Where drought hasn’t melted men
into three seasons
A shuffle of footsteps
in discarded leaves
warns
Winter is coming [Read more…]
U.S. Poet Laureate Natasha Trethewey reads ‘Incident’ | Video Worth Watching
Natasha Trethewey, U.S. Poet Laureate of 2012-2104, was born in Gulfport, Mississippi on April 26, 1966. I suspect that the incident described in this poem was a lived experience and not mere literary invention. There was something chilling about reading, at this time of year, the line describing “the cross trussed like a Christmas tree”. [Read more…]
night cap – Charles Bukowski | Video Worth Watching
night cap
there is no avenging angel or red burning devil
there is only me sitting here
at the age of 70
playing with the word. [Read more…]
Bob Dorn: Requiem for a Renaissance Man
There’s a funeral toast, “Here’s to a man whose like won’t come this way again.” That’s Bob Dorn. Writer, jazz man, stone mason, gardener, cook, and maker of carnival masks; he was also a warm, witty, and constant friend. About that last semi-colon, Bob and I had two caffeine-fueled discussions on the semi-colon, which he put to bed with these words,
“I think the notion that language usage should (or could) be proper is
‘… a hobgoblin of small minds’ (Emerson). Communication is the proper aim of writing.”
When I met Bob early in 2013 he had been playing the trumpet for many years, and for me jazz informed his writing in ways wonderful and a little mysterious. After asking him about the process in a couple of different ways, Bob emailed on his 74th birthday,
“Music’s even more mysterious to me than
language but the comparison isn’t fair because language …. ? I was
gonna say it’s more like rocks fitted together and music has structure,
but that’s not good enough because there are musicians who can
can explain the system but they often can’t play as well as others who
nevertheless can’t explain the system. There’s a so-what in there,
someplace. One thing that comes to mind is
that there are alternative phrases in jazz and writing. A phrase like,
“dawn came a little slowly…” might be jazzy, but “he waited for a dawn
that never seemed to arrive” is more like writing.”
Updated Jan. 5, 2019: to include memorial service info [Read more…]
Political Love Affair | Geo-Poetic Spaces
I tried to leave
because she
can be cruel
to women and children
unkind to the strangers
she once was herself
Round corners
in a remote countries
and there she was
looking out of starry eyes
waving wind
Stowed in my suitcase
carried over seas of clouds [Read more…]
The Old Man and the City
Editor’s Note: Bob wrote this article on October 30 and intended to finish it while in Sant Joan, Mallorca, where he unexpectedly died. Nat Krieger, a dear friend of Bob and SDFP contributor himself, was able to find the article on Bob’s computer and sent it to us, at Deb Dorn’s request. We are publishing it posthumously.
By Bob Dorn
The old man used to ride his wobbly old bike every day up to the market on Park Boulevard where he preferred to shop. On his way north he would dismount as he approached the Georgia Street overpass of University Avenue because the climb was steep enough to make him uncomfortable. In fact, he not very stable on the machine under any conditions, and it looked nearly as old as him and seemed to weigh half as much as he did. On his way back the filled-up basket of the bike rattled loudly, which alerted the few people along the way getting out of or into their cars.
On some days the people recognized him and waved, some pointing their thumbs upward toward the sky because they knew he would pretend to think they meant something was up there and he would look up at the morning clouds as if he were following their directions. They always laughed at that. Others would aim their garden hoses at him so they could share a different laugh. [Read more…]
A Climate Change Inspired Poem
As a girl by herself wandering wantonly within the woods, I was kept company
By animal voices and ancient whispers from the tree canopy
When my bare feet touched warm soil, planted firmly on earth, I was so aware
I was never alone, I belonged to this mystic beauty, and happily had not a care
Yet by the time I was a young woman, ready to journey from my home
The animal voices, many were going quiet it was well known [Read more…]
Deer Tracks | Geo-Poetic Spaces
Last night’s rainwater
Fills the hoof prints of a deer
With her chestnut eyes [Read more…]
Saying Goodbye to a Friend Who Gave Me a Helping Hand
You know that feeling you get when a dear friend all of a sudden says something like “Well, we’re moving to Seattle next month,” and a kind of sadness sets in? Nothing devastatingly grievous or crippling, but you feel a little empty inside, knowing that your pal is no longer just down the street or across town, but gone.
That was me when I got the word that the San Diego Free Press was coming to an end because I see them as a friend, a beloved friend; because who, but a dear friend, would allow you to write about a little of everything, anytime you wanted to, and any way you wanted to, be it poetry or prose.
I can’t adequately express what a lift in my spirit the gift of having a place to vent so freely has meant to me. What can one say about being appreciated so openly and unconditionally? [Read more…]
Cloud Cover | Geo-Poetic Spaces
Rain bubbles asphalt —
Thunder’s light reopens wounds —
Seeps through cloud cover. [Read more…]
Refugee Deaths | Geo-Poetic Spaces
Over
35,000 men women children
wired to a fence
Each name
a page in earth’s history
spit into fire
devoured by sea
deported
redacted into dust [Read more…]
Finding My Voice | Geo-Poetic Spaces
I found my voice
and it won’t be shutdown
iced over
stamped out
by bullets striking stones
My voice
can’t be invaded
bricked up
pulled under
by coyotes howling
walls [Read more…]
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