Saturday, November 03, 2012
DIVINE Madness by Paul Pines
DIVINE Madness by Paul Pines
New York: Marsh Hawk Press, 2012
Pages: 64
Cover: Paperback
Price: 15.00
Reviewed by Pam Rosenblatt
With a beautiful, colorful, abstract cover painting by Douglas Leichter, Paul Pines’ DIVINE Madness deals with a lot of things: religion, mythological figures, death, life, communication and of course mental illness, etc. His book is divided into three sections: Book 1: The Serpent In the Bird, Book 2: The Absent One, and Book 3: Who Knows The Knower.
In Book One:The Serpent In the Bird, Pines reveals his intentions for the 64 page trilogy in his first poem, “1 ● It’s not about us”.He suggests what we as readers should expect to discover throughout in DIVINE Madness:
It’s not about us
but what
connects us
a world
forged of links
the parrot’s beak
in the lion’s jaw
divine madness
encrypting our sleep
like Puritans sniffing out
God’s fingerprints
messages born again
and again from the rubble
of our assumptions
what we listen for
as if decoding
the depth
of diamond
or entering a winter landscape
suddenly don’t know
what we thought
until a child
who
for a moment lost
reappears full grown
to tell us
we need not
fear death
if touched by
the consciousness
of the gods
in men
Pines has introduced gently introduced us to DIVINE Madness. He begins with “It’s not about us/but what/connects us” and ends his poem “1 ● It’s not about us”with his advice that “we need not/fear death//if touched by/the conscious/of the gods/in men”.
Pines suggests that like the mythological serpent who lives inside of the bird (as the first section’s title reads), there are “gods [whose ‘consciousness’ lives] in men”.Some psychiatrists would call this mental illness. And since this book is titled DIVINE Madness, the readers may think so also.
As George Economou blurbs on Pines’ book’s back cover, “With extraordinary daring and inspiration, Paul Pines has dedicated the art he has exquisitely crafted for a lifetime to the service of the divine madness that has always distinguished poetry from mere writing.” He also comments on how Pines “captures the universal analogy anew by ‘connecting us to the consciousness of the gods in men’ …. ”
The way Pines writes about this ‘divine madness” is intriguing,after all perhaps this contact with “the gods” is a gift, or - better yet - maybe it’s mental telepathy. Whichever Pines is implying, the analogies/metaphors are there.
Throughout civilization, there have been myths and legends about serpents being powerful, evil, and frightening to humans. Now, in 2012, Pines suggests that, like The Serpent in the Bird, there are “gods” inside the minds of men. How creativeand brilliant, yet how disconcerting at the same time.
DIVINE Madness is filled with metaphors, vivid imagery, and has a pretty consistent experimental structure. While an abstract poet, he uses similar themes with different twists throughout his book. One topic often written about is birds, especially in Book Two: THE ABSENT ONE. His love for these feathered friends can be seen in “20 ● Did Audubon”:
Did Audubon
In the woods around Natchez
think of birds
as aspects of
his inner landscape
a mockingbird
in the marsh
the secretive
part of himself
the pileated woodpecker
his relentlessness
and what of
the thrush
whose song
bends the spectrum
filling the pine grove
of his heart?
Did December’s long beams
touch something
that moved in him
unseen
which he could neither identify
nor tame
but knew
only as a shadow
at day’s end when brandy
staves off dampness
that accompanies
the dark
a shadow
that moves still in his drawings
of flightless wings
stiff legs and talons
in stuffed owls looking down
from mantels
decoys on shelves
or paneled walls
did he imagine these too
had their place
fragments of unrealized
desire
known to him only
as shadows at day’s end?
While this poem is about mental illness or how “December’s long beams/touch something/that moved in him/unseen/which he could neither identify/nor tame/but knew/only as a shadow/at day’s end when brandy/staves off dampness”, Pines describes various birds so beautifully that we can almost visualize them: “a mockingbird/in the marsh”; “the pileated woodpecker/his relentlessness”; “the thrush/whose song/bends the spectrum”. Even “the stuffed owls looking down/from mantels/decoys on shelves/or paneled walls” have a place in his world where everything is “touched by the consciousness of the gods
in men”.
