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Morton Marcus: Good evening everybody, this is Mort Marcus. This is the first Poetry Show for 2005, Happy New Year everyone out there, and new year starts in Santa Cruz County and in Monterey County with an anthology of one hundred poets

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from the area called the "Monterey Bay Poets 2004." It's an anthology that has been edited by Ryan Masters and has been published by Suki Wessling. And I want to welcome four poets, Patti Sirens, Len Anderson, and Robert Sward to

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the show, participants in the anthology, and they will talk about the anthology, their own poetry, and maybe read some of the poetry from the anthology. But first Suki, hello. Suki Wessling: Hi, thanks for asking us.

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Morton Marcus: Oh, it's my pleasure. We're not only doing this because this anthology is actually just come out, but we're doing it for another reason. What is going to happen on January the 8th?

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Suki Wessling: On January the 8th, we're having a release party for the book and it will be at The Attic which is a really gorgeous new space downtown, it's right next sort of above Streetlight Records. It's this coming Saturday, seven

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o'clock to 9:30pm. And it's mostly built as a party, a time for the poetry community and people who love poetry to come together and celebrate this wonderful book that Brian has put together. The interesting thing about this book is that in

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the title, it's "The Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets," not Santa Cruz County poets. It's poets who live and work around the whole bay. And so hopefully at the party, we'll have a good representation of people from around the bay. And we will have

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speakers, including two people who are here tonight, Mort and Robert Sward are both going to be speaking, as well as Maude Meehan, Patrice Vecchione, and George Lober. And it should be a really fun time.

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Morton Marcus: Well, you've been working very hard on this, not only publishing it but getting the word around, getting everyone together, and certainly thanks to you. Could you tell us how this anthology started because I know you're not the

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editor of the anthology. Suki Wessling: I am not the editor, I'm the publisher. Excuse me. My press is named Chatoyant and I have published a couple of local poets. But what happened with this anthology was

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that Ryan Masters was the poet in residence in Pacific Grove. And that's a new program that they started a few years ago and he was the first poet in residence. And as poet in residence, as the first poet in residence, he was in charge of

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figuring out what a poet in residence did. He had some things that he was supposed to do, put together a poetry festival, and work in the schools, that sort of thing. But as he started meeting more and more poets from this area, he

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realized what a rich literary community we have. And so he decided that an anthology would be a natural progression from what he was doing. And so he said- I called him today - he couldn't be here tonight - I called him today to ask about

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the genesis of this and he said, "Well, I sent out the email saying that I'm going to do an anthology. And then all these submissions started coming." And I thought, oh, no, I have to do an anthology, which is pretty much why I was so glad that he

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emailed me one day and said, "Would you like to publish this anthology?" Because I personally had always been afraid of all the work involved in editing an anthology, I'd always wanted to do one. But so he had done all the work editing, and in fact,

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had chosen one of my poems to put in it so that's why I'm also in it. Normally, as a publisher, I wouldn't put my own work in, but he edited the whole thing and gave me this wonderful package all done, and I thought it was just lovely.

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Morton Marcus: Great. Did you do the cover or had the cover done or did he have that arranged also? Suki Wessling: Ryan actually had the front cover arranged and it was actually done by someone who's in the the anthology,

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Gabriel Ganzuk(?). And I just, it's really great because I usually do my own cover design for my other books. And this is completely unlike my other designs in a way that I love. It's just, you know, it's a wonderful complement to what I

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do, so it was really exciting for me to get this- this lush cover because I'm more of a spare sort of designer. Robert Sward: [inaudible] Suki Wessling: The cover art was, I guess the inspiration for

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the cover, the artwork is actually a collage done by Patrice Vecchione, who is known around here, obviously for her poetry and for her workshops. And she has lately, I'm saying I don't know when she started working in the visual arts, but

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she has started doing these wonderful collages and this one is called, "The Poet's Pencil," I believe in it's got a man holding a huge pencil and he's adrift in a boat and I think that that was the inspiration for the rest of the look of the

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cover which I don't know how would you describe it. Morton Marcus: As a collage? Suki Wessling: Yes, you can see- Len Anderson: He's adrift down on a sea of words.

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Suki Wessling: Yes, he is adrift on a sea of words. Robert Sward: And something that looks either like a robot or a bathtub, and it says poetry. Suki Wessling: Yes, you know, if you want to see what we're

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talking about, you can go to my website which is Chatoyant.com, that's spelled C-H-A-T-O-Y-A-N-T dot com. And if you click on "Antholoy of Monterey Bay Poets," you will be able to see a lovely full-color version of this.

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Morton Marcus: Suki, a few more questions. You included a lot of unpublished writers, or Ryan did, why was that? What was the purpose for that? Suki Wessling: I think Ryan was attempting to get a good, not

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just an anthology that says here are the people you know, here's the writing you know, because there are some, obviously some people that we know and love in here. But also he wanted to get a cross-section of the community here, as well as a sense of,

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from the content of the poems, a sense of life in this area. And I think if you read this book, even if you don't read it as poetry, if you just read the content, you would get a really strong sense of the life, the lifestyle, the concerns, the

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environment we live in. And I think that his choice to not just to anthologized the poets you would expect, but also just to include any poem he received from any person that you thought would make a good addition to the book, he did. And so it's

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interesting to me that when I talk to people who know the poetry community, who basically know almost everyone who comes to any reading, or has been published in this area, there's a number of people in this book that they have never heard of,

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and that's wonderful. These are completely new people, it's like a transfusion into the poetry. Morton Marcus: And so that's what you were saying was significant about this anthology giving a sense of Monterey Bay.

