travel plans, they would send money. Once, when André’s mother was passing a woman and child in the street, she declared, “What a beautiful baby!” The woman answered, “But Madam, he’s yours.” ”My Nanny saved me,” Gregory told us.

His happiest times were in Beverly Hills in the 1940s, where the family lived in a lavish house with a plastic driveway lit from below. André remembers Charlie Chaplin visiting regularly. One afternoon Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo played tennis in his backyard, a doubles match against Thomas Mann and Errol Flynn. According to rumors, his mother had an affair with Errol Flynn.

“I know when I die, you’ll dance on my grave,” André’s mother once chided the family. “It was so true,” Gregory explained, “no one knew what to say.”

Gregory grew up in an overly formal household where people said horrible things about the people they loved most. As a child, André was never touched, hugged, or shown any sort of physical affection. An attractive girl once kissed the teenage Gregory in a graveyard and he fainted in shock.

 

André riding an alligator (Photo courtesy Cindy Kleine and Atlas Theatre Company)


 

It was his desire to heal his parent’s unhappiness and dysfunction that honed his role as the family caretaker, a role he has also assumed within his theatre company. “If you go into the theater,” his mother once told him, “your father will have a heart attack. He’s already had one.” As a boy, Gregory longed to have a magic wand to fix his father. “I wanted to persuade him that his life was really beautiful,” Gregory reveals in an intimate moment in Before and After Dinner. “You have such a nice life…wonderful friends…you’re so well off.”

Most people know André Gregory through his critically acclaimed film My Dinner with André (or, from the other end of the film spectrum, as the warden who has his eye gouged out by Wesley Snipes in Demolition Man). Gregory has had numerous film acting roles. He played John the Baptist in Scorsese’s Last Temptation of Christ and appeared in Woody Allen’s Celebrity and Peter Weir’s The Mosquito Coast. Louis Malle, Wallace Shawn, and Gregory also collaborated on the film Vanya on 42nd Street with Julianne Moore. Kleine told me that Gregory is frequently recognized on the streets of New York, but his celebrity is of a peculiar sort. Those who recognize him from My Dinner with André often approach Gregory “with gracious awe, the way one approaches a great rabbi or teacher.”
 

Andre Gregory in 1965  (Photo courtesy Cindy Kleine and Atlas Theatre Company)

 

 

Performing is really about “the art of being,” says André. To inhabit such a place as an actor, writer, or director requires both space and a sense of safety, an atmosphere Gregory is clearly skilled at creating within his company. (Photos courtesy Cindy Kleine and Atlas Theatre Company)


 
But Gregory’s impact on the art world extends far beyond these high-profile acting roles. In the theatre world, André Gregory is revered as a master storyteller, an influential teacher, and as a visionary director who believes that the role of theatre is to awaken the audience and make them question themselves and the world around them (no small goal). For Gregory, this means keeping audiences small and venues intimate. “What happens in these small spaces because of their intimacy,” Kleine explained, ”is that audience members become active participants in the ritual being performed.” In the same way that chamber music loses its impact in an oversized concert hall, live theatre can also lose its effectiveness if a venue is too large.

From the very beginning of his career, Gregory had a fresh and personal approach to theatre. Deeply influenced by both Brecht and Tarkovsky, he is one of the original creators of the regional and off-Broadway theatre movements. His legendary, Obie-winning production of Alice in Wonderland played in New York for seven years. “People screamed during the play like a roller coaster,” Shawn told Noah Baumbach in an interview. It was “thrilling.” Alice toured the U.S., Middle East, and Europe and was eventually made into a book in collaboration with photographer Richard Avedon.

Gregory often says that Alice in Wonderland is a “portrait of his own childhood.” Alice is born into this terrifying, insane world and is simply traveling around trying to make sense of things, but she never gets a direct answer to her questions.
 

Richard Avedon’s 1973 book Alice in Wonderland: The Forming of a Company and the Making of a Play (Photo © Richard Avedon courtesy the Richard Avedon Foundation. Click to Enlarge)

 

 

Deeply influenced by both Brecht and Tarkovsky, Gregory is one of the original creators of the regional and off-Broadway theatre movements. (Photo courtesy grotowski.net)


 
Kleine’s film gives us a rare look at how a childhood can shape the creative life of an artist. But be forewarned, this is not a traditional documentary. To better understand Kleine’s approach, it’s useful to revisit My Dinner with André, for Before and After Dinner is really a companion piece to the much-discussed, art-house hit from 1981. If My Dinner with Andre gives its audience a glimpse of “André the Character,” Before and After Dinner addresses the gap between fiction and reality by giving us a taste of “André Gregory the Man.” Both films ask versions of the same question: “Who exactly is André Gregory?”

Directed by French filmmaker Louis Malle, My Dinner with André was a radical concept in 1981 and remains so today. The entire 110-minute movie depicts a conversation between André Gregory and his friend Wally Shawn during dinner in a chic Manhattan restaurant. The two friends talk about experimental theater, love, work, money, spirituality, and the nature of life itself. There are no flashbacks depicted on screen, only verbal exchanges like these between André and Wally:

André: What does it do to us, Wally, living in an environment where something as massive as the seasons or winter or cold, don’t in any way affect us? I mean, were animals after all. I mean… what does that mean? I think that means that instead of living under the sun and the moon and the sky and the stars, we’re living in a fantasy world of our own making.