DIVINE Madness’s back cover has a blurb by Robert Kelly that reads, “[Pines] is the quiet sage who makes everything in his room a tender plaything.” He refers to Pines’ poem “20 ● Did Audubon”.
Pines appreciates birds, living or deceased. He even writes about “birds in an ice storm/as if nothing were/more important than/the direction of our intention” in Book Two: The Absent One’s poem “28: Grief strips us bare”and about “… reef birds/feeding on life beneath/the surface” in poem “35: Starting out from a Spain” found in Book Three: Who Knows The Knower. Pines’ birds seem to have a purpose, or a direction, and have a functional existence.
Pines writes how it’s important to know one’s role in life, and to accept it, as seen in Book Three: Who Knows The Knower’s poem “33: The sea beyond bare trees”:
The sea beyond bare trees
under a winter sky
extends to the horizon
highlighting branches
mossed by wind
skinned by salt air
golden finches at the feeder
blue and white nut-hatches
pecking at rind
He understands the role of salt
the geometry of shells
the bios of ocean
how marine life
melts into stone shelves
hollows out
submerged cathedrals
for worship crabs
where the eel of solitude
electrifies its prey
as armies clash wave
upon wave
in the agitation of forces
seen and unseen
he can watch
the gods make love
in the privacy of
his heart
and continue to chop the carrots
dice the garlic.
In this poem, Pines hasthese non-living or living things do their normal routines. The poem’s voice “understands the role of salt/the geometry of shells/the bios of ocean”. Why “he can [even] watch/the gods make love/in the privacy of/his heart” and remain so detached that he can “continue to chop the carrots/dice the garlic”.
As he writes in the final poem “46: but shall we leave it here” in Book Three: Who Know The Knower, “but shall we leave it here/with a drop of dew/on a leaf//stars snaking through/the heaven//the underworld/in the Milky Way//to navigate/the world as it forms around us/the universe”.
Here questions are raised that are probably thousands of years old like: Is a god, or are there gods? How did the world begin?Is there a heaven and hell? And will we ever find the answers to such inquiries?
In “46: but shall we leave it here”, the poet also asks:
the voice
that asks us
is it hard
to look upon the fear
in your father’s face?
who calls the ancient one
HaShem?
Paul Pines presents and deals with difficult topics throughout this read. And if asreaders we keep an open mind, we can appreciate and understand Paul Pines’DIVINE Madness.
###
Thursday, November 01, 2012
Gloucester Writers Center Presents Nov. 14, 2012
Gloucester Writers Center Presents Nov. 14, 2012
Come see these great poets. Afaa Michael Weaver is a featured poet in the new issue of Ibbetson Street due out this month. Sam Cornish is the Boston Poet Laureate and author of Dead Beats ( Ibbetson Street Press), and I was proud to have poet Martha Collins as a featured reader at The Somerville News Writers Festival. This is a great new center in Gloucester, so all should come out and support it. And thanks to Endicott College Creative Writing Student Maxwell Snelling (An intern at the Center) for informing me about this!--Doug Holder/Endicott College/Office of Ibbetson Street Press
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
The Hungry Ear Poems of Food and Drink edited by Kevin Young
Poems of Food
& Drink
edited by Kevin
Young
Bloomsbury
New York NY
Copyright © 2012
by Kevin Young
ISBN:
978-1-60819-551-0
Hardbound, 300
pages. $25
Review by Zvi A. Sesling
There are a lot
of anthologies out there, a number of them about food. Few, however,
top Kevin Young’s
entry. Young, an excellent poet in his
own right, does a fine job of selecting gastronomical verse from a marvelous
and diverse group of poets.
To name just a
few, Mary Oliver, Seamus Heaney, Yusef Komunyakaa, Lucille Clifton, Elizabeth
Bishop, Mark Doty, Billy Collins, Ted Kooser, Charles Reznikoff, Langston
Hughes, William Carlos Williams, Matthew Dickman, Jane Hirschfield, Charles
Simic, Frank O’Hara, W.B. Yeats, Philip Larkin, Charles Baudelaire, Pablo
Neruda, Sylvia Plath and a nice selection of Young’s own poetry.