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Suki Wessling: Oh, yeah. I really feel like when you read this book, you get a sense of the life and the place. It's really extraordinary. The first time I read through it, when I told Ryan I've considered publishing it, he sent me the

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manuscript by email and I read through it, and I was just so pleasantly surprised. I didn't expect to, because anthologies don't always come together as books. Often they read as individual poems and they'll say, oh, I like that one, I

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didn't like that one. But this book really feels like a book to me. Morton Marcus: Well, let me not want to throw a damper on this, but I really think this anthology should have been

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called, "An Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets," instead of "The" because there have been some vary significant people left out. Now, I have checked on this and many of the people who are left out never submitted anything, though they were asked

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to. And I'm talking about Joe Stroud, I'm talking about the great Jeff Tagami, one of the finest poets probably in the United States, and Shirley Ancheta, and they chose not to submit things, so that's why they're not there, but then also

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Ekua Omosupe was never even told about the anthology, and Joan Zimmerman wasn't. So there are at least two people who weren't invited, and I think certainly should have and three people who were left out and should be recognized and I will, through

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the evening, maybe read some poems by them to show you know that this is really an anthology of Monterey Bay poets and still a very, very good one and it's always welcome to see one, though there has been another one which this great foreword by

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Bill Minor talks about and that is the anthology that was done by the people of UCSC with the [unidentified] West organization through Ken Weisner. And then there was another one before that, "The Lighthouse Point Anthology," which was just in

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Santa Cruz poets anthology back, gosh, I think it was late 70s, yeah. So, anyway, this is all the new for Monterey Bay. It was early 80s? Okay, let us go on. Miss Sirens, what are your feelings about the anthology?

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Patti Sirens: Well, I just got my copy today, so I haven't seen it, but I was at the reading in Pacific Grove in April that featured a lot of the readers from the anthology and as I remember, back in April, my memory's pretty short, I don't

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retain things very well, but I do remember that there were a lot of good readers and a lot of great poetry, which I'm sure is in the anthology. Morton Marcus: Well, you are one of the people who is in the

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anthology. Would you grace us with the first poem of the evening, your own? Patti Sirens: I will, it's called, "Why Would You Want To Vacation Here?" and the way this poem was inspired, Julia Alter,

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who is another poet in the anthology, and I often write, we would write at Lulu Carpenters downtown in Santa Cruz and especially- Morton Marcus: You're not being paid for that ad are you?

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Patti Sirens: No, we would sit outside Lulu Carpenters and watch the people. We always knew who the tourists were because it would be July or August and it would be foggy and cold and all the tourists would be walking around with their shorts and

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visibly uncomfortable and very cold and we'd just sit there and chuckle at everybody, because you could pick out the tourists. It's very easy to see them, so this was called: WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO VACATION HERE?

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This is a town of constant fog with a Starbucks and a beggar on every corner. The locals don't wear bermuda shorts or bikinis, they only wear wool and leather. This is a town where everyone's waiting for something to happen, another stabbing, another

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earthquake, the second coming of Jerry Garcia. This is a town where high-heeled women demand "double nonfat mocha lattes, hold the foam." The police cruise the streets high on crack, the meter maids puncture your tires, the natural food

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stores promote healthy habits, but their workers look jaundiced, jonesing, hung-over. Everyone looks like their hearts have been broken. This is a town where people who commit adultery come, they drive over the mountains to shed their lives

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and clothes. They eat overpriced lunches in noisy cafes. Their hotel room by the bay is filled with mold and looks out over the vacant lot where the drunks fight and the junkies shoot up. They feel dirty having sex as if someone is watching. On the

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beach, their feet are shredded by broken glass. How will they explain that to their spouses who are fixing dinner in Silicon Valley, waiting for them with goblets of wine, the color of rubies and reservations for a weekend at the Best Western in

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Santa Cruz? Morton Marcus: Well, that's a great introduction to the northern part of the bay. I'm sure that there's nothing in here like that for Monterey. They always escape such things,

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but very sharp, Patti, very, very nice. On my left is my old chum Bob Sward. And, Bob, welcome once again. And, Bob, what's your feelings about the anthology? I'm sure you've had time to look through it.

