Literary Trips 2023

Recently I updated my book Community: Journal of Power Politics and Democracy in Hell’s Kitchen on Amazon and Draft2Digital with more than 20 photographs of my life in New York City, along with editing and a few additions. Here are two photos from the book.

That’s me and my first cat in NYC, 1982.

David Dinkins, who would later be elected mayor, and Peter Yarrow singing and playing guitar, on a campaign bus on Ninth Avenue near West 42nd Street, NYC, 1985. Photograph by Mary Clark.

When I lived in New York, the world came to me. Now that I am old and gray and live far away, I don’t meet new people and have adventures much anymore – except in books. Here are some of the Literary Trips I took in 2023.

Landlines: The Remarkable Story of a Thousand Mile Journey Across Britain, by Raynor Winn. I hiked along with her and her husband through dust and rain, across bogs and up mountains, immersed in the environment, and appreciating her humor and perseverance. After this book, I read her first book, The Salt Path, about their walk along the South West Coast Path in southern England. This book will be a classic, I think. Her second book, The Wild Silence, which I’m reading now, is about the time after that walk.

The Last Wilderness: A Journey into Silence, by Neil Ansell. A trek through the “Rough Bounds” of Scotland. Wetness abounds whether rain or “lochan” or the sea. This book may be for afficionados of nature writing, but I liked it for its straightforward approach. Ansell gives the reader a new view of what we call wilderness, how little of it is really left, but also its resilience.

The Seed Keeper, by Diane Wilson. The story of the Dakota (Dakhóta) people who lived in Minnesota, specifically, of Rosalie Iron Wing, a girl who was placed in foster care with white families after her father’s death, and later married a white farmer. She found seeds in his cellar, which had been kept by his mother. A parallel story tells of her female ancestors, how they and their families were removed from their land and taken west to reservations. The women kept the seeds so they could plant them wherever they went, an act of survival. An informative story, with occasional pedantic passages, but one worth reading. Foreword by Robin Wall Kimmerer.

Showboat and Fanny Herself, by Edna Ferber. Showboat is not a novel in the usual sense, it meanders about, much like the Mississippi River it takes place upon. It is unforgettable. And I’d take that trip again! Fanny Herself is an expose of being Jewish in America, and as with Showboat, of the diversity and tensions of American life. Great trips through the Midwest. Both books are important documents of this country, and of the city of Chicago, as is another of her books, So Big.

Shadows on the Rock, by Willa Cather. A lovely book, a mood poem that presents a simple story of a father and daughter and the history of Quebec City. Although there’s little action, her writing carried me along. Weather is the great character here. I felt completely immersed in this place. It’s as if I’ve been to that part of Canada in the 1690s.

Take What You Can Carry: A Novel, by Gian Sardar. A naïve American woman travels with her Kurdish boyfriend to Iraq in the early days of Saddam Hussein’s rise to power. She begins to realize the danger they are in but tries to keep her sense of normal life as the Kurdish village and her boyfriend’s family come under attack. She forms a bond with a young, orphaned girl. He decides to stay to protect his family, while she returns to the U.S. That’s not how it ends, but no spoilers!

No Longer at Ease, by Chinua Achebe. I’ve read all three books of the African Trilogy now. The first one, Things Fall Apart, is the most interesting as it describes life before and just as European colonization begins. He gives us a clear picture of the transformation across time. The feeling of disconnection is palpable in his main characters. 

Shadows on the Grass, by Isak Dinesen. Africa from the colonial point of view, but with an outlier’s sense of things. She buys into some stereotypes, but not the one that says this is really her land. She knows she can never physically return, but her heart and soul remain there. This short book wraps up her relationships with people she knew when she had a farm in Kenya. Dinesen (Karen Blixen) is one-of-a-kind, giving us some of our most illuminating word adventures. Out of Africa is a classic, but my favorite book of hers will always be Seven Gothic Tales.

Another book by a strong-willed woman, African Stories, by Doris Lessing, is also worth reading for its beautiful language and point of view, which can be juxtaposed with the beautiful language and different points of view of native African writers.