On the humorous
side Roy Blount Jr.’s Song to Bacon
brings it home:
Consumer groups
have gone and taken
Some of the savor
out of bacon.
Protein-per-penny
in bacon they say,
Equals
needles-per-square-inch of hay.
Well, I know,
after cooking all
(You also get a lot of lossage
in life, romance, and country
sausage.)
And I will vote
for making it cheaper,
Wider, longer,
leaner, deeper
But let’s not
throw the baby, please
Out with the
(visual rhyme here) grease.
There’s nothing
crumbles like bacon still,
And I don’t think
there ever will
Be anything,
whate’er you use
For meat, that
chews like bacon chews.
and also: I wish
these groups would tell
Me whether they
counted in the smell,
The smell of it
cooking’s worth $2.10 a pound.
And how bout the sound?
And then there
are some tantalizing opening lines such as Hot
by Craig Arnold:
I’m cooking
Thai—you bring the beer./The same order, although it’s been a year/
--friendships
based on food are rarely stable./We should have left ours at the table
There is Jimmy
Santiago Baca’s Green Chile:
I prefer red
chile over my eggs
and potatoes for
breakfast.
Adrienne Rich
begins Peeling Onions thus:
Only to have a grief
equal to all
these tears!
There’s not a sob
in my chest.
And finally there
is Howard Nemerov’s two-line tribute to Bacon
& Eggs:
The chicken
contributes,
But the pig gives
his all.
These are just a
few of the selections in this volume worth devouring. In often intriguing or
delightful verse there is discourse on melons, berries, meat, vegetables,
fruits – enough to fill a supermarket or your refrigerator and pantry. It covers appetizers, main courses, desserts,
celebrations, holidays and the seasons. The views of food and their
relationship to us are there for our discovery.
If you are a fan
of food – and who is not, even if dieting – then this book will whet your
appetite and crave a snack.
______________________________________
Zvi A. Sesling is
author of King of the Jungle
(Ibbetson Street, 2010), Across Stones of
Bad Dreams (Cervena Barva, 2011) and the soon to be published Fire Tongue (Cervena Barva). He is
Editor of Muddy River Poetry Review
and Bagel Bards Anthology #7.
Poet Manson Solomon: A well traveled poet with the wisdom of 'Solomon'
Manson Solomon fishing in Nova Scotia |
Poet Manson Solomon: A well traveled poet with the wisdom of 'Solomon'
By Doug Holder
Early on Manson Solomon had a bad case of wanderlust--that brought him to many countries, advanced degrees, and a successful business. He is the rare bird that combines business acumen with artistic talent. Solomon wrote the News:
“I emerged from the womb with a mission to be a writer with a large trust fund. Said trust fund being inexplicably absent, I took the road more traveled, {acquiring graduate degrees in Economics, Psychology and Philosophy from the London School of Economics, Columbia and Harvard,] engaging in various academic, artistic and entrepreneurial pursuits — in New York, London, Jerusalem, Johannesburg, Nova Scotia, Wellesley, Cambridge – I am currently a member of the Bagel Bards of Somerville, Mass.”
Doug Holder: What was it like for a Jew in South Africa in the 1950's?
Manson Solomon: It was like living in Newton or Brookline. It was like a ghetto. People were from immigrant backgrounds who would cluster in the suburbs. As far as the literary scene here is a clue. When I left and had my farewell party--I read from Emerson and Thoreau. There was no one local worth reading. Now you have a couple of people like Nadine Gordimer, Fugard, etc... that I read.
DH: Why did you leave South Africa?
MS: I left when I was 20 or 21. All my interests, all my soul, simply were with Western culture...particularly American literature and music. I loved Gershwin and Berlin--all that spoke to me. Again I asked:" Why am I here?" I didn't know. South Africa was too provincial and confining for me.
DH: You had a sever case of the wanderlust. You traversed Europe--picking up degrees--probably picking up fodder for your poetry--did you have any mentors at the time?
