tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29252772686516978332024-03-06T00:25:45.163-05:00Upstate EarthBeginning in the Hudson and Mohawk Valleys of New York stateMichael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.comBlogger120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-18943677067127144972023-11-11T12:39:00.006-05:002023-11-17T18:34:29.664-05:00Five poems published recently in Literary Magazines<p> </p><p><br /></p><p>Three poems are appearing in the current issue of<a href="http://www.heartwoodlitmag.com/issue-16"> HeartWood Literary Magazine</a> from West Virginia Wesleyan College</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDyewhNN_kGtdm_CZcYE_cjKMtdgJMrqI1pk7-eSWJoBluk7i7v-dorsb94HeuQv2PxxoM4GoN8sqb47vrQut6UVJbkCL7jEh0bIxw9ikSmInzAVR81dKD3ncAetnuuoE3BB9H6N99xKTTJpffbRlSS_e73hBW5mEQKPe5LODT-OAXwofc5wU7lP-kJaA/s4032/HeartWood.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1550" data-original-width="4032" height="123" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDyewhNN_kGtdm_CZcYE_cjKMtdgJMrqI1pk7-eSWJoBluk7i7v-dorsb94HeuQv2PxxoM4GoN8sqb47vrQut6UVJbkCL7jEh0bIxw9ikSmInzAVR81dKD3ncAetnuuoE3BB9H6N99xKTTJpffbRlSS_e73hBW5mEQKPe5LODT-OAXwofc5wU7lP-kJaA/s320/HeartWood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><h1 style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: 33px; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: 0.03em; line-height: 0.9em; margin: 0px 0px 0.67em; text-rendering: optimizelegibility; text-transform: uppercase; white-space: pre-wrap;">THE NEW APARTMENT</h1><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">We had no trouble finding it.<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />The door was unlocked so we walked right in.</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">The outdoor staircase was beautiful.<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />We both loved the view of the Hudson River.</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">You would be busy with something else in the morning.<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />I took care of all the paperwork.</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even after I was awake for a long time, I did not stop to think<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" />that we had decided on this apartment in a dream.<br style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" /></p><h1 style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: 33px; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: 0.03em; line-height: 0.9em; margin: 0.67em 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility; text-transform: uppercase; white-space: pre-wrap;">I HESITATED BEFORE THE MYSTERY OF YOUR ABSENCE</h1><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">There was no warning in the mirror.</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">The world had halted.</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alexander’s famous horse began to dance.</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">My hands were full of grapes. Servants surrounded</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">me, carrying platters of snow from the Caucasus.</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alarm bells rang, gendarmes came running. The hour </p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">was late. I lit a cigarette. You appeared before my eyes.</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><strong style="overflow-wrap: break-word;"> </strong></p><h1 style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: 33px; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: 0.03em; line-height: 0.9em; margin: 0.67em 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility; text-transform: uppercase; white-space: pre-wrap;">FOUNDATION</h1><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">you almost choked on that wild golden</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">apple we found on a tree next to a field</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">growing out of the foundation of what</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">had once been a farmhouse overlooking a valley</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">a hundred and fifty miles from here</p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 17px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </p><h3 style="color: rgba(56, 56, 56, 0.73); font-family: minerva-modern; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.2em; line-height: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility; text-transform: uppercase; white-space: pre-wrap;">—MICHAEL COONEY </h3><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzfVDZ_6wQuUnrBdeVnqCW_1DYEkAEci9MH7vSvZWRjiuE077kVwHThJa2Gxr-b1SlJG326XSoSatwJahzAV1OhhNdRuUN6TNr_JKcoZnG_MS2YWpQ8mvpLl7iYzt7ElY3TzSkrvehYDYpFZn2hVgNyR3ZBUJlPygyWWDd02Pe6widnD_EDlqPJmipLw/s1764/Boats601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1764" data-original-width="1596" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzfVDZ_6wQuUnrBdeVnqCW_1DYEkAEci9MH7vSvZWRjiuE077kVwHThJa2Gxr-b1SlJG326XSoSatwJahzAV1OhhNdRuUN6TNr_JKcoZnG_MS2YWpQ8mvpLl7iYzt7ElY3TzSkrvehYDYpFZn2hVgNyR3ZBUJlPygyWWDd02Pe6widnD_EDlqPJmipLw/s320/Boats601.JPG" width="290" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>from <a href="https://boatsagainstthecurrent.org/poetry/as-we-traveled-north-by-michael-cooney">Boats Against The Current - a literary magazine</a></div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote style="border-left-style: none; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; margin: inherit; padding: inherit;" type="cite"><div class="system exported" id="article" role="article" style="font-family: -apple-system-font; font-size: 1.2em; line-height: 1.5em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><div class="original-url"><br /><br /></div><div class="system exported" id="article" role="article" style="font-size: 1.2em; line-height: 1.5em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><div class="page" style="max-width: 100%; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><h1 class="title" style="font-size: 1.95552em; hyphens: manual; line-height: 1.2141em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-top: 0px; max-width: 100%;">as we traveled north</h1><div class="metadata singleline" style="hyphens: manual; margin-bottom: 1.45em; margin-top: -0.75em; max-width: 100%;"><br /></div><p style="max-width: 100%;">We talked to people from various states.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">We looked for rest stops with convenient bathrooms.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">I picked up take-out for the motel.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">I carried your oxygen concentrator out to the car.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">We crossed into Georgia and South Carolina.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">Last year we went up into the Smoky Mountains.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">You were feeling much better, and we saw bears.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">Our favorite café was closed.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">The radiation seemed like nothing after the chemo.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">The top of the mountain was beautiful.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">Your hair had grown back.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">We returned to the hotel overlooking the town.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">In October we went to the coast and ate oysters.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">You really liked apple martinis.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">I don’t think you ever had the fish tacos.</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">I do not want to talk to anyone</p><p style="max-width: 100%;">or go anywhere without you</p><p style="max-width: 100%;"></p><p style="max-width: 100%;"></p><p></p></div></div></div></blockquote><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQVs9VsdesfLxfwHuQ9M66a6HwyqIt-QfV92jB74kFlFQFV2HePksfPVKYbefYLYP3Yn67qN5c0ulya7MDH56m8-PoEkg647KyPtsfW6h9Y0gYiJZadRsYB1qsmWeK5qLoFQ_21Wlarj9k9GBO4NcMyNWU02QiYFjtHfsIiPKQGFelaZI90eu62YGtIc/s4032/Hidden%20Peak%20Press.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQVs9VsdesfLxfwHuQ9M66a6HwyqIt-QfV92jB74kFlFQFV2HePksfPVKYbefYLYP3Yn67qN5c0ulya7MDH56m8-PoEkg647KyPtsfW6h9Y0gYiJZadRsYB1qsmWeK5qLoFQ_21Wlarj9k9GBO4NcMyNWU02QiYFjtHfsIiPKQGFelaZI90eu62YGtIc/s320/Hidden%20Peak%20Press.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>from<a href=" https://hiddenpeakpress.com/2023/10/13/michael-cooney-at-the-waterfall-poem/"> Hidden Peak Press </a>in Colorado</div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote style="border-left-style: none; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; margin: inherit; padding: inherit;" type="cite"><div class="original-url"><br /></div><div class="system exported" id="article" role="article" style="font-family: -apple-system-font; font-size: 1.2em; line-height: 1.5em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><div class="page" style="max-width: 100%; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><h1 class="title" style="font-size: 1.95552em; hyphens: manual; line-height: 1.2141em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-top: 0px; max-width: 100%;">At the Waterfall</h1><div class="metadata singleline" style="hyphens: manual; margin-bottom: 1.45em; margin-top: -0.75em; max-width: 100%;"><br /></div><div class="scrollable" style="max-width: 100%; overflow-wrap: normal; overflow-x: scroll;"><pre style="font-family: -apple-system-ui-monospaced, Menlo; font-size: 0.87em; line-height: 1.45em; max-width: 100%; text-wrap: wrap;">To what extent this will shorten my life is a question
I will not ask. I do not want an answer.
People get older. People forget. People die.
The calendar dictates, you could say, all things.
The waterfall that we visited in the morning
when you were nineteen was not Niagara.
We sat down beside it. Your head was in my lap.
Do you see that girl? She has your eyes.
— MICHAEL COONEY</pre></div></div></div></blockquote></div>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-21077298006885287812023-05-29T15:04:00.006-04:002024-01-26T11:06:05.972-05:00A poem and an essay inspired by Simone Weil<p> <b style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d2d2d2; font-family: "Open Sans Condensed", serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"> </span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #d2d2d2; font-family: "Open Sans Condensed", serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #d2d2d2; font-family: "Open Sans Condensed", serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6x8ccIbTuECmFowM_ZFACxOrxPON_8nmE_M0FSSQ-53H1kl5RaQhYB0Nm7ppjDDwUcK0_mb1m-qt8xBy4kxCn2gUrFoaC3b1Hsq8eTNfiwrz4eY2MoLAQ9DvXJai7p1Tq-nTQgpMKhxCAUmkuoUJxA0-cItAbZjpLUk7wzrLqOsqeyZj_LAWScKBL/s1024/Simone_Weil_in_Marseilles_.250k_rgb-e1611586551325-1024x638.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="638" data-original-width="1024" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6x8ccIbTuECmFowM_ZFACxOrxPON_8nmE_M0FSSQ-53H1kl5RaQhYB0Nm7ppjDDwUcK0_mb1m-qt8xBy4kxCn2gUrFoaC3b1Hsq8eTNfiwrz4eY2MoLAQ9DvXJai7p1Tq-nTQgpMKhxCAUmkuoUJxA0-cItAbZjpLUk7wzrLqOsqeyZj_LAWScKBL/s320/Simone_Weil_in_Marseilles_.250k_rgb-e1611586551325-1024x638.png" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"></span></p><pre class="wp-block-verse" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(36, 37, 39); color: #242527; font-family: var(--entry-content--font-family); font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: var(--global--spacing-vertical); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; max-width: var(--responsive--aligndefault-width); overflow: auto; padding: 0px; text-wrap: wrap;"><strong style="box-sizing: inherit; max-width: var(--global--spacing-measure);">Psalm for Simone Weil
</strong>
<em style="box-sizing: inherit; max-width: var(--global--spacing-measure);">From the highest heaven God throws a rope. Man either grasps it or not.
- From the New York Notebooks of Simone Weil
</em>
Sir, what is humanity
that you pay such attention to us,
or men and women
that you let us love one another?
Words slide from you, dropping down
to where you stride
over glaciers and rocks
and down the icy walks of the sea,
trailing behind you a rope, my Friend,
that we can grasp
or at our choosing,
cast away.</pre><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">My poem <a href="https://amethystmagazine.org/2023/07/04/psalm-for-simone-weil-a-poem-by-michael-cooney/">“Psalm for Simone Weil,” </a> written 20 years ago, is finally appearing in print in the current issue of Amethyst Magazine, which leads me to think that this might be a good time to re-publish the following essay which I originally wrote for the defunct Street Prophets site back in 2011. At a time when narrow-minded religious fanaticism is doing so much damage to our society in the form of recent Supreme Court rulings on women's freedom of choice, racial equality, and the human right to love, we need to remember this neglected French philosopher. Unlike the rigid Roman Catholicism of the Supreme Court majority of Alito, Robert, Thomas, Barrett, and Kavanaugh, she appreciated the beauty of the Catholic faith while remaining outside all formal creeds....</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><b>Simone Weil and the Primacy of Attention</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Albert Camus called her "the only great spirit of our time" but she was certainly not what most people would call a happy or well-adjusted person. She was almost certainly anorexic and her death at 34 was probably due as much to self-starvation as tuberculosis. In 1930s Europe she was in the midst of radical movements, yet she was never really a part of them. As the Holocaust descended over Europe, she scribbled letters and notes, unable to strike effectively against the Nazis. As far as anyone knows, she never had an intimate relationship, emotional or physical, with any man or woman. And for all her intense intellectuality, all of her books are posthumous, based on her journals and letters.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">But it was Simone Weil who said this about human happiness:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><i>Those who are unhappy have no need for anything in this world but people capable of giving them their attention</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">For her, the entire meaning of life was centered in that single concept of attention. "Looking is what saves us," she wrote. "Attention is the sincerest form of generosity." In our media-saturated culture when there so are so many competing claims on our attention , from the outright false and trivial to the most vital, it is worth recalling the singular importance of this virtue.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Born into a secular Jewish family, steeped in the classics and in philosophy, and fascinated by the Catholic Church, she saw no enduring value in any doctrine:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><i>A doctrine serves no purpose in itself, but it is indispensable to have one if only to avoid being deceived by false doctrines. </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Instead of any particular religion or philosophy, what animated this isolated woman was compassion for the oppressed:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><i>Human beings are so made that the ones who do the crushing feel nothing; it is the person crushed who feels what is happening. Unless one has placed oneself on the side of the oppressed, to feel with them, one cannot understand.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">She grew up in a supportive and politically radical family, and at the age of ten she informed her parents that she was she was a Bolshevik and would be reading the communist newspapers. Her parents were sympathetic to the exiled Leon Trotsky and hosted a meeting for him in their Paris apartment in 1930, where young <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=s1OGKVaEqwEC&pg=PA73&lpg=PA73&dq=trotsky+meeting+simone+weil&source=bl&ots=70VrO8BH6v&sig=atUo7s9bGp66vB9vIZsRyRNzH5w&hl=en&ei=51c8TsrYL-Tq0gGRy9VH&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=2&ved=0CBsQ6AEwAQ#v=onepage&q=trotsky%20meeting%20simone%20weil&f=false"><span style="color: #996b3d;">Simone engaged him in fierce debate.</span></a> She was incapable, however, of surrendering her independent judgment to any ideology and by the time she was in the university, she wrote papers sharply critical of Marxist theory.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Nonetheless she continued to oppose capitalist systems of production, not so much because the elite own the means of production but because another more fundamental conflict had been added, "by the very means of production, between those who have the machine at their disposal and those who are at the disposal of the machine."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Her classmate Simone de Beauvoir describes the young Simone </span><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><span style="color: #3c3736;">in her own memoirs:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><i>She intrigued me because of her great reputation for intelligence and her bizarre get-up. A great famine had broken out in China, and I was told that when she heard the news she had wept: these tears compelled my respect much more than her gifts as a philosopher. I envied her having a heart that could beat right across the world. I managed to get near her one day. I don't know how the conversation got started; she declared in no uncertain tones that only one thing mattered in the world: the revolution which would feed all the starving people of the earth. I retorted, no less peremptorily, that the problem was not to make men happy, but to find the reason for their existence. She looked me up and down: 'It's easy to see you've never been hungry,' she snapped.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><i>Another idiosyncrasy setting Simone apart from the radicals of her time was her publicly announced decision to live a celibate life as part of her commitment to the working class struggle, prompting her fellow students to call her "the Red Virgin."</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">It is not surprising that Simone's career as a secondary school teacher quickly led to dismissal from her first and second jobs as she set out to radicalize her students and to organize unemployed workers. And it didn't help that even her best students failed to pass the rigorous national exams. When a teaching career became impossible, she took a job as a piece worker in a Renault factory with the goal of organizing the workers. Due to her poor manual dexterity, this </span><span style="color: #3c3736; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">career also was unsuccessful.