The Garden of Verse: Three Poems on the Way It Was (and Sometimes Wasn't) Back in the Day

Three poems from what I might be calling my 'Retrospection Series' -- "How I Missed Woodstock," "Hunting for the Moon," and "Thunder" -- are up on the September Verse-Virtual.com. 

         Here's the bionote I wrote for V-V, attempting to connect all three of these themes to some of the 50-year anniversaries receiving wide attention this year. Because, in fact, the year 1969 was rather packed with events of historical note... And I didn't even mention that on the day of the moon launch, the top story in all the newspapers had to do with a previously little known water-crossing called Chappaquiddick.  

          Anyway, here's the note: 

          "It's been a good year for occasional verse, with 50-year anniversaries everywhere you turn. Somehow I missed the originals. I had no interest in the first man walking on the moon. I missed Woodstock, unable to get time off from a summer job I hated. I'm making up for all that here with poems about my absence from Woodstock, a more recent attempt to pay attention to the moon, and a poem in praise of Dylan's Rolling Thunder Revue, which I also ignored back in the day." 

            I'll reprint the Woodstock poem here: 

How I Missed Woodstock


'Uh, have you heard about --?'
Of course, everybody's heard about that
'Wanna go?'
 
Sure, you think the boss will understand
that for howsoever many days
I may disappear into a fathomless farm-belt upstate wilderness
of corn and soybeans and ultimate grasses
intended for the beasts of the field,
not for the longhaired hominids of the vinyl generation?
You have any idea where we'd park?
And how much did you say it would cost
vis-a-vis a weekly wage for picking plastic stock
in the Rubber Shrubbery warehouse?
...when we can always sit in the mud of your Mama's backyard,
turn our faces to the rain,
drink store brand cola and smoke weed
for pennies on the buck
 
'Oh... I don't know, maybe
it would be something to remember
when we're like, you know, forty years old
and looking back at our wilder days...'
 
Wild at heart, but trapped in flesh,
we save our pennies for a nearer treat,
darkening the streets of the broken city
and lamenting the death of a dream:
One green people, at home with
the geist of the zeit and the beasts of the field
 

To read my other two poems, and poems by the issue's many other contributors, please see  

http://www.verse-virtual.com/poems-and-articles.html

The Garden of Verse: Poets and Authors Get Some Attention

"Reading is essential to democracy," said James Wald, chairman of the Mass. Center for the Book, at the Sept. 17 Mass. Book Awards presentation held in the Great Hall of the Statehouse. Remarkably enough, the state's Constitution agrees, quite explicitly in a section entitled "The Encouragement of Literature, etc." Largely written by John Adams, the Massachusetts Constitution states (Ch.5, Sect.2): "Wisdom and knowledge, as well as virtue, diffused generally among the body of the people being necessary for the preservation of their rights and liberties... it shall be the duty of legislatures and magistrates in all future periods of this commonwealth to cherish the interests of literature..."

            The legislature and the Mass. Center for the Book carry out that Constitutional responsibility by making annual awards for best books in Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, Young Adult and Early Reader categories. With a three-year backlog since its last public presentation of awards, the organization publicly acknowledged winners and other honorees at a large public gathering in the Great Hall of the Statehouse. 

           My 2017 poetry chapbook was nominated for an award, but did not receive any further recognition. I decided to attend (with Anne; hence the photo) and clap for the winner after receiving this stirring communication from event's organizer, following a back-and-forth negotiation over whether the event had room for me or not:

Thanks for your RSVP to the MassBooks event at the State House on Tuesday, 9/17.  Response to the invitation was swift and robust, and we are in the happy position of being oversubscribed for the event, and we are sorry that you were put on a waiting list.  Please know that you are heartily welcomed to attend the event.  

            In addition to writers and their plus-one supporters, the session was attended by some 15 legislators and a few representatives of publishing houses among a gathering of some 200 aficianados of the book.

            Among highlights, a special Mass. Literacy Award was presented to Beacon Press, a Boston publisher long committed to publishing works that serve the public good.

            An award recipient with a national profile, author, Harvard professor, and "New Yorker" staff writer Jill Lepore spoke in praise of an early American book lover: Jane Franklin, Benjamin's better-read sister. When the first US Congress asked Ben what books it needed for its new national library, Lepore recounted, Ben replied, "Why don't you ask Jane?"

            Lepore also noted that the city of Boston had failed to preserve Jane Franklin's home and suggested that the Mass Center for the Book name its awards after her.

            Among other honorees who took advantage of the occasion to make a point, poet Ilan Stavans, author of 2018 winner "The Wall" noted the long history of opposition between tyranny and books. "The Chinese emperor who built 'the great wall of China' ordered all the books in China to be collected and burned," Stavan said, "because books cause people to think, and thinking might cause them to revolt."

