by James Sherry

My Ukrainian Grandmother connected joy
With weakness, scoffed at pleasure,
Except her finger in a socket.
She called each grandchild by all
Our names: Jimmy, Dicky, Danny
And ended babbling like a brook.

My Ukrainian Grandmother kept her sons close
And her husband under her thumb.
When I was 25 my uncle still slept in his childhood bed.
Her apartment smelled like chicken
And the elevator was scary.

She looked down on Jews from other places
“The Hunkies,” “the Krauts.”  Can you still read
This awful poem about this selfish woman
Who like Dostoyevsky’s first tale
Would prefer to burn in hell
Than give a beggar an onion ?

Yet at no time should she be left alone,
At no time does she deserve less,
At no time should Ukrainian people
Be battered by Russia’s leader’s vendetta
Against European and American
Who defeated Russia in the cold war.

Let the Celts recover northern Europe
Let Asia be returned to the Mongols.
Let America be given to primeval
Hunters who followed the glaciers north.
Let Babylon reclaim the Tigris Euphrates.
Time goes in one direction
Except in your imagination
For which there are no treaties.

“My Ukrainian Grandmother” will be published
elsewhere in an online tribute to Ukrain

by Anne Waldman

Fille de Rhizome
     for No Land, her poet–photo Eye

trauma
like
porcelain

b r e a k s

parched lips
not part of this world.  yet
but the outside turning its heels

drawing down the moon

gone to mobility
catastrophic mise en scene

we met at protest, in protest,   above it

and downcast the newscaster

never looks,   really “up”

in media res, caught in the act:

(but chatty)   none the less

we started or plot to save the world
all epics of love and incantation
flow in with tide
roar.     the cinematrix elicits a motion forward

will arrive with alphabets for clouds
catching the
Elusian
won’t stop
the parable won’t
stop photographing

(no aphasia will interfere with the photo)
her word store’s sanctuary
for the daughter, my arm in yours

she can get cops
she can take the fallen
she can be in love
with the fragment

She can catch the children
and of a delicate wrist, its bands

Catch your heart — of No Land, hand

of all land

blessed by the Sorcerer of Birds

by Anne Waldman
Anselm Hollo Memorial, Naropa University, July 7, 2013

Ted Berrigan with whom Anselm continued to have a long conversations (in his head and in his poetry) long after Ted’s death, used the phrase to me once: “tattered bodhisattva” (and also in a talk he gave at Naropa in describing in a sense what many of us were all doing circa mid-60–70s).  And he said “like Anselm Hollo.”  This was before the more secure teaching jobs, grants and the like raised the stature of poet survival.  The itinerant poet was singing for supper.  Have ticket will travel.

And this notion — bodhisattva — infuses a commitment to the role and ethos of poet, as one benefitting other interested and curious ones, on a kind of language trajectory, not exactly a do-good mission.  Buddhism speaks of how you are riding “in the vehicle of the bodhisattva.”  It’s not some solid identity of you as Bodhisattva.  This is what we do.  Ride in the vehicle.  Not about

la gloire or the money.  This particular ethos has been a key component to the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s as well as Colorado poetics community here on the Front Range, and in and around and building on the continuing trajectory of The Jack Kerouac School.  Action poetics.  Action language.  Showing up.  I can hear Anselm’s laugh as he entered any room.

“Tattered” has a distinctively poete maudit ring to it.  Anselm said to me once that the top goal of a poet — what would make you a superstar — would be to have 2,000 loyal readers.  Quite an ambition for poetry, he said.  Meanwhile you slog on.

Speaking of traveling in the vehicle I remember traveling with Anselm, late seventies around D.C. and Virginia when he was doing a stint at Sweet Briar, which had a lot of wealthy students with thoroughbred horses and fancy cars and yachts.  (Some interesting commentary from Anselm there; he preferred life on the other side of the road).  We tore around that area to meet and honor reading gigs often fueled by a few “drinkies” in a questionable car Anselm owned that broke down frequently.  And while heading for an event at the Corcoran gallery in D.C.  running a light, Anselm exclaimed, “Did I ever tell you I love
you! ?  And this whole ride!  Why not ?”  This was our risky tattered bodhisattva moment.

Bah obstacle!

take wing
fly toward enigma’s
red light

never stop ?
a jagged ride

poets with a vow
up their sleeves
scarecrow poetics

wake up! caw caw

Anne Waldman, Anselm Hollo Memorial, Naropa University, July 7, 2013

by Michael Brownstein

Scrambling
for a foothold
on the cliff
of time
I sense
this cliff face
giving way
beneath my feet
I feel my hands
lose their grip
and now I want
to say thank you
to all those
who have kept
me company
down through
the years
the shy and
intelligent
creatures hidden
in their niches
under stones
inside crevices
and in the branches
of the small
ancient pine
by my side
thank you
for everything
thank you
for showing me
how to think
nothing at all
what a blessing