MS: I don't think I had any mentors. I learned from people who might have listened to me, people whose work I read, but I can't point to a teacher and say this person inspired me to do one or the other thing.
DH: For a while you had a life in the academy.
MS: I did. I majored in economics and business because I figured I had to make a living and I thought how could I make a living from studying the literature and humanities?
DH: You left the academy, and poetry, when you started a family. Did the family life prevent you from having a creative one?
MS: For me there was no time to do anything creative. I had to pay the tuition bills. If I didn't have a family I probably would have explores a more creative life in writing and poetry.
DH: Do you think poets and writers are in need of more business acumen?
MS: Generally. I really didn't like business and economics but I came to learn it wasn't a bad thing. I can make money much faster for projects than say an artist or academic who is going for a grant.
DH: You got your PhD in Philosophy from Columbia University. What did your dissertation concern?
MS: It was a study of what goes into making a judgment of something. If you are saying something is good are you describing it? Or are you approving it; urging someone to like i?. I tried to tease out the different parts of making a judgment. My great contribution to philosophy. (Laugh)
DH: Why did you leave Columbia?
MS: Well it was during the tumult of the 60s. I finished my course work, and then I secured a fellowship to Hebrew University in Israel to teach. Then I took off with friends to live off the land in Nova Scotia. When I finished my dissertation at Columbia, I came to Harvard as a visiting fellow in philosophy. I spent eight years at Harvard.
DH: You started a successful real estate business. Why did you switch paths in life?
MS: It was an accident. I wanted to get out of Cambridge for the country. I bought up distressed real estate, rehabbed it, and sold it for a profit.
DH: A lot of your poetry is infused with nature imagery. Who or what influences you?
MS: That's true. What influences me most is going to my house in Nova Scotia every summer. It overlooks the ocean. I have been doing that for 40 years.
DH: You have had a number of poetry publication credits since you retired 5 years ago.
MS: Yes. I have been in the Muddy River Review, Bagel Bards Anthology, Ibbetson Street, Lyrical Somerville, and others.
DH: How do you write a poem?
MS: I'm walking a long . I see something--something happens--I jot down ideas--go away--come back--after awhile I flesh it out.
WINTER HAS COME
Winter has come
quietly
tumbling white
out of the grey
grey sky.
Trees stand
to attention
pointing blindly.
Scattered clusters
of dead oak leaves
snagged on the outstretched fingers,
orange-brown tatters, cling
to the stiff, empty coat-racks
stark witnesses
to the creep
of the insidious white
along the bark’s crevices.
Blanched bladelets accept
without protest
the enveloping ice
until they disappear
entombed
deep-frozen.
Forsaken by the sun,
starved into submission,
the earth yields
to the suffocating pillow of snowflakes,
life drained from its desiccated veins
it draws a final sigh,
exhales
and lies still
in its white, white silent shroud.
No birds, no squirrels, no blooms,
no song.
No gentle breezes stirring the
odorless air.
Only the steady drift
of the accumulating crystals
smothering,
embalming
the colorless earth.
Nothing moves.
- Manson Solomon
Sunday, October 28, 2012
God Lights His Candles Poems By Dorothy Morris
God Lights His Candles
Poems
By
Dorothy Morris
With
an Introduction by Sam Cornish
Ibbetson
Press
Somerville
MA
ISBN:
978-0-9846614-2-8
52
Pages
$15.00
Review
by Dennis Daly
Today’s
society undervalues serenity and that is too bad. In other eras serenity has
flourished as a positive concept promoting sometimes poetry and sometimes
prayer and sometimes merging the two. Francis of Assisi, for example, could not
have written his revolutionary Canticle of the Sun, combining both pagan
pantheism and Christian monotheism, unless his soul centered on sereneness and
a profound sereneness at that.
Dorothy
E. Morris in her book of poems, God Lights His Candles, draws from an obvious
reservoir of spiritual serenity to compose her quicksilver images of natural
and ritual happiness. Her poem Images is a good starting point. Like all good
imagistic poetry her three subjects interest us with texture and emotion. Here’s
the first image,
On
a looping wire
Myriad
starlings squat
Like
black Majorca pearls.
The
second image turns ducks into a line of obedient monks. Did I mention that
serenity can, but need not, be eremitic? The poet puts a little twist in the
third image,
It’s
been three years,
I
saw a crimson cardinal.
Was
it you?
The
sadness at a glimpse of that flamboyant bird offered here has no sharp edges.
Serenity persists.
In
Spring: Beach Walk the poet turns the sun into a toddler playing hide and seek,
then, as he carries the burden of original sin, sends him on his way seeking redemption.
The poem ends with these lines,
Out
of darkness
Night
to light
Traversing
the way
In
search of
Eternal
grace.
In
our modern world bringing up grace as a poetic motif doesn’t happen. Brave
woman!
I
don’t believe the poem July Benediction works well independently. However it
does further the context and sets up what comes after. By the way, the first
four lines of this poem do create a wonderful stand-alone image. Here they are,
Twilight,
The
sails are coming down.
Sun
is waning.
Serenity.
Morris’
version of serenity again does not exclude melancholy. But it is a considered
thoughtful melancholy. In Elegy the poet says,
A
chill.
Was
it only the fear of ice
Or
the cold to come
That
brought sudden despair?
Or
something deeper,
A
long-ago September
When
summer ended,
Bringing
regret, guilt or grief.
The
poem entitled Advent 2007 takes place within the confines of the poet’s car.
While listening to the Magnificat sung by the Mormon Temple Choir, she
meditates on the sun’s reflection on the bay’s surface in front of her. Images
of her childhood are recalled and the lost cleanliness that the water of
baptism offered, and that strange word “grace” shows up again. Morris explains,
In
my car mirror I watch the sun
Reflecting
on the water of the bay
I
think: grace
How
one might dip one’s fingers
In
the water
Or
naked, immerse oneself
In
the icy pool
To
be clean.
Another
poem which speaks of rebirth is After The Storm: Winter 2007-2008. It begins
with childhood observations touched with pagan magic and then proceeds to adult
images gleaned after a Nor’easter had struck. Once again a hint of sadness: the
poet likens the iced up trees to a heart’s brittleness. On the other hand even
the “the dead of winter” becomes a hopeful time of promise in this poet’s eyes.
Morris says,
Why
do they call it
The
Dead of Winter?
When
the tiniest blade
Brings
promise,
And
one can and must hope.
In
Changeling the poet gives us a compelling image of the ocean personified.
Morris speaks from memory of the sea’s many moods: the rage, the tempest, and
the thunderous roar. The scene then changes to the present. The poet concludes,
But
today
With
the sun shining on you,
You
seem almost serene,
Tranquil,
gentle
As
with a sigh
You
glide gracefully to shore
Notice
the use of the word “gracefully.” These
pieces are most assuredly imagist poems with a spiritual bent.
All
religions use symbols in their rituals. Sometimes these symbols become so
powerful they merge into the reality that they represent. Transubstantiation is
one of them. Morris borrows this symbol from Catholicism in her poem Eucharist.
Then she does something different. She describes the ordinary transference of
the host from priest to communicant in a way that transforms her into a mother
of divinity, a Madonna. Morris accomplishes this with these simple lines,
I
hold the Host
Making
a cup.
Like
Mother Mary
I
lift him up.
Another
poem set in church is Holy Thursday. The poet begins in a tangle of trees, a
pagan setting and ends at evening Mass where she observes the regeneration of
human- kind. The poet marvels,
In
the pew before us
A
small blonde woman in a loose blouse
Prays.
Her
husband turns to look at her
Then
gently, reverently pats her belly.
In
the poem All Hallows Eve the poet espies one more mother and child moment. A
three year old child hops off his bicycle and offers his nearby mother two
dandelions. The poet continues,
“For
you, Mom,” he said proudly.
She
laughed, “Two weeds.”
“Lucky
you,” I called to her.
Sometimes
I wonder if God is three years old.
Neat
finish. Nice sentiment.
Now
find that quiet spot within your selves and give Morris’ book a try.
********** To order go to http://ibbetsonpress.com
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