            According to the Book Awards press release, "'The Wall' is a poetic exploration...of the U.S.-Mexican wall dividing the two civilizations, of similar walls (Jerusalem, China, Berlin, Warsaw, etc.) in history, and of the act of separating people by ideology, class, race, and other subterfuges."

           Other poetry awards went to "Vivas to Those Who Have Failed: Poems" by Martin Espada, a 2016 collection that invoked the vision of Walt Whitman and included "a cycle of sonnets about the Paterson Silk Strike and the immigrant laborers who envisioned an eight-hour workday."

           And to Richard Hoffman, whose volume "From Noon Until Night" received the best book award for 2017. Hoffman told the gathering, "You can't make a living as a poet, but you can make a life." 

           Other titles went on my own ever-growing list of books I mean to read. Notably, the novels "The Unmade World" by Steve Yarbrough, a book set in a time of  political and cultural upheaval in the US and Eastern Europe; and "The World of Tomorrow" by Brendan Mathews, a book about three Irish brothers having the best (or the worst) week of their lives in 1939 New York.

             And too many others to mention. In fact the full list of books honored in the agency's 4-page event program contains a wealth of recommendations for anybody's reading list. 

             State senators and representatives took part in the awards ceremony by presenting honors to the authors in their districts -- in what most certainly have been a grateful bow to the legislators for past assistance and an appeal for future budgetary generosity. One of these worthies, perhaps the rep from Salem, going straight tot he heart of the business, proclaimed that Massachusetts has the most celebrated literary history of any state in nation, praising his state straight-facedly as "the home of authors like Thoreau and Dr. Seuss."

            Well, there you have it.

            Thoreau and Dr. Seuss.

            Who can beat that?

The Garden of Change: Marian Meyerson (1927-2019)

 Anne's mother, Marian Meyerson, died last Tuesday, Sept. 10, at the age of 92.
   
     She was living in the Hebrew Home in New York City, where she spent the final few months of her life, receiving kind and excellent care. She lived lived the whole of her life as a New York City resident. She lost her own mother early in life; and her sister died in a childhood accident. After her mother died, she lived with her father and various relatives. 
      Anne was very close to her mother throughout her life, maintaining connection with nightly phone calls and frequent visits. Our children, Sonya and Saul, felt very close to her, and their grandfather, and have lasting memories of their grandparents' role in their childhood. 
        I am quoting to post here an excerpt from the eulogy Sonya gave at her grandmother's funeral last week, that captures something of Marian's uniqueness as a warm and perceptive human being. 
        And then I'm going to post the obituary I wrote, with Anne's input, for the website of the funeral home where the funeral was held on Sept. 12.
        Here's Sonya on her grandmother: 

"Grandma loved meeting people, learning their stories and what motivated them, what their passions were – and then found ways to engage with them. She was curious about the world, and adventurous - the postcards she sent me from her and grandpa’s trip across the world certainly helped inspire my own travels. She was kind-hearted, and hated bullies. I remember her standing up to a customer at Guido's, in the Berkshires, who was harassing the shopkeeper unreasonably- - afterwards her assessment had been that he “was NOT a nice man.” It’s worth noting she used a similar phrase when describing McCarthy, or Stalin, or the current president, or Robert Moses, or the unfair music critic in the Berkshire Eagle…


"She was fiercely independent, and loved learning and teaching and discussing - from whatever book her poetry club was reading, to my assessment of Middle Eastern politics, to her running history of how Manhattan was changing. She was also sharp and smart and expected you to bring your full self into the conversation at all times. The last time I saw her, at the Hebrew Home, as we were walking back to their rooms I pointed out a model train set and said something like -- “oh look, grandma, I didn’t know they had a train here.” To which, without missing a beat, she replied, “Well of course, Sonyalah, how do you think we got here?”
 
Here's the obituary: 

Marian Meyerson, the loving wife of Leonard Meyerson, died peacefully at age 92 in the residence she shared with her husband at the Hebrew Home in Riverdale. 

Born in Brooklyn, NY, Marian was the daughter of Anna Levy and Sam Goldberg, the beloved wife of Leonard Meyerson for 70 years, the mother of Joel, Anne and Michael, and a grandmother to Sonya, Saul, William, Andrew, Sam, Quinn, Dian Dian, and Libby.  She leaves also her beloved brother, Arthur Guild, her loving in-laws, and many extended family members and friends.

A child of the city with an appetite for both culture and nature, Marian loved beauty, art, music, theater, New York City, her summer home in Stockbridge, Mass., and her educator’s work with children and seniors. She collected works of art and craft, appreciated the talents of others, had an eye for fashion, contributed to worthy causes, talked easily to newcomers, showed appreciation for a job well done, and made friends everywhere.   