How Beautiful We Were: A Novel, by Imbolo Mbue. People in a fictional African village struggle to survive as their land and crops are destroyed and the water and air are polluted by an American oil company. Those who protest or dare to speak to authorities disappear; some are imprisoned, and others executed by the African government which is in cahoots with the oil company. The villagers meet with representatives of the oil company but attempts to resolve issues are ultimately undermined by the company, the government, and a few of their own leaders. Getting their story out to the world seems the only way. Several people risk everything to save the village, but it may be too late.

Three Girls from Bronzeville: A Uniquely American Memoir of Race, Fate, and Sisterhood, by Dawn Turner. Three black girls from the Chicago projects become friends. Their journeys begin to diverge as they grow into adulthood. One girl pursues an education and a career, while the other two have trouble finding their way. They rely on one another for the kind of support only found among friends. There’s a history of the area, along with descriptions of the projects as new and later falling into disrepair as the social fabric also disintegrates, which is woven into the story.

Telling Sonny: A Novel, by Elizabeth Gauffreau. A young woman goes on a journey through the Eastern United States, especially New England, with her new husband who performs in a theater group. This is a time when carnivals and traveling theater were the only entertainments available to people. Train stations, hotels, and theaters form her life of passing through. Everything is transient including her relationship with her husband. He married her out of obligation after basically “taking advantage” (as people used to say, and I add to that, there is and was no sense of guilt) of her one lonely evening. The marriage breaks up; she returns to her little town with a son. What can she tell her son when she learns his father has died?

Not all my journeys were as satisfying. The books I was disappointed in:

Commonwealth, by Ann Patchett. The “secret” is not a surprise, the whole story not that interesting. I think she missed an opportunity to delve into gun violence and mishaps that take so many children’s lives.

Death Comes for the Archbishop, by Willa Cather. This reminds me of a textbook in a history class. For her great work, see her books in the O, Pioneer Series, in particular, My Antonia.

A Sand County Almanac, by Aldo Leopold. I didn’t finish it. Early essays about flora and fauna are good but become repetitive. His ideas about conservation were ground-breaking (ha ha) at the time, but not now.

The Last Gift, by Abdulrazak Gurnah. Again, the surprise isn’t surprising. Depictions of life in his home country are the best parts. I will read another of his books, one set in Africa or Madagascar.

The Magic Kingdom, by Russell Banks. The real story is more interesting. Why he left Carrie Nation out of his fictionalized account is unfathomable. I lived in this area of Florida and knew all along the section he was describing was NOT the one that was bought by the Walt Disney Company. I enjoyed his writing about the land and waterscape of Central Florida. However, the story of the early utopian experiments in America are important to understanding American history. Maybe best to read the original sources?

Wishing everyone a peaceful and prosperous New Year!

Peace on Earth, Songs for the Holidays

Hello, blogger friends and readers, I wish you Happy Holidays! This season is filled with the songs and echoes of eternal joy that we sense, and of the peaceful and creative life this joy creates.

Bing Crosby and David Bowie September 11, 1977

Christmas Bells

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Christmas Mail

by Ted Kooser

Cards in each mailbox,
angel, manger, star and lamb,
as the rural carrier,
driving the snowy roads,
hears from her bundles
the plaintive bleating of sheep,
the shuffle of sandals,
the clopping of camels.

for the rest of the poem, please go to the Poetry Foundation

My books are on Amazon (print and digital) and Smashwords (digital).

Into The Fire: A Poet’s Journey through Hell’s Kitchen on Amazon

Into The Fire: A Poet’s Journey through Hell’s Kitchen on Smashwords 50% discount until January 1, 2024

The Horizon Seekers, a novel, on Amazon

The Horizon Seekers, a novel, on Smashwords

Tally: An Intuitive Life, All Things That Matter Press, a creative memoir, on Amazon

Children of Light, a poetry novel, Ten Penny Players’ BardPress, on Amazon (Kindle Unlimited)

My book, Community, is being revised and updated with photographs. It will be available early next year.

Ella Fitzgerald and Frosty the Snowman (for Mister Muse)

See you in 2024!

Seasons

Three passages from my books about the changes we experience as we grow and age, through the seasons, from spring to summer wine to fall and winter (w)rapture. Prose to accompany photos I took over the years in Manhattan, New York City.

