Life on a little table

this little table
is chaos for me
home, exhausted
i shed what i wear
the table holds
artifacts of no time
and offerings for myself,
set in silver, like these:

moonstone pendant,
a polished sliver of clouds and blue sky;
green tourmaline,
that i wear at my throat when my spirit is broken;
ring from Tibet,
a mirror of love;

Life on a little table

and enamel for nails, the color of shells
two DVD’s V-Z and Waqt, unwatched for months
a paper cylinder, with some cotton-tipped swabs
woven-reed box
lavender bowl
small demitasse cup, from grandfather’s world

this clutter
these fragments
of life at this time
look strange,
there’s no room to type.


Stepping from a cab
onto a rainy street
in New York City
where I live
I’m splashed
by cabs that pass at speed
forcing force sheets of
dirty water up and over
enemies on foot,
like me.

Like that,
the risks I take
in loving you are sure.

Hiking on the streets
in summertime
in New York City
where I live
when it’s too hot
to walk and just the heat
makes blisters on my feet
when sanity is living
in the country for the season
only few remain
to face the heat,
like me.

Like that,
the pain I feel
in loving you is sure.

Along the ways I walk,
the sweet green hedges
that you offer hide
barbed wire that’s
the darkness and the hunger
of your inner self,
and all the little flowers
that you leave for me
hide tiny insects
in their hearts.

When you’re very sweet to me,
you double round the corner,
fast, just after,
leaving just the
sound of slamming doors.

Intentions that I live
to be myself,
despite the pain I feel
when I love you, despite
your sometimes feet of clay,
are true and real.

Your dispassion,
standing coolly there,
outside my home of love,
will not pull down its walls
that shelter us,
nor will the often chill
within your heart
tear warmth and sweetness
from my love,
to toss them in the wind.

I have no way to end this poem.
The future will provide its final lines.
I’m feeling dramatic today, it’s true,
but the pain I write in is real.
I want to see your eyes, see the boundary between the moment and you.
This is what you get for being really nice to me, then going away right after:
Whinging and tearing of hair and gnashing of teeth and rending of garments.
Civilization has fled for the nonce.
I’m sitting at your feet on an uncushioned low stool of woven thorns, not of willows.

Autumn Sometimes Walks To Summer

Sweetgum trees, with ruddy leaves like stars,
their scent fills autumn air
from darkened ground to morning sky.

Their trunks are long-stretched, rugged necks.
Or are they legs, in stockings dark and rough?
Do sweetgums walk at night?

The dark and vaulted columns hold their
fiery autumn leaves, like burning stars,
above my head, and keep me safe.

Five-pointed flames are tender underfoot,
dry rustling snow of sweetgum leaves.
Red stars float down (and sometimes kiss my hair).

In drifts of leaves upon the ground
my walk disturbs a layered natural order,
stained-glass wines and reds are stripped away.

In blackened ferment where new earth is born,
a tuft of grass will sometimes show an August green,
untouched by all decay above its head.

© 7 Oct 2006 Heather Quinn

Autumn Sometimes Walks To Summer: Verbose

Sweetgums’ autumn scent
claims this sacred clearing
from the darkened, dappled ground
up to the morning sky.
A canopy of intermittent starry fire
is held above the
sweetgums’ long-stretched, rugged necks.
Or are these columns legs,
in stockings made of dark, rough bark?
Do sweetgums walk at night?
Their black-brown vaulting holds
the stars of fire high
above my head, and keeps me safe,
although a star or two is always
wafting down. They sometimes drift into my hair,
they rustle softly underfoot,
a dry, sweet snow of sweetgum leaves.

In drifts of ruddy stars upon the ground
my steps disturb a layered natural order.
New and tender, gently laid in current time,
the stained-glass wines and reds
are stripped away, and show
the brown-black ferment underneath.
And in that dark transition zone
where fire is changed to earth,
a tuft of summer grass
will sometimes show.
A gleam of August green,
untouched by fall’s decay
above its head.

Note: The title above comes from two places
of current color transition.
One is a grove of sweetgum trees.
The other is a mystery:
My gmail chat status was set to busy last night,
and when I woke today, I was available, instead.
It changed itself, from orange into green,
like autumn walking into summer,
like August grass that flourishes
under mounds of autumn leaves.

