Monday, July 18, 2011
Artist's Union Gallery tomorrow, Tuesday July 18, 2011.
Here is a sample poem from Howard's pen:
I was debating with the wall, which was
dead-on maddening, when it talked back
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
It’s a high crime night tonight
The moon is frozen still
Boredom was on, it had killed everything around me
While sleepers had beautiful dreams
Boredom weaved through me
It didn’t speak
It demanded nothing from me
Wherever I went it was there
I threatened it and all it did was grin
I took it for long walks in the moonlight
It dragged it’s ass
It stood absolutely still with it’s ears cocked
His feet planted firm
It’s eyes blinked
And every thought in my head disappeared.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Union Gallery on Tuesday July fifth 2011.
Here's a poem or two by Ms. Frost:
The pull to go, to retreat, not to fight or stay―
Arjuna's war, what is too much, too far to serve?
Can I lift these limbs to the peak of this moment,
see pastmy confusion:am I clear of avoidance, fear,
and the deceit of memory?
Watching myself and the crowd drink our sorrows
as moments pass―at least we're watching.
Another poem by Ken Wienchus
Hope for the Future (published in Askew)
E.T came by last night
Home he said pointing up toward the ceiling
I picked him up, tucked him under my arm
and walked up the stairs to the attic,
I opened the door, threw him in, slam the door shut,
and locked it not hearing any signs of protest
I went downstairs and turned on the TV
and watched a rerun of All in the Family.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
attention when he was guest poet last year
at Tuesday Night Poetry at The Artist's
Union Gallery in Ventura. Don is listed
on Poets & Writers, is the founder of
POETRY people youth writing workshops;
publisher of the San Gabriel Valley
Poetry Quarterly; leader of the Emerging
Urban Poets writing and Deep Critique
workshops; and host of the Saturday
Afternoon Poetry reading series in
Pasadena, California. Mr. Campbell has
taught Creative Writing in the Upward Bound
program at Occidental College and been a Guest
Teacher for the Los Angeles Unified School
District for 26 years.
Here is Don on Youtube:
Sunday, June 26, 2011
art, site-specific installations and drawing and painting.
Although always interdisciplinary , his work is primarily
autobiographical in nature and always includes
Museum of Art, Guggenheim Museum in New York,
La Foret Museum in Tokyo, Total Museum in Korea,
Seattle Museum, Palm Springs Desert Museum,
St. Louis Museum, Oakland Museum and others.
He is the recipient of three National Endowment for
the Arts grants and has served as a panelist twice.
He was awarded the New Talent Award from
LACMA in 1971, CETA Grant in 1979 and Djerassi
Fellowship in 1989. Since unofficially retiring from
performance art in 1989 (there have been two
Archives which has acquired White’s early sketches
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Night Poets writes poetry and enjoys other
people's poetry, too. See her poem below.
Roni*s formal training includes a BA in Italian
(University of California Santa Barbara, 1989),
a Masters degree in Speech Communication
California State University Northridge, 1993),
a Laughter Yoga Leader Certificate (with Dr.
Kataria, 2006) and a Laughter Yoga Teacher
Certificate (with Dr. Kataria, 2007). Roni*
presently teaches Hasya (Laughter) Yoga,*
Hatha (asana practice) Yoga,* and Conversational
Italian (as a private tutor).
Now here's a poem from Roni that I promised
entitled Electric Rain:
Hot, stillborn air, flashes of light slicing the
sky leave bright etchings scratched on my mind.
Waiting breathlessly for the next display, my eyes
beg for morefrom the dark heavy clouds.
"Bring me Enlightenment!" I plead.
"Come set my bones on fire;Electric Rain,
ignite my soul."
Not hiding under the eves of tomorrow,
I lay my body down in the grassy field,
wet and waiting to be struckby white flashes of passion.
But let me die living well.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
composer, conductor, and music technologist
living in La Jolla, California.
