by Jack Foley

who writes
who writes
of the sadness of lovers
of the sadness of lovers
of their
of their
loneliness when apart
loneliness when apart
Jeanne Moreau
Jeanne Moreau
in this magnificent film
in this magnificent film
wanders the night
wanders the night
streets of Paris
streets of Paris
finding
finding
nothing
nothing
her love is sincere
her love is sincere
but her punishment
but her punishment
later
later
is worse than her
is worse than her
lover’s
lover’s
Miles Davis
Miles Davis
watched the film
watched the film

with those deep deep eyes
with those deep deep eyes
and named
and named
the nothing
the nothing
she felt
she felt
as he leapt
as he leapt
beyond
beyond

the frenzy of bebop

to the pure
to the pure
sound
sound

of the heart of the world
of the heart of the world

in a woman’s
in a woman’s

longing
(longing)

by Jack Foley

A Poem of Xmas Xeer
     “ . . .. quoi que vous soyez chrétien, juif ou mussulman”

pour un
qui croit pas (comme moi)
c’est pas une question du “bon” dieu
mais simplement
du “non” dieu

O non dieu
A Toi nous crions
et Tu réponds toujours
avec le même
silence
profonde

O non dieu
je ne Te vois
et je ne
T’entends

Amitiés

J

for one
who (like me) doesn’t believe
it isn’t a question of the “bon” (good) God
but simply
of the “non” God
O non God
to You we cry out
and you always answer
with the same
profound
silence

O non god
I don’t see You
and I don’t
hear You

Regards,

J

Note:  The X in Xmas is a representation of the Greek letter, Chi, which is pronounced ch -.  It is an abbreviation of “Christos,” Christ.  Reasoning similarly, we can turn “cheer” into “xeer.”  The poem says that the cheer applies “whether you are Christian, Jewish, or Muslim.”  It is addressed not to the “good God,” the “bon Dieu” — a holdover from the Pagan fear of saying anything bad about a powerful person — but to the “non God,” the “non Dieu.”  I tend to think of atheism as somehow being French, so the poem is in that language, followed by translation.

by Jack Foley

Is it possible
How do you do, Mr. Tambo
that the man in blackface
Oh, Mr. Bones,
in a minstrel show
I been having
(in addition to being
the most
a deeply racist
awfulest
metaphor)
of times
was also
You see,
an American mime —
My wife lef me
a version
Yo wife lef you, Mr. Tambo
of a European figure
You mus be
that was pure
Saaaad about that
Fantasy
I guess you loved her quite a bit
No one believed
No, sah, I didn’t even like her
the mime
But if you didn’t like her,
to be a representation
Mr. Tambo,
of any reality
how come you say

other than the
you got d awfulest
reality
of times ?
of art

The downfall
Well,
of the minstrel
Mr. Bones,
man
she not only lef me
was the admission
she lef me wid d rent!
not of reality
Mr. Tambo,
but of racist fantasy
yo sho is
into an
a disgustipated
otherwise
man

purely
I is, Mr. Bones,

fantastic
but can you lend me

creation
five ?

Note:  Mr. Tambo and Mr. bones were regular features of American minstrel shows.

by Etel Adnan

Silence is covering memory’s shaken trees.  No prohibition can hold back the waves that are none other than childhood’s attempts to enter time in the Palace’s antechambers.  Grass grows differently than words.

The desire to inhabit the storm’s other side takes us to cities in flames.  Traces turn easily into signs.  Thinking precedes itself in the deepest recesses of the brain.  A body is always naked under its clothes.

There’s a uselessness to this night.  The river’s absence.  Infinite love is delayed.  The light was bright under the oak trees because in the heart the door was closed.  We had to enlarge the road to allow blood streams to proceed.  One bus at a time, while visibility lasts.

We’re born in the womb’s darkness.  That’s why night is origin. What was it before this hour that kept the clocks from running ? Something always remains from anything, even from nothingness.