Eighth Avenue looking south from West 46th Street

From Community:

Whenever I walk down the avenue, and it’s quiet like this, I hear a sound like a river or a loving sigh, a song like a dream, music of the dawn of an era and its end. And how the area is filled with people from across America and the world, singers, dancers, actors, cabdrivers, ushers, senators, sailors, lovers, fighters, dreamers, re-filling these tenements and churches and temples and schools, and in the end, the world comes around.

Ninth Avenue at West 44th Street looking southeast. This view of the Empire State Building is blocked now by development on West 42nd Street. The original photo is lost apparently; this one was in my newspaper.

From Passages:

Years ago, I was waiting for the sun. I’ve found it now, thrown myself into its aura. In daylight, the city is awash with steam and grit, waves of alarm and subterranean booms, bones in the soft crushing crowds, metal gliding and banging against sudden turns, all carrying me along, a willing cork in turbulence.

On another plane, the city unfolds as a spiraled lotus, enticing me into its petaled paths toward new vistas and seemingly infinite realms.

I’m in the vortex of the “crossroads of the world.” Midtown Manhattan splays light, white hot, ruthless, spurring us on. Multi-tiered buildings promise many directions, redirections.

As darkness falls, a change in design. Shadow and light, revolving signs, blinking messages. Mischief, dreams, endless interaction. And a change in timbre. Sweat cools but heat remains, passion finds its channels. The lotus in shadow and light, revolving.

And rising neon and fluorescent, the midnight sun of Times Square.

From Into The Fire:

West 46th Street past Ninth Avenue, St. Clement’s Church on the right with green spire, January 1996

Miles to go, miles of snow, a transfigured night and all in sight covered in a winding sheet of white. Stopping at a snowy Ninth Avenue, face and hands wrapped against the wind, my poetic license in the back pocket of my blue jeans, I contemplated the divide before me.

The city streets were deserted, and I was alone in the canyoned silence. Ice-crystals glittered in streetlights, snow camel-backed cars and fenced sidewalks. On the avenue’s arctic slope, deep within the haunting sound of a muted city I could hear gypsy cabs snorting dragon-breath in the dark, and I would have stayed to watch fringes of icicles on fire escapes glow in the dying light.

🙂 But I had promises to keep.

Happy Summer! See you in July.

Future Blog

I will be blogging once a month during June, July and August. I treasure the connections I’ve made in the blogosphere and will continue to read others’ work.

A small literary magazine published my poem about a Pride festival and parade in my town. I’m in a mostly rural area with three towns or cities, known as Tri-Cities, in Northeast Tennessee and Southwest Virginia. It’s a conservative area, making this event more remarkable. However, a strong progressive presence is also in the area. Though I am not gay or transgender, I support people’s freedom to be who and what they are. In my poem I tried to convey the good feeling that emanated from the TriPride Festival.

TriPride Parade and Festival

(Kingsport and Johnson City, TN and Bristol TN/VA)

In the style of the Song of Amergin*

We came holding rainbow flags
We came with 22 floats
We came with 1000 marchers
We’re 10,000 strong and peaceful
We’re the flood of humanity
We’re mothers, sisters, brothers
We’re cousins, and friends
We know love can be lost
We know the rush to judgment
We know our song comes from the mountains
We sing and our music flows over town
We know our song is heard ’round the mountains
We’re the fire and flood of humanity
We see a few mutter and turn away
We know we belong
We’re here with rainbow-striped socks
We’re here to dispel hate and promote care
We’re here with love as our companion
We’re here

*“English poetic education should, really, begin not with Canterbury Tales, not with the Odyssey, not even with Genesis, but with the Song of Amergin.” – Robert Graves

Published in Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, Volume 43, No.11, May 2023

Passages

Passages is now available in paperback.

The 1970s. New ideas on how to live. Being young in the city, searching for identity and love and the most amazing life possible – that was the story of many back then. They were trailblazers. Martin is one of them.

See you next month!

Passages

Passages, by Mary Clark

The 1970s. Anything goes. Sexual liberation. New ideas on how to live. Being young in the city, searching for identity, and love, and the most amazing life possible – that was the story of many back then. They were trailblazers. 