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span style="color: #3c3736; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span style="color: #3c3736; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">In1937 she left for Spain to join the anarchist army fighting Franco's fascists.Simone was not much of a soldier, however, and failed even at target practice. After an injury involving a cooking pot and boiling oil, she returned to France just before her entire unit was massacred. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Coming back from Spain, she was probably severely depressed. And it was at this point that after months of inward darkness, she became very conscious of a personal God. "We do not have to search for Him," she wrote in her journal. "We only have to change the direction in which we are looking."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">She experienced a divine comforter beyond doctrine and dogma: "He cannot refuse to come to those who implore him long, often and ardently." And "if we agree to his entry, he comes. As soon as we cease to want Him, He vanishes."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Simone saw no contradiction between this loving God and atheism: "An atheist may be simply one whose faith and love are concentrated on the impersonal aspects of God." And she seemed to think that the soul did not outlast the body.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Her association with Roman Catholicism grew out of a friendship with the priest Joseph-Marie Perrin. That personal relationship may be why she turned toward Catholicism, rather than seeking out equally rich spiritual traditions within Judaism, in an effort to explain her experience of God. One might think that the close association between fascists and Catholic hierarchy, notably under Franco, would have made the Church unappealing to her, but evidently she was able to separate her personal experience of the divine from any feelings about the institution.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span style="color: #3c3736; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Simone began to attend Catholic services but resisted all urging from Father Perrin to actually convert and accept baptism. In her </span><span style="color: #996b3d; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><a href="http://www.explorefaith.org/saints/weil.html">notebooks</a> </span><span style="color: #3c3736; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">she reveals the extent to which this turn toward religious faith was rooted in a self-abnegation perhaps akin to anorexia:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Weil wanted nothing so much as to lose herself altogether: "May God grant that I become nothing," she wrote in a notebook entry that would later be included in <i>Gravity and Grace</i>. "We must become nothing, we must go down to the vegetative level; it is then that God becomes bread."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">In 1942 she fled to the US with her parents to escape the Nazis but was soon back in England where she offered her services to DeGaulle's Free French. Her proposal to organize a unit of nurses who would parachute into France to aid the resistance went nowhere. And as she insisted on limiting her own food intake to the same rations allotted to those in occupied France, she contracted tuberculosis and died in 1943.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">The narrative of her short life certainly seems, on its surface, a tale of neurosis and failure. And yet her intense and very private writings reveal a rich inner life that is fascinating for anyone interested in the nexus of spiritual exploration, personal psychology, and political activism.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">For me, the most intriguing aspect of her thought is her concept of attention, which she emphasized almost to the point of downplaying the need for action. By her lights, people need attention second only to food. (And one cannot help but wonder how large a part attention or the lack of it played in her own life.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">She must have been talking about something beyond what most of us mean by this common word, some recognition of an inner godhead perhaps: "The capacity to give one's attention to a sufferer is a very rare and difficult thing; it is almost a miracle; it is a miracle."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">And in a time when a debate over mere numbers obsesses our politics and media, she reminds us that:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><i>The needs of a single human being are sacred. Their satisfaction cannot be subordinated either to reasons of state, or to any consideration of money, nationality, race, or color, or to the moral or other value attributed to the human being in question, or to any consideration whatsoever.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">She never lost the anarchist's distrust of power and she was very aware of how effective brute force is in destroying human potential, as is happening this very moment throughout the world:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><i>Who were the fools who spread the story that brute force cannot kill ideas? Nothing is easier. And once they are dead they are no more than corpses.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #3c3736;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(60, 55, 54); letter-spacing: 0.133333px;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #3c3736;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(60, 55, 54); letter-spacing: 0.133333px;">and</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #3c3736;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(60, 55, 54); letter-spacing: 0.133333px;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><i>When once a certain class of people has been placed by the temporal and spiritual authorities outside the ranks of those whose life has value, then nothing comes more naturally to men than murder.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #3c3736; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">She is, to be sure, a troubling figure, so well-intentioned and yet ultimately so self-destructive. If you are interested in exploring her thoughts further, my experience is that her essays collected in <a href=" https://www.amazon.com/Waiting-God-Simone-Weil/dp/0061718963/ref=sr_1_2?crid=3LJN30VITJPX7&keywords=waiting+for+god+simone+weil&qid=1685375230&s=books&sprefix=Waiting+for+God+simone+,stripbooks,97&sr=1-2"><i>Waiting for God</i> </a>(1950) are a good starting point.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-40250806277869856712023-05-28T09:29:00.000-04:002023-05-28T09:29:09.612-04:00"353 West 57" is published in Drunk Monkeys magazine<p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSEweli_zBdUrFVYBbPHTSlKFia6t9jh9KZ7mQdlH6NFjdtusbCARh0y8V5u7wwhZrSYdNfg9ABC2i1diylZfIC6--95eqIFYneSNlxgNU10aYaBdZNNHIx7FGJSvnBagxBR11vRM9IMzfSqkOypQgucgUXGlHXBsAt6bXLZwqKT3ucQHne6AZz9j2/s4032/image_50388993.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSEweli_zBdUrFVYBbPHTSlKFia6t9jh9KZ7mQdlH6NFjdtusbCARh0y8V5u7wwhZrSYdNfg9ABC2i1diylZfIC6--95eqIFYneSNlxgNU10aYaBdZNNHIx7FGJSvnBagxBR11vRM9IMzfSqkOypQgucgUXGlHXBsAt6bXLZwqKT3ucQHne6AZz9j2/w400-h300/image_50388993.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkVTMZJS4AlMI8Kl64QImRFfhbo2tt221CP2h--U57ZX2KsbSy0l-O8XYmDzgtmAXRCo9cL_WLQNiT33_T5WJh5Q5gqcWbOnPA5rZU9CiS_h7XnU8t4AjZCBfCwfT7HIsNhozxHhhxtMCDta6FEhF_Q9sLJZL3oQsyza_5JOjTvq8iVLsaucDoMF-d/s4020/353%20West%2057.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1010" data-original-width="4020" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkVTMZJS4AlMI8Kl64QImRFfhbo2tt221CP2h--U57ZX2KsbSy0l-O8XYmDzgtmAXRCo9cL_WLQNiT33_T5WJh5Q5gqcWbOnPA5rZU9CiS_h7XnU8t4AjZCBfCwfT7HIsNhozxHhhxtMCDta6FEhF_Q9sLJZL3oQsyza_5JOjTvq8iVLsaucDoMF-d/s320/353%20West%2057.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>an excerpt from the 2022 story of a radical woman who disappeared in 1937..... Now online in <a href="https://www.drunkmonkeys.us/2017-posts/2023/5/15/fiction-353-west-57-michael-cooney">Drunk Monkeys latest issue</a></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I was standing there taking pictures with my iPhone when I heard a kind of moaning sound. Turning my head, I saw a woman holding her hands to her face. When she lowered her arms and I could see her face, I felt a huge shock. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. <span style="background-color: white;">I had seen pictures of her on the internet.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I immediately recalled the words with which Whittaker Chambers, my go-to author for that era, had described her: “<span style="background-color: white;">a heavy-set, dark, softly feminine woman in her late forties.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> </span><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;">“Juliet?” I said. “Miss Poyntz?” </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;">“Are you…” she started to say. “What has…I mean to say…who?”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;">I stared into her terrified eyes and pronounced the name of the man whom Tresca said had lured her out of the tiny room where she had hidden for weeks: “Schachno Epstein.”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;">A smile appeared and vanished. “Who? Why isn’t he here? Has something happened to him?”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;">“He’s fine,” I assured her. It was obvious to me that some kind of time warp had occurred. In the course of my extensive historical research, I had come to believe that such things were possible.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;">If this woman was indeed waiting for her onetime lover, Schachno Epstein, who could she be but Juliet Poyntz? Who else would even recognize the name of the totally forgotten Epstein, who had shuttled back and forth between Russia and the U.S. under a variety of names, doing the dirtiest of work for Stalin, setting up other people for the kill, never pulling the trigger himself? </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;"><b>and who was this mysterious person? Whittaker Chambers, the onetime communist agent turned informer for the McCarthy Committee, says this about Juliet Poyntz, who was last seen in June 1937 in a Women's Hotel at 353 West 57th Street in New York City:</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt;">"She was living in a New York hotel. One evening she left her room with the light burning and a page of unfinished handwriting on the table. She was never seen again. It is known that she went to meet a Communist friend in Central Park and that he had decoyed her there as part of a G.P.U. trap. She was pushed into an automobile and two men drove her off.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt;"> - Whittaker Chambers,</span></i><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="font-size: 10.5pt;"> Witness <i> <span style="background-color: white;">(1952):</span></i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn_75CGdKS8CAdc1pB42JhMVc4tMo1BxHS5LCdfIcRKKqE3J_8zWK_q7FoLZ0jOPMNARFxnqtc_cRzb4JOEIBbNYF17IoPF5wI6zPE-1G8blxCZqcJ-TmLJ6Jg7CFmZoHk1iyEvoWMv8lOzetoda2JVBuiR_lHqCWraV6subDb9NnZ1C39Qp74VgFp/s4032/Juliet%20Poyntz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn_75CGdKS8CAdc1pB42JhMVc4tMo1BxHS5LCdfIcRKKqE3J_8zWK_q7FoLZ0jOPMNARFxnqtc_cRzb4JOEIBbNYF17IoPF5wI6zPE-1G8blxCZqcJ-TmLJ6Jg7CFmZoHk1iyEvoWMv8lOzetoda2JVBuiR_lHqCWraV6subDb9NnZ1C39Qp74VgFp/s320/Juliet%20Poyntz.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;"><b>For more on the historical record of her disappearance and almost certain murder, see my sources at: </b></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><b><i><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/2925277268651697833/162133913485041779">The Disappearance of Juliet Poyntz in 1937</a></i></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span><b><span style="font-size: 14px;">Also of interest is the recent study of the Poyntz case and its political uses by historian Denise Lynn, reviewed here: </span></b></span></span><b style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="https://www.peoplesworld.org/article/who-was-juliet-stuart-poyntz-some-early-cold-war-history-in-new-book/">Who Was Juliet Poyntz?</a></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span face=""Noto Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></p><p></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-83566324272866093172023-05-08T19:35:00.000-04:002023-05-08T19:35:41.990-04:00"Good Catholic Girl" published by ELJ Editions, Ltd.<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8XBVFKjpZ2gKjrWwL4qAYHVcqWKsrS3L1QydxwddVFGvyd5WVwBxQOOs1fiVPQsIHQbsYriPQLkBtttrJmgSGq8c2Ru-vLX3dpWAjgd_m2VTlqOTMdvMCRoenSjwU76bDMt9pFQJUba4Dw5e74tAqbC1YyLH4QW5qVbgIv6JTUiU8-tn5j69KjYCq/s2112/cover.Good%20Catholic%20Girl.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2112" data-original-width="1389" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8XBVFKjpZ2gKjrWwL4qAYHVcqWKsrS3L1QydxwddVFGvyd5WVwBxQOOs1fiVPQsIHQbsYriPQLkBtttrJmgSGq8c2Ru-vLX3dpWAjgd_m2VTlqOTMdvMCRoenSjwU76bDMt9pFQJUba4Dw5e74tAqbC1YyLH4QW5qVbgIv6JTUiU8-tn5j69KjYCq/s320/cover.Good%20Catholic%20Girl.jpg" width="210" /></a></p><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Kathleen Mazzetti has transferred to a small Catholic high school in the North Bronx to escape years of harassment from an older boy at Teddy Roosevelt High. It is the 1970s and neither the courts nor the police will protect her from John Rovazzi. At St. Finbarr’s, she keeps her head down, eager to avoid attention. Her classmate Paul Hanlon is sympathetic to the shy newcomer but busy with his own life of sports and friends. Then, thanks to a well-meaning priest, he learns that Rovazzi has followed Kathleen to her new school and threatened not only her but also her family. When it becomes clear that her life is truly in danger, Kathleen and Paul come up with a risky plan to stop the stalker once and for all, a plan that involves a carefully written script, the Rocky Horror Picture Show and the New York City subway system.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Good-Catholic-Girl-Michael-Cooney/dp/1941617565/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682985990&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Available for $10 in paperback</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Good-Catholic-Girl-Michael-Cooney/dp/1941617565/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682985990&sr=1-1" target="_blank">or free with Kindle Unlimited</a></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-6610946464034168642023-05-03T22:49:00.000-04:002023-05-03T22:49:04.759-04:00Cantico, inspired by San Juan de la Cruz, is published by The Decadent Review<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRG8xRr1UgAEHaQfXgF6YR9ppxBLlPeefV89KNbS5p4MUhTlYzeE6cTyceseUuO2qBapeHy8jpyvJCTDBDOO8Oc9QpEHPHaVfx8d6fZ_IV8XwCskwzTv2mS5wCK0v9rdHbliyCzpSs_1HmHTqeQemhqLbkF5P_hQIJxhfHSCY6BapRbKV9jrZGny-a/s3400/San%20Juan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3400" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRG8xRr1UgAEHaQfXgF6YR9ppxBLlPeefV89KNbS5p4MUhTlYzeE6cTyceseUuO2qBapeHy8jpyvJCTDBDOO8Oc9QpEHPHaVfx8d6fZ_IV8XwCskwzTv2mS5wCK0v9rdHbliyCzpSs_1HmHTqeQemhqLbkF5P_hQIJxhfHSCY6BapRbKV9jrZGny-a/s320/San%20Juan.jpg" width="285" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9RZBsHkmd44phJ198U7CQEmtFA8wi_SUJxqutx_PnaC5PLMY3vnzq9iQ3-vOa9t3cJfSnAVxNOm5SNetk63uKP504QIzhz6nD1uBWfiPCPdQ0F9kCUOZp8Vl5iVuoyq7G5hBquH8Rqn4V3dZDPBv327e7N0SWqqSqXwTkSR81u0iZWaGEd0JzCmr5/s4012/Cover%20Decadent%20Mag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="4012" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9RZBsHkmd44phJ198U7CQEmtFA8wi_SUJxqutx_PnaC5PLMY3vnzq9iQ3-vOa9t3cJfSnAVxNOm5SNetk63uKP504QIzhz6nD1uBWfiPCPdQ0F9kCUOZp8Vl5iVuoyq7G5hBquH8Rqn4V3dZDPBv327e7N0SWqqSqXwTkSR81u0iZWaGEd0JzCmr5/s320/Cover%20Decadent%20Mag.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><em style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(67, 67, 67); color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, "Baskerville Old Face", "Libre Baskerville", serif; font-size: 20.520000457763672px; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;">Juan de Yepes was born in 1542 in Spain into a family of “conversos,” Catholics who had been forced to convert from Judaism. As a monk, Juan took the name Juan de la Cruz and was persecuted by fellow Carmelites for his adherence to the reforms instituted by his beloved St. Teresa of Avila. Imprisoned by his clerical enemies, Juan wrote poems of a highly erotic nature, including his Cantico Espiritual. Later, he published lengthy explications of the erotic poetry in which he explained away each phrase as a reference to a spiritual love. In his Cantico, Juan professes that the Esposa represents the soul and the Esposo, Christ. </em></p><p><em style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(67, 67, 67); color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, "Baskerville Old Face", "Libre Baskerville", serif; font-size: 20.520000457763672px; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;"><br /></em></p><p><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(67, 67, 67); color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, "Baskerville Old Face", "Libre Baskerville", serif; font-size: 20.520000457763672px; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;">The poem was begun 25 years ago and only published last month. Closely patterned after the mystical Cantico Espirituel of San Juan de la Cruz, this poem expresses the complexities of a more worldly love. </span></p><p><span style="color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, Baskerville Old Face, Libre Baskerville, serif;"><span style="font-size: 20.520000457763672px;">The opening lines are below. To read the entire work, go to the website of:</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, Baskerville Old Face, Libre Baskerville, serif;"><span style="font-size: 20.520000457763672px;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, Baskerville Old Face, Libre Baskerville, serif;"><span style="font-size: 20.520000457763672px;"><b><a href="https://thedecadentreview.com/corpus/cantico/"> The Decadent Review</a></b></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, Baskerville Old Face, Libre Baskerville, serif;"><span style="font-size: 20.520000457763672px;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(67, 67, 67); color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, "Baskerville Old Face", "Libre Baskerville", serif; font-size: 1.14em !important; margin-bottom: 30px; margin-top: 30px; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;">ESPOSA<br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;" />My gracioso<br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;" />has passed through many groves<br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;" />like a deer pursued by weekend bowhunters.<br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;" />I run after him calling and calling.</p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(67, 67, 67); color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, "Baskerville Old Face", "Libre Baskerville", serif; font-size: 1.14em !important; margin-bottom: 30px; margin-top: 30px; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;">I seem to be climbing toward the snowline.