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Robert Sward: Well, to sum it up, I agree, you know, it's unfortunate that some of the people you mentioned- That some of the people in the end who should be, are not included. I got- you said the idea, we were talking earlier about themes,

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the items that are touched on in the anthology, and I started earlier just reading the first one or two lines of some of the poems. This is Marcia Adams, I'm gonna go on, you know, just turn into about four or five pages and just read the openings to

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touch on some of the themes that come up in the book. Morton Marcus: And just to whet the peoples' whistle- Robert Sward: Whet the appetite. Morton Marcus: Well, before you do that, Suki, the party which

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is going to be held obviously at 913 Pacific Avenue at The Attic, above Streetlight Records, will there be these anthologies for sale there? Suki Wessling: Yes, the anthologies will be for sale

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then, and also there's a reading two weeks later, the 22nd in Pacific Grove at the Pacific Grove Art Center from 5 to 8pm, and they will be for sale there. In both cases, you'll be able to meet some of the writers and get autographs if you wish in your

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book. Also, the book is for sale on the web at Chatoyant.com, as well as at pretty much most of the local bookstores that you would think of that would sell poetry such as Bookshop Santa Cruz, Capitola Book Cafe, Aptos Bookworks, you know, I'm going

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to start missing people, Bay Books, Thunderbird Books, and then I'm not going to say anymore because I know there's probably others. Morton Marcus: Or most of the others.

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Suki Wessling: Yes. Morton Marcus: And so that's why I wanted to clear up the fact that this is not just a party for the poets, this is really a book signing party, so come down, get your copy of the book

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and meet the poets. Suki Wessling: Yeah and also as a celebration of the poetry community because that's what I feel that this anthology is. And so the- it won't just be signing, there will be poets

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there who will be speaking about the community and I think it'll be a really nice way of getting to know each other to a certain extent. We have the two sides of the bay and we don't, we've got that little two lane road, stretch of road between us, and

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that keeps us apart, so this is a way for us to come together. Morton Marcus: Well, I want to say that before Bob, I didn't mean to interrupt you. Read us the first line so you get some sense of the variety of the poetry in here. So, go, Bob.

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Robert Sward: Going from page 1, 3, 4, 5, and you know, just an opening. My father left me his battered white sheath. The next one:

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If you ask mom she will tell you, romance with dad was a can of green beans. Len Anderson begins his poem: Once upon a time when time was still sleeping, all that now is

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or could ever be was asleep inside the black hat. One of my favorite poems of Len's actually. Charles Atkinson opens: Two more friends dead inside a month, two you loved and didn't

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tell. You were thinking of them, of course. Ellen Bass' poem opens: Pray to whomever you kneel down to. Jesus nailed to his wooden or marble or plastic cross.

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And just two more. Barbara Bloom's poem opens: The pear tree I planted in memory of my mother is suddenly dying. And then Michael Bradburn-Ruster opens:

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Because I do not live beside the sea, no mist can squander its harvest of tears. And I think too, and Mort, that- you know, the word anthology, if you look it up in the dictionary, it means like a

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gathering of flowers. And yes, I mean this, you know, Susanna has really done us a wonderful service by bringing together this- this sampling of flowers in the community. And for me, the book is an extension of the community of writers in Santa

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Cruz, which I think is really remarkable. And I've lived in a number of different communities that have involved, large cities and small, that have involved writers. And my introduction to the Santa Cruz writing community really was- it was hearing

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Morton Marcus in 1985 when I came here from Toronto after living for five years on an island, and then that really opened up, you know, the whole community in some sense for me personally. Susanne's anthology is like an extension of that

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first experience of hearing the Poetry Show in 1985. Morton Marcus: Very nice, Robert, we will be back to you to ask you to read your poem a little later. But that was a great way to introduce the different tones and subjects of

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the anthology. And the other poet who is here tonight is Len Anderson, who is really the backbone of Poetry Santa Cruz, has a marvelous book out in fact, the poem that Robert just read from is in his wonderful book. Welcome, Len, my friend.

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Len Anderson: Thank you. Morton Marcus: What are your feelings about the anthology? Great general questions. Len Anderson: Yeah. Well, I like what Suki had to say about the

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book, the anthology being a celebration of the poetry community. And there is a sense of the poetry community being a network of relationships between people which are partly linked together by talking and knowing each other for a long time, but

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partly were linked together through our poems. And the anthology is just a scattering, you know, a little piece of that network of links through our poetry. And I think by bringing in many people that many of us don't know, we will extend and

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deepen the poetry community for those people and also leave the message for everyone else out there who didn't get in that we're still open to everything, that we're- there's a place for everybody in the poetry community here.

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Morton Marcus: And certainly you have, you and Dennis, have promoted that and Julia, and other people who have been connected with Poetry Santa Cruz. That's great. Why don't you tell us a little bit about this curious ghazal that you

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have here, which is a favorite of Bob's, and actually a favorite of mine, too, though I love so much of your poetry, not only the ghazals, or hazals. Suki Wessling: Len can start by blaming me for actually

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misprinting his poem. He sent me some edits and I tried to be a very careful editor and in the version of the book that you're all holding right now, there is a misplaced stanza and it's being fixed in the next printing.

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Morton Marcus: See what's so interesting about ghazal, if you didn't say that, no one would notice it because each couplet is totally separate and stands on its own. But why don't you read the poem as it's supposed to be?

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Len Anderson: The author would notice it. Suki Wessling: The author did notice it and sent me an email that started with, "Not to whine, but-" Morton Marcus: Why don't you- can you read it the way it is

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and then sort of read it the way it's supposed to be? Or is that too painful? Len Anderson: I'd just like to read it the way it should be. Morton Marcus: Okay.