Passages, a young man’s coming of age in 1970’s New York City, reflects the greater panorama of people seeking freedom of expression. 

Martin is an aspiring writer who explores the tangled topics of love and living an alternative lifestyle as an artist. He also lives within his male and female identities which fuel his dreams and fantasies. His family history of violence, his mental instability, and a friend’s death spur him to escape suburban life.

In the city, Martin meets Simone, an actress on Broadway. A strange first encounter reveals a new self to him. Shortly afterward, he meets sexy, volatile Rafaela, who works in a Times Square restaurant. He struggles to nourish his independent self as he engages in these two challenging relationships.

Rafaela is pragmatic and driven. Simone is on her way to a legendary career. What will Martin do with the gifts and burdens life has given him?

Passages is an exploration of sexual awakening, social change, and a writer’s life.

Content warning: descriptions or references to sexual assault, erotic dreams, domestic violence, and mental health episodes.

Kindle only (paperback will come later)

These books are related to Passages:

Into The Fire: A Poet’s Journey through Hell’s Kitchen

Children of Light, a poetry novel, Ten Penny Players’ BardPress

Covenant: Growing Up in Florida’s Lost Paradise, a novella, Kindle Unlimited

Passages is Here

Starting today, you can pre-order my new book, Passages, going live April 17. Passages is a young man’s coming-of-age story in “anything goes” 1970’s New York City.

Martin lives within his male and female identities to the extent he has two personas. He identifies as male, but he also understands the world as Maryanne. As he evolves into adult sexuality, he dreams, fantasizes, and explores real life relationships. Escaping a suburban nightmare, he moves to the city. He fantasizes about meeting Simone (who he also perceives as Ethan), an actress on Broadway and wills himself to act, causing a collision of needs and personalities. He descends into temporary insanity, contemplating violence. After Simone leaves for the coast, he meets Rafaela, a woman who works in a Times Square restaurant who tests him even more than Simone. Rafaela is a hard-working immigrant. Simone is on her way to a legendary career. Can Martin untangle his childhood experiences of abuse, his mental health issues, and his complex identity?

I hope readers will enjoy the characters, drawn from “real life,” including the driven Rafaela, irrepressible scholarly Frankie, gifted poet Sally, poetry series organizer Richard, and the ambitious Simone.

Romance, sexual awakening, gender fluidity, celebrity, friendship. Descriptions of books, theater, poetry, film, and music.

Content warning: domestic violence, gun violence, sexual assault, mental health. A few erotic passages.

Other books by the author related to Passages:

Into The Fire: A Poet’s Journey through Hell’s Kitchen

Children of Light, Ten Penny Players’ BardPress

Covenant: Growing Up in Florida’s Lost Paradise, KDP Select, Kindle Unlimited

Writing Time

Photo by Mary Clark

Headlights’ warmth chases
winter’s chill, erases shadows
fleeting night blazes

  • The Bench Poems, by Mary Clark

Hello, fellow bloggers and readers. I’ve been busy on two books for a few months (or many). Some of you know, as you have read at least one of them. Thank you! Every writer needs readers that will tell them when they’re on track and when they’ve sped off into the wilderness.

The first project was a revisit to Community, a memoir released last year. The revised version will be available soon. In it I venture to “wax poetic” now and then just to brighten the tone of the story. I like sunsets, but the rosy dawn is also beautiful.

The second project is the book I was working on last year: Passages. It’s been through several reincarnations. Hopefully, it will be ready for prime time in the near future – though I harbor hope for a publisher, and so time will tell.

Reading has taken a lot of my time as well. Among the books I enjoyed and – or would recommend:

Horse, by Geraldine Brooks.

She shows the way thoroughbred racing is intertwined with American history, specifically, with racism. The use of black grooms and trainers, many enslaved, to care for these horses, and their depictions in paintings of the pre-Civil War era, is told so well I felt I knew the men and the artists. Our current history appears in a parallel story. She is deft at describing the changes in thought and language that accompany the honest examination of racism in the U.S. And when stereotypes can surprise us, whether white or black. The horses are characters with personalities, too. The central horse, Lexington, is gifted and used to enrich his owners, while also rising above them to become a legend.