<br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;" />I ask my oldest companions:<br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;" />Did you see him?<br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;" />Do I seem pitiful?</p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(67, 67, 67); color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, "Baskerville Old Face", "Libre Baskerville", serif; font-size: 1.14em !important; margin-bottom: 30px; margin-top: 30px; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;">Seeking other opportunities, I wait in bus terminals.<br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;" />I watch the circling of birds near the ceiling.<br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;" />I fill my pockets with small pieces of paper.<br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.004) 1px 1px 1px !important;" />I declare nothing to the ticket agent.</p><p><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></p><p><span style="color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, Baskerville Old Face, Libre Baskerville, serif;"><span style="font-size: 20.520000457763672px;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #434343; font-family: Baskerville, baskerville-urw, Baskerville Old Face, Libre Baskerville, serif;"><span style="font-size: 20.520000457763672px;"><br /></span></span></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-58344148031138181862023-03-25T12:46:00.000-04:002023-03-25T12:46:52.870-04:00The People Who Live in the Feeney Flats:<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg6EOkxV7krhPL1Ds8EHrM7K8Xdv4QiMdlndjNYKUJ1nqvOqr9ZpFKVvCq72P27hffGfJyaoOHABpLXCgvCUHAcDNw-3dIuLkfoJ89T_rnOspzbfFf5mkJQULPtT6MU9KRPTeSME5cIqf28I03AoP622ub0eBgDyE90QRFSAVcDKrtyghKK5O7p_zb/s4032/Bandit%20Fiction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg6EOkxV7krhPL1Ds8EHrM7K8Xdv4QiMdlndjNYKUJ1nqvOqr9ZpFKVvCq72P27hffGfJyaoOHABpLXCgvCUHAcDNw-3dIuLkfoJ89T_rnOspzbfFf5mkJQULPtT6MU9KRPTeSME5cIqf28I03AoP622ub0eBgDyE90QRFSAVcDKrtyghKK5O7p_zb/s320/Bandit%20Fiction.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Don't miss <a href="https://banditfiction.com/2023/02/09/the-people-who-live-in-the-feeney-flats-by-michael-cooney/">The People Who Live in the Feeney Flats</a> in the latest edition of Bandit Fiction - a story of three boys, a missing rabbit, and a murder. </p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-63669655334441670792023-01-24T16:57:00.000-05:002023-01-24T16:57:37.038-05:00Co-authoring with ChatGPT<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdN61RefaOVAs_xPKe0tkqoboRZUu-XO-SasQzrtF4npokmRRnNKmLt2m_AKJurIL9GDNHJIq-J5RKuakDc-oRQ32CcMyMtQrSgjXa4Me5_GF4kcWuZr1fb4JvuNAnOnJKyiL_zoAXkv3npX5OThJC76iJ-orDZsDdQAjqLzdr_6qyKIXDSfiU9T2/s1000/robot%20with%20laptop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdN61RefaOVAs_xPKe0tkqoboRZUu-XO-SasQzrtF4npokmRRnNKmLt2m_AKJurIL9GDNHJIq-J5RKuakDc-oRQ32CcMyMtQrSgjXa4Me5_GF4kcWuZr1fb4JvuNAnOnJKyiL_zoAXkv3npX5OThJC76iJ-orDZsDdQAjqLzdr_6qyKIXDSfiU9T2/s320/robot%20with%20laptop.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">You’ve probably been hearing the alarm bells ringing in academia since the arrival of ChatGPT a couple months ago. This latest free “gift” to the public from OpenAI has been seized upon by unethical students, we are told, who have used it to write essays assigned by their profs – who are sometimes fooled by the clever AI or not. When this discussion came to the teacher lunchroom in my school, I consulted with my old English Department from the 80s and they were sure they could spot a phony essay on Macbeth from a mile away, and if they couldn’t, they’d simply ask the students to write essays by hand during class time. You can see that my old colleagues are a little out of touch. Handwriting? Is this 1959?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I knew I needed to spend some time with the robot writer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">First off, the program works. Give it a simple science prompt like <b>“Explain photosynthesis in 500 words or less”</b> and the resulting answer deserves an A. Of course, if you know your students, you might be amazed at their sudden mastery of subject matter, syntax etc.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">However, it also works very well if you give it a fairly sophisticated history prompt, like this:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Explain the roles of Leon Trotsky and Josef Stalin in the development of communism in Russia and their relationship in the years following the Bolshevik Revolution.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Okay, I said to myself, the AI can draw on topics covered in textbooks but how about a subject American school books studiously avoid, like the Ludlow Massacre of 1914? So, I tried this prompt <b>“</b></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Explain the significance of the miners strike in Ludlow Colorado in 1913, the sides involved in the conflict and the tragic outcome” </b>and got this essay back in a little over a minute:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><div style="border: 1pt solid rgb(217, 217, 227); padding: 0in;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 15pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>The Ludlow Massacre of 1914 was a significant event in the history of labor relations in the United States. The conflict began as a strike by coal miners in Ludlow, Colorado, who were demanding better pay, working conditions, and recognition of their union, the United Mine Workers of America (UMWA). The strike began in September 1913 and lasted for several months.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 15pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>The miners were opposed by the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company (CF&I), which was owned by John D. Rockefeller Jr. and other wealthy industrialists. The company refused to negotiate with the UMWA and instead hired strikebreakers and private security guards to break the strike.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 15pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>The situation escalated in April 1914 when the Colorado National Guard was called in to protect the strikebreakers. On April 20, 1914, guardsmen and company-hired guards attacked a tent colony of striking miners and their families, killing at least two dozen people, including women and children.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 15pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>This tragedy, known as the Ludlow Massacre, became a rallying point for the labor movement in the US and led to further strikes and protests across the country. It also led to the formation of the National War Labor Board in 1918, which was established to resolve labor disputes during World War I.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 15pt 0in 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>In conclusion, the Ludlow massacre was a tragic event that happened during the miners strike in Ludlow, Colorado in 1913, where the miners were striking for better pay, working conditions and recognition of their union, the United Mine Workers of America (UMWA) against the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company (CF&I) owned by John D. Rockefeller Jr, which lead to tragic deaths of many including women and children.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">But when I gave it a prompt for a little known 1913 textile strike in upstate New York, ChatGPT made up a bunch of “facts” that had nothing to do with the actual history of my small home town. I next asked it why it did this and it told me the following:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div style="border: 1pt solid rgb(217, 217, 227); padding: 0in;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 15pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Chat GPT, like other language models, is trained on a large dataset of text, which includes a wide range of information. However, it is not capable of understanding the context or veracity of the information it's been trained on. The model is also not able to access any external information beyond what it's been trained on.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 15pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Additionally, Chat GPT is designed to generate human-like responses, which means it will try to generate an answer even if it doesn't have the correct information or doesn't know about the subject. This is because the model is programmed to provide an answer to any question it is asked, even if it is not accurate or relevant.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 15pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>The model also does not have consciousness or self-awareness, it does not "know" if it doesn't know, it cannot reflect on its own knowledge or lack thereof.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 15pt 0in 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>In summary, Chat GPT is not able to admit when it does not know about a subject because it is not capable of understanding the context or veracity of the information it's been trained on and also because it is programmed to provide an answer to any question it is asked, even if it is not accurate or relevant. It's important to keep in mind that the output generated by the model should be considered with a critical eye, and not taken as fact.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i> </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Well, that seems like a fair answer. My new friend ChatGPT is unable to say “I don’t know.” But the I-don’t-know response could be included in a future version.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then I tried some other prompts, like “Does God exist?” “Describe the presidency of Donald J. Trump” “Describe the Ukraine war as if Russia is winning” and I got some even-handed, noncommittal essays. It likes bothsides-ism but it did admit that Joe Biden won the 2020 election.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">But wait, I thought, if ChatGPT excels at writing to a specific formula, why couldn’t it replace the kind of formula writing so many of my students love, Young Adult Fiction? I gave it this prompt which may seem familiar to anyone who keeps track of the YA world:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">PROMPT: Write a short story of approximately 2000 words about a future society in which the threats of climate change, pandemics and economic inequity have been solved. The main character should be an 18-year-old woman who is dissatisfied with the lack of challenges inherent in her society. Include description of the future society and realistic dialogue.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">This was the result:<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>In the future, society had finally solved the long-standing issues of climate change, pandemics, and economic inequity. The world was a greener, healthier, and more just place, thanks to the tireless efforts of generations past. But for 18-year-old Sarah, this utopia left her feeling unfulfilled. She longed for adventure and a sense of purpose, something that her society's lack of challenges couldn't provide.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Sarah grew up in a world where food, water, and energy were in abundance. Natural disasters were a thing of the past, and people lived in harmony with the environment. Medical technology had advanced to the point where diseases were eradicated, and everyone had access to quality healthcare. And poverty and unemployment were non-existent, as a fair distribution of resources and opportunities had been implemented.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>However, Sarah couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. She couldn't help but feel bored with her life, and she yearned for something more. She had always been an ambitious person, and she couldn't help but feel that her society was holding her back.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>One day, as she was walking through the city, she stumbled upon an old, abandoned building. It was the only one of its kind, as the rest of the city had been rebuilt to reflect the ideals of the utopia. Curious, Sarah ventured inside, and was surprised to find a group of people huddled together, talking in hushed tones.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>"What's going on here?" Sarah asked, approaching the group.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>"We're the rebels," one of them, a young man, said. "We're trying to overthrow the government and bring back the challenges that have been taken away."<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Sarah was intrigued. She had never heard of such a thing before, and the idea of rebellion in this perfect society was both exhilarating and terrifying.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>"But why?" Sarah asked. "Isn't this utopia what everyone wants?"<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>"For some, yes," the young man said. "But for others, like us, the lack of adversity has made life pointless. We want to be tested, to be pushed to our limits. We want to be able to fail and to succeed on our own terms."<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Sarah was torn. On one hand, she understood the rebels' yearning for challenge and excitement. But on the other, she couldn't help but think of all the people who had been saved from suffering by the utopia.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>"I don't know," Sarah said. "I see both sides of it. But I do know that I want to help you. I want to be a part of this rebellion."<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>The rebels welcomed Sarah with open arms, and she quickly found herself caught up in their plans and schemes. She trained and prepared for the rebellion, and soon she was an integral part of the group.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>As the day of the rebellion arrived, Sarah felt a mix of nerves and excitement. She knew that what they were doing was dangerous, and that there was a real chance they could fail. But she also knew that it was what she had been looking for her entire life: a true challenge.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>The rebellion was a success, and the utopia was overthrown. But the new society that emerged was not what Sarah had expected. Instead of the challenges she had craved, she found only chaos and suffering. She realized that the utopia, while not perfect, had been the best possible solution to the problems of the past. She learned that sometimes, the easy path is the best one, and that true fulfillment comes not from overcoming obstacles, but from working together to create a better world for all.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><i> </i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Not too bad, right? Except that ChatGPT is clearly programmed to support the status quo. Our protagonist here, Sarah, learned that “sometimes, the easy path is the best one.” Why bother to rebel? Of course, it could be programmed so the rebels always beat the oligarchy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">At present, the programs seems unable to write more than 500 or 600 words so you cannot assign it a novel, wait ten minutes, and then submit it to your publisher but that obviously can be adjusted. And this is the free version of the program so it’s easy to see that formula fiction could easily be churned out in the very near future. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">When I tried a subject that offended the machine, I got a content warning. I was inspired by a Muslim student who wrote in her college essay about how her parents threatened to marry her off to an old man if she continued to “act like an American girl.” The program didn’t like that topic and I think was triggered by words like Muslim, Pakistani, and mosque. ChatGPT doesn’t want to offend anyone at this early stage of its life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I continue to explore this, and I suggest you do the same if the future of the written word is of concern to you. There is little doubt that only slightly more advanced versions of the program could write news stories to meet certain criteria. Advances in AI image and voice technology could conceivably provide synthetic reporters to read such stories to us – or am I getting carried away???<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Oh, btw, OpenAi which released ChatGPT in November is at least partly owned by Elon Musk.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">This essay is </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">cross-published</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"> at the <a href="https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2023/1/24/2149073/-Me-my-co-author-ChatGPT">Daily Kos site.</a></span></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-1621339134850417792022-09-24T18:22:00.006-04:002023-11-26T20:32:29.648-05:00The Disappearance of Juliet Poyntz in 1937<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZhaKwiRZb_3RySrWNvdPnAEVuJ-PRJeedyrzL868x8a7I1DssQ9o11vsYVQbipHAIdbxY94Y1Di4aZRAMtb9DZLmMPCSFboo3PKc98se9LZOUpFgoZ49KNzXrKEq1CnNGt1AdvY1bclqCL0I4dN1VgI9TKYAulTN5zz2VPRla2wUyBwdeC2vamrON/s4032/Juliet%20Poyntz.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZhaKwiRZb_3RySrWNvdPnAEVuJ-PRJeedyrzL868x8a7I1DssQ9o11vsYVQbipHAIdbxY94Y1Di4aZRAMtb9DZLmMPCSFboo3PKc98se9LZOUpFgoZ49KNzXrKEq1CnNGt1AdvY1bclqCL0I4dN1VgI9TKYAulTN5zz2VPRla2wUyBwdeC2vamrON/s320/Juliet%20Poyntz.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Today we return to the streets of New York in search of answers to another long unsolved political assassination, that of Juliet Poyntz, a leading member of the US Communist Party who turned against Stalin after witnessing first hand the terror accompanying the Show Trials of 1936-37 in Russia. After her disappearance, it was Carlo Tresca more than any other radical who pointed directly to Stalin's killers as responsible for her death. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Shortly before her disappearance on June 5, 1937, she met with Tresca and explained to him exactly why she could no longer associate herself with the Party. She had not yet gone public with what she had seen in Russia nor with what she knew of Soviet crimes in the US, but she may well have revealed far more to Tresca than the Party could tolerate. Or at least, Party leaders may have thought so. This possibly explains why he was assassinated in January 1943, a time when Stalin was desperate for US aid to continue the war against Hitler. If members of the Soviet consulate in New York were complicit in Poyntz' abduction, that would have proven most embarrassing to the dictator.