I Hear the Mermaids Sing in the Lower East Side, Poetry Awakening, Nuit Debout, and the Public Commons.

Poets building bridges on the Spring Awakening.

Photo by Benjamin Shepard

 

We read poems all afternoon,  The Spring Awakening was everywhere.  

New York was brimming with action.  I’d finished visiting my friends at the anarchist bookfair debating feminism at Judson, hashing out the origins of structuralism  at 38^th Street with The Institute for the Radical Imagination.  Was the politics of praxis more important than engagement with the text, we'd ask?  That answer would have to wait for another day.   The Spring was upon us.

 

My friend Michael Larden of the New York Marxist Education Project and I talked about the Nuit Debout movement growing out of Paris.  He was organizing a session for that evening.

Later, my friend Marina Sitrin sent me an article commenting on nascent movement popping up around Europe.

“This is not a protest,” she wrote. “People here are creating something different, insisting on “real democracy”, mutual care and a newfound sense of togetherness.”  Here, participants meet to:

 “To celebrate and imagine together.”
“To look at each other and smile.”
“No parties, no barriers, no labels.”
“Take squares and rediscover hope.”

I get much of the same feeling in community gardens in New York City.  These public spaces serve as commons for us. 

All Saturday, the daffodils and butterflies were calling, as were the poems in the sunshine.  Riding over to East Forth Street,  I made my way between C and D, to El Jardin Paraiso, where I greeted friends from the New York City Community Garden Coalition and Public Space Party.  We discussed the fate of the Elizabeth Street Garden, that the city plans to bulldoze to make way for housing, despite the  multiple alternative spaces that are available for the garden.  We talked about the Gardens Rising Movement, tracing the uses of gardens to help support neighborhood resiliency, and the countless other possibilies sprouting from the garden.

And I climbed up into the tree house.

“The bees are coming,” noted one of the younger women in the treehouse, a good sign of spring.

“Hello butterfly,” I greeted a young girl, wearing a pair of wings.

“She’s not a butterfly,” her friend corrected me. “She’s a fairy,” he explained.

I stood corrected.

My friend JC was having a nap.

“I’ve seen the moment of my greatness flicker,” noted TS Elliot in the Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.   This is our traditional Public Space Party poetry jam poem.  “There will be time, there will be time, there will be time to murder and create, time for you and me and 100 indecisions…”

People from all over the garden started to join us, Ziggy, Miranda, Dee Dee, Barbara, X Pitts, who gave me a copy of his card, noting, “Appointments Are Made Verbally, face to face.”

Everyone read poems.  Somehow the theme of dictators and cruelty, love and pain rumbled through our stories and recollections.

Dee Dee danced.

JC read “How to Score” by Lenny Bruce, from the Outlaw Book of Poetry.

“A lot of people say to me, 'Why did you kill Christ?'” notes Bruce. “I dunno, it was one of those parties, got out of hand, you know.”

 

I asked X Pitts if he could recite a poem. 

“The last time I read a poem here, they had to call in the national guard,” he explained, offering an extemporaneous narrative of love and colonialism, the history of the Lower East Side, police brutality and hidden memories, riffing on Shakespeare, being lost and found.

We read stories of love and betrayal.  As usual the favorites were by Pablo Neruda.   Each of us shared a mesmerizing line or two from TS Elliot, the words washing over our consciousness, as we sat, just being for a minute in the sun. 

For a while there, we could all see the mermaids singing, as we read Elliot together.

I grow old . . . I grow old . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

 Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

  I do not think they will sing to me.

  I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

  We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown               130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

 "I said to the almond tree: "Speak to me of God."

And the almond tree blossomed," noted Barbara, reading the postlude by Herbert Selby.

Concluding we all shared events we were planning, everyone has their stories in New York.  JC has a reading at the Theather for the New City on May 2, we’ll go to.  Public Space Party has a ride to the Gardens in Danger starting at noon at Elizabeth Street Garden, between Prince and Spring Street,   on April 30^th at Noon.  

Here are some of the stories and moments we shared.   

Night on the Island by Pablo Neruda.

All night I have slept with you
next to the sea, on the island.
Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep,
between fire and water. Perhaps very late
our dreams joined
at the top or at the bottom,
Up above like branches moved by a common wind,
down below like red roots that touch.

Perhaps your dream
drifted from mine
and through the dark sea
was seeking me
as before,
when you did not yet exist,
when without sighting you
I sailed by your side,
and your eyes sought
what now--
bread, wine, love, and anger--
I heap upon you
because you are the cup
that was waiting for the gifts of my life.

I have slept with you
all night long while
the dark earth spins
with the living and the dead,
and on waking suddenly
in the midst of the shadow
my arm encircled your waist.