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Len Anderson: It's actually a simple thing. The stanza that appears at the end of the poem in the book in the anthology should be the fifth stanza. So it's a simple thing for anybody take their pencil and, and draw a line up there but I'll read it

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the way it ought to be. GHAZAL WITH BLACK HAT "The invisible is wrapped in light," he says, with a whoosh of the black hat. Or perhaps it's in here, he thinks, peering

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into the black hat. Once upon a time when time was still sleeping, all that now is, or could ever be, was asleep inside the black hat. I believe in the cape and gloves, the rabbit and the wand, there is no hat but the black hat. He doesn't tell

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his mother. How could he ever explain to her the black hat? Oh, strange universe, almost all dark matter, dark energy, a hatter's metaphor for his own black hat. Each of us has a tiny God, deciding what to drop into, what to pull out of the black

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hat. The waitress thought she was in love with him, she was in love with the black hat. Every night, Freud's unconscious and Heisenberg's Uncertainty dine on black caviar at our expense at the oh so chic Black Hat. We are tiny glints of light in a

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greater dark within a greater yet black hat. Len keeps on trying to make sense of this world. He wouldn't have a prayer without the black hat. Morton Marcus: And if you couldn't tell out there, Len

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Anderson is a physicist, or was, actually. I guess once a physicist, always a physicist. Len Anderson: Always a physicist, I'm now fooling around with my own interpretation of quantum

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mechanics. Morton Marcus: What did you think of "What the Bleep Do We Know?" Len Anderson: Uhhh... Thank you very much! It's complex. But

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what they had to say about quantum mechanics was not justified by any data. Morton Marcus: Did you read my article in The Sentinel yesterday?

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Len Anderson: No. Morton Marcus: Oh, you gotta read it's comments on that. Len Anderson: Great. Morton Marcus: At any rate, that has nothing to do with this

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anthology, but we will be talking to the poets, we will ask them to read their poetry the second half of the show, and we're not finished with the first half yet. But we will ask them to read other people's poetry since many of them will

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have read their own poetry by the end of this section and Suki, could we ask you to read your poem now? Suki Wessling: Sure, but I'll start with the disclaimer that I sent Ryan a bunch of poems and the fact that he chose this

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incredibly long poem of mine; I actually emailed him when I agreed to publish the anthology and I said, couldn't you put a shorter poem of mine? [cut-off] Morton Marcus: This program is supported in part by our

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community of contributing listeners. To become a contributing listener visit KUSP.org. We thank you. Stay tuned after the Poetry Show is over tonight for "From the Bookshelf" hosted by the inimitable Billy Harris. Tonight

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she brings us the author Fred Reiss, pronounced rice, which I just mispronounced, reading two of his stories, "Gidget Must Die," and, "Surf.com," that is tonight at nine o'clock. Find out what's coming to the KUSP airwaves by clicking on "This

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week on KUSP" at our website KUSP.org. And I would like to announce that tonight we are discussing the brand new "Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets" put out by, and I realized tonight that I pronounced it wrong all the

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time, so Suki Wessling the publisher, can say what the name of the publishing house is. Suki Wessling: Well, I pronounce it chatoyant. It's a French word, but in English it's often used in gemology. It means the

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reflective quality of a cat's eye. And so generally, gemologists I believe pronounce it chatoyant. Chatoyant [French pronounciation]. Morton Marcus: Ah, yes.

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Suki Wessling: Yeah, I had a design business called Cat's Eye design and we wanted to start using Cats Eye Press for doing publishing. And we even had the logo so we thought well, we were going to use this and we got a cease and desist letter from a

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rubber stamp company that owns the trademark for Catseye, so, that was the end of that so we became Chatoyant. Morton Marcus: Very nice, very original. But anyway, so we are discussing with four of the poets - Patti Sirens, Suki

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Wessling, Len Anderson, and Robert Sward - we're discussing the anthology, we're going to read some poems from the anthology this part of the show, but on January the 8th, the first of several events will take place in downtown Santa

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Cruz at- at The Attic, that's at 913 Pacific Avenue, above Streetlight Records, where there will be a book signing and many of the poets from the anthology will be there and will sign the book. We hope you will come down and get a copy of the latest

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anthology of Monterey Bay poets, this very, very rich, creative community in many, many ways, but certainly continuously in literature, and especially in poetry over the last 38 years since I've been here. So, do come down at eight o'clock I

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believe it begins, or is it 7:30? Suki Wessling: Seven. Morton Marcus: Seven o'clock on the eighth of January, so be there. We have read everyone's poetry except actually, Suki's.