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Poyntz' New York story begins at Barnard College, where she was a leading student not only in academics but also in drama and debate. Following a brief early marriage, she took up a life of activism, eventually becoming education director for the ILGWU. When the Socialist Party split after the Bolshevik Revolution, she sided with the newly formed Communist Party and became head of its Women's Department in 1928. Later, she dropped out of public view, traveled to Europe and Asia, and was widely assumed to have become an agent for the Comintern, Stalin's international intelligence/terrorism branch. In 1937 she was back in New York trying to raise money from her deceased ex-husband's estate, telling her attorney Elias Lieberman that she needed to "get away fast." Both Lieberman and Tresca later said that she seemed very frightened at this point in her life.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In the spring of 1938, Juliet Poyntz was staying at the American Women's Association at 353 West 57th Street in Manhattan, a low cost hotel for women. The building is still there, quite shabby and undergoing renovations, but 84 years ago it was a very respectable place for single women. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNhkYNZbtu-WtXLqgc-bml3EzwLeqPGYCYHEzqs0aOYQU6CK2tV9mwCnk201XmiWG8isK6gpFOmj3bKaN0m5uvRIHTrEf97qfp5rG2d1ci5SKFMRHF3rdW1P2_d19YvzmssOyngrhQYWCm3Dmb1PWTzVbeirNYWkBkS8215I1S9aSMztV0j6CYoPbm/s3922/Americvan%20Women's%20Assn.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3922" data-original-width="2399" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNhkYNZbtu-WtXLqgc-bml3EzwLeqPGYCYHEzqs0aOYQU6CK2tV9mwCnk201XmiWG8isK6gpFOmj3bKaN0m5uvRIHTrEf97qfp5rG2d1ci5SKFMRHF3rdW1P2_d19YvzmssOyngrhQYWCm3Dmb1PWTzVbeirNYWkBkS8215I1S9aSMztV0j6CYoPbm/s320/Americvan%20Women's%20Assn.heic" width="196" /></a></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ku1e5_2ULZDgH6gRySEVYhXtkOG-3QRlUDOeOeRwi8OhI11f6tVXoJ1clea6QN45CpcrvtkeGpMrnhX7606xgWha4x68s26Cy22ai3SQh4ovg_keTNzVHdYZCw1oTuNzbP8EUBNF_W7JWnov1sYs3HE10J9o6LHbFuMV7uG6P9C79w6OgW9PlPL9/s2894/53%20West%2057th%20Entrance.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2322" data-original-width="2894" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ku1e5_2ULZDgH6gRySEVYhXtkOG-3QRlUDOeOeRwi8OhI11f6tVXoJ1clea6QN45CpcrvtkeGpMrnhX7606xgWha4x68s26Cy22ai3SQh4ovg_keTNzVHdYZCw1oTuNzbP8EUBNF_W7JWnov1sYs3HE10J9o6LHbFuMV7uG6P9C79w6OgW9PlPL9/s320/53%20West%2057th%20Entrance.heic" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>According to Denise Lynn (<a href="https://www.umasspress.com/9781625345486/where-is-juliet-stuart-poyntz/">Where is Juliet Stuart Poyntz, UMass Press 2021</a>) the only thing hotel employees saw as unusual about Miss Poyntz was the frequency of phone calls she received from one unidentified man:</p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="text-align: justify;">"</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">Sometime in the spring of 1937, telephone operators at the American Woman’s Association Clubhouse at 353 West 57th Street in Manhattan began noticing that a man with a deep, German-sounding voice was calling daily for a resident named Juliet Stuart Poyntz. Poyntz was by all accounts a good resident. She was well educated, articulate, and had a background in teaching at Columbia University, where she was also working on a historical research project. She paid her rent on time and kept her room tidy. It was not particularly unusual for residents to get phone calls, but the man with the deep voice called so frequently that the clubhouse employees remembered him. Poyntz took the calls every time, so she must have known him. These daily calls did not raise any alarms, until Poyntz disappeared."</span></i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> She must have led a very isolated life by this point because no friend or acquaintance noticed that she had gone missing on June 5. According to the same source, it was the hotel manager Mr. Thackerberry who checked on her room when the rent went unpaid for several weeks:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 3pt 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Still, there was nothing to alert him to her unusual life—except for those daily phone calls. The telephone operators noticed that Poyntz took the calls throughout the spring and into the early summer. Then, on a hot June evening, after speaking briefly to the man, she left the clubhouse and reportedly walked in the direction of Central Park, three short blocks away. She did not return that day, or the next. After the rent went unpaid for several weeks, Thackerberry realized that something was wrong. He went to her deserted room and found an open jar of Jell-O on the desk, stale breadcrumbs on the table, and her belongings still in their places. The operators told him about the calls from the deep-voiced man and said that he had never called the clubhouse again after the June evening she had disappeared.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 3pt 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Thackerberry called Poyntz’s emergency contact, Marie B. MacDonald, a former co-worker and a long-time friend. MacDonald contacted Poyntz’s attorney, Elias Lieberman, also a former co-worker, and the two went to her room to look around. There was no indication that Poyntz had planned to be away from her room for long: she had left behind her passport and her citizenship papers and had not withdrawn any money from her skimpy bank account. The two contacted another friend of Poyntz’s, and together they packed up her belongings and put them into storage. They decided not to alert authorities because they knew that Poyntz was working for the underground and they did not want the police or FBI tracking her.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: start;">Seven months passed, and still no formal missing person’s report was made. MacDonald, concerned that Poyntz had failed to contact her, claimed that she had pressed Lieberman to contact the police, but he never did. Eventually, it was Thackerberry who unintentionally alerted them. After he mentioned to a police officer friend that one of his tenants had gone missing, that officer or another employee of the New York City police leaked the news to the press.</span></i></p><div style="text-align: justify;">The mystery is why neither the friend whom she listed as her emergency contact nor her lawyer ever reported her missing. Were they active party members complicit in her disappearance or simply afraid for their own lives? Carlo Tresca, the longtime editor of the weekly <i>il Martello</i>, had no such hesitation once he learned of Poyntz' disappearance. Largely thanks to his unrelenting drumbeat of accusations, a grand jury investigated her disappearance and called the veteran anarchist as a witness. Tresca asserted, perhaps based on what she had told him, that Poyntz had been lured to Central Park by a former lover and current Comintern agent, Shachno Epstein, but no indictment was ever returned. A somewhat unreliable ex-communist named <a href="https://drdeniselynn.com/disappearance-2/paul-crouch/">Paul Crouch </a>accused the Stalinist executioner George Mink of being the one who lured her to her death, but there is no evidence she ever knew Mink. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the late 1940s many leading American communists became what could be called professional anti-communists, offering exposes of the Party's crimes to the Dies Committee (later HUAC) and to Joseph McCarthy. Among this group was Whittaker Chambers, Sidney Hook, Elizabeth Bentley and a long-ago founder of the Party, <a href="https://www.peoplesworld.org/article/who-was-juliet-stuart-poyntz-some-early-cold-war-history-in-new-book/">Benjamin Gitlow.</a> He offered a very detailed take on Juliet Poyntz' disappearance. Whether it was based on insider knowledge or speculation is impossible to say. However, <i>Peoples World</i>, which bills itself as the successor to the <i>Daily Worker,</i> dismisses it as fiction:</div><p style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202122;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span>Poyntz was disillusioned by Stalin's purges and was unwilling to continue as an espionage agent for the USSR. Gitlow relates that the OGPU/NKVD used Poyntz's former lover, a man named <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakne_Epshtein" title="Shakne Epshtein"><span style="color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none;">Shakne Epshtein</span></a> (<a href="https://www.jta.org/1945/07/24/archive/jewish-notables-of-soviet-union-pay-tribute-to-shachno-epstein-editor-was-64"><span style="color: #663366; text-decoration: none;">Shachno Epstein (1881-1945)</span></a>), the associate editor of the Communist Yiddish daily </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morgen_Freiheit" title="Morgen Freiheit"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none;">Morgen Freiheit</span></a><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202122;"> (and an OGPU/NKVD agent himself), to lure Poyntz out for a walk in Central Park. "They met at Columbus Circle and proceeded to walk through Central Park...Shachno took her by the arm and led her up a side path, where a large black limousine hugged the edge of the walk ... Two men jumped out, grabbed Miss Poyntz, shoved her into the car and sped away." Gitlow relates that the assassins took Poyntz to the woods near the Roosevelt estate in Dutchess County, and killed and buried her there. "The body was covered with lime and dirt. On top were placed dead leaves and branches which the three killers trampled down with their feet."</span></i></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i><sup><br /></sup></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGyLqmA8JDkAsZJddEJgOBMVJRujOoXFoe0_BCdpXCi81U-JE0DXiPucIXFGbL7H-CU9b5HXD_e7i7umFLz_mV2FxDUyVTqMPha6vM6_nYDLoPU9h8kKDfe984HT8UYP7slLcq8zkJYedXrhG7K4uVbmAOOTKsl1vfPgh2UVxhG5UXIdQmKt7gm1g/s3024/Columbus%20Circle.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2613" data-original-width="3024" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGyLqmA8JDkAsZJddEJgOBMVJRujOoXFoe0_BCdpXCi81U-JE0DXiPucIXFGbL7H-CU9b5HXD_e7i7umFLz_mV2FxDUyVTqMPha6vM6_nYDLoPU9h8kKDfe984HT8UYP7slLcq8zkJYedXrhG7K4uVbmAOOTKsl1vfPgh2UVxhG5UXIdQmKt7gm1g/s320/Columbus%20Circle.heic" width="320" /></a></div><br /></i><p style="text-align: left;">Did the Comintern agent Epstein really meet Juliet Poyntz at this busy spot on the evening of June 5, 1937? </p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><sup><br /></sup></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQiqigr7mZlFt6K87iX6lT1BCbVcwnktyE42rJfdtH3_sk_ptAKf9AixF0QOB5-4iFy3sxtAsRUyaMhj0isr-cyIHfgJM-Lyn-XeNFvSQqAWmxDjlMwwSt88pU7e5yu81jrfUVH3-u9l1NpEt316ki07koyvXmkjBtIFtKxVsf1l5jlp2SnvZ2KEW/s3786/Central%20Park%20Drive.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3786" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQiqigr7mZlFt6K87iX6lT1BCbVcwnktyE42rJfdtH3_sk_ptAKf9AixF0QOB5-4iFy3sxtAsRUyaMhj0isr-cyIHfgJM-Lyn-XeNFvSQqAWmxDjlMwwSt88pU7e5yu81jrfUVH3-u9l1NpEt316ki07koyvXmkjBtIFtKxVsf1l5jlp2SnvZ2KEW/s320/Central%20Park%20Drive.heic" width="256" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Did Epstein really lead her to Central Park Drive, in 1937 a busy thoroughfare for automobiles, where she was seized and thrown into a waiting limousine? </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br />This scenario is certainly possible, maybe even likely, but if Gitlow had evidence of a brazen abduction and murder, why was he never called before a grand jury? In fact, why was he never indicted for concealing evidence of a crime? There are no answers at this late date, but it does seem likely that Poyntz was silenced so that she could not reveal what she had seen in Russia. And my own growing conviction is that Tresca's murder five years later was linked to this never-solved disappearance.</p><p style="text-align: left;"></p></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">"353 West 57," a short story based on the Juliet Poyntz mystery, was published in the journal, </span><a href="https://www.drunkmonkeys.us/">Drunk Monkeys</a><span style="font-size: large;">, in May, 2023.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-18498700456822522732022-09-21T19:36:00.004-04:002022-09-22T08:17:26.311-04:00The still unsolved murder of Carlo Tresca<p style="text-align: justify;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWNPHPo1KygcuQ-Y4wyBU1gUZeICtBjg9fmikOp2aTiVhWHaQlfAXTZe_aqV4eV_a1n42a0n9o6th2_N6yUosky4h12l4K72NnBc3_XNvOsou84CxUVJVDf6-y4z8kBoQeeCjOcT-e7TIuGIEK3vn9j7eWSQe8hpVLoCMGeg21QjRLWiHAHOze40C/s2088/Carlo%20Tresca.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2088" data-original-width="1494" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWNPHPo1KygcuQ-Y4wyBU1gUZeICtBjg9fmikOp2aTiVhWHaQlfAXTZe_aqV4eV_a1n42a0n9o6th2_N6yUosky4h12l4K72NnBc3_XNvOsou84CxUVJVDf6-y4z8kBoQeeCjOcT-e7TIuGIEK3vn9j7eWSQe8hpVLoCMGeg21QjRLWiHAHOze40C/s320/Carlo%20Tresca.heic" width="229" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">On January 11, 1943 the anarchist Carlo Tresca was shot to death on the northwest corner of 15th Street and Fifth Avenue in New York City. There was no doubt that the shooter was 33 year old Carmine Galante, known associate of Mafia boss Frank Garofalo. He was held in prison for nearly a year but never charged by the Manhattan D.A. Frank Hogan, nor was the case pursued by J. Edgar Hoover's FBI.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgluwJe2ya2c0zUJgovbaVPqvY4AhkFeLQo-mW_ge9AoalAeXfpDextytvD9jzTw2zkG-syB-UVYr4vJB3cxuBKqAftm1iWSDUmQR3G8TcpSz7tQ64cx2yOdpbpejY8WN-wCfaQYkOjrIDc3YsG6icrjFNP_vmnysVpOwLlwseqwjwjX-CNMaOtEf/s4032/crosswalk%20at%20NW%20crnr%2015%20&%205th.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgluwJe2ya2c0zUJgovbaVPqvY4AhkFeLQo-mW_ge9AoalAeXfpDextytvD9jzTw2zkG-syB-UVYr4vJB3cxuBKqAftm1iWSDUmQR3G8TcpSz7tQ64cx2yOdpbpejY8WN-wCfaQYkOjrIDc3YsG6icrjFNP_vmnysVpOwLlwseqwjwjX-CNMaOtEf/s320/crosswalk%20at%20NW%20crnr%2015%20&%205th.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">On July 12, 1979 Carmine Galante, who had risen over the next 36 years to head the Bonanno crime family, was shot to death by four masked gunmen in the garden of Joe & Mary's Restaurant in Brooklyn. His cigar was still in his mouth when this picture was taken.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFdzHGgDWA5qCMiOOL3kjyVk8zQYm94OFVHLdiNhn0mz3Jfuq8VSiv9aYHdt8H67_tMzinIGp_mggjp-h-msHwOCnqdMifh9mvUCHr4TZp27TnzMduPQkBd5xF5ukvs1bysg8Aeh0dD9cZ8QCHadgM9fbp0B-djIi9BYXtrLIviRyjj6ccbV4_btt/s4032/Carmine%20Galante%20deceased.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFdzHGgDWA5qCMiOOL3kjyVk8zQYm94OFVHLdiNhn0mz3Jfuq8VSiv9aYHdt8H67_tMzinIGp_mggjp-h-msHwOCnqdMifh9mvUCHr4TZp27TnzMduPQkBd5xF5ukvs1bysg8Aeh0dD9cZ8QCHadgM9fbp0B-djIi9BYXtrLIviRyjj6ccbV4_btt/s320/Carmine%20Galante%20deceased.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">You could say it was karma or quote Jesus, "Those who live by the sword die by the sword." Or you could point to the many killings Galante had himself ordered that same year in his takeover of the growing narcotics trade from the Gambino family. Or you could say it was the long delayed justice for his murder of one of the most courageous independent American radicals of the early 20th century. As Dorothy Gallagher titled her definitive 1983 biography of Tresca, he had "all the right enemies." In the pages of his Italian language weekly, <i>il Martello,</i> he had attacked Stalin, Mussolini, homegrown fascists and Kremlin stooges, the Mafia, the Catholic Church and an unending stream of capitalists and corrupt politicians. Although evidence and witnesses clearly pointed to Galante as the shooter, who had given the order to silence the 63 year old editor? And why now, when Tresca had been carrying on his unrelenting attacks for decades?</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJxdgq78q6LyJyPjoh2hl6DplaZQScg6Vw3oG6_PxwVMVLVRLOQnH2_x3KVrZtzEEnOud-yigoJk_1ALRs-aFverl3lhbT4mMJ2VYg43GioMxvLcTl1IaWalP8ZCfpimUOv9CnrX-9M0mB4ZRTlL74PHZY8dYv-HZSc6a2USCWl0Pvc-q-4UQM8Ue2/s3661/All%20the%20Right%20Enemies.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3661" data-original-width="2425" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJxdgq78q6LyJyPjoh2hl6DplaZQScg6Vw3oG6_PxwVMVLVRLOQnH2_x3KVrZtzEEnOud-yigoJk_1ALRs-aFverl3lhbT4mMJ2VYg43GioMxvLcTl1IaWalP8ZCfpimUOv9CnrX-9M0mB4ZRTlL74PHZY8dYv-HZSc6a2USCWl0Pvc-q-4UQM8Ue2/s320/All%20the%20Right%20Enemies.heic" width="212" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Years of controversy followed Tresca's death as one side and then another accused the communists or the fascists of ordering the murder. Both Ms. Gallagher and a second biographer, Nunzio Pernicone (<i>Carlo Tresca; Portrait of a Rebel</i>, 2010) agree that the most likely instigator of the murder was Frank Garofalo, a Mafia boss and frequent associate of Generoso Pope, publisher of the Italian language daily, <i>il Progresso</i>, whom Tresca had insulted a few months earlier. Pope's influence over the Italian vote had led FDR and Mayor LaGuardia to overlook his pro-fascist stance prior to Pearl Harbor, but that was not something Tresca would allow anyone to forget. However, the old radical had never attacked Garofalo in the pages of <i>il Martello. </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Others pointed to the reported sighting in New York of the infamous Stalinist hit man Vittorio Vidali just before the murder. Tresca had reserved special scorn for Vidali, who was guilty of personally executing hundreds of anarchists and Trotskyists in Spain at the behest of Stalin. Tresca had an intense hatred for all Stalinists, especially since their abduction and murder of his friend Julia Poyntz in 1938. Her crime: after visiting the Soviet Union, she came away completely disillusioned. Could his continued focus on her disappearance have alarmed Stalin that winter of 1942-43 when continued US aid against the Nazis was so vital?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I returned to the neighborhood surrounding Union Square where Carlos Tresca spent most of his life, living in various apartments and moving the offices of his newspaper frequently, always low on funds, declaring the paper bankrupt more than once. I started where he was shot down, a few feet from the final location of <i>il Martello.</i> The building at 97 Fifth Ave has been renovated since his time and appears to be converted entirely to apartments. The 15th Street doorway through which he exited on January 11, 1943, according to Nunzio Perricone, has long since disappeared. and there is nothing to indicate the enormity of the crime once committed at this crosswalk.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG9iKXSEYJ_nACpB1XfoF2WRnwI5aFuRPVeYEnX00cHg7OKRzivCyvbeknq_mfBl6ucwbR2yhWHN6NpT3ZDRqt4hQzav_58Dktpwdvjqol_3_GcuYF-jKjZRzNYSmforVjKcGmOLu0e33BElytcJnSsGoYVl5x8Kkik9dm9gXSfLkNydMq3PGHlSrJ/s4032/96%20Fifth%20Ave.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG9iKXSEYJ_nACpB1XfoF2WRnwI5aFuRPVeYEnX00cHg7OKRzivCyvbeknq_mfBl6ucwbR2yhWHN6NpT3ZDRqt4hQzav_58Dktpwdvjqol_3_GcuYF-jKjZRzNYSmforVjKcGmOLu0e33BElytcJnSsGoYVl5x8Kkik9dm9gXSfLkNydMq3PGHlSrJ/s320/96%20Fifth%20Ave.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_6hAhoPj4IBD7O_y6VdvzuEWzAEIW1MLXTAvyohZT4LLd3vVHdK4y0BqKnTgD_55YoUqoO3jR2VIsGkfNMxMcbHCXzuDYD14bg6qMtjJPzP49ATK0w_BJHQ2QbIe7tj4KzyaOGoB1T1vqcKzjaDziA40pRCKA8tWuCfYIMWxl3rxm8PHlogkmO2E/s4032/Where%20Tresca%20fell.