Neither night nor sleep
could separate us.

I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.

 

cruelly, love

by E. E. Cummings

walk the autumn long;
the last flower in whose hair,
they lips are cold with songs

for which is
first to wither, to pass?
shallowness of sunlight
falls, and cruelly,
across the grass
Comes the
moon

love, walk the
autumn
love, for the last
flower in the hair withers;
thy hair is acold with
dreams,
love thou art frail

-walk the longness of autumn
smile dustily to the people,
for winter
who crookedly care.

The Bridge - Poem by Octavio Paz

Between now and now,
between I am and you are,
the word bridge.

Entering it
you enter yourself:
the world connects
and closes like a ring.

From one bank to another,
there is always
a body stretched:
a rainbow.
I'll sleep beneath its arches.

Octavio Paz

Poets building bridges by Barbara Ross

I wandered lonely as a cloud I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. That floats on high o'er vales and hills,  I wandered lonely as a Cloud by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils;
Along the lake, beneath the trees,
Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: --
A Poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gaz'd--and gaz'd--but little thought
What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING

By william wordsworth

          I HEARD a thousand blended notes,

          While in a grove I sate reclined,

          In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

          Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

          To her fair works did Nature link

          The human soul that through me ran;

          And much it grieved my heart to think

          What man has made of man.

          Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

          The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;                         10

          And 'tis my faith that every flower

          Enjoys the air it breathes.

          The birds around me hopped and played,

          Their thoughts I cannot measure:--

          But the least motion which they made

          It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

          The budding twigs spread out their fan,

          To catch the breezy air;

          And I must think, do all I can,

          That there was pleasure there.                              20

          If this belief from heaven be sent,

          If such be Nature's holy plan,

          Have I not reason to lament

                            What man has made of man?I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. Through primrose tufts, in that green boThe periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:— But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature’s holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?Share this text ...?·Twitter·Pinterest: ry (Pearson, 2006)
Lines Written in Early SpringLines Written in Early Spring I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to thinWhat man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent,If such be Nature’s holy plan, Have I not reason to lamentWhat man has made of maRimbaud Sees the Dentist - By Jim Carroll

As he had promised, the old man knocked at Arthur's door early that morning. Rimbaud was ready, and together they passed down into the fresh blocks of sunlight on the sidewalks. Rimbaud was neatly dressed, though his frail black ties, which was more like the lace of a boot, could not conceal the lines of dirt along his collar.

"You should hold no fear of the pain one often takes for granted on the way to the dentist," the old man explained, "for this particular one has been experimenting with a strange new form of gas, called nitrous oxide, which is, to all reports, quite successful in eliminating such discomfort."

Rimbaud nodded to that, though, as things were, he was rather looking forward to an experience which involved the purging of one pain by means of another, even greater, pain. By the time they had reached the office, however and the old man had made payment and Arthur had been seated in a chair not unlike that of a barber, he had grown curious about this new gas and asked the dentist if he might inhale some as part of his treatment. The dentist, who was fat, with a stale yellow beard, was delighted this young man knew of his innovation, and he began to attach, somewhat clumsily, a black mask shaped like a cup over the poet's mouth and nose. A long rubber tube ran from the mask to a cylinder placed behind the chair. He turned the knob on the mouth of the cylinder, readjusted the mask, patted the young man's shoulder and told him to relax, that he would return in a short time. "There is no time to speak of that is short," Arthur was mumbling. "And there is a tiny German whose clothing is in flames running in circles along the back of my jaw." The dentist chortled and walked through the door to his outer office; he knew the drug was already at work. The old man had told him his young patient made claims to writing poems, and now he would allow some time to pass before he began extracting teeth, and he would let the poet dream.

So Rimbaud dreamt the nitrous dreams. Of women with black skin whose lips were like drums. Of rodents sealed in kegs of blue water. Of lightning shaped like freight trains passing vertically through the branches of a tree. Whose leaves were knives falling to the earth and standing upright. There was a speed in these visions, each dissolved into the next with thin wheels in flame dropping from the sky.  And there were words painted in many colors across the foreheads of women whose arms linked like a chain. The smell of burning rubber clung with thorny fingers to the ceiling of his skull.

 

Between Going And Coming - Poem by Octavio Paz

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Between going and staying
the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can’t be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.

Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.

I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.

Octavio Paz

As One Listens To The Rain - Poem by Octavio Paz

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.

Octavio Paz

Scenes from a Spring Awakening.

Lines Written in Early SpringLines Written in Early Spring

Lines Written in Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And ’tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure:—

But the least motion which they made

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature’s holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?