While maintaining an active professional career,
Jeff is also a music PhD student in Integrative
Studies at the University of California,
San Diego. Focusing on improvisation and
emergent technology, Jeff has a primary
specialty of critical studies and secondary
of ethnomusicology. Jeff also holds a Bachelor's
Degree in Music Composition from Westmont College
and a Master of Music in Choral and Orchestral
Conducting from Azusa Pacific University.
Jeff has played professionally with many different
groups and individuals on television, film,
radio, and in concert halls throughout the
United States and abroad. Jeff will be performing
Saturday, June 25 2011 at Zooey's Cafe from 7:30 pm to
9:30 pm. You can keep up with Jeff through his
own personal blog http://jeffkaiser.blogspot.com/
Saturday, June 25 2011. The reading will be hosted by
Florence Weinberger was born in 1932 in
New York City and raised in the Bronx.
Yiddish was her first language and writing
always her first passion. While working full
time for the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company
she tunneled her way through from the subway to
Hunter College, graduating with a BA in
English in 1956. She taught 3rd grade for one year
in Queens and liberated herself from its tyranny by
becoming pregnant and a stay-at-home mom. She moved
to California in 1959 with her husband and first child.
She returned to writing in the early 60's, taking
workshops with such teachers as Ann Stanford,
Ben Saltman, Jack Grapes, Peter Levitt and Kate
Braverman, entering and winning some contests and
producing two unpublished novels. Her first two poetry books,
The Invisible Telling Its Shape and Breathing Like a Jew,
appeared in 1997. Her latest book, Carnal Fragrance,
was published by Red Hen Press in fall of 2004.
You Dream About Eating An Egg
No one loved eggs the way you did.Ate your
way through dozens, soft-boiled and scrambled.
Taught your granddaughter how to spoon them out
of the shell.Ate them pure without salt or butter
or ham.Without guilt.Careful not to lose a drop
That's why your dream about the yolk spilling
out when you bit into the hot golden center of
the eggscared me to death.
He has been a member of Joan Raymund’s poetry
workshop in Ojai for several years, and has
had poems published in Rivertalk, The Northridge
Review, ARTLIFE, Poetry Motel, The Santa Barbara
Independent, and Many Mountains Moving.
Here is a poem from Scott entitled Judgement
Christmas eve party.
Family gathering adjourns
to the ice cream store
with Mom and Dad.
Also cousin Steve, twice my age.
Brags to me about sleeping
with his girlfriend.
Too loudly I ask him
"Do you see her naked?"
Customers at Baskin-Robbins
castrate me with their glares.
Ice cream store owner
demands my departure
from a childhood paradise.
Not an ounce of sympathy
shows on faces of the jury.
My irate mom calls me
"a filthy dirty animal."
Dad snaps his whipping belt.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
been a part of the Tuesday Night poets for
several years. Here is a poem from Starr's
In the brilliant Belgian sun, Van Gogh
works feverishly, splashing paint on canvas
with reckless abandon, trying to capture the
crows before the murder finds a new meal.
As suddenly as sunrise, darkness descends
and he finds himself looking skyward.
By the light of the moon, he paints through
the starry night until the cold drives him
home from the fields.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
will be a featured poet along with Chyrss Yost on Tuesday,
July 12, 2011.
Mr. Spacks has nine poetry collections. N.E.A librettist grantee;
many poetry readings; poems in 18 anthologies and a multitude
of journals, print and cyber; two novels, stories, essays, reviews.
For poems and novels: St. Botolph's Arts Award, Boston.
Singer-songwriter, actor; Literature professor, M.I.T. (1960-1981);
persistently Visiting Professor, U.C. Santa Barbara (Distinguished
Professor in Humanities & Fine Arts, 1991). Senior Vajrayana
(Tibetan Buddhism) student of H.E. Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche.
Two CDs , A Private Reading, from WC Studios, contains 42 poems
(plus chat) from 50 years of work and Selected Poems from Regarding
Here is a poem of Mr. Spacks entitled What Breathes Us:
Regards to the day,
the great long day that can't be hoarded,
good or ill.
What breathes us
likely means us well.
We rise up from an earthly root to seek
the blossom of the heart.What breathes
us likely means us well.
We are a voice impelled to tell
where the joining of sound and silence is.
We are the tides, and their witnesses.
What breathes us likely means us well.
poet I know. I am among the scores of poets she's
welcomed into the fold - before we even knew what
we were getting into. She knew. Thank you Doris.
You are loved.
PATHOLOGY OF LOVE
When he comes in sight
Your heart breaks its tether
And gallops across the landscape
Of your emotions
This isn’t love it is tachycardia
The disorder responds to digitalis.
You see shooting stars
Your head feels swimmy
When you think of him
It is not love
But classic signs of anemia
Try time-release iron tablets.
He comes to your side
You are giddy with happiness
He leaves you you are lethargic
You are not experiencing love
It is bi-polar mood disorder
Ask your physician about lithium
If your symptoms become acute
And your doctor is unavailable
Retreat to your bedroom
Lie quietly with a cold cloth
On your forehead.
When your heart calms itself
When all the stars have
Shot out of your heaven
And resume normal activities.
Pray that no red roses
Have been delivered
To your doorstep
Or you shall surely
Experience a relapse.
It occurs to me that,
when I die, they might
find the necklace I dropped
behind the bed and wonder
how long it was there, and
whether I'd missed it. But
will they care about my favorite
color, my long-range plans,
or my habit of searching myself
for signs of rust?
Boghos L. Artinian,
Mary Rose Betten,
I. W. Grant,
Jason L. Huskey,
Sheri L. Wright,
Michael T. Young,
Mariano Zaro ,
and Jim Zola.
became known right away as a spoken word
and performance artist. The line blurs here
and gauvin makes no claim to performance art
in its polished form. In the last decade,
gauvin has performed at Art City, Zoey’s Cafe,
Cafe Voltaire, Natalie’s Fine Threads,
Ventura Bookstore, Spork Orbit, the Art Gulag,
Plexus Dance Studio and Ventura College, to
name a few venues. Being edgy in a nascent art
scene, gauvin delivered many performances
including “Crime of Passion” and “He Wouldn’t
Kiss Me.” You can see him perform these days
at The Artist's Union Gallery on an occasional
Tuesday night when he decides to wonder in
and grace us with his presence.
it's Easter ina city of angels
detached angels transient angelsdancing on pins forgetful
prostrate to the ephemeralwith nails gripping earth
it's all possible here
a state of culture a dreambuilds monuments in ether
does anyone really live here?
a sign off the 101in Hollywood says,
if you lived hereyou'd be homeless
Monday, June 20, 2011
along with Barry Spacks (more on Mr. Spacks later) on
July 12, 2011. Here are two of Chryss Yost poems to read:
Lai with Sounds of Skin
Shall we dress in skin,our living linen?
Bone weft, pull of masculine into feminine,
the heft,the warp, weave and spin of carded days
in tightly-twisted thinyarns that we begin—like
wool like will, like has been,spoken to silken—to spool:
thick bolts of linen,skein to skin to skin.
Escaping from Autopia
but even leaving, longing to be back, to do again what
I did yesterday—I, Miss Highway, I couldn’t drive off track
or crash. I joined the candy-coated pack to follow yellow lines
and concrete, graybut even. Leaving. Longing to be back
beyond those lines, in other lines. Like smack these flashback
rides, E-ticket crack: You payyou have to stay. I couldn’t drive
off track, or spin to face my enemies’ attack.The road signs told
me “NOW LEAVING L.A.”but even leaving, longing to be back
to go again. I knew I had a knackfor getting there and going.
Child’s play, and anyway, I couldn’t drive off track, once
safety-strapped onto that strip of black. I couldn’t lose or
get lost on the way,but even leaving, longing to be back and
be okay. I couldn’t drive off track.
Her poems have been included in the most popular poetry textbooks in the country
and widely anthologized elsewhere.
Her poems have appeared in The Hudson Review, Quarterly West and Solo,as well as other national and international publications.As an editor, Chryss has edited two influential collections. California Poetry and From the Gold Rush to the Present. She also edited with Dana Gioia and Jack Hicks. Chryss was the first major over viewer of the subject. Poetry Daily, A Year of Poems for the World's Most Popular Poetry Website. Chryss edited with Poetry Daily ,founders, Dianne Boller and Don Selby.
Chryss was responsible for a groundbreaking project which confirmedthe growing influence of online poetry.A California Poet in the Schools, Chryss is also a founding faculty member of the Santa Barbara Writers' Conference, Poetry Conference and the Teaching Poetry Conference in Sonoma.
Chryss teaches regularly at the Granada's Music & Arts Conservatory.Here is Chryss Yost in an interview with David Starkey:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wadAqoHyido
I was a cowboy movie kid In nineteen fifty-one.The movie house was a darkened school Where I learned how the west was won.Tuition was only fifty cents, And a popcorn lunch was a dime.I watched every lecture from reel to reel And gave no thought to the time.There weren't any bells and no homework, And nobody made you stay.My teachers were Hop-A-Long, Roy and Gene At the Saturday Matinee.They taught me the ways of the mountain men, The beaver and the wagon trains,And the cruel barbed wire, the John Deere Plow, And the buffalo on the plains.I heard the bugles at the Little Big Horn Where the arrows and the bullets flew;The tribal tongues I understood-- The Commanche, the Crow and the Sioux.The gunplay in the streets I saw, Where the roar of a forty-fourA hair's breadth quicker than someone else Would settle a personal score.The Homestead Act, the range wars, The pioneer endeavor;I heard the words of great Chief Joseph: "I will fight no more for ever."Of books on the West, I hardly read any, 'Cause most of what I know,I learned in the dark at the Roxy Theater In Lewiston, Idaho.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
It was a slow and quiet Saturday night
I listened to the radio for a time
When I climbed into bed I realized I left it on
I was too tired, in need of sleep
So I closed my eyes
Night swallowed me whole
the house sailed west on a wave of dreams
When I woke up
I felt a kinship to the voices
After that night, I slept with the Radio,
talked to the radio,
Disagreed with the radio
I believed in a far-a-way Radio land that I would never
find, doomed to only prowl the air waves forever, ever seeking
some magic channel
For now I would have to settle for just listening.
Shimmering pools in the moonlight
Life like forms
That dance across your splendor
A vision unfolds
As the ripples move
turn 88 this year. Doris has been a Tuesday Night poet for as long as I can remember.
Her poems are memorable and quick to the mind and heart.
Here is Doris performing at the Artist's Union Gallery some years ago reading her poem
Pathology of Love: http://www.myspace.com/video/askew-poetry-journal/doris-c-vernon-pathology-of-love/39225170
Why can’t we talk? I asked my father last night
Is it because you refuse to,
and I think you are a foreign language
I can not understand
Is it because I hate your heavy sighs,
And you can’t take the curl of my
lip on the receiver
I said in revolt,
Fathers and sons are suppose to have conversations,
Why can’t we have one?
He said, fathers and sons are not supposed to have
conversations, they're supposed to understand
each other, look at each other, smile and walk along railroad tracks and throw rocks in the water. But we never did those things,
does that mean we have nothing to say?
My first memory of him was holding me
up to the light that poured through the window.
Ken Wienchus is a Tuesday night regular.
He is a poet as well as a painter.
Portrait of a Rebel
I’M TIRED OF ALL THE BULLSHIT.
I TURNED OFF THE TV.
I STOPPED READING NEWSPAPERS.
NOW, I LISTEN TO OTHERS
REGURGITATE MEDIA SPIN,
IT’S INVENTED REALITY;
LIKE A MAGICAL HYPNOTIST
SUGGESTING OUR LIVES FOR US.
-- AND WE LISTEN,
AND DON’T EVEN KNOW
WE ARE BEING LED BY THE NOSE;
LIKE A GIANT BULL PULLED BY A MONKEY
THROUGH THE PASTURES OF TIME.
“WHEN YOU GOT THEM BY THE BALLS
THEIR HEARTS AND MINDS WILL FOLLOW,” SAID A PARTICULARLY VICIOUS NIXON AIDE. -- AND HE WAS RIGHT, EXCEPT IT’S NOT BY OUR BALLS THAT THEY GOT US -- IT’S BY OUR MINDS.
"I do read music, but I prefer playing from the heart"
-- Clarence Clemons
Clarence Clemons passed away today at the age of 69.
Here is his obituary published in Rolling Stone magazine.
Here Clarence performs on David Letterman http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5xhgWqiJiE&playnext=1&list=PLA1CB5E9F5D5E23CF
Here's a sample of his poetry:
Well, I rode through the west just to have a look For myself at a cowboy's lifeOn the open range where the wind blows free And the lonesome trail is rifeWith the perils of the desert sun by day And rovin' wolves by night,In wild harm's way of the hoof and the horn And the quick sidewinder's bite.And I watched him rise at the streak of dawn And blaze a small campfireFor bacon and beans and a black joe pot Hangin' by a twist o' wire.A little white smoke rose up in the air From the cowchip fire he'd made,And he saddled a pony with a stockin' foot As the dawn began to fade.Then double-checkin' the cinch and the reins, He swung up on that bay,And twelve hard mile he'd ride, or more Before the end of day.And I wrote down all I larned on a pad Of a cowboy's life out west--From his wrangler ways to the ring of his spurs And the leather fringe on his vest.Then I worked for a week on yarns and rhymes, Which I finished one afternoon,And brought 'em down to the Cowboy Slam At the Buckaroo Saloon.But I wondered some if the real cowboys Would cotten to my prose,Or my cowboy poems and stories when I Weren't wearin' any cowboy clothes.But up I went in my city duds When they called my name at last,And I spun 'em a yarn of the trail in rhyme Of old cowboys from the past.And as they twirled their mustachios They listened with squinted eyes,Then roped, hog-tied and branded me And told me I'd won first prize.
John Gentry is a retired school teacher who lives in Ventura, California.
Here's John on Youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tLjUJe2yxTs
And now, on with the opera. Let joy be unconfined. Let there be dancing in the streets, drinking in the saloons, and necking in the parlor!
I was at a wonderful poetry reading at the Carnegie museum in Oxnard yesterday. The feature poet was Gabrielle Le May.
Here is a poem by Ms. Le May:
To fly into a rage
is to fly...
I am trapped in a corner
of a small, dim room,
glaring at the woman I hate. She hurls
insults you stupid threats you'll never
barbs slut so fast I can't move I can't breathe I can't
stand it anymore--I let out a sharp screech
stretch out my rigid arms then clap them down to my sides
as hard as I can. I feel my eyes expand... grow round...
my trembling lips harden to a deep gash of beak--I
snarl hoot shriek
jerk my arms down with broadening palms
to propel myself up off my feet-
and now I am hovering...
upper back arched toward a corner of the ceiling;
wing-feathers slapping at faded, chipped paint;
bone-sharp talons strained-apart, reaching--
my rounded back clenched like a fist against the ceilin
Ecstatic, I squawk and flap at my prey
as she shrinks to toysize beneath me--
then sinks like a stain into the floor...
... Bluish light leaks through thin bamboo blinds
and oozes through the room, pooling
at the corners of my eyelids.
I am curled on my side, inert,
on a rumpled sheet, my round left hip
embedded like a jewel in the mattress,
my head too heavy to lift--
my eyelids frozen open,
my thundering heart aching with the need
to know adreal sky...
(I must get back up there
I can fly back up there
if I can just push back down
into sleep, lovely sleep--
But this time, please God:
Let there be no ceiling.
Ms. Le May has been published in ASKeW, Big City Lit,
Blue Mesa Review, Confrontation, Poems & Plays, Poetry East,
Poetry London, Rattapallax, River Oak Review, and The Ledge.
Friday, June 17, 2011
the windows are open
And the sun is out
a warm breeze drifts through
the house but it grows dark too soon
For my comfort
I go to sleep in one room
And awake in another
I dream of holy places
Where there are no rooms
I go to the window often
Night and summer cry out for me
It’s voice is water open beneath stars.