Choose an Illusion

I sway in a small New York café. Onstage
David Byrne is playing guitar. I am moving closer
drawn in by the sound. I am at the stage now.
He comes down. We dance.

It is only a dream. I wake up. Life's the same.
It is Friday. At six, I enter again a New York café
to read a few poems. He is there. David Byrne.
Just like the dream but our roles are reversed.

I am onstage; he moves to my words. Drifting
closer and closer, drawn in by the sound. He is
at the stage now. I come down. We dance.
It is only a dream. I wake up. Life's the same.

Yes, except this time I'm really awake.
And it really is Friday. But what do I know?
Whispers my mind: the dream ends at death.
Whispers my mind: deal with it.

by Kathi Georges

Easy Hot Tip

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Robert Burns Friday + Art

Friday we're off to part II of a lively discussion of the work of Robert Burns, the national poet of Scotland, best known as the author of Auld Lang Syne. Burns' work at first glance may appear simplistic, melodramatic and too "cute" for modern tastes. But in-depth analysis brings to light a subtle genius and a great invitation to the "everyman" to acknowledge such philoshophical musings as pantheism (To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough), universal brotherhood (Tragic Fragment), and psychology (Remorse). And half the poems are songs, like half of the best poems of the past 50 years (see Rolling Stones, Beatles, etc.). We'll be discussing Burns at The White Horse, that stalwart NYC establishment that proved to be the undoing of Dylan Thomas, who, according to Wikipedia, "collapsed (there) on November 9, 1953 ... after drinking heavily while on a promotional speaking tour (and) later died at St. Vincent's Hospital." We hope not to suffer the same fate Friday, because after the Burns study...

... it's off to The Salmagundi Club for what's sure to be a fantastic show of 38 fantastic living artists. Opening is 6–9 Friday, Feb. 9th, at the Salmagundi Club, 47 5th Ave. (between 11th & 12th). And it's free...

LaGuardia--Angel of Snow

Children, gather round--it's time to talk about something mommy grew up with: snow. In the old days, winter came once a year and not only was it cold, but there was this funny white stuff that came out of the sky and fell lightly to the ground. We called it snow, back then. It was made up of millions of tiny snowflakes, and--Yes, Tommy?--No, it didn't come out of a machine, it fell from the sky. And it was very beautiful, and--No, BillieMae, I'm not making this up.--Tommy turn off your cell phone and pay attention.--Snow was fun to play in, during my day. My own mommy used to walk six miles in it to school--barefoot--but we got smarter after she grew up and started wearing shoes--No, Janice--we never wore our Manolo Blahniks. We didn't have Manolo Blahniks when I was growing up. We didn't even have cell phones or myspace.--Yes, Cherylisse--How did we survive?--We just did. Now be quiet and listen, class. Class! Get away from those computers.--No, we are not going to look up snow online and find out who invented it! No one invented it! It just came out of the sky and fell on the ground. Trust me! I'm your teacher, for Christ's sake! No, I'm not as smart as a computer! But trust me anyway! Why would I lie about snow?

Groundhog Day

The groundhog has spoken. Yesterday, that little devil did not see his shadow, and thus the prediction is that it will be an "early spring." Since 1887, the groundhog, "Punxsutawney Phil" has seen his shadow in all but 14 years, predicting a "late spring." Is it true? Who knows? Is global warming true? Who knows? What is true is that the Punxsutawney folks (probably fueled by their increased noteriety since the 1993 release of the movie Groundhog Day) now have gotten serious about their endeavor and have even added a poem to their prediction.

Phil Says Spring is Right Around the Corner!

Phil's official forecast as read 2/2/07 at 7:28 a.m. at Gobbler's Knob:

El Nino has caused high winds, heavy snow, ice and freezing temperatures in the west.
Here in the East with much mild winter weather we have been blessed.

Global warming has caused a great debate.
This mild winter makes it seem just great.