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So, Suki, will you grace us with a poem of yours that is in the anthology? Suki Wessling: Yes, and I apologize for my lack of voice. I'm losing my voice today. My poem is called:

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GARDENINGS From a planter, I tip a slug, riving like a bad feeling in the middle of a friendly conversation. Under the saucer, sowbugs make a home of wet and rot. At the base of every weed

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in the lawn lives a worm curled within stubborn roots, even in the lock of the gate a miniature spider waives cotton-candy traps. A dog chased my cats in the garden. I warned them and to spite me they ignored the jingle of his collar. The dog slipped

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easily through the air and over concrete without a word, friendly or wise. My cats disappeared around the corner, and I knew it was up to them to climb or be salivated upon, to rediscover their favorite closet or merely to stop and let life

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rush in. The squirrel cackles when we are outside like an old aunt who can't stop scolding, though somehow, I believe this squirrel is male and telling us the terms of our trespass. We may live in the big airless box, but we may not meddle with his

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home, nail signs into his oak, nor may we sweep up the acorns till he's taken his. The man drives a hard bargain but will do anything to live in his city. The seeds of forget-me-nots cling to my jeans and I bring them inside, a light cargo never

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to be planted, never to work a shallow way in poor soil, to fall to fine powder in the dry, to wait for the rain to come, to weather drought and cold autumn, to smile at the first fall of rain and shiver tight through the long winter, to send curious

00:30:16.710 - 00:30:34.470

roots when woken by the sun, to sprout fast and hard when bulbs are still fist-tight, to open many blue eyes to tall admirers, fade in black and extend seeds on fine dying fingers, to wait for a passing paw, a leg, any vehicle to find them a new home

00:30:34.650 - 00:30:50.760

where they start the year again. On second thought, I gathered the seeds from the coffee table and spread them under the oak tree. We are but a few inelegant beings on this three quarters of an acre and we know nothing about tunneling the soft flesh

00:30:50.790 - 00:31:09.060

of old Redwood, nothing about the taste of new made dirt, nor the best way to avoid night hunting coyote, nor how to get the other fallen to nibble the new bush and tell us how it tastes. Sometimes we let the garden go where it will and

00:31:09.060 - 00:31:23.100

spiny berry vines creep curiously from the woods, and little daisies laugh up from the lawn, the fuschia threaten pinkley to take over the walk. The birch drop branches larger and larger on passing neighbors, the jays come to struck their

00:31:23.100 - 00:31:41.580

defiance to robins and cats. Native grasses toss their seeds on conspiring wind, clover finds every crack in the pavement. Sowbugs work non-stop on the stump of the old oak we cut, and we inside, know that no one can truly believe this world was

00:31:41.580 - 00:31:57.000

created for us. That was Suki Wessling and her poem from the anthology, and one of the things that I'm going to be doing tonight is reading poems by people who chose not to be in the anthology or not

00:31:57.000 - 00:32:14.760

included. Here is one of the really fine poets from the area who chose not to be in the anthology, or just never got around to sending things in. And this is a poem by the wonderful Shirley Ancheta, who is a Filipina, and I say that here

00:32:14.760 - 00:32:29.940

because much of the imagery here is sort of almost a racial memory of being an exile from the land of the Spirit, which is, in this case, the Philippines and notice a lot of this imagery, and it is a poem called:

00:32:30.200 - 00:32:46.680

Morton Marcus: CARABAO, and- is water buffalo, so this is Shirley Ancheta. I have felt them too, the water buffalo. They come from far unlighted fields. They lead us out of city streets into the

00:32:46.680 - 00:33:04.590

sleeping blue of water, all of us crossing together. Inside their curved horns, voices whisper us back from our wanderings. On Kearney Street, we are far from lettuce fields, the cockfights, the blood of the pig, and still father, trapped

00:33:04.590 - 00:33:24.360

in memory, comes the arrival of workers' boats, of cane fields waking in the arms of dark men. I have not always known their intended presence. In this city, cradled by two bridges, the old ones disguised as dog spirits lick the howls we leave for the

00:33:24.360 - 00:33:43.020

dead. The wind spins us in this ordinary world until someone nearly broken with desire to be lifted to another country, in his heart remembers the feel of the animal's black hair, the slow but powerful carabao walk. In the dark, they chase us into

00:33:43.020 - 00:34:05.820

dream, into wet voices that bathe in the blue night, like the blue awakening of fish. That was Shirley Ancheta's poem, one of the people who's not in the anthology. Bob, would you- okay do it but realize there is

00:34:05.850 - 00:34:13.630

a typo. Robert Sward: Okay point out to- point out the typo. Morton Marcus: It should be "fields." Robert Sward: Fieldsa.

00:34:14.290 - 00:34:20.050

Morton Marcus: No, it's a plural. Robert Sward: Okay, okay. Morton Marcus: And what Bob is going to do is not practiced between us.