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_6hAhoPj4IBD7O_y6VdvzuEWzAEIW1MLXTAvyohZT4LLd3vVHdK4y0BqKnTgD_55YoUqoO3jR2VIsGkfNMxMcbHCXzuDYD14bg6qMtjJPzP49ATK0w_BJHQ2QbIe7tj4KzyaOGoB1T1vqcKzjaDziA40pRCKA8tWuCfYIMWxl3rxm8PHlogkmO2E/s320/Where%20Tresca%20fell.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">Turning west, I looked down 15th Street where the getaway car carrying Carmine Galante and perhaps Frank Garofalo or the mysterious Vittorio Vidali sped away into the darkness of a city whose streetlights had been dimmed by wartime restrictions.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTcCFDLw7ostks1Jn7f5Knk4Vy7CQaZ0CqjmWMKqjrJbT95c3t63gcQGAV4aPSN9Kc4ng8dkwG5z7WRNOwhZODcXWQbgcxLGbZWPTpjY_nXxs_Nr69LDCcOVMfRFn3e7AnDWUqCJrBCPv-Eh4KTQ7Icvu5BSbdLSj7keerFBZClzNA-LuAP2npwdj/s4032/w%2015th%20where%20the%20getaway%20cr%20sped.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTcCFDLw7ostks1Jn7f5Knk4Vy7CQaZ0CqjmWMKqjrJbT95c3t63gcQGAV4aPSN9Kc4ng8dkwG5z7WRNOwhZODcXWQbgcxLGbZWPTpjY_nXxs_Nr69LDCcOVMfRFn3e7AnDWUqCJrBCPv-Eh4KTQ7Icvu5BSbdLSj7keerFBZClzNA-LuAP2npwdj/s320/w%2015th%20where%20the%20getaway%20cr%20sped.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">Retracing what I know of Carlo Tresca's life on these blocks, I came to 112 East 19th Street, an earlier home both to il Martello and to the Rand School, a longtime institution for workers run by American Socialists. No plaque identifies the history of the present building although it was here where a rightwing mob once stormed the school, only to be beaten back by workers and students.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCbpQydqgcGf-WUuCVTQUY1dGVk4Zpb_rB_wa3D6FMxPr5c_UKfg3wKyEyuKKlwxxF2eOD6NUgPfets1ZFl_v3bvJFsd4o7RCtn-4dcJTTD9AZIuyI7IZPefj6BZbBI23yoqfLtqT5mkIhqs8te6EgE-hsweg-wRhj3l6o_EEJfsheqxHkwXze5zty/s4032/112%20East%2019th.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCbpQydqgcGf-WUuCVTQUY1dGVk4Zpb_rB_wa3D6FMxPr5c_UKfg3wKyEyuKKlwxxF2eOD6NUgPfets1ZFl_v3bvJFsd4o7RCtn-4dcJTTD9AZIuyI7IZPefj6BZbBI23yoqfLtqT5mkIhqs8te6EgE-hsweg-wRhj3l6o_EEJfsheqxHkwXze5zty/s320/112%20East%2019th.heic" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><i>il Martello,</i> in the course of six moves from 1917 to 1943 occupied the same address as the Rand School once again at 7 East 15th Street. Today a Buddhist Center occupies the building, which might have pleased the old radical. Or might not, since he adhered to a very strict atheism.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLswyEbO-Z185HBWBqFeKGi7bKrI_oz7jlZ3HicluhTx7fysCuoH4_Gb4wC6OWc4YBO741b3S5kiytUFS2PV1hz8c7kPS9V-IaC1ZqQgxx0bUIXsfJK-xbM8whQVSjaZByhTFTRkaecitfElzZ4cF_qfK9X3Q2K_M-B64NTPup12arbiaWwlVwaCRA/s4032/7%20East%2015th.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLswyEbO-Z185HBWBqFeKGi7bKrI_oz7jlZ3HicluhTx7fysCuoH4_Gb4wC6OWc4YBO741b3S5kiytUFS2PV1hz8c7kPS9V-IaC1ZqQgxx0bUIXsfJK-xbM8whQVSjaZByhTFTRkaecitfElzZ4cF_qfK9X3Q2K_M-B64NTPup12arbiaWwlVwaCRA/s320/7%20East%2015th.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Tresca moved his own quarters as frequently as he moved his office, but still never straying too far from Union Square, then and now a hub for demonstrations and activism. And a great place to meet the most interesting New Yorkers. Here is the square today:</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zk7FLTrZC7nllOoago1JpxADc1l42JqV7kNBTd-I1B1onzTyWhnHAP_RGfD9N_YGWkyRwMzQe5WDEjfW4lG4hYwg30kTmu6aAaC9k-nzNJ_WgY0MCdFxUcca03-Q3EPw9KEVfZM-zuMo0GnCi4LZqlvJTB0cU2MuHv5eTBzwGgy4DOM--v8vxkt7/s4032/Union%20Square.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zk7FLTrZC7nllOoago1JpxADc1l42JqV7kNBTd-I1B1onzTyWhnHAP_RGfD9N_YGWkyRwMzQe5WDEjfW4lG4hYwg30kTmu6aAaC9k-nzNJ_WgY0MCdFxUcca03-Q3EPw9KEVfZM-zuMo0GnCi4LZqlvJTB0cU2MuHv5eTBzwGgy4DOM--v8vxkt7/s320/Union%20Square.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">The last stop of today's walking tour of Carlo Tresca's New York is at John's restaurant on 12th Street and Second Avenue, established in 1908. John's was a favorite gathering place for the radicals and writers of New York in the 1930s and it was here that Tresca enjoyed lunch with his old friend, the novelist John Dos Passos, only hours before he was killed. Perhaps they talked of Dos Passos' journey to Spain with Ernest Hemingway and his deep disillusion with the Stalinist destruction of the anarchist and socialist opposition to Franco's fascism. Dos Passos might perhaps have remembered how Carlo had warned him to beware the murderous NKVD agents sent by Stalin to wipe out any leftists who would not bow to Moscow. Or perhaps they discussed a rumor that one of those same homicidal agents, Vittorio Vidali, had left Mexico after arranging the murder of Leon Trotsky? And was possibly sighted in New York?</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQqXEUn0_fjdyTTzgEd-FVFcRmFJLr5nbb04d_Kgeg8jU9ZfJMEh3Xaci4XU08Ai4SBVMcdlJsnr_bxvtFjGwH43R3SMz_6v0K0G2I_bGohisTRiu2XTm2NVzTkSfizGShJo8dWYOv7jntBIplI1hBmDv64gZicgL9lQODeFIJIzsK-GPeR0dVcszi/s4032/John's%20Restaurant.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQqXEUn0_fjdyTTzgEd-FVFcRmFJLr5nbb04d_Kgeg8jU9ZfJMEh3Xaci4XU08Ai4SBVMcdlJsnr_bxvtFjGwH43R3SMz_6v0K0G2I_bGohisTRiu2XTm2NVzTkSfizGShJo8dWYOv7jntBIplI1hBmDv64gZicgL9lQODeFIJIzsK-GPeR0dVcszi/s320/John's%20Restaurant.heic" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">This coming January will mark the 80th anniversary of the still unsolved murder of Carlo Tresca. He has already appeared twice in my own works. He first appeared in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006V3J52Y/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i6" target="_blank"><i>The Red Nurse</i> (2012, Amazon)</a> as a brilliant organizer and onetime lover of Helen Schloss during the 1912 Little Falls Textile Strike. His second appearance was as mentor to the young radical Tom Ryan in <i>The Witch Girl & The Wobbly, </i>a novella published last year. ( <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1947041827?pf_rd_r=5ABSV2SVRCDY2MYT3SXD&pf_rd_p=5ae2c7f8-e0c6-4f35-9071-dc3240e894a8" style="color: #669922; font-family: tahoma, "Trebuchet MS", lucida, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Running Wild Novella Anthology, Volume 4 Book 1: Wright, Peter: 9781947041820: Amazon.com: Books</a>) </p><p style="text-align: justify;">The next appearance of Carlo Tresca is a work in progress.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-75008340272517748192022-06-16T03:08:00.001-04:002022-06-16T03:24:31.989-04:00Poetry from Spring 2022 In Alba, Big Windows Review and Shot Glass Journal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt4Zp3_0JFM9aS7KQK2jnYFUuG7BPJcB1vgfmUIP-c8yDrOHwzsT_aAAvC8csUsAcVs-957HN-sRQjYicwtBhq9caAivgEYcW9pfhXXMoqIJiEgjnq1puJAVTU0FFu8hVGM7TZ126u44qoh8Ah9levKzqe6cPkBVJY4fdxuGCkCQkbpab0-kdClN1E/s4032/IMG_1804.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt4Zp3_0JFM9aS7KQK2jnYFUuG7BPJcB1vgfmUIP-c8yDrOHwzsT_aAAvC8csUsAcVs-957HN-sRQjYicwtBhq9caAivgEYcW9pfhXXMoqIJiEgjnq1puJAVTU0FFu8hVGM7TZ126u44qoh8Ah9levKzqe6cPkBVJY4fdxuGCkCQkbpab0-kdClN1E/s320/IMG_1804.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Several poems which will be collected in the upcoming chapbook have been published in recent months. <i><a href="http://www.ravennapress.com/alba/issue_37/cooney.html">Last Week When It Rain</a>ed</i> appears<i> </i>in the Winter 2022 of <i>Alba Journal of Poetry.</i> This journal also published <a href="http://www.ravennapress.com/alba/issue_08/cooney8.html">Sappho to Gongyla and The Confusion of Katya </a>in issue 8 back in September 2003.</span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span></div><h2 style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(85, 85, 85); color: #555555; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 1.75em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Last Week When It Rained</span></h2><p><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(85, 85, 85); color: #555555; font-size: 17.33333396911621px;"></span></p><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(85, 85, 85); color: #555555; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Last week when it rained, we were together<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />in my small apartment, sharing the most intimate<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />confessions. Despite the late hour, we continued<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />to uncover answers to the questions that had troubled us<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />for many decades. This kind of work, you said to me,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />is exceptionally satisfying, and I agreed.</span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The Confusion of Katya<br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;">(after Akhmatova)</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: Verdana;">A river flows past<br />a dome of many windows.<br />Monks are chanting.<br />My sister and I hear the mass, waiting for Catherine's barge<br />and the sweep of her golden wheat.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Verdana;">On the third day the aging Tsarina rides alone through ripening fields.<br />She takes my grandmother's ancient hand<br />and on the crooked staircase<br />kisses my lips.</span></p><p> </p><p><b><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Sappho to Gongyla<br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;">(inspired by several fragments from the Greek)</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: Verdana;">My face was hot. My need was strong.<br />I saw you lifting your arms at the edge of the sea.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Did you truly expect to touch the sky?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Verdana;">You did not glance in my direction.<br />You did not hear me breathing as I breathed your name.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Verdana;">When the moon sets, I will still be here counting the stars.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><i>Big Windows Review </i>published the <a href=" https://thebigwindowsreview.com/2022/04/05/michael-cooney-two-pieces/.">poem <i>Purple Sun </i>and t</a>he flash fiction <i><a href=" https://thebigwindowsreview.com/2022/04/05/michael-cooney-two-pieces/.">New Years Eve on the Q</a> </i>in their May 2022 edition. This journal also published <a href="https://thebigwindowsreview.com/2021/05/21/michael-cooney-what-you-said-in-german-was-not-about-kissing/">What You Said in German was Not About Kissing</a> in the May 2021 issue.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">Purple Sun <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I am back where I started. You are walking <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">toward me with a glass of water in your hand. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I look downward at your bare feet in the grass.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I understand that there are shoes you have never worn.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I know that everything might have been different.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I might not have crossed the street. You might have told me <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">to go away. There might be two moons in the sky <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">or a purple sun. Nod your head if you agree.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><div class="page" title="Page 13"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">What You Said in German was Not About Kissing</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 13"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">Sharing a ham & cheese hero with lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise and a bag of those cheese waffie things you liked on a hillside at the Bronx Botanical Garden was more fun than meeting you in that trattoria on the Piazza Navona with the waiter who spoke such good English because you were wearing the blue dress that buttoned down the front and we were caught in the rain but when we got back to the apartment on 189</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 8pt; vertical-align: 4pt;">th </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">street it was hotter than ever and we dragged the mattress up onto the roof and ate pepperoni pizza from downstairs where everybody spoke Italian to </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">you but you didn’t know a word except maybe </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">prego </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">and </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">scusi </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">and although you took German at Hunter it wasn</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">’t </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">much help when we rode the D train to Central Park where the Met was performing something from Wagner, maybe </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Tannhauser </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">which goes on forever but I loved you because you had read all of </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">The Magic Mountain </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">and called it </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Der Zauberberg </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">and sometimes I look at you and want to tell </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">you that Dominic’s has been closed for years and there’s </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">probably no one else except maybe Barbara Kaufman who remembers the night when you said something in German </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 12pt;">and I thought you said “Kiss me.”</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 13"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: small;">This poem was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Big </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">Windows</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: small;"> Review.</span></p></div></div></div><p><br /></p><p>This month, <i>Shot Glass Journal of Short Poetry </i>published <a href="http://www.musepiepress.com/shotglass/michael_cooney1.html"><i>I Have No Memory</i>,</a> written in Austin last year.</p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; margin: 0in;"><a name="_Hlk52561969"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I Have No Memory<o:p></o:p></span></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I have no memory of getting on this bus.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I am sure I will recognize one of these streets eventually.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I will get off the bus and have something to eat.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Yesterday I drank coffee in the place that you loved on South Congress Street.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I ate the same kind of tacos with egg and chorizo that you always ordered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Later, I will meet with old friends on zoom. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">They will tell me about people who are not dead.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 0px;">I have no memory of getting on this bus.<br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />I am sure I will recognize one of these streets eventually.<br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />I will get off the bus and have something to eat.<br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Yesterday I drank coffee in the place that you loved on South Congress Street.<br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Later, I will meet with old friends on zoom. <br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />They will tell me about people who are still living.</p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-46338279828365953302022-02-28T11:02:00.000-05:002022-02-28T11:02:24.741-05:00A new view of the 1884 Roxy Druse murder case <p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SIgYvkEJd04otF-6lZH6r3wEBOgpc6gZ-wFJ6rwxW54b05lrL9i_g1J7Q6fx0r_MyB70HcIeoVPUpML_d5VQ_K6CCAvWVFyt8plewbGxyDscB9_xQWHybloVzkEsdQma52lQQO_io20/s1600/Roxy+Picture1.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SIgYvkEJd04otF-6lZH6r3wEBOgpc6gZ-wFJ6rwxW54b05lrL9i_g1J7Q6fx0r_MyB70HcIeoVPUpML_d5VQ_K6CCAvWVFyt8plewbGxyDscB9_xQWHybloVzkEsdQma52lQQO_io20/s320/Roxy+Picture1.gif" width="190" /></a></p><p><i>Roxy in her cell at the Herkimer Jail</i></p><p><br /></p><p><b>The Raven Review</b> has been kind enough to publish my short fiction based on the notorious Roxy Druse murder case of 1884, entitled:</p><p><a href="https://www.theravenreview.org/my-mother-killed-my-father-cooney.html">My Mother Killed My Father</a></p><p><br /></p><p>An imagined witness at the Druse trial, Jacob Timmerman gives his theory of the case. He is convinced that Roxy took responsibility for her husband's murder in order to save their daughter Mary from the consequences of her act. Although in that era, even the hint of incest or sexual abuse would never be mentioned in a courtroom, Timmerman is certain that was what drove the seventeen year old girl to take an axe to her father in their isolated farmhouse in Jordanville, NY.</p><p>As the trial unfolded in 1885, it drew wide attention in the newly sensation-seeking national press, notably<i> The Saturday Globe,</i> based in nearby Utica. On the one hand, Roxy was depicted as a monster for killing and butchering her husband Bill, and then feeding his remains to the family's pigs. On the other, she was defended by many early feminists and anti-capital punishment activists who petitioned the governor to commute her death sentence. Nonetheless, she was hung at Herkimer in 1887 and her daughter served ten years before being released.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>In 2011, I published an historical novel inspired by the Druse murder, entitled:</p><p><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Roxy-Druse-Murders-Herkimer-County/dp/B0058895NW/ref=sr_1_2?crid=8C4LZ927YX0Y&keywords=Roxy+Druse+and+The+Murders+of+Herkimer+County&qid=1643042494&s=instant-video&sprefix=roxy+druse+and+the+murders+of+herkimer+county,instant-video,54&sr=1-2">Roxy Druse & The Murders of Herkimer County</a></i></p><p>In that much longer fiction, the narrator W.H. Tippetts visits Roxy and Mary in their cell act the Herkimer County Jail and eventually comes to a similar conclusion about Roxy's sacrifice of her own life in order to save that of her daughter. Tippetts, as I picture him, is not the most perceptive character and is involved in many mysteries and adventures before reaching a somewhat muddled understanding of what happened. He is based on an actual journalist who interviewed the Druse women and wrote the short history of the county's murders included in my volume.</p><p><br /></p><p>Here is a link to my much more detailed article from 2011 on the Druse case:</p><p><i><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/2925277268651697833/7860707839605093759">Roxy Druse: Female Fiend or a Woman Wronged?