Bitter bitterness.  Inner thoughts slide in like worms.  From surface to surface we go, derailed here and there.  Induced into error, we swim against the current.  In high seas, often.  In the meantime, the brain creates lines of strawberries, banks of whales, angels, in profusion.

When the world came into being, we’re told that it didn’t ask for maintenance.  Was it pure mind, then ?  There’s something from these past hours that we hear, an echo, a breeze under apple – trees. Don’t rebel against the night.

The forest stood as rain under the light.  The deer, at this moment, is capering all over the fields.  Past midnight, love descends on the stage’s curtain.  O to live away from our shadows, in a clarity just given.

Eternity is non evident.  In the skull, the sun rotates endlessly.  Stillness outside, a storm within.  The river runs secretly in many parts of this country.  By the ocean, the wind gathers speed; it shattered our happiness.  We returned home, in tears.

When passing in front of a mirror, heads look like lit planets. Can one live within a flower ?  Imagination moves in circles, our sole piece of baggage.

In the shortness of life there’s still place for volcanoes when they sprout and then fall, as flat as tires.  Of all the energies that circle in the air we breathe, it’s best to follow the ones that happen in dreams.  The season is cold.  My soul, on the mountaintop, is waiting for me.

Life’s origin.  Drop after drop, it’s not the music nor the pain, but the seconds that advance toward the snow, sound after sound.  To celebrate the mind’s independence we have to go one thought at a time.

The roots of the olive tree lie in deep earth, in peace.  Night falls with a steady beat, brings news not too different from those of Cesar’s times.  We’re living in pristine valleys.  Down by the coast, in the summer, the sea welcomes our warm bodies though it’s clear that it has some special affinity with the mind.

Words have a way to reach the ocean.  On the ridge, from some windows, many signals are being sent.  A large stride, a deep breath, are the means toward the conquest of tranquility. Through the forest there’s a river as predictable as daily bread.

A clearing.  The need to fasten our hands on things.

Worlds are continuing their odyssey.  For the spirit to overcome its uninterrupted defeats we have to keep our eyes fixed on the sun’s center.

The absolute is breakable.  It’s equipped with such a prism that perception becomes refraction and destruction.  It also knows how to reassemble the pieces it generates into new patterns,

enough for the world to renew itself.  But the buildings across the street are so impersonal.

A night – goat knocks at the door.  “I’m disoriented, I want to enter the unknown,” it says.  The night is crowned with dreams.  It’s because of their mortality that things exist.  In all seasons.  In immortality’s split seasons.

In this night, all nights.  All the oceans in this brain.  Life pushes the leaves out of this branch.  Who, or where are you ?  Drifting with the continents . . .

And where are you ?  Dedalus left for the sky, but to join whom ? What ?  Large bands of clouds separate my memory from its habitual subjects . . . I’m left behind.  There’s no void in this room.

Lost love creates a strange heat . . .. there’s sweat on the bed – sheets from past voyages.  Atmospheric pressure.  A few chairs, a table.  The air is pale.  Traces of the soul are shed in every plane, train or car that took us to new miseries.

There’s a heart in this body, a pump.  Winds are prevailing.  One window is closed, the other is not.  The house is painted with white chalk.  Something has left the room.  Outside, visibility is nil.  But you feel that something is passing by.

To look at the green leaves against the black trunks of the trees is like asking a question.  Bubbles of water in suspension.  Steam on the widow – panes.  There’s a passage through the passage that life is, branching out.  The body presents always a skin, even when it’s

opened, or sewed afterwards.  Fingers fetch hurting points but they also press on the soul.

There are scratches over the moon’s visage.  Shadows free themselves from the objects that project them.  Mind has its own phases.  The river that delineates the landscape runs

according to its whims.  Standing by it, is the weather.

There are times when the spirit is the stream, running under redwoods.  Soft, flexible is the world.  All I can tell is that I was there.