00:34:20.470 - 00:34:37.480

Robert Sward: This is a poem by Mort Marcus. ALL OVER THE PLANET All over the planet, fields of grass lift quivering tongues in the moonlight. They're a chorus singing of the bones buried

00:34:37.480 - 00:34:56.680

beneath them, and of the whisperings of roots and seeds clinging to the sides of stones. The planet vibrates with their song, such reverberations are our future, all of that will be remembered of us among the gongs and symbols of the galaxies in

00:34:56.680 - 00:35:05.510

the dissonant choirs of cosmic dust. Morton Marcus: Thank you, Robert. Very nicely done. You can read all my poems. Suki Wessling: [Inaudible]

00:35:07.100 - 00:35:16.510

Morton Marcus: I'm sorry, what? Suki Wessling: Are there any more typos that anyone would like to point out? [Crosstalk] Morton Marcus: Notice I did not whine, I was very factual about

00:35:16.510 - 00:35:26.170

it. Suki Wessling: Had you whined, well, it will get into the next version, I promise. Morton Marcus: Okay, Len Anderson, and Len, I'm going to

00:35:26.170 - 00:35:44.510

throw something at you, which you want me to throw at you. Just a question, what is poetry? Len Anderson: The reason I asked for that question is that I was asked that question by a, I guess somewhat of a newcomer to

00:35:44.510 - 00:36:09.350

poetry, she's written a number of poems, but she wondered what poetry is. And so I attempted to answer that question for her. Her way of posing it was, "Is it form? Is it heart?" And, of course, you know, I mean I want form and I want heart. And I

00:36:09.350 - 00:36:33.350

think I would want to throw in something about metaphor too, in the sense that we need to recognize through the poem something larger than the details of what the poem is about. I think that's important. But I think the real answer for

00:36:33.350 - 00:36:57.890

me is- the next poem is going to instruct us something new. I mean that is not included in our notion of poetry, at least some of those next poems that are coming out that we were always leaning, we'd always like to find an imperfection in our

00:36:57.890 - 00:37:14.600

definition of what poetry is. Morton Marcus: I must say that Houdini couldn't have got out of that better. I was wondering what he was gonna do with that, but that's great. Len, do you have another poem by someone

00:37:14.600 - 00:37:31.900

else that you would like to read? Len Anderson: Sure. I wasn't quite ready. Morton Marcus: Okay. Well, then we'll go on. And we'll get back to you. Suki, do you have a poem?

00:37:31.900 - 00:37:47.230

Suki Wessling: Yeah, well, I love so many of the poems in here. And I could just go through several them. I have two in mind, one of them is tragic and one is funny. Vote? Morton Marcus: Oh, go for the funny one, sure.

00:37:47.260 - 00:37:58.210

Suki Wessling: Okay. I think it's funny. I'm the mother of two small children so I think it's particularly funny, but maybe other people will think it's tragic. This is called HAMSTER BABIES, it's by Molly B. Tierney.

00:37:59.920 - 00:38:16.900

Why do I think she'll eat them, her pink translucent newborns? I've watched her voraciously lick and nuzzle a furless baby. Why not just as easily take a bite? She gnaws on carrots that are bigger. As small as my thumbnail one on its back, kicks

00:38:16.900 - 00:38:30.490

it skinny legs in the air, reminding me of my child reaching to be picked up. Another appears mysteriously away from the nest, and the mother paws it back. But I'm afraid to leave it there squeaking, the last drops of its

00:38:30.490 - 00:38:46.510

mother's milk visible through its skin. In the night, she hops on that exercise wheel and spins, climbs the walls of her cage, eats and eats. I imagine she's trying to get back to the life before squeaking infants calling her and sucking and

00:38:46.510 - 00:39:04.060

sucking. Maybe if she ate the babies, the hard work would be over. So I bring fresh water, chopped carrots, bits of cheese, seeds and whisper through the metal bars, "congratulations, mama." But I leave the room thinking, "go ahead, do it, then

00:39:04.060 - 00:39:15.310

I won't have to worry about them, either." Morton Marcus: Great! Patti, how about you? Patti Sirens: I'd like to read a poem by Hermie Medley and it's called:

00:39:15.310 - 00:39:32.680

DRESSING FOR THE SEASON Though I am an old woman, I do not wear purple. Purple speaks of spring, of crocuses breaking through the snow. Purple makes unfounded promises, dreams unlikely dreams. Now late in the

00:39:32.680 - 00:39:51.310

autumn of my life, I dress myself from head to toe in brown. Brown with its Mona Lisa smile has much to remember. It is the color of completion, the tying up of sheaves. Black may be the signature of death, but rich shades of brown, umber,

00:39:51.340 - 00:40:06.400

russet, bronze are the colors of fulfillment. Morton Marcus: Very, very nice. Are you- we'll give way, we're going to start to go into sort of different ways. But Len, how about you? You must be ready now.

00:40:06.840 - 00:40:25.460

Len Anderson: Yeah, I have a poem by Dee Roe: A NEW PLACE. Oars dip, rise beyond the glitter and curve of sandy shallows. The incandescent pools where silent fish dart send

00:40:25.460 - 00:40:49.310

shadows that stain the surface of the water. Fiery leaves like abandoned prayers hanging from the stilted branches. We too were formed here by how we lived into each other. This season is done. We have buried the blazing sky in the life of the lake. I

00:40:49.310 - 00:41:11.400

am rowing with long sure strokes to the other side. Morton Marcus: That's great. I would like to read a poem by Jeff Tagami in a book that is really become a classic. Jeff is one of the poets who's not in the anthology but chose not to

00:41:11.400 - 00:41:30.210

be, just didn't send work in when he was asked. The book is called, "October Light," and has already gone through three printings. And it is really a poem about this bay and it is about Watsonville. And the poems are of very many different