Perception and Dance and the Mind

Gia Kourlas’ review of ABT at Saratoga…

“To borrow a line from “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” Mr. Ratmansky’s favorite book, “It was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it felt quite strange at first.””

appropros of my own life, in terms of where my emotions have been for seven months, and where they are today.

and dance — what and where it is in my life, and wanting to dance with someone who refuses to dance, who is spoiled and stubborn like a child, and wants to be coaxed for the attention and a hidden dream to break out of his shell that he’s too scared to get out of, no matter how much coaxing, jollying, clowning, loving, caring, and so on, is done.

It takes a War and Bad News All Around

Headlines this afternoon at the NY Times:

Israeli Planes Batter Lebanon Again, Killing 30 People
Lebanon’s president accused Israel of “committing massacres.”
An Israeli general said operations could last for weeks
Over 3,000 Iraqi Civilians Killed in June, U.N. Reports
3 Arrested in Hospital Deaths After Katrina
Indonesians Slow to Return Home After Tsunami
U.S. and British Navies Join Evacuation Efforts

It takes a war to bring the real focus of news into play in the NY Times. We live in a global society now. When there’s no new war, the NY TImes headlines are limited to the US and local news,for the most part. Yeah, the NY Times is a local city paper, NYC is a world-class city. The driving force of the city is its economy. Its economy is global now. its parish is the world. The parochial focus on the NY Times should be global news, every day. These global stories affect us more strongly than the personal but more ephemeral local and US stories. World trends and crises have much more [power and torque] over time than local and national events do. …

(focus: i want more international news from the times — now is the time for the paper to realize we are a global culture. and the times shoudl allow personal blogs — at what cost to them? loyalty of readers, power of the press, versus dollars for servers, staff and power — will it pay? it’s worth a try.)

Scott’s Defense: Art vs. Boxoffice

AO Scott’s Arts section article from today, Tue, 18 Jul 2006, Avast, Me Critics! Ye Kill the Fun: Critics and the Masses Disagree About Film Choices, comes across as a rich set of excuses as to why he and his film critic colleagues are out of step with the public when it comes to some films. He focuses on the disparaging reviews of POTC: Dead Man’s Chest, and the fantastic boxoffice it did this weekend.

Hey, who am I to criticize a film critic? I’m a member of the mass audience who pays his salary: That is, I buy the paper he works for every day, I pay for tickets to the films he reviews.

I’m consistently annoyed with the quality of most of the film reviews in the NY Times these days. Back when Elvis Mitchell was around, the reviews themselves had literar , cultural and social value, much like Anthony Lane’s bi-weekly reviews in The New Yorker Magazine. While I often agree with and trust AO Scott’s reviews, they are very pale in comparison to what they could be. And who is reviewing th ebig box office filsm from other countries? The NYC and US cultural in general is only willign to look at small filsm fom other countries, as if other culturals’ mass entertainment has no value here. Yet how else can we learn about the world, if not through their pupiolar culture? How cna we adapt gracefully and with real understanding to a global world, if we don;t udnerstand what the people of the worl see, and liek well enough to pay for?

(article concept: One thing critics can do is get some distance between themselves and films on a regualr basis. I’ve found the more I know about film the less I enjoy it. It takes some time being immersed in other cultures and media and arts, to be able to come back to film with the same knowledge + other knowledge and a fresh view. With the fresh view comes a fresh viewpoint, a fresh way to see things, and a better understanding of the mass audience that supports film as an industry, and therefore, the critics’ jobs.)

Sky Blue

the places, to live and to be,
for the artist that’s inside of me,
in wrenched-apart clouds were born,
from skies broken open by storm:

when i was a baby my mom
carriaged me outside our home.
my real mom the sky and the trees.
now i love sky, i love trees.

when i’m sad, i look in the air.
my sky blue and green mom is there.
within the clouds’ spaces i live,
my mother’s green leaves are my crib.

my feet on my mother’s tree arms
my head in my mother’s sky eyes
my arms side to side
and my fingers stretched out
my bare feet my fingers my palms
in contact with god and my mom.

Necco Magic

Items required for Necco Magic:

Summer nights.
Central New York State’s Finger Lakes.
Specifically, Lake Keuka, shaped like a Y.
A foray to Penn Yan or another town, to buy supplies.
The green Studebaker.
A little childish audacity.
The parents, whose supplies-buying trip in the Studebaker was their first summer delight.