Angel Landing, by Alice Hoffman.

When I was reading this, I asked myself, when is this? No one had cell phones. People were collecting change for the bus. It’s old times, but I realized, within my lifetime. I can remember (dimly) those days. The book was published in 1980. That doesn’t mean it’s not relevant. Because it is, very. The story takes place in a small village on Long Island, once a hopping seaside town and now forgotten as people moved to the trendier places. Another reason it’s not a big draw is the large nuclear power plant, Angel Landing, clearly visible on a point of land nearby. A young woman, Natalie, returns to her aunt Minnie’s (Minnie is a live wire) boarding house (now empty) in the town, with her activist upper-crust boyfriend bunking in an office where he can work on his anti-nuclear cause nonstop. As she sits in her aunt’s house she notices the sky turning color. Later, an explosion. There’s been an accident at the plant. I won’t say more, but this story is an oddly surreal, moody, wandering journey to self-realization. While it’s set in the “old times,” it’s modern in many ways. Now I find it lingers in my memory.

Our Missing Hearts, by Celeste Ng.

As we face potential conflict with China, this book takes on the issues of nationalism, fear-mongering, “patriot laws,” family separation, and the ease with which a democratic republic can become a dystopian society. A pandemic followed by economic hardship and riots is blamed on China, and all Chinese people in the U.S. are suspect. Books are banned, protests quashed, laws are passed limiting Chinese-American freedoms (education, employment, travel), and ultimately, the government reaches into family life, taking children from parents who might taint them with un-American ideas. A mixed couple find themselves caught up in the hysteria. This book raises vital questions about the direction of our country, and any country that still calls itself a democarcy.

Mary Clark on Mastodon Social

Edward Kaplan (return to sender)

Baltimore Avenue looking west at sunset early these short days. Photo by Ed Kaplan 2020.

Two years ago in January Ed Kaplan, a good friend and fellow poet, died in his city of dreams, Philadelphia. He wrote this about himself:

“Ed Kaplan came ashore in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Since then, his work has been published in well over a hundred magazines and journals – as well as books including Alvin (1974, Triton Press, Boulder Creek, CA), Seraphics (1980, Avalon Editions, Oxford), & Pancratia (1983, Swamp Press, Oneonta, NY). Educated as a boy living in Atlantic City, walking home by the ocean, participating in the roar of waves, inspired by the vastness and the grain of sand underfoot.”

Ed was influenced by the Beat poets, but his closest association was with Vincent Ferrini, the sprightly irritant and muse of the “Big Man,” Charles Olson. Ferrini was the grain of sand that caused Olson to form a pearl of words. Vinnie was a good poet himself, living by the sea in true urchin fashion in Gloucester, Massachusetts. In 1981, Ed and Vinnie and came to the poetry program I ran at St. Clement’s Church in Manhattan. After this, Ed read at the St. Marks Poetry Project with Ferrini and Joel Oppenheimer, saying this about it in 2020: we each were shades of that dynamic that asks… make a poem or be the poem? three different answers. back then, i didn’t get it at all; vinny did and joel wasn’t pushing it on me, kind of in the middle. but it was a great reading! tho vinny & me read at st. clements, hell’s kitchen (not lost on us). He told me in an email (after reading a draft of my book, Into The Fire: A Poet’s Journey through Hell’s Kitchen) that Steve Levy, writer and journalist now with WIRED was in the St. Clement’s audience. Ed’s generosity, humor, and “poetry like weight-lifting” earned him respect in the writing community. He was not an academic poet, earning his living as an administrator; when I knew him in the 1980s he worked for a temple in New Jersey. In his later years he became a student of Zen and practiced meditation.

On December 27, 2020, Ed left a note on his Facebook page, saying, “ram dass was cremated, put in a cardboard box, marked . . . return to sender.” At the time his friends were unaware this was to be his last post.