</a></i></p><p><br /></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">and here are some sources and suggestions for further research:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://herkimercounty.org/content/CommunityCategories/Home/:item=5&field=groups;/content/CommunityGroups/View/38"><b>The Herkimer County Historical Society</b></a> maintains extensive files on the Druse case, as well as on the even more notorious case of Chester Gillette, who was executed for the murder of Grace Brown in 1908. The Society also owns the old jail which is occasionally opened for public visits. It is a grim place and after Roxy’s death, her spirit was said to haunt its dark corridors.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.littlefallsny.com/museum/MUSEUM.htm"><b>The Little Falls Historical Society</b></a> holds a vast scrapbook collection compiled by my grandfather, which includes numerous local articles on the Druse case.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />The author of <a href="http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/5847388/roxalana_druse_the_forgotten_central.html?cat=37">The Forgotten Central New York Murder Case</a> maintains that the botched nature of Roxy's hanging led to the invention of the electric as a more "humane" method for taking a life. That instrument made its debut at the state prison in Auburn, NY in 1889, and Chester Gillette was one of its most famous occupants. Gillette was tried at Herkimer for the murder of Grace Brown and held in the same jail occupied by Roxy a few years earlier.<br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A search of the <a href="http://query.nytimes.com/search/sitesearch?query=Roxalana+Druse&more=date_all">New York Times archive </a>under Roxalana Druse will yield several articles from the period of the trial.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The <a href="http://www.nysl.nysed.gov/nysnp/">New York State Library</a> has a comprehensive collection of local newspapers from the years of the trail and appeals.The case attracted many opponents of capital punishment.</div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-13193283585467949422021-12-11T13:39:00.001-05:002021-12-11T13:39:48.652-05:00That, you tell me, is true poetry<p> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Published in </span><a href="https://www.sledgehammerlit.com/post/the-edge-of-the-bed-by-michael-cooney" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Sledgehammer Lit </a></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZxBvgnfN9EPp3p_eIp1_uJQ5uJwRjPUcCj2gj1BL3XuGABJy6tLgxesM7mh_g5JUzQ1IBFI_hzOsB7hBXZq2GVcu0zjCV0-Rbf-14QxLMoSXOJAYdx39G2p5knYYsBUI74RYnIfiwSUvsrDwejtmtCgSKJYHhhXdFxLudAZJj0om0KIS69FVmBbIU=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZxBvgnfN9EPp3p_eIp1_uJQ5uJwRjPUcCj2gj1BL3XuGABJy6tLgxesM7mh_g5JUzQ1IBFI_hzOsB7hBXZq2GVcu0zjCV0-Rbf-14QxLMoSXOJAYdx39G2p5knYYsBUI74RYnIfiwSUvsrDwejtmtCgSKJYHhhXdFxLudAZJj0om0KIS69FVmBbIU=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The Edge of the Bed<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">At first, we are waiting on a large terrace. A clatter of plates.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Distant footsteps. All the languages are foreign. Everyone has a dog.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Twice as many people as expected are here. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We are on a list but not the most important one.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We are asked to leave. By whose authority, I loudly demand.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">People turn to stare. Some mutter. Perhaps this is all a mistake.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">You point out inconsistencies in the man’s vocabulary. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It appears that he is reading from a script on his cell phone.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We are sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Our foreheads are touching, or possibly our hands.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We review what has happened. We seek explanations.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">None of our theories are an exact fit for the circumstances.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I ask if other people always finish your sentences.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">That, you tell me, is true poetry.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; letter-spacing: 0.15pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-8530978164750367662021-10-24T22:49:00.007-04:002021-12-23T15:36:00.058-05:00Two stories of the Mohawk Valley published this week: World War I at home and UFOs in the 1960s<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://sites.google.com/view/sundial-magazine/short-stories/battle-at-indian-cave?authuser=0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVTpXAlbJtFG928WfUkR6FjDk6EF9D_jZsqDGhoRXKh_3HVeP3ZmHN01AoV4S4ahEBRTrTWVE1kZFwHOpwV64XHZmRlCw9pnHYLBrvNhCZWAf1i-znRa4qRRl4MPrFO3woUpocOkDV3zg/s320/Sundial.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>"Battle at Indian Cave" was published on October 24 by <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/sundial-magazine/short-stories/battle-at-indian-cave?authuser=0">Sundial Magazine.</a> This is a story set in 1918 when anti-foreign feelings were running very high in the midst of the pro-war frenzy encouraged by the Wilson White House. The gang of boys, and one girl, at the heart of this story are all from various slavic nations within the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and quite alienated from the red-whte-and-blue spirit animating much of the Mohawk Valley in that fateful year. They decide to hide a disabled older boy from the draft, with tragic consequences.</p><p>Sundial Magazine recently included my earlier story "The Colonel Takes Command" in their first-ever print anthology of American historical fiction, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dim-Flaring-Lamps-Historical-Anthology/dp/B09J7CDWM8/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Dim+and+Flaring+Lamps&qid=1635129229&s=books&sr=1-1"><i>Dim and Flaring Lamps</i>,</a> available at Amazon in electronic and paper formats.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgwHMzzq-zhdpjk7_3PWrVTjBw3LkZ38Mh9N77JUy8o2SOt5Av30Z2BpF4jOVR5kQhv_AhMke0p3LdVfKQO0jvOU-Iu6v4Y0Nu3qMH5hBe_zn78nzZI3pg_9BoCVglPC5Uxn-4fdLfo8/s2048/Dim+and+Flaring+Lamps.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1359" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgwHMzzq-zhdpjk7_3PWrVTjBw3LkZ38Mh9N77JUy8o2SOt5Av30Z2BpF4jOVR5kQhv_AhMke0p3LdVfKQO0jvOU-Iu6v4Y0Nu3qMH5hBe_zn78nzZI3pg_9BoCVglPC5Uxn-4fdLfo8/s320/Dim+and+Flaring+Lamps.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYZBnZeuedl1Q9aXpWVArjAYlz6MIutpLb4-_t43wRu-P4us86c8jIKn1ynAHQdii6r9cdboST52beRaMjG4XMGYfj36WTUwQpMkotw5uV9zPviuTj13k9NSLirmseBK5RNXZtwppdET7VhMI8ITPVxXZZXYHbt2tICyhn1Dux0abwFMamoY08gc0Y=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYZBnZeuedl1Q9aXpWVArjAYlz6MIutpLb4-_t43wRu-P4us86c8jIKn1ynAHQdii6r9cdboST52beRaMjG4XMGYfj36WTUwQpMkotw5uV9zPviuTj13k9NSLirmseBK5RNXZtwppdET7VhMI8ITPVxXZZXYHbt2tICyhn1Dux0abwFMamoY08gc0Y=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcbwHn9x-VLF_q2FI5rCD2SGay5NFzou0ioHQfwUbxWFiknaaCxF-lvcZZlfsHIT4xJePyNBKW6M2Y0tYnyLT1JEOq-cI_eejYStzlkL-1WleTzQDeJeY7gxLcE50s0VCPt2bvG_hRyo/w327-h240/Litbreak.jpg" width="327" /></div><div><br /></div>"The Golden Stairway to Heaven" appeared on October 23 in<a href=" https://litbreak.com/the-golden-stairway-to-heaven/"> Litbreak,</a> a site devoted to publishing new writers. I wrote the first version of this story many years ago, inspired by rumors of a UFO sighting that I first heard at the long-closed Half Way House, a tavern midway between Little Falls and Dolgeville. That tale was probably just drunken fantasizing but somehow the idea of a flying saucer landing up near Salisbury Center stuck in my mind. This story is the result.<br /><p><br /></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-3321252179208681262021-08-20T16:48:00.002-04:002021-09-04T17:42:35.382-04:00Stories and poetry published in the Summer of 2021<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2ZMrZyo2RKhSoOzEmtuoTw80Vy7KefcfLogWcJ17uDz7k5osVJ6fihg-VD3fnMOM6t1vzopHxeC05Bw-64QFkzfYfI9AWDYHjiLPFEAo9OXa1kzzHk5p3ukarEJsXuk2t4fdToFzM5g/s2048/97611EB6-8D0F-4851-BA9A-B1AF7E84C334.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2ZMrZyo2RKhSoOzEmtuoTw80Vy7KefcfLogWcJ17uDz7k5osVJ6fihg-VD3fnMOM6t1vzopHxeC05Bw-64QFkzfYfI9AWDYHjiLPFEAo9OXa1kzzHk5p3ukarEJsXuk2t4fdToFzM5g/s320/97611EB6-8D0F-4851-BA9A-B1AF7E84C334.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The short story “Under the Lake” appears in the UK-based Cerasus Magazine and can be purchased as a summer special <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B09C3GYF5V?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860">paperback at Amazon.</a> The story is loosely inspired by legends surrounding Beardslee Lake , five miles east of Little Falls in central New York State.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">*</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw-WHXTW4hyphenhyphenkojLHzWy1MGRiMap6KATXfE6OY2loJ2MPu-1GROcmPc8pXDO8w0OzvF-dzJVeV4GPcJCCmGkZaNFYZKpwBX_kyGwwyEogt-kj1mQ8yOlmrVBbQza7cHSPD3nv4A70s4KGc/s2048/05E17A4F-3BF9-42CC-9A09-DB8E599A1BDC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1284" data-original-width="2048" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw-WHXTW4hyphenhyphenkojLHzWy1MGRiMap6KATXfE6OY2loJ2MPu-1GROcmPc8pXDO8w0OzvF-dzJVeV4GPcJCCmGkZaNFYZKpwBX_kyGwwyEogt-kj1mQ8yOlmrVBbQza7cHSPD3nv4A70s4KGc/s320/05E17A4F-3BF9-42CC-9A09-DB8E599A1BDC.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The poem <a href="https://theclosedeyeopen.com/mayas-micros-ed-10/">“Dream of a Spanish Town” </a>is a very different kind of work, inspired by reading the Peruvian poet Cesar Vallejo many years ago. It appears in Maya's Micros, a segment of the Closed Eye Open site. The founders of the site pay tribute to such thinkers as Carl, Jung, Alan Watts, Simone Weil, Huston Smith...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">*<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj_7hZnrNYxMGpSf4QD_coPHcYBjlKA5E_eVyU7ps6mZ6ixenvKoHNvokI_gOzHG-Kx2raiI32KAIDENEP8XJ90dDO9_GFB26YET8684jje2QF3sL8KRRHArVBAaYhJAaJPJOXz6PXqAA/s2048/5AAB872D-45D0-48EA-A3E6-F3BADD53C18D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1655" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj_7hZnrNYxMGpSf4QD_coPHcYBjlKA5E_eVyU7ps6mZ6ixenvKoHNvokI_gOzHG-Kx2raiI32KAIDENEP8XJ90dDO9_GFB26YET8684jje2QF3sL8KRRHArVBAaYhJAaJPJOXz6PXqAA/s320/5AAB872D-45D0-48EA-A3E6-F3BADD53C18D.jpeg" width="259" /></a></div><br /></div>*<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbmJsPPlXRfdsA-rF6aptaLQOwSgppdnSSyqwfjVNFhY2uVf_i70_lPlvMBNAzi2cZK0TkBgQn8c_Cdwo0yXus4RdgU8GS2WV2kGmuCgQIUj-GybY3I8oi-Ys6siIJVThwy7yuiHUIS0/s1504/Barbara+at+Myrtle+Beach%252C+1992.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1504" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbmJsPPlXRfdsA-rF6aptaLQOwSgppdnSSyqwfjVNFhY2uVf_i70_lPlvMBNAzi2cZK0TkBgQn8c_Cdwo0yXus4RdgU8GS2WV2kGmuCgQIUj-GybY3I8oi-Ys6siIJVThwy7yuiHUIS0/s320/Barbara+at+Myrtle+Beach%252C+1992.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://farsidereview.com/issue-i/michael-cooney/">"The Painted Sidewalk"</a> can be read in last month's Farside Review. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>*</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5oRt042J4FzMA1_yQdr646kwQsArzeW0xgwhyNsb0eHTRZP3N8et46Ot1UjdDYBnPYUj_6vQELc7mHIV1TdV7xScq9xMKasXhS1PJh7Id1LwyxGSQXaUVnDuMiVgy1PxCiJZeoMZHZpE/s3120/Hammer+%2526+Sickle+at+Bandit+Fiction.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5oRt042J4FzMA1_yQdr646kwQsArzeW0xgwhyNsb0eHTRZP3N8et46Ot1UjdDYBnPYUj_6vQELc7mHIV1TdV7xScq9xMKasXhS1PJh7Id1LwyxGSQXaUVnDuMiVgy1PxCiJZeoMZHZpE/s320/Hammer+%2526+Sickle+at+Bandit+Fiction.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://banditfiction.com/2021/08/02/hammer-and-sickle-by-michael-cooney/">Hammer and Sickle,</a> a story of the McCarthy Era in upstate New York, appears in another UK-based review, Bandit Fiction. Like the rest of my historical fiction, it is inspired by legends and history of the. Mohawk Valley, in this case the story of a solitary farmer who painted pro-communist slogans on his barn in the midst McCarthy period. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">*</div></div><div><div class="col sqs-col-6 span-6" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1629480847658_70" style="float: left; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 19.200000762939453px; width: 967px;"></div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Second Chance Lit is a unique publishing site in its commitment to work previously rejected or forgotten. The editors David and Katie Wasserman only accept work that has been turned down by other magazines, and I felt honored when they published my poem <a href="https://www.secondchancelit.com/cooney" target="_blank">"Doctor Wicked"</a> in their second issue in April. Another experiment run by Second Chance lit is the Phoenix Project, dedicated solely to works of literature originally published in now defunct magazines. My poem <a href="https://www.secondchancelit.com/cooney2" target="_blank">"No River Where They Parted" </a>appeared in the Phoenix section of the site and was inspired, somewhat like the Vallejo-inspired poem in Maya's Micros, by reading the Italian poetry of Eugenio Montale many years ago. It originally was published in the long defunct little Brooklyn Magazine, the Brownstone Review.</div>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-57726016429575570832021-07-12T17:01:00.006-04:002021-07-12T18:41:15.029-04:00Recent publications <p> <strong style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><img height="193" src="https://www.whlreview.com/index_files/image002.jpg" v:shapes="_x0000_i1025" width="576" /></strong></p><strong style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Wilderness House Literary Review # 16/2</span></em></strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">The flash fiction, "A Perfect Babysitter," was published in June, 2021 by <a href="https://www.whlreview.com/no-16.2/fiction/MichaelCooney3.pdf">Wilderness House Review</a> and was originally written in an online workshop of the <a href="https://nywriterscoalition.org">New York Writers Coalition</a></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="tweet-avatar-wrapper" style="float: left; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 18.853599548339844px;"><a href="http://www.twitter.com/SecondChanceLit/" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="new"><img class="tweet-avatar" src="https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/1286731478320193536/oacK92XL_normal.jpg" style="border-bottom-left-radius: 2px; border-bottom-right-radius: 2px; border-top-left-radius: 2px; border-top-right-radius: 2px; border: 0px;" /></a></div><div class="tweet-text-wrapper" style="font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin-left: 60px;"><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><a href="http://www.twitter.com/SecondChanceLit/" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="new">Second Chance Lit</a></div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><br /></div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;">The poem "Dr. Wicked" appears in Issue 2 of Second Chance Lit, April 2, 2021</div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><a href="https://www.secondchancelit.com/cooney" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal;">https://www.secondchancelit.com/cooney</a></div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><br /></div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><br /></div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0Te73EMN0Oc0hEC-AHDLU_oQATHgCeYpZ9msoPVPj8-ml4VleKxTdDoCUWpHex-EFM5_emgdkRcjK66Q0H3OEvGqwMIuDCqFhyphenhyphennGfyX-6WhE6jbLxbkgSTIKsSedPMnackPbrgXq_gI/s2048/Barbara+at+Krum+Creek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1723" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0Te73EMN0Oc0hEC-AHDLU_oQATHgCeYpZ9msoPVPj8-ml4VleKxTdDoCUWpHex-EFM5_emgdkRcjK66Q0H3OEvGqwMIuDCqFhyphenhyphennGfyX-6WhE6jbLxbkgSTIKsSedPMnackPbrgXq_gI/s320/Barbara+at+Krum+Creek.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><br /></div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><br /></div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><hgroup style="caret-color: rgb(55, 55, 55); color: #373737; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 300; margin: 0px 76px;"><div style="font-size: 15px;"><br /></div></hgroup><span><a href="https://thebigwindowsreview.com/" style="border: 0px; color: #067b7d; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-weight: 300; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></a></span><span style="font-size: 1.1em;">The prose poem "What You Said in German Was Not About Kissing" is in the </span><span style="font-size: 1.1em;">5/21/2021 issue of Big Windows Review.</span></div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><br /></div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><p style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.85); font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://thebigwindowsreview.com/2021/05/21/michael-cooney-what-you-said-in-german-was-not-about-kissing/">https://thebigwindowsreview.com/2021/05/21/michael-cooney-what-you-said-in-german-was-not-about-kissing/</a></p><p style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.85); font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p></div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><br /></div><div class="tweet-from" style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em;"><br /></div></div>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-66450144111118110052021-06-14T10:43:00.009-04:002021-06-21T20:26:54.860-04:00Hill Cumorah, the Sacred Grove, the Smith and Whitmer Farms: Historical Fact and Historical Fiction in Palmyra NY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhil2aHbaSP4RwHFZoGmHCOdFRsfwR2TUnUkVu-tRWgtopjcJnrg9rrqcsatxrD_x56g8BhwROk7ibsNxWeQIp-NqNc7qK1DDnIZXAxmqOhV036uTllvg6dXYNwlni-hVOp_0C8NZo8pxc/s4032/IMG_3216.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhil2aHbaSP4RwHFZoGmHCOdFRsfwR2TUnUkVu-tRWgtopjcJnrg9rrqcsatxrD_x56g8BhwROk7ibsNxWeQIp-NqNc7qK1DDnIZXAxmqOhV036uTllvg6dXYNwlni-hVOp_0C8NZo8pxc/s320/IMG_3216.HEIC" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"> Seven years ago I wrote an historical novel in which I imagine the sister of Joseph Smith telling the story of the Mormon prophet. Almost nothing is known of Sophronia Smith, but enough evidence exists to prove that she was present at every important stage of her brother's life.