Our parents were running away from us for an hour or so. We needed audacity to face their gleeful guilt, and ask them to bring back Necco wafers.

In the summer night, our thin summer pyjamas looking ghostly in the dark, we’d grope under our pillows, to find the Necco wafers we’d put there after our parents brought them back.

Magic time.

First, a skill: Opening the roll at the top, so the thin transluscent paper didn’t tear to spill wafers over bed and floor. Then, a mystery: finding white wafers, which were almost impossible to distinguish from other light colors in the dark. Then, an accomplishment: snapping them so they sparked — they had to be fresh (dry, untasted, and unlicked), held the right way (possible only if they were unchipped, unbroken), and the right pressure had to be applied to crack them halfway across. This produced a tiny spark of light in the deep summer night.

And eating them. The white ones had a harsh mint-like flavor that seemed to corrode the tender skin of our upper palates. The others were more mellow, and much enjoyed, especially the orange and chocolate flavors. The licorice were to be avoided, but since they looked like chocolate in the dark, we never escaped their sharp vegetal taste.

We’d start each summer believing we’d only dreamed of white wafers that could spark. If we had fresh wafers and luck (not every roll had white wafers amongst the others), the dream would become real for a moment or two. The usual maximim of Necco wafer rolls per child per summer was one. If we were lucky, and more came our way, we’d just eat them. When the first tiny sparks flashed and disappeared into the summer night, the myth and magic disappeared with them. Thereafter, Necco wafers lived with us in the everyday world as candies, and nothing more.

Back home, as we moved through the seasons after summer, the myth of the sparking white Necco wafers would grow from summer-end’s nothing to something. In late summer and the autumn, Necco wafers didn’t exist. By Christmas time, fleeting thoughts of dark nights with round white disks and tiny sparks might shimmer their way into our minds. By springtime, the visions were more substantial and exciting. And when summer started, the magic would be fully alive again.

Necco wafers never sparked, back home. Our parents’ explanation was the Necco wafers purchased downstate were made in a different factory. Perhaps the downstate Necco rolls were simply stale, spending their existence sitting quietly in the candy racks while other, fancier, pricier candies were steadily paid for and eaten by the more affluent families in the downstate counties — until dreamers like us bought them at last.

The summmertime magic of Necco wafers became a family secret. It was our own discovery, or so we thought then. There was no way to prove the myth was not a myth, because Necco wafers never sparked, back home. The Necco secret could only be shared with the closest of pals, who might believe us on our word alone. I only told one other person outside the family that Necco wafers were sometimes made of magic. The magic worked only if we were lucky and careful and skillful, and it lasted for only a few moments of our first summer nights in a rented bungalow, perched on a steep wooded slope above pretty Y-shaped Lake Keuka…

…and that brings to mind the year when the toilet didn’t flush! Our bungalow that year was perhaps 60 feet above lake level, and there wasn’t enough water pressure to allow the toilet to flush properly.

Our legs grew very strong, and we became work-hardened, and the soles of our feet became splinter-chafed, as we climbed down and up, down and up, six zigzagging flights of open board stairs to the lake, our buckets in hand, to lift lake water to the house to use for flushing the toilet. A week or more into our stay, after the problem had been fixed by a plumber, I guess by repairing a pump, I remember missing those treks. That was real work, and we didn’t have enough if it, usually. It seemed grown-up stuff to me, serious and survival-related. Those days of lifting water by hand to make sure family hygiene was preserved, became part of my ethos. I took hard work and service and stoicism as my secret friends. And I became very skilled at flushing toilets with buckets of water.

view of Lake Keuka from the shore
P.S. While setting up the links in this post, I found that the white Necco wafers were flavored with cinnamon (elaichi)– no wonder they stung our mouths. And it’s the pink wafers, which are flavored with wintergreen, that actually spark. So much for the accuracy of childhood memories, and night vision! Without knowing what was happening, we’d been able to tell white Necco wafers from pink ones, in that downstate dark that’s not so dark, due to the ambient light from its population centers. And we’d been cracking the white wafers, that don’t spark, while eating up the pink ones, that do. No wonder Necco wafers never sparked, back home.