He once told me the Facebook page would be an archive of his work. For the first year or so, I copied his posts and kept them on a computer file. Here are some of my favorites from those early posts as well as several of his poems.

first came the swimmers, lost on land, then the beatniks who commented, then the nudists then the fashion designers & models, poets, comedians, chefs & of course the players gangsters & spoilers, then modernists, then the big collider proved we are entangled, all one, not separate, then the music started & in 2525, we held hands and started over!!!!!!!!!

back from my morning ritual sending love to the street world…cold out there: one man, a regular of mine, refused gloves because his fingers are too swollen…one is too crazy to accept money (I think he may eat it). but the world rests there at that intersection of walnut street, 40th and love.

in the sabotaged ashes of my life, I sit; in the squandered pieces of my life, I sit; keeping my heart soft in spite of the complaining self, undeserving of this miracle, and at times, crying do over. I get it; I stay lost in it.

so much hatred manifest in our selfish melodramas, causes, opinions for the moment – judgments on everyone in the circus – awaking to this day, i seek to fill my heart with the good of people, their ability to change, to help each other with kindness, to drop the shouting, no matter how noble you think your path is – to honor the contradictions of being human while holding fast to the emptiness and the fullness of this too quick life.

still looking for something in the world – but it’s getting better – my story gets more ridiculous and less fantastic than I thought…and it’s perfect.

just a little history in zen about humor – sure, they smile those smiles, and the idea of “mu” or clown in Chinese Buddhism is dear to me, and in most traditions, real humor is in the background. You’d think that cosmic humor would sneak into any relevant theology. but zen isn’t theology. SO: as we turn a page on time everyday, another fiction, my prayer for the world is more laughing, vast laughters; laughter and wholeness before the big bang, and after, laughter in spite of, laughter because of, and laughter in the face of karma, just for a moment in our suffering. in between failed hopes & dashed dreams. at the site of hurting, directly on the wound. laughter at dying! give laughter a central role in your heart seeking. Apply a joke to your ambition. stick laughter on your frustrated relationships. watch children laugh like they are on fire!!

Ed Kaplan, poet, 2016
Power of Man
(from Table of the Permanent) 
a cold hand above the sea, to be immortal, he thinks
coals must be fed with stars, which, on eagles’ backs
lands in the rockslide sky like broken thunders.
he owns small cats & slate. he swallowed
the moon straight & it burned an albatross
inside his clumsy process from which he draws
his power of hammered gold & oyster foam.
poor men, he thinks, poor women: any of this earth
will survive your failure. his short days
have only flowers & no roots for memories
as he throws them into the open mouth
of his working riddle, the deep black guess
that somewhere he is considered the only one of his kind.
he cries better than anyone else. he staggers the mind.
he is the only wave that has come this far unbroken.
he is stubborn which means he crawls in her hair
shaking his fist in the soft face of the earth, arming himself
with dreams that only will be sold & gone & cold.
he is in front of a firing squad ready to prove otherwise.
he knows it's forever, that others will take everything
but that away. he touches the future which he keeps with him.
all these magnificent lies through which the little good
we do, one drop at a time, remains: he was a salesman or a
carpenter or a company man. he provides & clears his pride.

Power of Appointment

Indiana night driving in heavy snow
a single car stretched across route 74 at midnight
a truck two miles back slides out of the mirror
fierce wind & onelight houses by the highway
bones of prehistoric animals & lovers & theorists

100 miles of crowded solitude & jelly beans to stay awake
tossing cigarette ashes on the floor

we are salesmen in the thirties with belted luggage
we have families back home
it’s Thursday January 24
Indianapolis to Cincinnati

the brain is one third fat
two thirds extravagant gold sash

you are therefore never alone
angels are deft & spidery
drawn to drapes & lampshades
sit like parakeets on our shoulders or shadows

standing out in the cold between a satellite dish
and a double vision

as in love
as in death
as in the organized sex of our red bandanas
as in the serious theatre of her blood
as in being alone in the middle of a country at night
as in forest