00:41:30.210 - 00:41:45.270

tones, but certainly give a sense of the worker's life and a kind of life, actually, that's now going as the agricultural life in Watsonville begins suddenly to fade. But this is the way it was and this is the way it was for his mother. It is

00:41:45.270 - 00:41:58.100

a poem called: NOW IT IS BROCCOLI. My mother who loses a piece of herself each day, is bowing before the conveyor belt as a river of broccoli rolls by under

00:41:58.100 - 00:42:17.870

the fluorescent. All night at the canneries of JJ Crosetti, she trims the yellow and bunches the green, trims and bunches until the colors blend and she is lost before this river of one color that is neither green nor yellow, and unable to hold it

00:42:17.870 - 00:42:36.050

back, lets it slip past her. She remembers once in another shed slicing off part of her index finger. It wasn't the pain or horror she remembered but how the day was hot, and the shade of the corrugated tin roof poured down cool on the back of

00:42:36.050 - 00:42:53.090

her neck and the metal click of the spinning rollers echoes in her ears long after the crates had passed. It wasn't the kindness of the floor lady turning off the machine that she wanted to remember. The floor lady who did just as soon as

00:42:53.120 - 00:43:10.520

bark at her like a dog. It wasn't the concern of the forklift driver who searched between the chopped heads of cabbage thinking the finger could be sewn back. No, it was the face that she longed for, that serene face she lost years

00:43:10.520 - 00:43:27.710

ago, a face the young woman across from her now owned, who did not once look up from her work, who smiled as if remembering a silly joke or the slight tremble of her boyfriend's lips as he kissed her goodnight. Now she keeps the

00:43:27.710 - 00:43:46.160

finger in the freezer in an envelope with a plastic window because it is still a part of her she cannot let go. Like her man who pickled her miscarriage in a bottle of alcohol could not let go. For two years he kept it beside the bed. Each night he

00:43:46.160 - 00:44:05.450

held it up to the lamp stroking the glass clear of his choked breath, as if to contemplate a son without future. Finally, as if that bottle could no longer contain his grief, he buried it beneath the porch steps near the mint. Now, it is broccoli, and

00:44:05.450 - 00:44:20.120

my mother must be careful, though she has given up forty years to the passing of vegetables, though she knows the knife and the fat clumsy fingers that betray each other. Though she knows broccoli is only a river through which we carve our

00:44:20.120 - 00:44:36.200

simple life. A raised knife wavers in the air, all the colors gone, playing tricks with her eyes, and the nail of her clipped finger slowly turns black behind the box of frozen peas and ice cubes.

00:44:37.730 - 00:44:53.330

That's Jeff Tagami, one of the great poets who lives in this area. Who is next? Len, how about you? Len Anderson: Okay. Morton Marcus: And this is from the anthology [unintelligible]?

00:44:53.000 - 00:45:13.200

Len Anderson: This is by Philip Wagner and it's entitled: CONSTRUCTION: A LOVE STORY Coffee and doughnuts, KPIG radio, 6:30am, load the trucks, stuff shovels, stakes, headers, and to lift the tamper, we bend

00:45:13.200 - 00:45:33.480

down together. Who knows tomorrow, but today I am one of them. Nobody told us in a couple of years we'd all be paying child support, or that a month after Swede retires his heart would stop. That Granger's cool wife would leave him, that he'd

00:45:33.480 - 00:45:55.110

disappear in his trailer behind the Torch Light Motel and drink himself to death. Details. What matters, I am one of them. The ruby-throat songbirds, just loud talk, cigarettes, insults, extra diesel, who's late? Who's no fucking good? Who knows his ass

00:45:55.110 - 00:46:15.840

from a hole in the ground? Who's breaking? Who isn't? Love is a strange language, I am one of them. It's a bunch of bull, but no one quits nowhere to turn, 7:30, strap on your tool belt with Chino, ever-whiskered grinning through his Fu Manchu,

00:46:16.620 - 00:46:36.540

best screed man we'd ever known, and nobody forgets. One day his wife and five kids got hit on by a semi, all are killed, together we carry their coffins, down some beers and drop Chino at his empty house. We were home. The ones who could read his

00:46:36.540 - 00:46:53.790

language, the ever-present cigarette, the worn out shoes. Chino misses a half-day's work, then shows up shovel in hand, whatever his reasons. I am one of them. I am one of them. Morton Marcus: Very good.

00:46:53.790 - 00:47:13.100

Len Anderson: I apologize for the language there. Morton Marcus: The FCC just caught on. Robert? Robert Sward: I'd like to read this poem by Tilly Washburn Shaw called, "Across the Fence," and it's reprinted from Tilly's

00:47:13.310 - 00:47:28.230

book, "Swimming Closer to Shore," by Hummingbird Press. ACROSS THE FENCE My neighbor comes to visit and we sit at the deck, swatting mosquitoes and sundry in the bright porch chairs. His white

00:47:28.230 - 00:47:50.010

hair has blonde in it, his face speaks out clear. Inside me, there are pools over which I look at him, as through a haze, rising. Feel my eyes drift and grow afraid. Subtle. Start in slow loops, like swallows that cannot home. Every looking is a

00:47:50.010 - 00:48:10.650

trembling, just an old friend casually near, but his deep brown eyes liquid, and the whole world going to water. Though the talk steadies and travels on past, eyes probe the air between us, too much like touch to bear.