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Although the novel, entitled <i><a href=" https://www.amazon.com/True-History-Joseph-Smith-sister/dp/1507728441/ref=sr_1_7?dchild=1&keywords=The+True+History+of+Joseph+Smith&qid=1623680980&s=books&sr=1-7">The True History of Joseph Smith</a>,</i> has sold fairly well at Amazon, I am in the process of revising and re-marketing it. Past readers may note that the new edition now on Amazon reads more fluently and that some unnecessary detail has been pared away. Much thanks goes both to LDS readers and to skeptics who have reviewed the book. I believe that the novel, closely based on the historical record, can appeal to both sides of the divide that has existed ever since 14 year old Joseph claimed that God the Father and Son had appeared to him in the woods behind the family farm in Palmyra NY.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In the process of revising the novel, I recently visited Palmyra, New York where Joseph told his family and then others about his visions and his finding of the gold plates. My first stop was at Hill Cumorah where Joseph and his wife Emma are said to have uncovered the gold plates that became the origin of the Book of Mormon.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpwkAaAKZc4pD9iMNzHfiHA0G5_l1Z6t3KIj64Is-mCEwoOxOVmHrooP0z-OG3a_apZDXmeo3Li_YFkSTEAO-d2P0xGRUwThAWxW5RSpUu3ZGHSwZ3CXnOJBOmHz3vTMdaBup6SnyLD4w/s4032/ED3CF8C7-6D4B-4739-A737-0489B8B75E0A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpwkAaAKZc4pD9iMNzHfiHA0G5_l1Z6t3KIj64Is-mCEwoOxOVmHrooP0z-OG3a_apZDXmeo3Li_YFkSTEAO-d2P0xGRUwThAWxW5RSpUu3ZGHSwZ3CXnOJBOmHz3vTMdaBup6SnyLD4w/s320/ED3CF8C7-6D4B-4739-A737-0489B8B75E0A.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">I climbed to the top of the hill in the company of a very helpful guide, and thought of the scene in my novel in which Joseph and Emma return to the Smith farm with the plates completely covered:</p><p><span style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">"Determined to know where my brother and his bride had gone, I sought the counsel of my ever-reliable youngest brother. I found Carlos feeding the chickens. He knew nothing of what concerned me. </span><span style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">Going to the fence that ran along the Canandaigua Road, I looked north and south. Then I saw the wagon in question slowly heading in our direction. As it drew nearer, I recognized Joseph as its driver.</span><span style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"> </span><span style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"> Beside him sat Emma and on her lap was a large parcel wrapped in a white cloth."</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;">The entire family, except possibly their brother Alvin, immediately accepted the reality of the gold plates but the young prophet did not allow anyone to actually see them. An excerpt from the novel:</p><p><span style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">"That night Mother and Father were permitted to lift up the Gold Bible but Joseph warned them that it must stay covered by the large table cloth which he had wrapped around it. Hyrum also was allowed to heft its weight, which he estimated to be about forty pounds. After Joseph recited chapters five through seven from Matthew, he said that our family needed to guard the treasure lest evil-minded men seek to steal or destroy it. He then directed each of us to retire to our beds while he found a place of concealment for the Record which only he would know."</span></p><p><span style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 28.799999237060547px;">My next stop was the Smith family farm, only two miles from the Hill. Here, two young women missionaries gave us a tour of the farm's buildings and fields. They were both very devout and well prepared. Interestingly, the family with whom I took this tour were descended from Joseph's brother, Hyrum, martyred with him in Carthage Missouri in 1844.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 28.799999237060547px;"><span style="color: #00000a; font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 28.799999237060547px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvtT1YQB0E80XzmpF0CA3uNRaZGWX864gbQwhHHjB6aZg5U-Parxi25ZulAaM3bNObSGzFD9gGNozXGz_2Ie-pGDHsfvGJgiJpM9GeSlTYajPvM7z1fYmnV1IWYvwipKeDmLrGWQJiQw/s4032/AB61CBCA-D3AF-4D38-9704-562416D9D264.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvtT1YQB0E80XzmpF0CA3uNRaZGWX864gbQwhHHjB6aZg5U-Parxi25ZulAaM3bNObSGzFD9gGNozXGz_2Ie-pGDHsfvGJgiJpM9GeSlTYajPvM7z1fYmnV1IWYvwipKeDmLrGWQJiQw/s320/AB61CBCA-D3AF-4D38-9704-562416D9D264.jpeg" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><span style="color: #00000a; font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The original Smith log cabin has been replaced by a replica, authentic in every detail. Although it was not the actual house, it was a great pleasure to see the tiny room where I could imagine Sophronia and her sister Katherine chatting about their remarkable brother.</span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 28.799999237060547px;"><span style="color: #00000a; font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="TableContents" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Serif", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1mc_Z2ktcJIN0U3h5BT1-IW6gR-au8WAW0YpEW6eDxYCU7760A0D0xuatcGVCwHz5pb74eEuMXaFrOCqNYDCUiD0Xus21YDdzNr_cEcM9STb0k7KS1nW7JRaVehczlF0iIGodcd8_4tQ/s4032/IMG_3235.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1mc_Z2ktcJIN0U3h5BT1-IW6gR-au8WAW0YpEW6eDxYCU7760A0D0xuatcGVCwHz5pb74eEuMXaFrOCqNYDCUiD0Xus21YDdzNr_cEcM9STb0k7KS1nW7JRaVehczlF0iIGodcd8_4tQ/s320/IMG_3235.HEIC" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">The larger house on the property is partly the original Smith home, built largely by Alvin before his death a mere two months after the plates were found. It was easy to picture the highly emotional conversations that took place in this house, as well as the attack on the house launched by local treasure seekers who believed in the reality of the so-called Gold Bible.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7eOqYT1nzDPaf7PufDClPBVr9qmSuEkNpqif9Aak9zy4Ipv4WE6ZF83dFo-NWuwsKE0KvnWWYMqv-tiZKWvnQaNq7SVDLfRpi8SwPnt16wgOFHPBBmLFYn0oLXUy9ZZbpljDXnq1RII/s4032/IMG_3211.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7eOqYT1nzDPaf7PufDClPBVr9qmSuEkNpqif9Aak9zy4Ipv4WE6ZF83dFo-NWuwsKE0KvnWWYMqv-tiZKWvnQaNq7SVDLfRpi8SwPnt16wgOFHPBBmLFYn0oLXUy9ZZbpljDXnq1RII/s320/IMG_3211.HEIC" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Um-E5-fLttO86WexRnNwuzKcqGLQ5Nt-JhNagPJF-LVNLM1tuM86lv2CwxZE3qb7FK7L7Xc4brpuvnpdSGV91CDs8e5frD27dFb8XTchhKN-ws_pUttb40CQPxCdnAJfFKNAMbXQslc/s4032/F988D372-2693-44F4-BF1E-DA619FA01011.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Um-E5-fLttO86WexRnNwuzKcqGLQ5Nt-JhNagPJF-LVNLM1tuM86lv2CwxZE3qb7FK7L7Xc4brpuvnpdSGV91CDs8e5frD27dFb8XTchhKN-ws_pUttb40CQPxCdnAJfFKNAMbXQslc/s320/F988D372-2693-44F4-BF1E-DA619FA01011.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p>The farm is beautifully maintained and it is easy to picture Joseph and his family working and talking in the fields and barn. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpLD4pySgwUcXbLZzrAmQTP6Z9DooQyozWgJdk6oYWkdEO6MiPJJWE_Ak1y3YYytUkyGewgF-4ONJsFKVkeYogTRKZYD5qcNJR1v9ZgpKblobJaW40k9ssL_c6bwS_k_qUL33OfQ0JnU/s4032/IMG_3220.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpLD4pySgwUcXbLZzrAmQTP6Z9DooQyozWgJdk6oYWkdEO6MiPJJWE_Ak1y3YYytUkyGewgF-4ONJsFKVkeYogTRKZYD5qcNJR1v9ZgpKblobJaW40k9ssL_c6bwS_k_qUL33OfQ0JnU/s320/IMG_3220.HEIC" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUyCC6xbDbGy-HNpM85Xq_Sytv6VQlG1d0RqaZS8EYB_9UFpJG2nxUuZuhrve3ynykCdDPcF4ZPoknM4_1Mufks2B0djNekfYMv0MpU4eIQzWxITl_DaxsYFOA0oS-SGfVEMGNRysG20U/s4032/IMG_3213.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUyCC6xbDbGy-HNpM85Xq_Sytv6VQlG1d0RqaZS8EYB_9UFpJG2nxUuZuhrve3ynykCdDPcF4ZPoknM4_1Mufks2B0djNekfYMv0MpU4eIQzWxITl_DaxsYFOA0oS-SGfVEMGNRysG20U/s320/IMG_3213.HEIC" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiCORDbRphzqgA7UauNCpw1vYHre3qL4Xa42F04OQJckEAEq-QC5jRr9Z9UpCRVs0spfLpaB7yDkDhNf-Q8DbcFlH2S3hZ4OD8aK9k3DB85WBGFqh6nnzqpWivqR8d-flhEtywdOAfx10/s4032/IMG_3229.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiCORDbRphzqgA7UauNCpw1vYHre3qL4Xa42F04OQJckEAEq-QC5jRr9Z9UpCRVs0spfLpaB7yDkDhNf-Q8DbcFlH2S3hZ4OD8aK9k3DB85WBGFqh6nnzqpWivqR8d-flhEtywdOAfx10/s320/IMG_3229.HEIC" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Directly adjacent to the farm is a forest known to believers as the Sacred Grove. I found it a very moving place to visit in the early morning and was able to imagine Sophronia and her small brother Don Carlos Smith coming upon Joseph just after he experienced his great dream or vision:</p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><br /></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">"Entering the woods, we trod noisily in the dry leaves of the previous year and danced merrily about, to the little one's amusement. Nearly at Hathaway Creek, I spied Joseph stretched out at the foot of a lofty oak.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Look at your lazy brother, sleeping the day away! What do you say to sneaking up on him?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Can I wake him up?” asked little Carlos.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Surely,” said I as we advanced on tip-toe toward his sleeping form. For a second, a dark thought seized me and I feared I was looking upon his corpse. Then Don Carlos had jumped full onto his brother with a great shriek of joy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Smiling hugely, Joseph seized his little brother in his arms and rolled about, making the most ferocious growling. Carlos squealed with delight as Joseph lifted him high over his head.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh Joseph,” I said. “I am glad you are yourself again. I was so anxious to see you looking downcast.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, that's no matter,” he grinned, reaching out to include both of us in his embrace. “The Methodists don't count for a fig now!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We sat down together as Don Carlos searched for pebbles to throw into the brook. Joseph put his arm around my shoulders and pulled my head onto his chest. I could hear his heart beating.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I had the most splendid dream, Sophronia. A glorious dream!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Do tell me of it!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I came here to pray, dear sister for I was sore distressed by the Methodists. I thought they were true Christians but they betrayed my trust.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“The wretches!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, but I forgive them. They know not what they do.” He paused for several minutes and his eyes seemed to gaze into far distances. I prompted him to continue.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I prayed to the Lord in the name of Jesus. I called out loudly for help. Show me the way, I said to the Lord. Show me the true way. After many hours, I had received no answer and fell into despair. I thought to myself that the Devil rules this world.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh do not say such a thing, Joseph!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It was only a passing fancy, dearest sister. After I was assailed by the demonic fear, I grew weary and lay down under this tree to rest for a moment before again calling out to God.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Joseph paused again and his eyes grew bright. “A truly glorious dream came unto me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Or perhaps I awakened and saw with my very eyes? Perhaps this was no dream at all but a true vision like that of Paul on the road to Damascus!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Tell me,” I pleaded.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I saw a pillar of light....there!” He pointed to the empty air above us. “It was beyond the brightness of the sun and slowly the light descended from the heavens until it was all around me. I was in the midst of the brightest light! And in the cloud of light I saw them!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Who, dear brother? Who did you see?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I saw two holy personages whose brightness and glory were beyond description!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Did they speak, Joseph? Did you hear their voices?” I was completely caught up in his dream and breathing fast. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“The older one with the white beard called me by name. He said to me, Joseph my son. And I answered, yes Lord, what will you have of me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes? Yes? Did God answer you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, dear Sophronia. You have guessed it. That personage was God himself, the great father of us all and he pointed to the personage at his side, who had long flowing hair and beard of a beautiful auburn shade.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbgXeF3hNFrgUX_MOgV4cYow-jT1csXXdw7z3mWWbbtQeyc8_RiZlOtOAREAxcUCu9zvGs01b1WdoEn0ZnypC3LaM_r1YnQrCfaRitEek3dn9FKSGybXw1EZQVRXdV1VWJ3UOaRfyZKY/s4032/IMG_3214.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbgXeF3hNFrgUX_MOgV4cYow-jT1csXXdw7z3mWWbbtQeyc8_RiZlOtOAREAxcUCu9zvGs01b1WdoEn0ZnypC3LaM_r1YnQrCfaRitEek3dn9FKSGybXw1EZQVRXdV1VWJ3UOaRfyZKY/s320/IMG_3214.HEIC" /></a></div><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><br /></p><p class="PreformattedText" style="color: #00000a; font-family: "Liberation Mono"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">In the novel, Sophronia nearly always supports Joseph but she never actually sees or hears the supernatural events he describes. In the above scene, she is obviously very encouraging. Later, as he becomes surrounded by his followers, she finds it harder and harder to break through the ring of sycophants and to share her anxieties and warnings with him. The novel concludes with her attempt, along with two of his wives, to rescue Joseph from the murderous crowd in Carthage.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Before leaving western New York, I stopped at the Whitmer farm in Fayette, about 30 miles away, to see the place where Joseph organized his followers into a new church and finished the Book of Mormon. An older missionary and two young women missionaries provided a very thorough tour of the farm, which I took in the company of a devout family from Utah. The children were very knowledgeable about the Book of Mormon, which I confess to finding tedious in the extreme. Mark Twain described it as "chloroform in print" yet sincere people do find value in it.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">This is also where three of those followers were convinced that they too saw the gold plates which Joseph had been translating with the aid of scribes and various mysterious instruments such as seer stones.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQQZJUtwKUQG0MSfC36e0Jx3JTbwwO7e6C14dz-2uCkGHwetmXClpAlCff2F-78kpvBcTzfBPZW1ZMxcGcoGEBlJEwudvC5dk1kc5nzszv8cn1mngeTdLFP7VSUEXAMsH3NGQDNlqsVM/s4032/IMG_3203.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQQZJUtwKUQG0MSfC36e0Jx3JTbwwO7e6C14dz-2uCkGHwetmXClpAlCff2F-78kpvBcTzfBPZW1ZMxcGcoGEBlJEwudvC5dk1kc5nzszv8cn1mngeTdLFP7VSUEXAMsH3NGQDNlqsVM/s320/IMG_3203.HEIC" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVEndBzgvuHsDEF_boP76YVkhmPZ6AQStsTo4C0msCjDT6DMCDFvyNeFvjOUBt8Q6ItQP5H0PhNoOWQ3e3xE9ehZJV0d_IZC1uPDAUCk9WQg6OfuB3ACwXTAW7hKbLD76KJU2qWzavpIE/s4032/C9356862-F811-4351-BC7C-6A8520BFEFE9.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVEndBzgvuHsDEF_boP76YVkhmPZ6AQStsTo4C0msCjDT6DMCDFvyNeFvjOUBt8Q6ItQP5H0PhNoOWQ3e3xE9ehZJV0d_IZC1uPDAUCk9WQg6OfuB3ACwXTAW7hKbLD76KJU2qWzavpIE/s320/C9356862-F811-4351-BC7C-6A8520BFEFE9.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPQQa6s6jNXGBCc1RLCKFHOGQXfdYo1XPyKslhBqaT8jYiCxRQwXxEJYVKWJD7aEbG6rrLu91ZSFi6iq7oP4VWl84Wxdr6uL-qfU8dF__M86gy6az3cF-koC7jjjyLtBTX-FXuwh7WjE/s4032/37034873-E7D0-4463-919A-6363C0BD18D3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPQQa6s6jNXGBCc1RLCKFHOGQXfdYo1XPyKslhBqaT8jYiCxRQwXxEJYVKWJD7aEbG6rrLu91ZSFi6iq7oP4VWl84Wxdr6uL-qfU8dF__M86gy6az3cF-koC7jjjyLtBTX-FXuwh7WjE/s320/37034873-E7D0-4463-919A-6363C0BD18D3.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">I can imagine Joseph going into these woods near the Whitmer farm with David Whitmer, Oliver Cowdery and Martin Harris. Although those three are listed in every Book of Mormon as witnesses, all of them were excommunicated by Joseph. His personal magnetism was so great, however, that all three continued to believe in his revelations and never retracted their testimony as to the reality of the gold plates. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Such was the power of an uneducated farm boy's imagination that 200 years after he began to tell his wondrous tales, he is still believed by many millions. I returned from Palmyra more impressed than ever by this remarkable American story.</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/True-History-Joseph-Smith-sister/dp/1507728441/ref=sr_1_7?dchild=1&keywords=The+True+History+of+Joseph+Smith&qid=1623680980&s=books&sr=1-7">BUY THE BOOK:</a></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfIHSSVDicrOdIiCL1iqXvAyWPfN76njqWos4tYJ9HOhAk3y_fNuR9JZ0qKK1jr4EyifXigdFf4xYmZEdEktNui25p3CHU0tdgI0enlh8ZWLT2mt7eer0pTPltquI7_sh6r6fI89zT1iw/s1600/The+True+History+COVER.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfIHSSVDicrOdIiCL1iqXvAyWPfN76njqWos4tYJ9HOhAk3y_fNuR9JZ0qKK1jr4EyifXigdFf4xYmZEdEktNui25p3CHU0tdgI0enlh8ZWLT2mt7eer0pTPltquI7_sh6r6fI89zT1iw/s1600/The+True+History+COVER.jpg" width="236" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p>Those interested in reading more of Sophronia's version of Joseph Smith's life can purchase the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/True-History-Joseph-Smith-sister/dp/1507728441/ref=sr_1_7?dchild=1&keywords=The+True+History+of+Joseph+Smith&qid=1623680980&s=books&sr=1-7">paperback</a> or <a href="https://www.amazon.com/True-History-Joseph-Smith-ebook/dp/B00SSBDB4U/ref=sr_1_7?keywords=The+True+History+of+Joseph+Smith&qid=1623680980&s=books&sr=1-7">kindle copies at Amazon</a>. Although the dialogue and some scenes are imagined, there is no significant detail in the book that contradicts the historical record. </p><p>Readers comments are welcome: <a href="mailto:wildernesshill@gmail.com">wildernesshill@gmail.com</a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-51039492459182993712021-04-08T20:08:00.007-04:002022-04-03T19:37:32.497-04:00Flash Fiction: "Good Odds" and "Have You Eaten?"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4u7Pge-JHUsD4fucAW-mSm4UiQAC5CRlnf_w_ImOShamUWY5B6EnfGfYn7TStp4E5G3t9M7f8EP9IP6QtQ6vaJ3HDs1WGIkRBzz5Y0zgKM6zCrxjaVZsvgFCpbjwa_9_BjYJnhSqUeH8/s900/Albany-Medical-Center.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="900" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4u7Pge-JHUsD4fucAW-mSm4UiQAC5CRlnf_w_ImOShamUWY5B6EnfGfYn7TStp4E5G3t9M7f8EP9IP6QtQ6vaJ3HDs1WGIkRBzz5Y0zgKM6zCrxjaVZsvgFCpbjwa_9_BjYJnhSqUeH8/s320/Albany-Medical-Center.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>In our era of rapid clicks and short attention spans, flash fiction seems like the way to go. This was published last week in <a href="https://101words.org/good-odds/">101 words: </a></p><p><br /></p><p>GOOD ODDS</p><p><span style="font-size: 1em;">I have some questions.