I am surrounded by a ton or two of man’s rigor
peeling off into the organ moon as we always did
constantly surprized in our trauma
it’s a kingdom of crabs chains mace plums
emeralds brats and the unretrievable
the wood in the trees

the wind in the wind

As Olson lay convex

As Olson lay convex his liver

the ruling part

caught the attention of the Angel of Death

he tried deception
wanted to make the Angel
a fool
said
touch me & I will spoil

he tried accepting authority
Angel as physician
said
please don’t hurt me
you are a permanence
whose function it is
to terminate life on earth

he tried moving the cruel Angel
with his enormous need
to persuade her to shed a tear of mercy
he was a young girl
on the knees of an old gentleman
imploring
take her life instead of his

he used all the food at his table
his bones his animals his herbs his interior
a giant in the courtyard grabbing the fountain to his mouth
as if it would fit & quench

ran wild out of the ocean into jungles

a man who got taken in by lights & smoke

who was too damn heavy for the roof

he wouldn’t think of standing anywhere else

____

(I apologize for formatting problems. The first three and last three lines of “Olson lay convex” should be free-standing and single-spaced.)

The following video of the poem, “Seraphics,” about the issues around gun violence reflect his punchy style.

Holiday Season & News

Mastodonbooks.net

I’ve joined Mastodon and pared down my time on Twitter. My blog and daily emails from friends comprise the greater part of my internet life. However, Twitter allowed me to keep up with current news, often from the affected people themselves, and with my fellow book lovers. I used it to promote my books as well. Now that I’m on Mastodon I am enjoying the richer engagement I’m having with other writers and reviewers. You can find me at @Mclark@mastodonbooks.net

My Kindle Vella adventure continues. Passages had 6 readers in the beginning but as soon as payment was required that fell to zero. The message I’ve taken from that is to make it more compelling. I’ve discovered on reviewing the rules that episodes on Kindle Vella are not to be published anywhere else on the internet for free. I have to chose between publishing on my blog or on Kindle Vella. I’ve decided to keep working on Kindle Vella to see if it works. At least for the next few months.

In the spirit of the season, here are two poems. The first by Maya Angelou is well-known. The second is by Sally Young, now Sally young-eslinger, an old friend of mine. We knew each other in New Jersey before I went to New York and she to Chicago and later Kentucky.

AMAZING PEACE:  A Christmas Poem
by Maya Angelou

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes
And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.
Flood waters await us in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche
Over unprotected villages.
The sky slips low and grey and threatening.

We question ourselves.
What have we done to so affront nature?
We worry God.
Are you there? Are you there really?
Does the covenant you made with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters,
Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope
And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air.
The world is encouraged to come away from rancor,
Come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season.
Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner.
Flood waters recede into memory.
Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us
As we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children
It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.
Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,
Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We hear a sweetness.
The word is Peace.
It is loud now. It is louder.
Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence.
It is what we have hungered for.
Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas.
We beckon this good season to wait a while with us.
We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come.
Peace.
Come and fill us and our world with your majesty.
We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian,
Implore you, to stay a while with us.
So we may learn by your shimmering light
How to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.

On this platform of peace, we can create a language
To translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.

At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ
Into the great religions of the world.
We jubilate the precious advent of trust.
We shout with glorious tongues at the coming of hope.
All the earth’s tribes loosen their voices
To celebrate the promise of Peace.

We, Angels and Mortals, Believers and Non-Believers,
Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at our world and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves
And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation.

Peace, My Brother.
Peace, My Sister.
Peace, My Soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

IN THANKFULNESS
by Sally young-eslinger

Let me go!

Please! Let me go

Flying out along the city’s avenues

To observe all the gatherings and meetings,

To examine all the exchanges of everyone…

And I will find

The most certain way to honor you.

Let me go!

That particular regard seems outside

All my experience gathered to date.

There is no simple acknowledgement known

For all I have been given, even without asking.

Oh, surely, there are things I will find

Within the stronger, sweeter dedications

Among the all, one to another?

Humanity’s born caring brings touches of God. Oh,

Shall I discover all the notes of

Sincere appreciation to be enough?

Lately, my words try to reach you — even those

Torn from my heart — but only sound pretending.

I need to flee out

To stretch into the depths of all enfolding love

For that cache containing

The one thing that holds everything top

Place within it and pull from it

All the ways I may thank and honor you.

Perhaps, leaves will become diamonds

More quickly, but my being courses steadily on to

That some new day when I will come with witnesses

And I will honor you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Have a safe and happy holiday season!

