VOICES ~

Antonio Porchia

The great and still little known Argentine poet who died at age 82 in 1968. Born in Italy, he lived in Buenos Aires from 1911, writing in Spanish and working as a potter or carpenter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before I travelled my road I was my road.



I found the whole of my first world in my meager bread.



My poverty is not complete: it lacks me.



One lives in the hope of becoming a memory.



I have scarcely touched the clay and I am made of it.



Nothing that is complete breathes.



You will find the distance that separates you from them, by joining them.



He who tells the truth says almost nothing.



For a thousand years I have been asking myself, "what will I do now?" And still I need not answer.



My heaviest comes from the heights.



Chimeras come singly and leave accompanied.



Man, when he does not grieve, hardly exists.



We have a world for each one, but we do not have a world for all.



Would there be this eternal seeking if the found existed?



We become aware of the void as we fill it.



When everything is finished, the mornings are sad.



A child shows his toy, a man hides his.



I love you as you are, but do not tell me how that is.



If I did not believe that the sun looked at me a little bit, I would not look at it.



I know what I have given you. I do not know what you have received.



I do not want anything over again. Not even a mother.




Whatever I take, I take too much or too little; I do not take the exact amount. The exact amount is no use to me.



Yes, this is what good is: to forgive evil. There is no other good.



When one does not love the impossible, one does not love anything.



Everything is a little bit of darkness, even the light.



The fear of separation is all that unites.



If those who owe us nothing gave us nothing, how poor we would be.



When everyone grieves no one hears the crying.



Every toy has the right to break.



Even the smallest creatures carries a sun in its eyes.



The dream which is not fed with dream disappears.



Because they know the name of what I am looking for, they think they name know what I am looking for!



To the best of refuges, I prefer their doorways.



All things pronounce names.





Antonio Porchia
selected from Voices
translated by W. S. Merwin
Big Table, 1969

photo: 123people.es

TELEGRAM ~

FROM MY LINE ABOUT WHEN I WAS A "BOY CARPENTER BUILDING WITH BIG DREAMS, ALMOST A VILLA, AND NEVER THINKING OF THE OLD GUY (ME) DOWN THE ROAD " HAS MY GOOD FRIEND ED IN MICHIGAN ASK ME IN VERMONT ~

"2 FEET OF SNOW 8 HOURS OF SHOVELING DO YOU HAVE A ROOF RAKE?"

HI ED ~

BOY CARPENTER/OLD MAN IDEA I ACTUALLY HAVE THOUGHT OUT IN MY BOOK SUNSWUMTHRU A BUILDING, WHERE I WAS FOOLISH ENOUGH AT AGE 50 (STILL OBVIOUSLY A DREAMER) TO REBUILD OUR BACK NORTH ROOF INTO A LITERAL FOOTBALL FIELD SIZE APRON SHED ROOF AND INSTEAD OF GIVING MYSELF THE LIFE SAVING STEEPER PITCH FOR SNOW SHEDDING, I SET IN EYEBROW WINDOWS TO PROVIDE NATURAL LIGHT FOR THE ROOM, AND NOW I SHOVEL THE ROOF AFTER A GOOD TWO FEET OF SNOW. IT'LL BE MURDER IN A FEW MORE YEARS. I'LL NEED TO HIRE A HELPER, A WILD ANIMAL, A SLAVE LIKE MYSELF. COME AND VISIT, BRING YOUR SHOVEL.

YOU ASK, "DO YOU HAVE A ROOF RAKE?"

ED, DOES A MICHIGAN BEAR SHIT IN THE WOODS?

I HAVE 3 ROOF RAKES. BUILT MY FIRST 40 YEARS AGO FOR MY CABIN IN THE WOODS AND THEN THE ALUMINUM MODELS CAME ON THE MARKET. BOUGHT ONE, TOLD A FRIEND IN THE WOODS TO BUY ONE, HE DID. THEN HE MOVED AWAY AND LEFT THE RAKE BEHIND. I GOT THAT. FOUND ONE OTHER, I'M BETTING AT A TAG SALE. ON SATURDAY IT WILL BE IN MY HANDS MOST OF THE DAY. I CLEARED 4 ROOFS YESTERDAY WITH MY FIRST ROOF RAKE, DUCT-TAPE ON IT AND ALL.