On this Groundhog Day we think of one thing.
Will we have winter or will we have spring?

On Gobbler's Knob I see no shadow today.
I predict that early spring is on the way.

Which just goes to prove how much poetry is a part of everyday life, even here in America. Interestingly enough, the groundhog day habit stems from European tradition of Candlemas Day, and the grounhog was chosen by Pennsylvania's early German settlers because it resembed the European hedgehog. For more fascinating facts on this fabulous day, click here. And just remember, it could be worse.

On Sexton

Last night's poetry group centered on a lively discussion of the work of Anne Sexton. The big surprise of the evening was the rediscovery of "The Jesus Papers," a collection from Sexton's "The Book of Folly." These are funny little bits, more stand-up comedy than poetry, that take a whole new turn on Jesus. Take "Jesus Suckles," a kind of love poem from JC to Mary:

Jesus Suckles

Mary, your great
white apples make me glad.
I feel your heart work its
machine and I doze like a fly.
I cough like a bird on its worm.
I'm a jelly-baby and you're my wife.
You're a rock and I the fringy algae.
You're a lily and I'm the bee that gets inside.
I close my eyes and suck you in like a fire.
I grow. I grow. I'm fattening out.
I'm a kid in a rowboat and you're the sea,
the salt, you're every fish of importance.

No. No.
All lies.
I am small
and you hold me.
You give me milk
and we are the same
and I am glad.

No. No.
All lies.
I am a truck.
I run everything.
I own you.


Compared to these and later pieces, such early work as "You, Doctor Martin" and "Double Image" begged the evening's big question: can Anne Sexton's work be considered purely for its poetic value, or does it's confessional content draw readers in, like lechers at a peep show, titillated by the "National Enquirer-esque" tell-all tale of an educated rich white woman?

Surely in poetic terms, her early work was technically superior. The later work is all idea and content, with a fat, sloppy style that big themes obscure. While not entirely unappealling, the later work is much more broad in style; metaphors tend to be more common; poetic structure, when used, is primative as nursery rhymes. Amazing what happens when poets are forced to make a living by teaching those snot-nosed Harvard snobs. Without enough time to perfect every line, Sexton's later work is far less electrically charged.

By the way, Anne Sexton can be seen on YouTube reading "Her Kind" which is purrty darn cool.

Tonight it's off to talk about Robert Burns. He and Anne have so much in common.

A Poem in Every Song

Sometimes when Three Rooms Press staff members attend the City's plethora of poetry readings, we're fully impressed by all the great work that's being created. Other times, we wonder how so many people came to write so much bad poetry. The answer is their source: pop culture. Every Thursday, the Three Rooms Press blog will bring you pop culture lyrics from one of our "favorite" songs of the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s and Today!

This one's a dandy: Shannon. The theory remains that this is about either writer Henry Gross's or Brian Wilson's (Beach Boys) dog, Shannon, who ran into the ocean and never came back. So sad. Oddly, the 1976 song was a BIG hit, getting up to No. 6 on the charts, with 20 weeks (yes, 5 months!) in the top 100. Henry, a Brooklyn boy himself, was original lead singer and guitarist of Sha-Na-Na. He's still active and hopefully reading this Right Now!! He just finished up work on documentary, "One Hit Wanderer," and a CD of the same name featuring music from the film. If you see him, say hello. Otherwise visist him at the Henry Gross website.

The lyrics of Shannon:

Shannon
by Henry Gross

Another day is at end
Mama says she's tired again
No one can even begin to tell her
I hardly know what to say
But maybe it's better that way
If papa were here
I'm sure he'd tell her

Shannon is gone
I hope she's drifting out to sea
She always loved to swim away
Maybe she'll find an island
With a shady tree
Just like the one in our backyard

Mama tried hard to pretend
things would get better again
Somehow she's keeping
It all inside her
But finally the tears fill our eyes
And I know that somewhere tonight
She knows how much we really miss her