Writers Friendship, Lucy, Richard, Dan, Alan…

Trip on Sunday to Oakland for brunch with Lucy Day and Richard Levine and their friends, Dan Langton, a poet who teaches at San Francisco State, and his wife Eve, plus poet Alan Goldfarb and his wife Arlene.


There are times when things just really click and one can only give thanks… thanks to one’s friends for extending an invitation and taking the time to prepare and put together an event, eight people in all, five of them writers.


The event: Middle Eastern food, drink and a memorable sharing of poems, e.g., Richard and Lucy each reading a villanelle.* The poems (Lucy’s “Color of the Universe” and Richard’s “A Blessing in Beige”) so complement one another I found myself imagining each villanelle being asked in turn, “Do you, “Color of the Universe,” take “A Blessing…” to be your lawfully wedded wife/husband, and each responding… “I do.” Turns out these were indeed Richard and Lucy’s wedding poems.


[*Note: poems by Dan Langton and Alan Goldfarb to follow.]


By way of intro I should say: Lucy Day (aka Lucille Lang Day) is the author of eight poetry collections and chapbooks. Richard Levine is a journalist who is now writing fiction. Their wedding villanelles first appeared in Blue Unicorn and are included in Lucy's latest poetry collection, The Curvature of Blue (Cervena Barva, 2009).



COLOR OF THE UNIVERSE



The universe is really beige. Get used to it.

John Noble Wilford

The New York Times



For Richard



I can't believe the universe is tan,

Not red or green or lavender or blue.

I feel carnelian when you take my hand—



Not beige like lima beans from a can,

But a splendid, electrifying hue.

I can't believe the universe is tan.



Rose and gold are what I understand

When I think of waking up each day with you.

I feel carnelian when I take your hand,



And like the universe my love expands,

Surrounding us with turquoise and chartreuse.

Can you believe the universe is tan,



A color desolate as lunar sand

And homely as a peanut or cashew?

I feel carnelian when we're hand in hand,



Listening to Perahia play Chopin.

The stars all turn cerulean on cue.

I don't care if the universe is tan:

I feel carnelian as you take my hand.



—Lucille Lang Day




A BLESSING IN BEIGE



The universe is really beige. Get used to it.

John Noble Wilford

The New York Times



For Lucy



Some stars burn brighter as they age

Like maple leaves and apple trees flaming up from green.

Alas, the color of the universe is beige,



Not peach or pearl or the palest shade of sage,

Not turquoise, as they once thought—so serene.

Some stars burn brighter as they age.



The love that we have is harder to gauge

But it too burns brighter the later it seems.

Does it matter so much if the universe is beige?



As a poet breathes sound onto a silent page

Your love bathes my days in aquamarine.

Some stars burn brighter as they age.



Let them light up our lives as we leave this stage

And fill our hearts with their triumphant sheen.

Who cares if the color of the universe is beige?



A bird in flight outshines its silver cage.

If the sky’s too bright the stars shine unseen.

May our stars burn brighter as we age.

Hurray, the color of the universe is beige!



— Richard Michael Levine




[see also:
http://www.redroom.com/blog/robert-sward/writers-friendship-lucy-day-and-friends]

Misery loves company

He calls it "the poetry wars." The little world of poetry. The pie, i.e., the poetry pie... there's never enough to go around. Awards, publications, readings, honors, "A" and "B" list parties... a slice of this, a slice of that. My distinguished friend tells me of a fellow poet (also a friend) who won a major award (much deserved!) following which he hosted a party to celebrate the event, neglecting to invite my friend or myself. The truth is, I'd rather not have known of the "A" list party and puzzled as to why my distinguished friend would think I needed to know or could in any way benefit from knowing?

It's a human thing to do, says my wife. It's a way--his way--of bonding with you, this "big" literary event neither of you were invited to.

I think of Gloria Alford's print, "The Ego Like A Bizarre Balloon Rises Ever Upward." It's a variation on the title of Redon's print "The Eye..." A man on a horse--an Eighteenth Century symbol of pride--is taking an "ego trip." The horse is suspended from a puffed-up and protruding balloon, which is the only soft and vulnerable part of the print. The rest is encased in clear, flat plastic covering a blue sky full of clouds. Two Seventeenth Century angels with bows and arrows are poised ready to shoot down the balloon. The blue border, also of plastic, is a continuation of the sky.

As for myself, I grab a towel and head for the swimming pool. Even swimming, even swimming, it gets to me! As for Buddhist practice and Mindfulness, well, I'd give myself a C-.

Catherine Graham - Grief, Poems & Friendship

Grief, Poems & Friendship

Grief is like waiting for fifty giant black kettles to boil.

    For whatever reason deep literary friendships have eluded me. Perhaps this is due to my current geographic location as I live in the suburbs, away from downtown Toronto - the centre of Canada's literary scene. Perhaps this is due to my solitary nature - an only child I'm quite comfortable spending time by myself. Or perhaps this is due to my social shyness - I often feel more alone during literary gatherings than I do when I'm actually alone. But having said that...

   Myna Wallin and I were introduced during an Art Bar reading at The Victory Café on Markham Street in Toronto. The affinity was immediate. We had much in common, budding poets living the freelance life. But we soon discovered we shared more than that, we'd been through the loss of both parents. We were both adult orphans.

    "I think about you," Myna said. Another Art Bar reading had just ended. We stood at the corner of Bloor and Bathhurst, Myna beside her bicycle, I beside my car, about to say goodbye. The fact that my brief presence had had an impact on Myna made me feel special, appreciated, seen.

     That fall after my first book of poetry was published, Myna came to the Toronto launch at the Mockingbird on King Street.

    "I have something for you," she said. She handed me a long white box. "I saw it today and got it on impulse. I hope you don't mind."

  Sandwiched between two long cotton strips I pulled out a finely carved wooden butterfly. Myna fastened the choker around my neck. Not only did I wear it that night I chose to wear it for subsequent readings; a fitting image as my first book of poetry was titled Pupa. Myna's intuitive and impulsive gesture moved me deeply. I had myself a friend.

    During the months that followed I was booked to do a series of readings and radio interviews. One of the interviews was with the University of Toronto's campus station CIUT, a Sunday afternoon hour-long program with hosts Nik Beat and Nancy Bullis. After climbing the narrow, rickety stairs, I was ushered into a waiting room and introduced to the poet I would be sharing the program with. Dark-haired like Myna, she too had kind, warm eyes. Sincere smile.

    "I'm Merle Nudelman. Do you mind if I go first? My husband and I need to attend a wedding reception."

    "No problem," I said. We exchanged cards.

    Before readings and interviews not only do I experience the flutter of butterfly wings in my stomach, my listening abilities go out the window. This is normal, so I'm told, but unfortunate, for it means that I'm incapable of enjoying any presenter before me. My mind is brim-filled with questions. What will I say? Which poems shall I read? So when Merle sat across from Nancy Bullis I assumed I would not be able to listen. My mind would be too muddled.

    This was not the case.

    Like my first book of poetry Pupa, Merle's first book Borrowed Light contained poems that captured her personal grieving journey after the loss of both parents. I couldn't help but listen. The poems she read were tight and effective, humorous and gut wrenching. She'd traveled that flat black landscape I knew so well. And like me she'd made her way through it.

   A few weeks later Merle and I met up for a coffee and chat. Because Merle had to leave right after her interview she hadn't heard mine. A look of amazement washed over her face when I shared my story of how I'd come to write poetry.

    "That's my story," she said. We've been friends ever since.

    When grief hits us it slams doors shut. But it if you look closely, very closely, it also opens them. After the deaths of my parents the door to poetry opened to me. Grief acted as the catalyst towards the creative life. Once I became conscious of this - journal outpourings were more than emotional release - I began to take the craft of writing poetry seriously.

   Perhaps deep literary friendships haven't eluded me after all.

Bio

Catherine Graham is the author of The Watch and The Red Element. She teaches creative writing at the University of Toronto, designs and delivers workshops on creativity for the business and academic communities, and is Vice-President of Project Bookmark Canada. Visit: www.catherinegraham.com

---------------------------

---------------