(THE FOOL HAS 2 OTHERS, WHY IS HE USING THE DUCT-TAPED ONE?)

WRONG QUESTION ~ IT'S BOP 'TIL YOU DROP.

WE BROKE TRAIL THROUGH THE WOODLOT TODAY ON SNOWSHOES. BROUGHT HOME MAPLE AND BEECH LOGS FROM THE CORD STASHED UP THERE. EVERY DAY WE CARRY BACK TWO MORE LOGS. BY APRIL THE PILE SHOULD BE HOME (AND BURNED).

ALL'S WELL!

Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love.
Reinhold Niebuhr


map image: squidoo

EARTH ~

THOSE WHO TAKE THE MEAT FROM THE TABLE


Teach contentment.

Those from whom the taxes are destined

Demand sacrifice.

Those who eat their fill speak to the hungry

Of wonderful times to come.

Those who lead the country into the abyss

Call ruling too difficult

For ordinary men.

---------~

BERTOLT BRECHT
SELECTED POEMS
TRANSLATED BY H. R. HAYS
REYNAL & HITCHCOCK, 1947

photo: faculty-staff.ou.edu

WITH ME ~

They only made four records, and this one from 1967 off the High Tone label.

Date line: Kingston, Jamaica.

"It's the fever / the gun fever..."

THE VALENTINES

Here & now.

GENE ~

Born into an upper crust NY family in 1920, Gene Tierney started smoking as a young actress to help lower her voice from sounding like, as she said, "an angry Minnie Mouse". The heavy smoking would take her from us in 1991 and put her into the ground in Houston, Texas, after living a life on stage, screen and television known as one of the most beautiful women of the silver screen. To this day there are critics who dismiss her far too easily — the beauty and all. They need to sit down and take a look again at Leave Her to Heaven (1945).




At age twenty Tierney made her first film with Fritz Lang opposite Henry Fonda in The Return of Frank James. Fonda was great; Tierney was noticed. A year later she worked with Von Sternberg (The Shanghai Gesture). Now that's two European geniuses all before the age of 22. Rising two years later to be with a third genius, Ernst Lubitsch in Heaven Can Wait. Otto Preminger cupped the actress in his hand to make three classics: Laura (1944), Whirlpool (1949) and Where the Sidewalk Ends in 1950. This formed the Tierney model. As an aside, if you think Jose Ferrer was something in Lawrence of Arabia, have a look at a younger piece-of-work in Whirlpool.

Tierney is now thirty years old. Howard Hughes has fallen for her but she hasn't quite reciprocated, and he will become very kind to her when it counts after a tragic pregnancy and birth.

Wedged in her twenties hide two masterpieces — if you're romantic The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947) will carry you away, and of course Leave Her To Heaven is the cruelest, gorgeous, monster of an act this side of Jean Simmons in Angel Face (1952). Because of the drowning, in a rowboat, wearing shades, not lifting a finger, I'm giving the nod, just slightly, to Tierney.

By age thirty she is in, but can't quite be recalled, Jules Dassin's Night and the City (1950). Still a terrific film. Richard Widmark on the loose.

During the forties Tierney will give birth to two daughters — the first, Daria, while she is pregnant with German measles, contracted from a fan who escaped from a quarantine so she could meet the actress. This would prove grave for the child born with birth defects and severe mental illness. The baby was only three pounds and demanded a full blood transfusion. A nervous breakdown will essentially bring the actress down, diagnosed as bipolar, and this is where Howard Hughes steps in to assist with all her daughter's medical bills.

In the mid-50s a young John F. Kennedy will become a lover but that won't keep the actress from voting against him and for Nixon in the Presidental elections in 1960. By then Tierney is trying to return to acting after a debilitating decade, and it will be another old friend, Otto Preminger, who brings her back to the screen, as almost half her full self, in Advise and Consent (1962).

But the good old days of shocking temptress are over. Twenty-seven sessions of shock therapy, while institutionalized, hasn't helped the actress one bit.

In Leave Her To Heaven, I believe the director John M. Stahl catches the essence, and then some, of Gene Tierney, as if filtered through each of her 1940-1950 performances.

Roll the camera.

Shanghai

DEATH VALLEY ~

Marta Becket


Maybe born to be a ballerina (1924), to this day Marta Becket is living and performing from her own private theater: Amargosa Opera House in Death Valley Junction, California.