Notable Books 2022

Notable Books

From the Alleghenies to the Hebrides: An Autobiography, Margaret Fay Shaw (1903-2004)

I loved this book for its headstrong author who chooses to live on a windswept barrier island off Scotland’s west coast. She dedicates herself to preserving the old Gaelic folk songs and tales of the Hebrides. As part of the community, she documents their lives through writing and photography. She settles on the small island of Canna with her husband, where she hosts sailors from intrepid fishing ships, and writers and artists.

Ancient songs are often beautiful and surprisingly complex. Scarborough Fair dates to a royal decree in 1253. The song, “Scarborough Fair,” a traditional English ballad, has lyrics in common with a Scottish ballad, “The Elfin Knight,” traced back as far as 1670.

My Antonia, Willa Cather

My Antonia, Willa Cather

This book is part of my effort to read classic books I missed over the years. I’ve read her short stories but was wowed by the skill of this writing. She handles the plot and themes in a unique way. Although prairie life is sometimes romanticized, the pastoral scenes are a joy to read. Her descriptions of small-town life are cutting. She portrays the pull of city life in several of her characters, one succumbing to despair and isolation, another buoyed by whimsical humor, and the narrator by his choice. It was daring I think to tell the story of immigrants back  in the 1920s. Changes in the landscape, in farm life, and slowly, attitudes toward women, help tell the story. At times, I thought the narrative was overwrought and the pace too slow, but then I’m a modern reader!

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers

Another one that deserves to be a classic American novel. It’s a brilliant expose of American life and its continuous debates between conservatism and liberalism, capitalism and socialism, diversity and racial segregation. The characters are wonderfully eccentric, full of vim and vigor even when half-starved and overworked, and obviously smelly from rarely taking a bath. Apparently, the young white girl can only smell black people though. At times in the portrayal of the black inhabitants of the small town, she refers to their smell. Sure. And sultry sexual undertones run through the story. Still, it’s a romp through the crazy land we call home.

Miss Benson’s Beetle, Rachel Joyce

Miss Benson’s Beetle, Rachel Joyce

An older woman finds herself alone and useless. One day she can’t take it anymore and throws the whole thing off. She takes her savings and decides to go in search of the golden beetle of New Caledonia. I enjoyed parts of this story more than others, but the good parts had a fine and may I say golden humor and epitomized the drive and love we feel at our best moments. I sincerely wanted her to find that beetle. Slogging through the jungle, up a mountain, fighting a crazed attacker, and knowing no one supported her, she had to do it by herself – but no, she had her assistant, the equally fascinating Enid Pretty. The ending is sad and brutal, but the denouement is funny and beautiful.

Welcome to Lagos, Chibundu Onuzo

Welcome to Lagos, Chibundu Onuzo

This book mixes humor and tragedy, as the title suggests. “Welcome to Lagos” is a sarcastic remark, a knowing statement about the true conditions of this capital city. At the same time, it shows a resilient humor. I felt I was in the city with its traffic entanglements, homeless encampments, idealistic journalists, and scheming politicians.

Migrations, Charlotte McConaghy

Migrations, Charlotte McConaghy

From Amazon: “Franny Stone has always been the kind of woman who is able to love but unable to stay. Leaving behind everything but her research gear, she arrives in Greenland with a singular purpose: to follow the last Arctic terns in the world on what might be their final migration to Antarctica.” The main character, Franny, is mentally unstable. The time is the near future, when mass extinctions have taken place, and humans seem to be next in line. The whole world is unstable. A frustrating book in that the reasons for her actions remain a mystery until late in the story and then seem contrived or questionable. It’s a sad story with a somewhat happy ending, intimating that we and other species may be able to hang on after all.

Strange as This Weather Has Been, Ann Pancake.

A family living in West Virginia battles the effects of coal mining while being dependent on the coal mines for a living. They live with the threat of having their homes washed away by slush ponds or crushed by mountaintop removal. Pancake tries to explain the attachment to the land and why people don’t move away, and why things don’t get better.

The Memory Keeper of Kyiv, Erin Litteken

The story of the famine known as Holodomor inflicted on Ukraine by Stalin and the Soviet Union before World War 2 is told in two parts, one contemporary and the other set in the time of the famine.

I Dreamed There Was No War #Ukraine