THE SIGNAL from David Katznelson
"We are all just walking each other home"-Ram Dass
It has been an incredible experience sourcing the poetry for this newsletter, mostly because poetry like crossword puzzles, is something that once you engage with it regularly, the alienness of the medium disappears and the random poem becomes more easily….more quickly…decoded and absorbed. Being in good “poetry shape” means being able to consume more of it, more quickly…taking in the brilliance of the artists behind the words and yes, finding a definite life-enhancing reframing.
Poetry is such a strange thing for the uninitiated. I was very fortunate to have teachers early on who helped crack the nut of how to approach a poem. Flossy Lewis, who became an internet star in her 90s with a profile done by a friend, was the life changing teacher at Lowell High School who taught me to read a poem twice, first to comprehend the basic idea/plot of the poem: what the poem was literally saying. And then the second, slower read, to start to uncover the meaning behind the poem…what the poet was trying trying to convey within the lines, stanza, maybe rhythm and rhyme. She changed my world with the classes she taught on poetry: on Robert Berns, Shakespeare and John Keats.
And when I went to US Berkeley (GO BEARS), and majored in English Literature, I eagerly jumped into classes examining some of the great poetry movements of history.
In 8th grade, I was allowed to take a Humanities course where for the first time I was asked to take a deep dive into modern poetry. I wish I could remember the poet’s name who was brought in for that section of the class (headed by the late Mr. Knee). She took us 8th graders on a field trip to San Francisco State where we sat in on a poetry reading by a student of William Carlos Williams. It was the first time I saw a real live poet publicly orate their work; it was almost like attending a foreign language class, with me only understanding aspects of what the poet was talking about.
It was during the after-discussion that I also first learned about the poet Theodore Roethke, and which began my true appreciation of his art. Roethke was a larger than life figure, with a definite dark side…much of which is found within the words he composed. We studied one of hist bittersweet, dark poems, My Papa’s Waltz, in that humanities class and it really stuck with me (although part of me wonders why they chose to teach me a poem about a alcoholic father drunkenly dancing with his young son). Since noticing it was his birthday last week, I have been digging into his poetic legacy once again. One of my favorites is at the bottom of this newsletter.
Raise a glass to the poet, and to all a good weekend….
The B-52s’ Kate Pierson Is Selling Her Woodstock-Area Motel
Would have loved to have been a lodger at the love shack.
Michael Stipe Talks About His New Book on Pandemic-Era Shows of Strength and Vulnerability
Interesting interview with REM front person Michael Stipe about his new multi-media book, life during shutdown, and other musings.
Defending The Roof Of The World: Jamyang Norbu’s Lifelong Quest For Tibetan Independence
A fantastic weekend read….and something that the Sun does so well: an epic interview with Tibetan activist Jamyang Norbu.
Astounding fairytale illustrations from Japan
WEEKEND LISTEN: John Hammond: I CAN TELL: I was doing some research over at my friend Joel Selvin’s house this past week when we started talking John Hammond and I said…stupidly…that I never heard a John Hammond record I really loved. That was all I needed to say as Joel jumped into action and threw onto his newly revamped stereo system this beautiful record. I Can Tell was produced by songwriting legends Lieber and Stoller originally for their Reb Bird label….sold to Atlantic where their names were stripped from the copy (but you can find proof on-line if you do some diggin). This record features The Band pretty much throughout, with some killer guitar played by Robbie Robinson. It is just a mind blower of a blues roots rock jammer and perfect for a hot, almost Summer day.
In A Dark Time
By: Theodore Rothke
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood—
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks—is it a cave,
Or a winding path? The edge is what I have.
A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is—
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