We stayed there once but slept in the parking lot, arriving way too late in the full moon for anyone to notice.

While performing with a road show in 1967, a flat tire stopped MB momentarily at this dusty four-corners and she decided to stay. If I remember correctly, she bought the whole town! Wind blown and sun~baked. Perfectly ghostly.

A dancer, painter, choreographer and desert rat (a lover of animals, mostso burros, cats and wild horses) this former Rockette from Radio City Music Hall is performing to this day at age 86.

In 1970 a crew from National Geographic discovered her paradise where she was performing on stage without an audience. Look around on the walls and one will see the murals the artist has painted of her world — classical sites and faces and applause.

Track down Todd Robinson's documentary film from 2000, it'll be a pleasure.

photo: jengray.com

EARTH ~

BACK ROAD CALLER





FIRST SNOW AS I SPLIT WOOD


Thin snow falling into
Valley fog, quiets everything,
No bird call, nothing flying.
The splitting wedge and hammer
Echo over the pasture
While the flakes open bigger
For no reason other than snow.
And I straighten my sweaty back
To watch this world, lend a tongue
And taste it melt.




FARMER’S WIFE


Four dozen eggs under her arm,
That’s how she greeted us.
We weren’t coming for eggs
But for a currant bush
Waiting in the dooryard
Wrapped tight in burlap.
I lifted it into the back
Of the truck since that’s
What I was hired to do,
Waited in the early sun
Leaning against the tailgate
While the two old ladies talked.
And with the eggs still under
Her arm she also turned to speak
With me, eyes dazzled like light
In water, checkered blue flannel
Shirt, out-worn by all of her
Sons and now on her back; torn
At the elbows, but warm.
Everything is just right
On this hill farm and I’ve only
Been here 5 minutes. Crows flap
West to east from the wood’s edge
Long over the flat face of pasture,
A manure spreader is backed up
To the kitchen door stacked neat
With stovewood, the lawn is mowed,
And we’ve caught this farmer’s wife
In between the chicken coop and
The house; white hair combed back
With ruddy hands that pick eggs
Each morning, and when she talks
She mentions all of her family.




NOW


Without any warning,
No wind or dampness,
Just as I was about to
Step out from under
The empty stall,
Shake woodchips
After chain saw work
From my rubber boots
Then split the wood —
Sleet rained down all at once
As if someone whispered now
Caught even the chickadees
Feeding in the overgrown
Raspberry canes, but I
Watched as they regained
Themselves over the
Pasture, flying away

CLAYTON


Clayton always had a pricky word
To say about the hippies.
They lived in a commune
Over the hill from his farm.
He ran into them at three places
At any one time during the year —
Either when he was hunting the hill
As he did every year for 40 years,
Or when he was running his snow-machine
On the back roads.
Finally he would see them in town
Every other Friday, when he was
Cashing his check from the state park.
And they was always cashing
Some other kind of check,
Smiling at him.

Of course I was a hippie to Clayton too
Because I had the long beard,
But we worked together when he came home
To his farm on the river.
Helped him screed the foundation floor
Under his house and lay down the roof, too —
Fix fence, cut the firewood and solder sap pails.
But one day I’ll never forget
Was when we were haying the lower mowing in August —
His wife had moved out long ago
And he was living with his son
And the big TV antenna.
But these summer days were spent
A long time haying,
Waiting on the weather
And broken down farm machines.

We had just finished up work,
Had the trailer swayed down loaded
With 200 bales and were coming around
The bend near the second swimming hole
When Clayton caught sight of something
Standing fresh out open
In the shallow part of the river —
A young woman soaping herself
And blonde naked as pine lumber,
Sunlight enshrined in the water
Around her knees.
We both stared like idiots
Until we got broadside with her,
Then we looked straight ahead
Business as usual
But I know she didn’t move.

Further up the road
Clayton twisted his sunburned neck
And skinny white t-shirt
Around in the tractor seat,
Looked back where I was
Holding onto the trailer stakes
And hollered, “I never did mind the hippie women!”




WARM


Apple, poplar, ash,
Cherry, red maple,
Pine, basswood, oak,
These are the woods
That we sawed today,
In two hours of thinning,
Selecting, we made a cord —
Trampled branches on snow
Worked without words.
Simple thoughts, like picking
Up these sticks — back and
Forth in the mind — until we
Stop to rest together against
The pile, brushing off woodchips,
Shedding hats and gloves,
And because we kiss, I warm
My hands beneath your blouse.