Wally: Yeah, but I mean, I would never give up my electric blanket, Andre. I mean, because New York is cold in the winter. I mean, our apartment is cold! It’s a difficult environment. I mean, our life is tough enough as it is. I’m not looking for ways to get rid of a few things that provide relief and comfort. I mean, on the contrary, I’m looking for more comfort because the world is very abrasive. I mean, I’m trying to protect myself because, really, there’s these abrasive beatings to be avoided everywhere you look!

André: But, Wally, don’t you see that comfort can be dangerous? I mean, you like to be comfortable and I like to be comfortable too, but comfort can lull you into a dangerous tranquility.

 

My Dinner with André “is about men, because men tend to be so hidden,” says Gregory. “And Wally is hiding behind silence. I’m hiding behind words. The progress of the movie is that Wally is able to come out and start revealing and I’m able to to listen…These were radical actions as characters.”

 

 

(Photos courtesy Cindy Kleine and Atlas Theatre Company)


 
For six months Shawn and Gregory met in a room at NYU to work on the project. Each session began with André telling Wally a story. By the time they ended these regular meetings, the typed transcript from their conversations was over 1500 single-spaced pages. Shawn spent more than a year wading through the transcript identifying central themes that could be used in the screenplay. From these themes, he crafted a three-hour script comprised entirely of fragments from his real conversations with Gregory. Malle, Shawn, and Gregory then edited the script down to a two hour film. Malle was able to trim My Dinner with André down to 110 minutes in the editing room.

They shot the film in the then-abandoned Jefferson Hotel in Richmond, Virginia. Because heating the immense building was too expensive, the crew ran heaters in between takes. Gregory says he wore long-johns and kept an electric blanket on his lap during the shoot (a funny irony in light of the above dialogue).

If it’s been a while since you’ve seen My Dinner with André, I encourage you to watch it again, for it’s one of those classic pieces of cinema that only improves and expands with time. It’s one of the few films I know that investigates the cinematic potential of language. Gregory discusses this idea further with Noah Baumbach in a DVD interview for Criterion. In the late 70s and early 80s, we were living in a time “when no one was talking…in depth. It was all…very superficial. If I had one goal with this movie, it was to hopefully activate people to talk again.”

For Gregory, My Dinner with André “is as big as Lawrence of Arabia or Cleopatra” because the film takes the viewer to Tibet and the Polish forest, but each viewer sees his own Tibet, his own Polish forest.” My Dinner with André is a radical piece of cinema because it isn’t doing everything for you as a viewer. Instead, it’s activating your imagination. “If you like the movie,” Gregory explains to Baumbach, “it’s waking you up, which was one of the intentions of the movie.”

“The film is about men, because men tend to be so hidden,” Gregory adds. “And Wally is hiding behind silence. I’m hiding behind words. The progress of the movie is that Wally is able to come out and start revealing and I’m able to to listen…These were radical actions as characters.”

 

 

In Baumbach’s interview with Wally Shawn, the playwright agrees with his friend’s description. ”The film is about being asleep and waking up. Are you just crawling through your life like a mole…? Are you not observing what’s going on in your own life and not letting your consciousness speak to you?” Shawn is also quick to point out what is NOT overtly stated in the film: political consciousness. My Dinner with André depicts “two upper-class guys spending hours talking about life, while others are working and suffering,” says Shawn. “I wanted to kill that side of myself by making the film because that guy is totally motivated by fear and he’s defending himself and he is the bourgeois human being.”

In his conversation with Baumbach, Gregory says that there was one question that initially vexed him during the making of the film: Who exactly am I? In My Dinner with André he is playing a character based on himself. But even in real life the André that his doctor sees is completely different from the André his wife knows. Gregory’s breakthrough came when he got the idea for using four different voices in the film:

1. André the Peter Brook theatre guru

2. André the off-the-wall, spacey, dilettante rich kid

3. André the spiritual used car salesman

4. And André  when he is being sincere, as seen in the last part of the film

If Malle’s movie gives us these four sides of André Gregory the character, Cindy Kleine’s documentary Before and After Dinner fills in the gaps with intimate glimpses of André the loving husband, the loyal friend, the searching son, the patient director, the encouraging father figure. In many ways the films are two sides of one coin, or of one man in this case.

 

(Still from Before and After Dinner courtesy Cindy Kleine and Atlas Theatre Company)

 

Kleine’s dual role as wife and director gives us a unique perspective on André. We see him in some of his most intimate moments—making breakfast, bending over a steam inhaler, frolicking naked in a hot tub with a puffy shower cap on his head. It’s hard to imagine that such moments could have been captured by anyone other than his wife. To see a public figure letting relaxing and letting his guard down is a scarce thing in documentary film. Watching such scenes only confirms the impression I had upon meeting André in person: this is a man who has a passion for living, someone who appreciates life’s fragility. “He is a man who is not afraid to step into his own life,” says Kleine, “and is, therefore a rare and precious bird.”

Before and After Dinner is really a love story of sorts, for it captures something exceedingly uncommon in the movies: a happy marriage. “The only two films I can think of that depict happy marriages are Mrs. Miniver from 1942 and Mike Leigh’s Another Year,” Kleine told me over the phone this week. “But unhappy marriages…There are plenty of films about miserable relationships.”

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