MUSIC
Welcome to John Rhodes Open Mic Poetry Podcast TV show known as Mystic Babylon on the Internet.
It can be found at mysticbabalon.potomantic.com.
Hi there. This is the first segment of my show and Joan Guilfand is featuring this segment.
In the second segment, host Clara Sue will introduce poet Jean Lupton.
Joan Guilfand is one of the busiest poets I know.
Today she will be instrumentally accompanied by Marty Castleberg, so we are in for a good show.
Joan has many accolades, but her accolades that I thought most interesting are her work as president of the Women's National Book Association
and her work with C-pits, which is short for California poets in the schools.
If I may briefly ask you Joan, how long have you worked with C-pits and where do you work with them?
I'm working with California poets in San Francisco and it's only been since last fall.
I think you mentioned that you're working with a high school and elementary.
Thank you for your short answer there.
Just to note, I've met numerous poets who have worked with C-pits, including Robert Haas, the one-time poet laureate of the U.S.
and all the power to you.
If you want to find out more about Joan, go to www.joanguilfand.com
and I don't want to take up too much time, so now we'll fade from this clip and watch Joan and Marty entertain us.
Thank you.
Hi and welcome to the Poetry Hotel.
I'm Joan Guilfand and this is my accompanimentist, Marty Castleberg.
Marty worked on the CD with me, which we'll talk about in a second, but first we're going to read a poem from my first,
my second book called A Dreamer's Guide to Cities and Streams.
A Dreamer's Guide to Cities and Streams
Lost in fog's waterfall, we snaked past Laguna Honda, where Philip Whalen, bohemian, beat Buddhist priest, lived his last.
He wailed, put me to rest on a bed of frozen raspberries.
Whalen's words echo round the bend to sunset, St. Cecilia's.
Lost young woman wonders, where's Haidashbury?
Fog whispers and whispers through every open lintel, north and south.
Late yellow lights flicker against dark hills and we are transported to Patmos, Mykonos, Quiantae, any hill town, west or east.
Outside the gate, crab boats carve hunting grounds between shipping lanes.
Yellow lights flicker and loyal foghorn that great equalizer bellows.
From Russian hill to the mission, we all fall asleep to that deep calling.
Morning rise, new day, beachside, oceanside, lakeside, sunbeats at outdoor concert.
We rock to drums, heartbeats, wave, crash rhythm, music, bird song, bard song, transforms our sleepy Mediterranean village into party central.
Hill town, downtown, come on down, we'll open a tiché's lounge, crack open a spicy zinfandel, have a serious talk about how it used to be,
or something lighter, a banter about the beauty of it all, a champagne repartee, either way, because out here, on the edge of town, on the edge of the country, on the edge of the continent, we're all infidels.
And at day's end, after miles of circling, hawk-like searching, screeching, I've taken my place high up on the tip-top of Cyprus tree-limb, while foghorn bellows again.
I'm home, I'm home, I'm home.
Thank you, Marty.
And that poem is the title, transported is the title of the CD that Marty and I collaborated on this fall, and this is put out by Dave Land Productions.
And I hope you check it out.
Susan Black did the cover art, and our next piece is going to be a piece from my first book, Seeking Center.
This is called Music, Dream 7.
Sing to me, in Soto Voce, sing rings around me like a tree's ring, show history, the years.
Carpendate me, as you sing a ring around my planet, I am Saturn, and you are a red, vaporous ring, mysteriously encircling.
Sing to me, a cappella, your voice hugs my body, weaves its way like a needle through unknown fabric.
Your voice calls to me, slices like a ray of light, exposing dark places.
Sing to me, in a voice deep, loamy, rock me, call me baby, take me on your journey of desire and fantasy.
Peace me back together with your sharp tongue, cry out for me in a voice warm as the sun.
Sing to me of things you will not say in rhythm and rhyme, sing to me in three-quarter time.
Now I'm going to read something from a manuscript in progress and give Marty a little break here.
And this one is called Good Morning America, Where Are You?
And when I wrote it, I was thinking of the Arlo Guthrie tune, that beautiful song that he wrote that just still resonates so deeply that's Good Morning America, How Are You?
So it's kind of a little bit of a, I guess you'd say, borrowing, artistic borrowing.
Good morning America, Where Are You?
Now that the buck has stopped, the jig is up, the well done run, dry your eyes, you're done.
The party's over, the game is played, the bad boys took off with the cash.
Now that the buck has stopped, where are you?
What's your place? What's really on your mind?
Now that the buck has stopped, did you make the right choices? Sacrifice the best of times?
Can you remember your kids last season? Who won? Who lost? Who's behind?
Good morning America, the drug of distraction is worn off, the cocaine high of overvalued, done, gone, goodbye.
And this downturn, this turn down, this big, big disappointment bummer slump might just be nature's way of cooling us off, cooling us down, all that dough rising and rising,
making us feel super natural, but you know she's the boss, even if you think that dough made you hot.
Yeah, nature had to cool off, man, she was feeling the heat.
You have lost, and I feel for you, all that hard work and faith in the street.
There's a knock, knock joke in here somewhere, something along the lines of how many investment managers does it take to screw, or was that greed?
I heard knocking your knees back there.
We have one last piece, and this is called Cecil Bruner, and Marty's going to accompany me on this one.
Ode to Cecil Bruner.
Tangles of cobwebs, woody thicket, catches sweaters, scratches hands, dull bundle and fights spiders, small birds, winter, weary,
April warmth coaxes tiny buds from dry joints, pale pink brightens limbs like little Christmas lights,
or the silk rose buds ringing the collar of a child's pink leotard.
Come May, the sun close and warmer still, little lights bloom, paper thin petals open as flamboyantly,
as a bone vivant strolling down the rue Saint-Louis, a handful of girls swooning.
In May, gray branches disappear, covered by a riot of blossoms, a bouquet of happiness.
Under Bruner's profusion, you fell in love, warmth returned as your heart, that pink bud opened.
Under perfumed scent of hope, you bloomed to begin love anew again and again and again.
Thank you.
Okay, this is John Rhodes again.
I'm going to read two short poems.
They're both from my older book, Spirits of Bondage and Inherent Transcendence.
The first poem is called Potter's Field.
If I am buried in Potter's Field, the truth of my persecution shall be revealed,
but just like the Bible's cover was made, so are the graves in Potter's Field sealed.
Someday someone sad will wander in the graveyard and see the persecution there and be healed.
I have divine rights and shall not yield, whether I am an unknown Joe or a Saint Joseph,
I shall always be a lily of the field.
If I'm not buried there, my hysteronic wounds would be as it brought to court and appealed.
My persecutors might come against me, but against them the sword of truth I shall wield.
And after this I will have spoken mildly, but reminded them of wrath,
and a flower shall bloom for people who knew silently of this fate of dying in Potter's Field.
This second poem is called The Pearl that is Earth.
The earth is not a pure creation, it is like a pearl round in cloudy.
It is trying to cover up the scar in which it was created,
like the way pearls are created out of the scars inside their shells.
The earth is created out of a scar in the sight of creation or the universe.
Also each time somebody creates something new on earth, beauty springs out,
but the person's personality is scarred.
Creativity always brings out the hurt of mankind.
The description of this happening is done by somebody who has heart
and echoes this creative feeling and is in contact with the Godhead.
He tries to describe how creativity and the pure act of creation
combine and form the theater of life.
This person in contact with the Godhead puts value on this honest role
in the form of a bleeding heart, which in description also is the great art.
Thank you.
This is the end of the first segment, and the next segment is going to be with Clarith Sue.
Thank you.
Welcome to John Rhodes Open Mic Poetry Podcast and TV show.
I'm Clarith Sue, co-hosting with John Rhodes, and my guest today is Jeannie Lupton.
Hi, Clara.
Hi. Thanks for being here.
Thank you for having me.
So let me tell you a little bit about Jeannie.
Jeannie is the host for Frank Betts Center for the Arts in Alameda.
She hosts a second Saturday poetry and prose open mic and featured series.
And she also has a free writing group at Lickview Library at Lick Marriage in Oakland.
And you have been doing that for...
This is the fourth year.
Jeannie also is a reflexology practitioner.
Yes.
And so how long have you been doing that?
Since 2000.
What's that?
11 years.
Long time ago.
Wonderful.
So you have a book, and it is a tanker collection.
Yes.
Call and...
But then you danced.
Yes.
So can you tell us a little bit about tanker and what it is?
Tanker is a Japanese form.
It's five lines.
It's 1300 years old, and haiku is only 600 years old.
And tanker allows for the feelings of the poet, whereas haiku is more objective.
So that's tough.
So do you have any example for us?
Say a few tankers for us.
Okay.
I have a new one.
It's a senior housing, and the tanker, I write our true stories.
So this one goes, Friday night, watching TV in the lobby.
A dear neighbor brings me a special treat from his private stash.
And sure, that's one.
Okay.
You have another?
Here's another.
In a dream, making love with an old flame, becoming mother to a swarm of fireflies.
He bugs me still.
Wonderful.
Fantastic.
Thank you.
Okay.
So do you have a theme in your reading today?
I thought I'd read about relationships.
Wonderful.
Okay.
Thank you for having me, Clara.
Thank you for having you.
Okay.
Power.
After meeting with the divorce lawyer, Wanda felt strong again.
She stopped in the pub for some chowder and a beer.
There were oyster crackers, too.
So small and so crunchy.
Wanda didn't hold back.
She chewed them up.
She chewed them up like an army of disintegrating little husbands.
What the beach said to the sea.
I taste salt.
I smell of you.
I'm seaweed-strewn, curlicued with foam.
We've been meeting in the mists a long time, you and I,
under baking sun and thunderheads, blown by mad wind.
It's been ages, but your kiss has not grown old.
You are delicious to me.
Tell me again a flux and flow.
You, my clean, cool wetness, my adventure, my other.
Astound me time after time.
Surprise me again.
Roll in and subside.
I yearn and you return over and over me.
I'm tickled, damp at a suggestion, a kiss, a wash.
Come one more time.
Ocean whose deeps I know.
Come back.
Let those old pelicans watch.
Come back.
Drench me.
Lick me clean.
Come back.
Found and lost.
On my way to the summer of love,
I bust tables at Albert's Miramar Hotel in Half Moon Bay.
Feel lost until there's Mark at Safeway saying,
you're new in town.
He's a handsome painter.
Soon we're snug in his hammock,
under aromatic eucalyptus whispering in the chill sea air.
For two weeks I love him.
I lose the job, go on to San Francisco
for a summer of lovers and confusion.
Go back east for Christmas saying I'll be right back
and stay for decades.
2008, I move into senior housing in Berkeley
and there he is.
I don't recognize him, but someone says
there goes Mark the artist from Half Moon Bay.
He's in an electric wheelchair,
a slumping lump of a man,
left arm tied with a white plastic shopping bag
to his body, food crumbs in his beard,
thin matted gray hair.
We were friends in May 1967 in Half Moon Bay, I say.
It's hard to talk, he says.
Do you remember me, I say.
No, he says.
Smiling a crooked smile,
rolling away down the hall.
My ex-husband is half Mexican and good looking.
He works for Army Intelligence and he has a lot of secrets.
For instance, in bed he was Pedro El Bandito
until he got too rough.
He called me his gringita.
Gringita, gringita.
Before we got married, he found my tranquilizers
in the medicine cabinet.
He was so angry, he vacuumed for hours.
That was his only clue to my crazy past.
The summer of our marriage, he spent every weekend
at the pool with a thermos of Gallo Port.
One Saturday afternoon, I went to the pool
to be with my new husband and he wasn't there.
He came home late that night.
I said, where were you? You're drunk.
He said, I'm sick of your shit.
He said, none of your business.
He said, I infiltrated the protesters.
He said, I brought down the D.C. Koch head mayor.
He said, in Vietnam, I, in Vietnam, in Vietnam.
Well, thank you very much.
Okay, I'll read a few more.
Jean, are you going to do your song?
I don't think there's time.
One minute, okay.
Well, I'll read a few tanka.
Mando condo, a neighbor's passionate cries,
crescendo, piercing my celibate dream.
Now, I love him too.
Weary one, draw near.
Rest here and warm yourself by fire line.
Tomorrow, the barricades.
Your touch unshrouds the radiance at my center.
I catch my breath, reborn.
Okay, that was wonderful.
Jean Lupton, and I guess we're going to have her back
for an encore for one poem.
And I hope you enjoyed her reading her tankas
and her other wonderful poetry.
And she'll be back for one more.
I'm going to do my song now called Cemetery Song.
When, in about 1997, I inherited a cemetery plot,
and it was for two people.
And I was single at the time,
but I was seeing someone.
So this raised certain issues that are addressed in this song.
Honey, guess what I just bought?
A pretty little cemetery plot.
With a big oak tree, it gets the morning sun.
Doesn't that sound like fun?
Had our age-dating issues changed?
Relationships can get a little strange.
Don't know all the etiquette, and if I knew it,
once I forget.
Don't care about marriage, you're shacking up,
but you're my darling buttercup.
My cemetery plots big enough for two,
and I want to share the future with you.
Won't you spend eternity
pushing daisies up with me?
Together, timelessly, we'll be
underneath that old oak tree.
Do I know you well enough to ask it?
Take your pick, honey, earn her casket.
I'm going to respect your freedom and your space
in our final resting place.
Honey, guess what?
I just got a pretty little cemetery plot
all ready for us when we die.
How's about it, sweetie pie?
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
That's fantastic.
Thank you, John.
Well, I'm going to read a few poems
because this taping is done in February
and it is Black History Month,
and I would like to honor two black poets,
women poets.
The first one,
I would read this one first.
The first one is June Jordan,
and this is titled
What Great Grief Has Made the Empress Mute
and was dedicated to the Empress Michiko.
What Great Grief Has Made the Empress Mute
because it is raining outside the palace,
because there was no rain in her vicinity,
because people kept asking her questions,
because nobody ever asked her anything,
because marriage robbed her of her mother,
because she lost her daughters to the same tradition,
because her son laughed when she opened her mouth,
because he never delighted in anything she said,
because romance carried the rose inside a fist,
because she hungered for the fragrance of the rose,
because the jewels of her life did not belong to her,
because the glow of gold and silk disguised her soul,
because nothing she could say could change
the melted music of her grace,
because this privilege of her misery
was something she could not disgrace,
because no one could imagine reasons for her grief,
because her grief required no imagination,
because it was raining outside the palace,
because there was no rain in her vicinity.
This one is titled Sorrows by Lucille Clifton,
and Lucille passed away on February 13 this year.
Sorrows.
Who would believe them winged it?
Who would believe they could be beautiful?
Who would believe they could fall so in love with mortals
that they would attach themselves as scars,
attach and ride the skin?
Sometimes we hear them in our dreams,
rattling their skulls,
clicking their bony fingers,
envying our crackling hair,
our spice-filled flesh.
They have heard me beseaching as I whispered
into my own cupped hands,
enough, not me again, enough.
But who can distinguish one human voice
amid such choruses of desires?
Thank you very much.
And I am Clara Sue, co-hosting with John Rhodes
for the San Francisco Open Mic Poetry Podcast and TV show.
And thank you, Jeanine Lofton.
Thank you.
And hope to see you next time.
Thank you very much.
Thank you.