FARLOW


Just imagine Farlow
On Washington’s Birthday
When he came out the back door
Into his woodshed and caught
Clayton’s small hunting-pup
Digging through his trash.
According to the story
He told the game warden
Was that the pup attacked him,
So he had to shoot it.

Clayton never bought that story.
He knew from past experience
Of his own that Farlow’s wife
Had left him six months
After they moved here from Connecticut.
He was spending weekend nights
And now weekdays
In bars in town after work,
Might have even brought home a lady,
But most probably not.

Clayton could read Farlow’s house lights
A quarter-mile away from where
He sat nights in his kitchen —
No houses in-between.
If he used the scope of his rifle
He could even see more.
As winter sunk in
Farlow was keeping odd-hours —
Arriving home late,
Wandering around the house weekends,
And shooting his rifle off for hours
In his field on Sunday afternoons.
The house was said to have an arsenal —
Maybe 30 rifles and pistols for one man —
And it only took one to shoot the dog.

After that, Clayton didn’t deal with him,
Didn’t pay attention to his house lights,
And in turn Farlow leased out his hayfield
To someone else, instead of Clayton —
First time in years.

Since then both men have remarried,
Moved away, and the house of Farlow’s
Was bought by a millionaire gentleman farmer.
I still hear Farlow target practicing
In his field on a Sunday afternoon,
Even though he is long gone.
Clayton’s son says they have so many puppies
Around at his father’s old place
That they’ll probably have to drown a few of them
In the river this spring.




SCOUT


Here you are again
Late at night
Snow falling in the valley
Life on snowshoes

Hardly faraway from home
In fact, isn’t that the glow
Of the kitchen lamp
Lighting through the trees

I’ve spend the better part
Of darkness stamping in
A mile wide circle enjoying
The measure of going nowhere

Stand with me
Waste some time
Everything you’ve always wanted
Is all around you





© Bob Arnold
from Where Rivers Meet
(Mad River Press)

photos © bob arnold

EARTH ~

Robinson Jeffers
July 20, 1926
Carmel, CA

https://diva.sfsu.edu/collections/sfbatv/bundles/189961

I PAINT ~

Diego Rivera

"Man at the Crossroads" begun in 1933 for the Rockefeller Center in New York City, was removed after a furor erupted in the press over a portrait of Vladimir Lenin. Look right under the upper right wing, or is it a propeller. . .

E.B. White

I Paint What I See

"'What do you paint, when you paint on a wall?'
Said John D.'s grandson Nelson.
'Do you paint just anything there at all?
'Will there be any doves, or a tree in fall?
'Or a hunting scene, like an English hall?'

'I paint what I see,' said Rivera.

'What are the colors you use when you paint?'
Said John D.'s grandson Nelson.
'Do you use any red in the beard of a saint?
'If you do, is it terribly red, or faint?
'Do you use any blue? Is it Prussian?'

'I paint what I paint,' said Rivera.

'Whose is that head that I see on the wall?'
Said John D.'s grandson Nelson.
'Is it anyone's head whom we know, at all?
'A Rensselaer, or a Saltonstall?
'Is it Franklin D.? Is it Mordaunt Hall?
Or is it the head of a Russian?

'I paint what I think,' said Rivera.





'I paint what I paint, I paint what I see,
'I paint what I think,' said Rivera,
'And the thing that is dearest in life to me
'In a bourgeois hall is Integrity;
'However . . .
'I'll take out a couple of people drinkin'
'And put in a picture of Abraham Lincoln;
'I could even give you McCormick's reaper
'And still not make my art much cheaper.
'But the head of Lenin has got to stay
'Or my friends will give the bird today,
'The bird, the bird, forever.'

'It's not good taste in a man like me,'
Said John D.'s grandson Neslon,
'To question an artist's integrity
'Or mention a practical thing like a fee,
'But I know what I like to a large degree,
'Though art I hate to hamper;
'For twenty-one thousand conservative bucks
'You painted a radical. I say shucks,
'I never could rent the offices-----
'The capitalistic offices.
'For this, as you know, is a public hall
'And people want doves, or a tree in hall
'And though your art I dislike to hamper,
'I owe a little to God and Gramper,
'And after all,
'It's my wall . . .'