00:48:14.130 - 00:48:32.490

Morton Marcus: Okay, let me read a poem from the anthology. This is one of two untitled poems by Gary Young from his book, "No Other Life," which won the William Carlos Williams Award last year, and was originally published by Creative Arts

00:48:32.490 - 00:48:46.170

Books, but will appear once again, from Heyday Books this coming spring. So here is a poem by Gary Young in the anthology. In fact, it is the last poem in the anthology. I'll just read one of them.

00:48:48.330 - 00:49:05.220

The bodies of men and women sometimes ignite from within and burn from the inside out. Nothing remains but a pile of ash, where only minutes before a girl had been lying on the beach or a young man had complained of the heat and then burst in

00:49:05.250 - 00:49:26.890

flame. How could we explain the world? My heart is beating, I can feel it. God loves us more than we can stand. That's Gary Young from the anthology, Patti? Patti Sirens: I'd like to read one by Janell [unidentified]

00:49:26.920 - 00:49:39.130

called: LOT'S WIFE His name is Mr. Lot, but the children call, "Hey, Empty!" and run giggling. All day he squats in the open field, hunched

00:49:39.130 - 00:49:58.000

beside the salt lick and weeps. He is carving it into a beautiful woman. It is his wife, he says, "I can taste her," he says, "she lives in my tears." Each dawn, the simple faced sheep gather, they kiss Lot's wife good morning, smoothing her

00:49:58.000 - 00:50:13.270

curves with their black and lovely tongues. Morton Marcus: Great. Len? Len Anderson: This is a poem by William Minor. I LOVE THOSE CLEVER QUIPS

00:50:14.560 - 00:50:33.550

I love those clever quips, but frankly, I don't think I'd be much up for wit on my last day. Finding himself dying in a strange room, Oscar Wilde exclaimed, "Either this wallpaper goes or I do." St. Thomas Aquinas, the dumb ox of

00:50:33.550 - 00:50:53.740

Sicily, having seen things that make all my writings like straw, asked to have the Song of Solomon read to him from beginning to end, and fessed up to sins his confessor whispered were those of a five year old child. Voltaire cried, "Flames

00:50:53.740 - 00:51:13.630

already?" when someone lit a candle near his deathbed, or my favorite: Francois Villon replied to the priest who, expecting repentance, requested his last words before Villon was hanged got, "My head is about to find out how much my ass

00:51:13.630 - 00:51:32.890

weighs." Will I be up for such clever repartee, my last sparring match? And if so, with whom? God, I feel, won't really give a damn about words, although hopefully, he'll give something of a damn about me. And my wife will more than

00:51:32.890 - 00:51:52.510

likely just be waiting patiently with love, I hope, and a touch of remorse perhaps, but such as won't slow her down for long, for moving slow is not her style. Maybe I can come up with something apt, staring at our gold statue of Buddha on my

00:51:52.510 - 00:52:08.490

deathbed. Perhaps I might be tempted to say, "I want to be like him when I grow up," and growing up, quietly close my eyes and go away. Morton Marcus: Very nice poem by Bill. Let me read one last poem

00:52:08.490 - 00:52:19.140

by a poet not in the anthology again, a poet who chose not to be, but certainly a major poet around here, a teacher of a lot of the people sitting at this table, and my old, old friend Joe Stroud.

00:52:20.520 - 00:52:30.240

And maybe it's the perfect poem to end the evening with, it's called: SONG That long ago morning at Ruth's farm, when I hid in the

00:52:30.240 - 00:52:49.590

wisteria, and watched hummingbirds. I thought the ruby or gold that gleamed on their throats was the honeyed blood of flowers. They would stick their piercing beaks into a crown of petals until their heads disappeared. The flowers blurred

00:52:49.590 - 00:53:12.900

into wings, and the breathing I heard was the thin moving stems of wisteria. That night, my faced pressed against the window, I looked out into the dark with a moon drowned in the willows by the pond. My heart, blood stone, turned. The long

00:53:12.900 - 00:53:32.340

night, that farm, those jewel birds, all these gone years, the horse is standing quiet and huge in the moon-crossing blackness. This has been the Poetry Show and tonight we have welcomed poets and the publisher of "The Anthology of Monterey Bay

00:53:32.340 - 00:53:48.600

Poets." Let me remind you that there will be a book signing party, many of the hundred poets will be there. It will not be a reading. We will talk about what Santa Cruz has been like for poetry in the last 30, 40 years. The poets will be there to sign

00:53:48.600 - 00:54:08.070

books, come down. It's at 913 Pacific Avenue in Santa Cruz, The Attic, which is above Streetlight Records. This is Mort Marcus, thank you all out there. Stay tuned for "From the Bookshelf," which tonight, will feature Fred Reiss reading two

00:54:08.070 - 00:54:13.470

of his stories, "Gidget Must Die," and, "Surf.com." See you in three weeks.