Monthly Archives: Nov 2014

Sonnet No 3: Slam night at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe

Running well behind schedule on the sonnets. Sorry, will do better. Meanwhile, I’m not making this up:

Sonnet No 3: Slam Night at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe
We’re in line with a White IT consultant
who boasts two Matisse cut-out tattoos.
Someone’s shot dead in a car – the resultant
crime scene tape, marks the zone for clues.
In the street cops with Glocks are scoping a murder.
In the line a featured spoken-worder
waits. A Black poet says it’s droll
cops are called when words get out of control
in minority mouths. But speak not lightly
of poets and law. Inside the cafe
with wit and charm and rage they say
unsayable things, and say them nightly.
This may be where a new world starts
as words like bullets pierce our hearts.

Mary Oliver’s Blue Horses and my No 2 scribble

Mary Oliver, Blue Horses (Penguin 2014)

In his justly-praised eulogy for Gough Whitlam, Noel Pearson repeatedly used the phrase ‘this old man’ as a term of high honour. Like Diana Athill, Dorothy Hewett, Jennifer Maiden and any number of others, Mary Oliver makes me wish passionately that we could say ‘this old woman’ and have it similarly understood to indicate esteem.

This is old-woman poetry. Oliver isn’t out to prove anything. In ‘I don’t want to be demure or respectable’, she says:

I’m not trying to be wise, that would be foolish.
I’m just chattering.

She’s not even out to offer obvious value for money. For $28 you get 78 pages and almost every second page is blank. But every word feels just right. The poems are personal and deeply felt, but nothing personal in a way that would be embarrassing to read on a poster on a bus. Most of them feel as if they have been around forever, or at least should have been. The recurring mode is celebration – of a new love, of connection to living things, of rhyme, of yoga lessons, of life and even of sickness and death, though in their cases it’s more a mature reconciliation than actual celebration. She stops short of being religious, as in ‘Angels’:

I don’t care how many angels can
dance on the head of a pin. It’s
enough to know that for some people
they exist, and that they dance.

Moving on to my own November task, I was struck by the poem ‘The Mangroves’, in which the speaker, who is living ‘in a warm place’ realised she has trouble loving mangroves the way she loves the black oaks and the pines of her cooler home. It’s not Oliver’s doing that oaks and pines are ‘normal’ to mainstream English literature and mangroves are exotic, but the idea of normal is inevitably there, so:

Sonnet No 2: In response to Mary Oliver’s ‘The Mangroves’
It’s fall, November, New York City.
Leaves fall, just like they do in song,
in movies, poems and all those pretty
paintings from Art History. Long
we’ve read bare ruined choirs
follow on bright autumn’s fires.
I’m coming over all Mackellar,
a not-your-field-and-coppice feller.
My heart belongs to smooth angophora,
to leaves that glisten all year round,
to roots four feet above the ground
and messy pneumatophora.
All trees are lovely when you look –
less so those growing by the book.

Travelling with the Art Student

OK, so we’ve been away from home for just over a week, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much art in so short a time. Such is life when shared with an Art Student. Here’s a partial list of the artists we’ve seen so far, in Los Angeles and New York, with many more to come.

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More of Swapna Dutta’s Juneli, plus my Sonnet No 1

Swapna Dutta, Juneli at Avila’s (©1992, CinnamonTeal Publishing 2014)
——, An Exciting Term (©1992, CinnamonTeal Publishing 2014)

1ja 1et Swapna Dutta’s serial about a girl named Juneli who goes to boarding school was first published in the English-language Indian children’s magazineChildren’s World between 1978 and 1985. The serial proved very popular with young readers, and in the early 1990s HarperCollins published three Juneli books. This year the stories have found another lease of life as CinnamonTeal brings them out in three ebooks. All three books include the illustrations that Swapna’s daughter Sawan, then still a teenager, drew for the HarperCollins books, and the cover images are also Sawan’s (which were not used as covers of the print edition).

When I wrote a blog post about the first book, Juneli’s First Term, I hope I communicated how charmed I was by Juneli’s benign experience of boarding school. That benign quality continues in these books. There are scrapes and japes, mysteries and adventures in a setting that owes equal amounts to the pre–Harry Potter boarding school genre and Swapna’s own childhood experience at an English-speaking boarding school run for Indian girls by Carmelite nuns. Juneli now knows the ropes and has earned the respect and affection of most of her classmates, and the not-quite-enmity of a couple of snobbish malcontents. A kitchen mishap from the first book is a continuing source of embarrassment and comedy, and now we hold our breath each time there is a cooking exercise.

If you have a taste for boarding-schools stories or if you’re looking for a gift for a young person with such a taste, and want to add a little Indian flavour to your/their reading, I recommend these three little books.You can buy them from http://www.dogearsetc.com/. They are very reasonably priced by Australian standards. (I received complimentary copies, and Swapna is a friend.)

Moving right along: for the last few years I have set myself the task of writing 14 sonnets for the blog in November. Here goes with Sonnet No 1 for 2014, inspired by the Juneli books, along with Sugata Mistra’s wonderful TED talks maintaining that schools are an obsolete tool of empire, and Matilda the Musical which I’ve just seen on Broadway with its monstrous Miss Trunchbull, who couldn’t be more different from Juneli’s kind Mother Benedicta.

Sonnet No 1
Knead memories to make art. Punch, pull
fold, punch again, let stand, then bake.
So Dahl’s tormentor became Trunchbull,
real nuns did Swapna’s teachers make.
Both real schools served empire’s agenda.
Both fictions, one harsh, one most tender,
resist. Matilda, Juneli,
are naughty as they need to be.
In school, by monster or sweet mother
we’re taught to play our ordained parts,
ignore the whispers of our hearts,
but if we reach for one another,
each one giving what she has,
that may be good enough for jazz.