'We'll see if it is,' said Rivera.


from ~
The New Yorker, May 20, 1933

Description of the Art Work

A Mural portrait commissioned by Nelson Rockefeller for Rockefeller Center in New York City. Its subject was to be "human intelligence in control of the forces of nature." The 63 feet by 17 feet mural contained in the center a portrait of Lenin.

Description of incident

"On May 22, 1933, Rivera was called down from his scaffold where he was still working on the unfinished mural. He was handed a check for $14,00, the balance of his fee, and informed that he had been dismissed. Within 30 minutes the mural had been covered by tarpaper and a wooden screen.

Results of incident

"Seeking a compromise, Rockefeller suggested that Rivera should replace Lenin with some unknown face; the artist offered to add Lincoln but refused to expunge Lenin. Charged with willful propagandizing, he declared only that "All art is propaganda." Since he had accepted his payment, Rivera was unable to force the Rockefellers to exhibit or even keep his work. The mural was subsequently removed from the wall..." The Encyclopedia of Censorship, J. Green, Facts on File, pg. 254

Source: The Encyclopedia of Censorship, J. Green, Facts on File

photos:

the rockefeller plaza mural

frida kahlo & diego rivera

diego rivera working on the mural

JANINE & BADGER

[ click on image for a bigger world ]

designed & printed by susan & bob arnold

sorry, gang, we lost the "comments" for a moment...will return.

I AM A MAN ~

Ernest C. Withers

Ernest C. Withers (1922-2007), photographer, worked sixty years documenting the civil rights movement in America, the Memphis blues scene, the Negro Baseball League, black folklore, and he traveled with Martin Luther King, Jr., during most of his public life, garnering photographs that are today the hallmark of that period. No one else had quite the touch nor knew how to instinctively position portraits — the sweat, the earth, the sound — between the very public street and the killing floor. His baseball photographs show faces rarely seen as he found them. When you hold his now scarce book of photographs gathering all these worlds, you're holding something. I found my copy in a dim-lit basement shop. In the dross there, it glowed.

Amongst the highlights and courage of the man now come allegations he worked as a paid informant for the FBI from 1968-1970. Who knows what that entailed? His family, and he had eight children, aren't buying the charges; others are affixing negative labels. This was a very complicated and hopeful, yet murderous time in American history (lots of snitches), and this is quite a versatile artist. He had a large family to support, plus he was known to give his photographs away to ministers who couldn't afford to pay. Look at the character of the man, but not at the expense of the brilliant work. These are photographs that lead the way.

ernest c. withers

mule train leaving Mississippi for Washington D.C. Poor People's March 1968

ernest c. withers

sanitation workers solidarity march Memphis 1968

ernest c. withers

ernest c. withers

Ernie Banks, Larry Doby, Matty Brescia, Jackie Robinson, youngster, Memphis 1953

ernest c. withers

Satchel Paige




Memphis Red Sox

ernest c. withers

ernest c. withers

Martin Luther King, Jr. Washington D.C.

ernest c. withers

Pops Staples


When we listen to the gospel and rhythm & blues of Roebuck "Pops" Staples (1914-2000), we're hearing the soul of a man born on a Mississippi cotton plantation, was one of 14 kids, and who dropped out of school after the eighth grade. He'd go on to know and play with Charlie Patton, Robert Johnson, Son House — a killer line-up. Then there was his personal friendship with Martin Luther King, Jr. By 1948 he formed The Staple Singers with his young children (Mavis, Yvonne, Pervis, Cleotha) singing in local churches; this spread all over the country, all over the world. Forever legendary on Stax Records. Pops Staples' peaceable yet resonant and shimmering recordings may be picked up as an influence for many current acts, including the stage sound of Bob Dylan. His youngest, Mavis, carries on the music and the grace.

ernest c. withers

Ike & Tina Turner
paradise, ca. 1962

Howlin' Wolf
wdia goodwill revue
city auditorium, ca. 1960

ernest c. withers

ever cool B.B. King

ernest c. withers

Elvis Presley & B.B. King
december 7, 1956

ernest c. withers

ernest c. withers

Lionel Hampton, Memphis 1955

ernest c. withers

Ernest C. Withers

a gorgeous moment: young woman w/ her voter registration card, Fayette County, Tennessee, 1960

ernest c. withers

ernest c. withers