dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!

I'm getting a little sick of having snow on the ground, so I'm posting a poem and an song to remind nature that it's April and spring should be here.

when faces called flowers float out of the ground

by e.e. cummings

when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

April Come She Will
by Simon & Garfunkel

Robert Clemente (Topps 1972)

Today was the opening day of the 2013 baseball season and the beginning of National Poetry Month, so this seemed appropriate:

Robert Clemente (Topps 1972)

The first thing you notice is the ball

stopped in mid-air. Playfully tossed just

before the picture was taken. Right

hand already waiting for the ball

to come down. His tongue stuck out in mock

concentration. The red pickup truck

just beyond his right shoulder, the half-

empty stands, the fans standing along

the fence, even his shiny batting helmet

tell the story: another batting

practice before another game. Perhaps,

the World Series. The long black sleeves

would be right. The gesture too. A simple

act of easy grace declaring much:

certain knowledge of his own greatness.

Perhaps I read too much into this card.

But how can I not. The ball hanging

there when his plane could not.

 

—Mark Hinton

The Cult Of St. Francis

Cutest St. Francis of Assisi ever via 2 Little Hooligans

As I Tweeted, I was very excited when Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio chose the name Francis upon his election to pope.

You guys, I chose Francis for my confirmation name! The Holy Spirit has spoken. The #NewPope & I are totes going to be BFFs.
— Christopher J. Hogan (@Koko_Hogan) March 14, 2013

While I'm not so into the Catholic Church these days, I'm still a big fan of Saint Francis of Assisi. He's totally rad--literally, St Francis remains a radical figure in the church. While Francis of Assisi didn't write the prayer that bears his name, his inspiration is clearly in it. I'm not a prayin' man, but "The Prayer of Saint Francis" speaks to me as spiritual guide.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life. 

If you are reading this blog, I assume you might recognize "The Prayer of Saint Francis" as sung by Sarah McLachlan in the "Grave" episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. 



St. Francis also inspired Seamus Heaney to write one of my favorite poems:

St. Francis And The Birds

When Francis preached love to the birds
They listened, fluttered, throttled up
Into the blue like a flock of words

Released for fun from his holy lips.
Then wheeled back, whirred about his head,
Pirouetted on brothers' capes.

Danced on the wing, for sheer joy played
And sang, like images took flight.
Which was the best poem Francis made,

His argument true, his tone light. 

--Seamus Heaney

Speaking of poems about saints, I have written many. Michael Bronski, Kate Clinton, Sandy Leonard and I had a writing group of sorts that would would email each other every day (this is the 90s when email was cutting-edge social media) sending limericks based on which saint's feast day it was. This was my October 4th entry.

There once was a monk from Assisi
Who wouldn't drink crème de cassis-i
With such a strict vow
If he were living right now
Would he be Edwin of Meese-y?

Hey, I just had a great idea: Pope Francis should make me the official Vatican limericist!

XIII

This is one of my father's favorite poems. He will gladly recite it for you if you ask.

   
When I Was One And Twenty
by A.E. Housman from Shropshire Lad

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
'The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.'
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

Love Speaks

Edie Windsor & Thea Spyer

Having a Coke with You
by Frank O'Hara

Having a Coke with You

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

Watch Frank O'Hara read "Having a Coke with You"

Litany

by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

 Watch a 3-year-old recite "Litany"

Two Things About Me

While I could come up with a reasonable short list, I could never name a single favorite book or movie. My list of favorite songs would be longer but manageable. Still, it would be an unranked list with no number one. However, for whatever reason, I can easily name my favorite painting and poem. They are:

Sailors and Floosies, Paul Cadmus, 1938

Poem (Lana Turner Has Collapsed), Frank O'Hara, 1964

Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up

The Mystery of Dean Schambach

You can meet all sorts of interesting characters wandering around the internet. I was thinking about writing a post about my favorite poems (which I still may write), so I searched YouTube to see if there was any video of Tennessee Williams reading "Life Story" which is a pretty amazing poem. It's probably just as well since one should enunciate when reading poems, and Tennessee, bless his heart, tended to slur his words. I did find this treasure, Dean Schambach performing "Life Story":

Perfect, really. I like play a little game called "What's Their Story?" where I pick a stranger (or strangers) and, well, make up a story for them. So, what's Dean Schambach's story? At first I imagined Mr. Schambach to be a Southern "confirmed bachelor" who had built a career out of performing some sort of traveling one-man show about Tennessee Williams. Then, YouTube nicely suggested I watch this:

Yes, it's T.S. Eliot's "The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" also interpreted very well. So, maybe not so much a Southern gentleman but a British gentleman? (By the way, who knew a sports coat with a big plaid and even bigger lapels, a bow tie, and a jaunty hat would be the perfect look for both Williams and Eliot?) Still, clearly an actor and, like many actors, a loon:

Still, what is Dean Schambach's story? Mr. Schambach has a very small internet footprint. As of this writing, the three videos above have a total of 7,771 views--respectable but hardly a viral sensation. Well, he's an actor, so I tried IMDB. Nothing there.Wikipedia? Nada. According to LinkedIn, Dean Schambach is a "driver at moo juice transport" [sic for all capitalization], so I think that might be someone else.

Finally, I found him. In Woodstock, New York, of course. He is a poet and actor, of course. Who moved to Woodstock from Greenwich Village, of course, where he hung out with Bob Dylan (or "Bobby" as he calls him). Here they are hanging out (with David Boyle) when Dylan came to Woodstock c. 1967:

Apparently, another picture of Dylan, Schambach and Boyle by Elliot Landy is so famous there's a mini-documentary about it:

Going farther back in time, Dean Schambach was a champion ski jumper. There's great footage of him in the news reel 'The Ski Trials - Where Snow is Fun'. The mystery of Dean Schambach has been solved. My search over, I was ready to move on. The best part was that I landed on the British Pathé web site where I can happily meander for hours. There's all sorts of treasures there, like this "Daring Men's Fashion Show" from 1951: