Wednesday, December 9, 2020

PPOW / McNally Jackson reading and conversation with Eileen Myles and John Keene

 Thursday, December 10th, at 6:00PM EST: Event registration.

(Updated: The event was great. Thanks to all involved, including the lovely audience. PPOW Gallery recorded the readings and conversation and I'll post the link here when it goes online. You can get books at McNally Jackson.)


Zuccotti Park, Occupy Wall Street, Manhattan, November 2, 2011 (the day of the Oakland General Strike). I was in NYC for a book party for THE PUBLIC GARDENS, prequel to my new book, WITE OUT, at PPOW. Glad to be collaborating again now.

Monday, November 9, 2020

WITE OUT / Events & Reviews December 2020

 Post updated December 5th, 2020

I'll be reading from Wite Out: Love and Work (and maybe from its prequel, The Public Gardens) with Eileen Myles and John Keene online at PPOW Gallery in New York on December 10th at 6:00PM EST.  

These are writers and human beings from whom I've learned so much, and PPOW (founders, staff, artists) is also important to me personally, so I'm very much looking forward to this collaboration. 

You can register for the event here, and you can read the McNally Jackson announcement and get our books here.


It's been a tough year, and I'm grateful to end it with two readings from my still-new book, Wite Out: Love and Work, on December 2nd at Harvard's Woodberry Room and on December 10th with Eileen Myles and John Keene at PPOW Gallery in NYC. 

(Remember when Eileen ran for President of the United States? It's true, they did! What better way to celebrate the end of this wicked year?) 

Here are some nice things that have happened to the book since it came out this spring:


Wite Out was #2 on Small Press Distribution's list of nonfiction bestsellers for spring 2020 (right behind Marguerite Duras!), and is also on SPD's list of non-fiction bestsellers for July-September 2020. The book was an SPD August staff pick; you can read Liam Curly's review and others here, and Anthony Domestico's  Commonweal review here.  Find Marcella Durand's thoughtful Hyperallergic review of Wite Out, "Using Language to Investigate Whiteness," here

The prequel to Wite OutThe Public Gardens, was just reprinted for the fourth time; both books are available from SPD, or from your online behemoth retailer, or from your local bookstore (Moe's at Bookshop.org is mine, and they will ship to you too). 

You can read excerpts from Wite Out here and at SFMoMA's Open Space. Poet and professor Katie Peterson created an incisive and bracing podcast about the book when she taught it to her grad students at UC Davis in spring 2020.








Thursday, January 16, 2020

For SFMoMA's Open Space: A Paper Person

New post up at SFMoMA's Open Space, first of four as columnist-in-residence. The old world meets the same old, same old; American history, etc. You can also find here a piece I wrote for Open Space's "Interwoven" last spring, "Liberty and Luxury." 

Though this new piece isn't an excerpt from Wite Out, my forthcoming book, it does address some things explored in that book and its prequel, The Public Gardens: Poems and History (2011). #Dorchester Days, #EmmettTill, #JamesBaldwin, #FannyHowe, #BernadetteDevlin, #RoevWade, #BrownvBoard, #TheSoilingofOldGlory, #ToniMorrison, #archives, #notebooks, #collages, #IrishAmericans, #ItalianAmericans, #racism . . .








From Old Notebooks

Sunday, July 7, 2019

New chapbook, DARK WHITE, published this week

MY MARY

Does the rain have a mother?
Who made the drops of dew?
Out of whose womb came the ice?
She is hardened against her young ones
As though they were not hers.
The face of the deep is frozen.



Cover photo: Anonymous photographer, Palermo, 1924. 

     Friends who do not fail us
     Mary in our hour of
     despair. Take not
     away from me the small fires
     I burn in the memory of love.
           -JOHN WIENERS
           
     The maiden language all over.
          -ZORA NEALE HURSTON

My chapbook, DARK WHITE, will be published by Omertà this month. This little book includes the title piece, "Dark White," "Small Square" (ars poetica), "Feminine," "My Mystic," "My Mary,"  "Begin in Blue," "Words Looking for a Street," and "In My Girlish Days" (all of which have been published in little magazines, some of which can be found elsewhere on this blog). "My Mary" is an erasure+ of pages from The Book of Job (from a wet Bible I found in the Lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans, two years after Hurricane Katrina). 

I doubt that Omertà ("Omertà, as practiced by the Mafia: A Code of silence about criminal activity and a refusal to give evidence to the authorities") has ever published a book more relevant to its name. Thanks to Les Gottesman for adding my work to a list that includes chapbooks by Joanne Kyger, Diane di Prima, Donna De La Perriere, Denise Newman, and many other writers I admire. 


DARK WHITE is a small sampler of work from the full-length memoir with poems, WITE OUT, that Hanging Loose Press will publish in the spring of 2020. I’m extremely grateful to Robert Hershon, Mark Pawlak, Dick Lourie, and Donna Brook for making a home for a manuscript that was orphaned after the death of our friend and my first publisher, Bill Corbett.



Tuesday, June 4, 2019

"Liberty and Luxury" essay at SFMoMA's Open Space

Last week SFMoMA's Open Space published my essay, 
Liberty and Luxury, in their Interwoven special issue.

You can read it here

Thanks to Gordon Faylor and Claudia La Rocco 
for brilliant collaboration, editing, and design.

 "She tells me what happens to fabric when you put it in your mouth (saliva dissolves rayon, but strengthens linen). Says that if you’re cutting and sewing sequined fabric, be sure to wear goggles to protect your eyes. And never set polyester on fire. Once, she says, a customer came into the store and asked for silk orgasma. You can see how that would happen here — this place inspires lust."






Sunday, April 7, 2019

Quadragesima




 


Holy Week

      A song of degrees, of pilgrimage, as in the Psalms of David

My brothers all have died,
the boys I held when they were small,
when I was small,
the boys I fed and shoved.

Should I lie down with them and keep them warm
or step over them to live?

Or should I crawl across their bodies in pilgrimage
the way my grandmother climbed the concrete steps to the shrine
on her knees, with me one step behind her at her elbow,
her pocketbook swinging at my face
every time she took a step—

In the parlor of her apartment she had a tapestry of the Roman Colosseum
and a crucifix and a picture of Pope John the 23rd
and houseplants in coffee cans on the windowsills—
marvetta, coleus, basilico.

One year after her death at 92, I went to Rome for the first time.
It was Holy Week and all the stores were closed—chiuso, chiuso, chiuso.
I was six weeks pregnant.
At the Colosseum I kept stumbling over imaginary statuary,
petrified feet and hands in the grass.
Who died here?
I kneeled to vomit in the weeds. 
Fata da forta, my grandmother used to say. Make yourself strong.

I walk around the bodies of my brothers,
arranging their limbs, tracing the contours of their faces
I will remember the clean smell of the grass that grew at the Colosseum
and in the cracks in the steps to the shrine
and I will write about it in a book.



_________________________________________________________________________



Today, April 7th, is my brother Joseph Norton's birthday. He died of AIDS in New York City on October 2, 1986. He was twenty-four. He would have been 57 if he had lived. It's also Billie Holiday's birthday. 

This poem is from my 2011 book, The Public Gardens: Poems and History. In Lent I always think of my grandmother and the crosses she'd weave from palms every year on the Sunday before Easter. And I think of my brother. 

@AIDSMemorial kindly reposted my tribute to Joseph today. You may read it here. And you may visit his memorial at the National AIDS Memorial Grove in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, a beautiful place. 







Friday, August 10, 2018

For Bill Corbett, friend, publisher, poet, critic, memoirist, and teacher



                                           October 11, 1942-August 10, 2018

"We love to be with us."
      -- Bill Corbett, "Columbus Square Journal"


Begin in Blue

The blue of her robe . . . reads above all as a flat silhouetted shape—a deep infinite midnight blue, large enough to lose ourselves in . . . this very dark blue creates unparalleled effects . . . almost of hypnotic trance; it is as though we are being invited to worship not so much the Madonna as the Blue. - Timothy Hyman, Sienese Painting

I’m reading John Wieners' chapbook, Pressed Wafer, upstairs at one of the giant tables in the Bancroft when a visiting scholar asks for help with research in the archives where I work. And that’s how I learn that, in 1882, landscape architects at the University of California designed a eucalyptus grove for the Berkeley campus (a grove through which I walk once a week). Tasmanian blue gum trees were planted as a windbreak for the cinder running track. They grew and grew, non-natives making themselves at home. To those who’d never seen a eucalyptus tree, the grove smelled like cough drops.

            *
Wieners was a Boston boy. Later, in San Francisco he wore blue eye shadow and sold heroin packed in matchboxes the size of a palette of eye shadow—false eyelashes, glued one above the other on his forehead—cockeyed Caucasian—eyelids the color and shape of the leaves of the blue eucalyptus near the track where the beautiful athlete, also a Joseph, also a John, breathing hard after a sprint, does not look up at the plane from Boston passing over the track.
Boys in California know nothing of priests in long skirts shoveling snow, winters invented by Emily Dickinson.
            *
The Blacks and the blues,
the grove as artifice
          
In Berkeley, Robert Creeley recorded a version of “A Poem for Painters”:
            “With want of it”—
            “despair is on my face”—
            “showered by the scent of the finish line”—
           
The golden boys protected by tall trees
blue blood—blue eucalyptus—blue-lined paper
“beginning with violet. I begin in blue”
“My middle name is Joseph”
            *
Sanskrit “vaka”
“wat” (temple)
“grove” (copse, thicket)
A coppice—spinney—brake—for the broken

A grove: a stand of trees with little or no undergrowth—So here’s the floor, all clear and still, a thicket—“cold hell”
  Grave   Love   Leaves
       
Torn tickets in the eucalyptus leaves, pants in the trees
Who walks through the grove in winter rain? Pants decomposing in the decomposing leaves— pants and a dog
      
This was after the picturesque era, before Free Speech— “Books in the running brooks,” books in the trees
            *
Strawberry Creek roars with the snowmelt coming down from Truckee. The train back to Boston leaves at 3:00.
Across the “enormous” country—passing a car filled with Beats, ascending, going where Beats don’t go.
         
Climbing into the mountains he leans out the window, his ears pasted back like a dog’s—like a dog, submissively free— submission is different when there’s no force.
In the Rockies they close the windows now because so many travelers have been decapitated leaning out to see the trees—but the windows were open then, so he looked—looked—looked—




For more about Bill and his work, check out Patrick Pritchett's essay, and listen to Jackson Braider's PRX interview with Bill. 



August 17, 2018: Here's Fanny Howe's portrait of Bill (and Bill's Paris Review interview with her); and here Jim Behrle and other writers remember Bill (at WBUR).

August 19, 2018: "There's no one I learned more from, not only about poetry, but also about how to live and how to be a good person,' said Fred Moten, a poet and critic who teaches at NYU."  Boston Globe obituary

Here you can read Thomas Devaney's Rain Taxi interview with Bill. 

And: "'Every day is poetry day': Remembering Bill Corbett," Sean Cole / pretty radio / WBUR

You can find books that Bill wrote and published at Small Press Distribution and at Pressed Wafer.






"Already fall's harsher / light cuts blown / leaf shadows into / sharp patterns. / There are fewer mornings / attending to the all / important loss column." - William Corbett, "September Song"




"Begin in Blue" was published in Ambush, a literary magazine, in 2014.