She had a sympathetic understanding of others, a gentle touch, and a willingness to share the wisdom of her own experience. As her husband Leonard says, “People loved her.”

After graduating from the New York City schools, Marian put herself through college while working and raising a family, and graduated from Hunter College. Earning her teaching credentials in early childhood education, she taught in the Yonkers public school system, rising to the position of principal at the time of her retirement.  

While teaching, Marian was a founding member of a women’s group that met regularly for decades. She helped to start a poetry group that met to discuss the classics. 

In retirement Marian devoted the next 20 years to her role as a docent at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, studying the museum’s treasures and sharing her knowledge widely. She led group tours in the Met, introducing visitors to the museum’s illustrious works and bringing illustrated lectures about great works of art and the artists who created them to the residents of senior homes. 

Throughout their life together, Marian and Leonard were active participants in the artistic and cultural life of the world’s greatest city, attending concerts by the New York Philharmonic, opera and theater at Lincoln Center and many other venues. They were supporters of progressive political causes and the Civil Rights movement, taking part in an early civil rights demonstration in Peekskill, N.Y., after political antagonists tried to prevent African-American activist and singer Paul Robeson from speaking.  

They also contributed generously to social justice, arts, and city park organizations.

They traveled widely, to Europe, the American West, the Canadian Rockies, and the Caribbean. They were enjoying a lengthy tour of China when the Tiananmen Square protests began in 1989. They visited their grandson Saul during a semester abroad in London. And in their eighties they paid a last visit to Paris, in the caring company of their granddaughter Sonya.     

For many years Marian and Leonard hosted a large Seder for their extended families at their home in Riverdale. They also hosted visitors at their summer home in Stockbridge, introducing their circle of city friends to the Berkshires region. 

Lifelong lovers of classical music, Marian and Leonard were at one time Friends of Tanglewood, the outdoor venue for Boston Symphony Orchestra. Their connection to Tanglewood dated to their early years together, at one point raising local eyebrows when Marian attended a symphony performance in shorts – a story she told on herself. 

She was a founding member of the Mishkan Ha’am  Congregation in Hastings. 

Those who wish to make charitable donations in her memory are asked to contribute to an organization of their choice. 

The Garden of the Earth: Summer in the Berkshires -- Too Big for the Camera

Photos taken on our recent stay in Berkshire County, in western Massachusetts. With hikes in sunny wildflower meadows, silent greenwoods; under billowing clouds, along brooks -- in Jug End in South Egremont, at Tyringham Cobble, though Stevens Glen, up Hancock hills where the Shakers once lived and dammed a flowing brook for power... also through Bullard Wood and Gould Meadow, bordered by the Stockbridge Bowl and Tanglewood... and many miles to go this autumn.

Too Big for the Camera: Jug End, Tyringham, Stevens Glen

These are the far fields

We drive, now, to find them

No plough has cleaved their earth

    for generations,

the croplands and pastures of a nearly forgotten civilization, 
as if aliens had once farmed these lands, 
imposing upon them the annual revolution of the blade and the hoe, 
a visceral survival of coaxing food from the earth, feeding your beasts in the fields,
so they would feed you. 
Our money has moved on, and we have followed
No more cash on the barrel-head,
greenbacks no longer wave from the seed head,
those once wavy fingers of Cornus, 
the foundational green divinity of a civilization
that was once our own

Earth restored to earth, left fallow, abandoned to the 

    peculiar beauties of elements cruel

        to human flesh, the cold love pressed upon living things

Now we turn earth and water to the playgrounds of cities,

    abandon the vine and tangle, the thrust of stem and spike 

        and flower,

the old romp with Ceres in the unregulated market place of fertilization

So they return, 

old world incarnations of the pastoral and hay field 
uncultivated by human hand, 

they bloom yellow, white, the pinkish blue of honey-bee balm suddenly everywhere this season, a harvest of itself;

lacy tops, yellow-headed circles of transfigured solar—

All his primal energy unrestrained by human geometries,

    evolution in confusion

What do we see in you?

Deep and distant Jug Head, or sunny Gould,

Or the climbing barrow of Tyringham, cobbled from IceAge vintages

    surging with richly flowered necklaces of white and orange,

corn blue, field flowers unknown to us, a native nirvana

Catnip for butterflies and bees grass-hoppering in the midday sun,

    feeding splendor for the swallows,

flyover for the hawk,

these massy estates of some wild pluming

We go only to gaze,
stroll in the mowin’ --
keep to the preservationists' paths,

obeying the signs

    Eyes on the earth

        and all its splendid jewelry

        configurations

        of a greeny wealth gone wild