</span></p><article aria-label="Good Odds" class="post-29594 post type-post status-publish format-standard category-all-stories entry" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 60px; width: 702px;"><div class="entry-content" style="box-sizing: inherit;"><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">Yes?</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">About my treatment.</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">I will be happy to answer any questions you may have.</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">Is it worth it for me to go through this?</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">That’s a question only you can answer.</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">Okay, let me put it this way: what are my chances if I go ahead with this treatment?</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">As I said…</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">Just tell me how many people are alive five years later.</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">You want a percentage?</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">Yes.</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">22.7 %.</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">How about ten years out?</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">Now we’re really getting into another area where statistics…</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">Pick a percentage.</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">9.2%. Approximately.</p><p style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">That seems like good odds to me.</p><span id="tve_leads_end_content" style="border: 1px solid transparent; box-sizing: inherit; display: block; visibility: hidden;"></span></div><p class="pen_name" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">By <a href="https://upstateearth.blogspot.com/" rel="nofollow" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #e97a31; transition-duration: 0.2s, 0.2s; transition-property: color, background-color; transition-timing-function: ease-in-out, ease-in-out; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, background-color 0.2s ease-in-out;">Michael Cooney</a></span></p><p class="pen_name" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="pen_name" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;">Friday Flash Fiction 4/23/22</p><p class="pen_name" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;"><b><a href="https://www.fridayflashfiction.com/100-word-stories/have-you-eaten-by-michael-cooney">Have You Eaten?</a></b></p><table class="wsite-not-footer" id="blogTable" style="border: 0px; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; table-layout: fixed; width: 890px;"><tbody><tr><td valign="top"><div class="blog-body" id="510673657138266662-blog" style="float: left; width: 665px;"><div id="wsite-content"><div class="blog-post" id="blog-post-397126704547356294" style="position: relative; zoom: 1;"><div class="blog-post-header"></div><div class="blog-header" style="border: none !important; line-height: 1.5 !important; margin: 0px !important; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px !important; width: 665px;"><h2 class="blog-title" style="border: none !important; color: #0c2335; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 24px; line-height: 1.5 !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important; word-wrap: break-word;"><br /></h2></div><div class="blog-separator" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(221, 221, 221); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; clear: both; font-size: 2px; height: 2px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-top: 0px; padding-top: 2px;"> </div><div class="blog-content" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 15px; text-align: justify;"><div class="paragraph" style="line-height: 1.5; margin: 0px; padding: 0.5em 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">Have you eaten?</span><br /><span style="color: black;">Not breakfast.</span><br /><span style="color: black;">Or lunch. Whatever.</span><br /><span style="color: black;">I think maybe I had coffee. </span><br /><span style="color: black;">Well, come on, I’ll take you to breakfast right across the street.</span><br /><span style="color: black;">But that’s a McDonalds. I hate McDonalds!</span><br /><span style="color: black;">Listen, who else is offering to buy you anything? </span><br /><span style="color: black;">I don’t want to seem ungrateful. It’s just that I hate McDonalds.</span><br /><span style="color: black;">Here’s two bucks. Now, do me a favor and get lost.</span><br /><span style="color: black;">Why do you have to be like that?</span><br /><span style="color: black;">Like what?</span><br /><span style="color: black;">Inconsiderate. Thoughtless. Mean. Never putting yourself in my place.</span><br /><span style="color: black;">How about three dollars, okay?</span><br /><span style="color: black;">Yeah, now I can get the Big Mac.</span></span></div></div></div></div></div></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="pen_name" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="pen_name" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="pen_name" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="pen_name" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px 0px 30px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><footer class="entry-footer" style="box-sizing: inherit;"></footer></article><div class="comments-compat-genesis-sample" id="comments" style="box-sizing: inherit;"><div class="clearfix" id="thrive-comments" style="box-sizing: inherit; clear: both; color: #393939; font-family: "Roboto Regular"; font-size: 18px; margin: 80px 0px; min-height: 20px; width: 702px;"><div class="thrive-comments-content" style="box-sizing: inherit;"><div class="tcm-comments-filter" style="box-sizing: inherit;"><div class="tcm-comments-filters" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 20px;"><div class="left" style="box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; float: left;"></div></div></div></div></div></div><p><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-47753374930234720452021-02-23T22:19:00.009-05:002021-02-24T21:50:02.785-05:00"The Colonel Takes Command" published in Sundial Magazine<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRaFF52jUQgPlkObwl5HzwwIQ1jvoQ_9QebU8OSC-eRE3tOk5nh4mgQxb2ZSZf-ZKejAOvlc_6hGA1e_eWoagmi8HY0bK-BFPKgyeBC5SifMnXlM_Hn1NHctMCsDJDcTaiQNuIq9jtug/s2048/image.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRaFF52jUQgPlkObwl5HzwwIQ1jvoQ_9QebU8OSC-eRE3tOk5nh4mgQxb2ZSZf-ZKejAOvlc_6hGA1e_eWoagmi8HY0bK-BFPKgyeBC5SifMnXlM_Hn1NHctMCsDJDcTaiQNuIq9jtug/s320/image.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>My story, inspired by the Mike Masco murder case in Little Falls a century ago, is now <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/sundial-magazine/short-stories/the-colonel-takes-command"><b>on line in Sundial Magazine</b></a>, a new site for short historical fiction. The details of the homicide and the method of concealing his wife's body are taken directly from the files of the Little Falls Historical Society. The manhunt is also based on fact, and Masco did flee to the area known as the Burnt Rocks east of town before he was apprehended. Chief Molloy and his son are based on local figures whose identity would be obvious to the more ancient local inhabitants. Camp Jolly, the Home Guard, and the shooting of the cows are all taken directly from history.</p><p><br /></p><p>Looking back at the story, my one regret is giving the Colonel the name of Guy Beardslee and I hope I have not troubled his spirit with my portrayal of the foolish old fellow bearing his name. The Colonel descended from the family who pioneered electricity development the county and built Beardslee's Mills, long since under the lake created by the dam at East Creek. The family's gothic mansion is now the well known Beardslee Castle restaurant on Route 5. (Photo below)</p><p>Sundial is a great new magazine and I urge your support. I particularly like<b> <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/sundial-magazine/flash/a-part-of-charlotte?authuser=0">A Part of Charlotte</a></b> by Amy Goyan, a flash fiction which centers on an infamous device used to restrain patients at the State Asylum for Lunatics in Utica, New York.</p><p>I would also like to acknowledge the story illustration by Yaleeza Patchett.</p><p><br /></p><p>For other Upstate Earth posts related to the background of this fiction, see:</p><p><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/2925277268651697833/2206945531612545415"><b>The Ghosts of Beardslees Mills</b></a></p><p><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/2925277268651697833/480289297554109456"><b>Tales From the Rock City</b></a></p><p><b><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/2925277268651697833/1400141969552929003">The Utica Insane Asylum</a></b></p><p><br /></p><p>And this summary of a recent museum exhibit gives a good picture of Camp Jolly:</p><p><a href="https://littlefallshistoricalsociety.org/museum-exhibit/camp-jolly-exhibit/"><b>Little Falls Historical Society exhibit on Camp Jolly</b></a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1Xrq7lVrOV3lJlRWfMZNMJpEzDmKcF9QGtr5nLA9dLy_MGpMGFsKqkcmepxbxBSMqjJEbQQepIctS3P8gN88Fnllcmf_PSy7XPlMqkDzH-91et-4NvWn88En0IWOSikDEpt9S-UF7BM/s320/Beardslee+Castle.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1Xrq7lVrOV3lJlRWfMZNMJpEzDmKcF9QGtr5nLA9dLy_MGpMGFsKqkcmepxbxBSMqjJEbQQepIctS3P8gN88Fnllcmf_PSy7XPlMqkDzH-91et-4NvWn88En0IWOSikDEpt9S-UF7BM/s0/Beardslee+Castle.JPG" /></a></div> <div><p><br /></p></div>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-82753876237143318012021-01-24T14:06:00.002-05:002021-04-08T20:33:16.942-04:00"The Witch Girl and The Wobbly" published by Running Wild Press<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHeCQS2YQt4jsr1yCsxgqFfUNbRLg-P1EX-q8iIlKbDFauB79wybabBHBJIe3JAbK_IbgRonNxXHNkNlBWs-8fv-eHmGfvVycwk40uX-j7muNyH7me1kJWoQBwcpDu0aIwyeldzu8yyE4/s2048/Running+Wild+Cover+photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1206" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHeCQS2YQt4jsr1yCsxgqFfUNbRLg-P1EX-q8iIlKbDFauB79wybabBHBJIe3JAbK_IbgRonNxXHNkNlBWs-8fv-eHmGfvVycwk40uX-j7muNyH7me1kJWoQBwcpDu0aIwyeldzu8yyE4/s320/Running+Wild+Cover+photo.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> My novella set among the isolated people of the Taconic Hills a century ago has been published in Kindle and paperback editions: </p><p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1947041827?pf_rd_r=5ABSV2SVRCDY2MYT3SXD&pf_rd_p=5ae2c7f8-e0c6-4f35-9071-dc3240e894a8">Running Wild Novella Anthology, Volume 4 Book 1: Wright, Peter: 9781947041820: Amazon.com: Books</a></p><p>The story is narrated by Tom Ryan, a young man radicalized by the 1912 textile strike in Little Falls who comes to New York City in flight from World War I conscription. Falling in with the anarchist firebrand Carlo Tresca and the future Communist Party leader Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, he is recruited to organize workers in upstate Stottville. Fleeing a bogus murder charge only days after he arrives, Tom finds refuge in the long isolated community known to local historians as the Taghanic Basketmakers or Pondshiners.</p><p>The story takes a turn when Tom meets a daughter of that community, only recently ravaged by the misnamed Spanish Flu pandemic of 1917-19. An excerpt from that encounter follows:</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">I hardly remember
stumbling into a lake and then climbing up a hillside full of trees and after
that I must have passed out. I saw a girl with a bow and arrow, and thought I
was dreaming.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">I have no clear
recollection until the next day. I was under a rough blanket and could hear the
sound of birds. Opening my eyes, I saw that I was in a room with walls that
looked to be made of mud and sticks. The iron pots hanging from the walls
looked about a hundred years old. Then I noticed a little girl, no more than
seven or eight, in a raggedy dress. She jumped up in a fright when she saw I
was awake and ran out through the canvas flap that served as a door. A minute
the later the older girl, who might have been sixteen, the one I had seen in
the forest, poked her head into the room and said something in a blurry sort of
voice. “I'm sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">She came a few feet
farther into the hut. I could see that the smaller girl held her hand and was
trying to pull her <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>back out of sight.
“Are you still feelin' peaked?” she repeated.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">“No, I'm all right, thank
you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">The two girls so closely
resembled each other that I was sure they were sisters, although the older was
dark as a Sicilian and the younger light as a Dutch girl. With her long,
straight black hair, the older one reminded me of a picture of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pocahontas I'd seen in a schoolbook.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she didn't reply, I added, “Thank you
for taking care of me. I guess I was pretty sick when you found me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The older girl nodded. “You hungry now?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Sure,” I told her, and she vanished. A few
minutes later she came back and handed me a wooden bowl. I tried a mouthful of
a kind of stew, which was about the gamiest stuff I'd ever tasted, but I was so
hungry I took another spoonful. “Pretty good,” I lied. “What's in it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That there's some fine squirrel meat and
healing roots I gathered special.” She relaxed enough to sit down on a wooden
stool. “That'll bring ye back to yourself.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, I thank you for it,” I said, forcing
myself to keep eating. “You've been very kind.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She blushed at that, and put her face down.
Wanting to keep her talking, I asked her, “Did I really see you with a bow and
arrow or was I dreaming?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That brought a shy smile to her face, but
she quickly looked away. “I'm the best hand at a bow of any woman on the hill,”
she said in a very serious voice. “I took down that squirrel you're eatin' this
very morn.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Of any woman? Are there other women who use
a bow and arrow?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">I was wondering if I had
stumbled into Sherwood Forest and she was Maid Marian. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Them's our ways up here, not that I 'spect
you to know that. We gals are the only ones 'lowed to touch a bow and it's on
us to catch squirrels for the pot. Or bunnies if we see one. A'course, it's
only the men 'lowed to take down deers 'cause they have their guns but there's
never any deers, not for years, anyways.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I was trying to figure this all out, she
asked me “How come you's meandering on the hill, anyways? You from the hotel?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hotel?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“From the hotel down on Lake Charlotte.
Lots of city folk been comin' there of late and it'd not be strange if you'd
got yourself lost in the woods.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, I don't know about any hotel. I was
just...”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Then there's no place you got to be goin'
in a hurry?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, for a fact, there isn't.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Good, that's good.” She stood up. “Ye
needs to rest now. If ye need a thing, call out and my lil sis'll get it for
ye. Her name's Mary.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><b>To read the entire story and those of my fellow novella writers, order the book by clicking on the link at the top of this page.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><b><br /></b></span></p><br /><p></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-70675850791656016142020-12-11T13:10:00.002-05:002021-01-18T09:57:05.426-05:00The generous poetry of Ellen Bass<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4eIEapQL1WeM0dbMm3NQeunXAhjM2cD4mI1IpHCHsIwSeJxRocVqcUExa1R3e4OXChLT87rEs3J4bxvi83oIRECHu4_4vdIOdjWpJdWXTRwXZZI1Q-IRuCwXWhyluH3RnuEO0sAyWfQ/s708/Ellen+Bass.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="474" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4eIEapQL1WeM0dbMm3NQeunXAhjM2cD4mI1IpHCHsIwSeJxRocVqcUExa1R3e4OXChLT87rEs3J4bxvi83oIRECHu4_4vdIOdjWpJdWXTRwXZZI1Q-IRuCwXWhyluH3RnuEO0sAyWfQ/s320/Ellen+Bass.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">(Cross published at<a href="https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2020/12/11/2001341/-The-generous-poetry-of-Ellen-Bass"> Daily Kos</a>)</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Ellen Bass is appearing with Aracelis Girmay tonight at a Brooklyn Public Library virtual event entitled "Holding Space for Grief." In these terribly difficult times, Ellen is a living poet who offers much to nourish our spirits.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">First a brief bio<em style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;"> based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Ellen Bass; it is used under the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:CC-BY-SA" rel="nofollow" style="color: #245f6c; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License</a>. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.</em></p><div><em style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;"><br /></em></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px;">Ellen Bass (born 1947, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) is an American poet and co-author of The Courage to Heal.</span></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px;"><div style="text-align: justify;">She grew up in Margate City, NJ, where her parents owned a liquor store. She attended Goucher College, where she graduated magna cum laude in 1968 with her bachelor’s degree. She pursued a master’s degree at Boston University, where she studied with Anne Sexton, and graduated in 1970. From 1970–1974, Bass worked as an administrator at Project Place, a social service center in Boston. She currently is teaching in the low residency MFA program at Pacific University in Oregon and has been teaching Writing About Our Lives workshops since 1974 in Santa Cruz, California.</div></span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Her poems have appeared in hundreds of journals and anthologies, including The Atlantic Monthly, Ms., The American Poetry Review, The Kenyon Review, Ploughshares, and Field. Much of her earlier writing is confessional poetry. The Human Line (Copper Canyon Press, 2007) was named among the notable books of 2007 in the section poetry by the San Francisco Chronicle[6] and Mules of Love (BOA Editions, 2002) won the 2002 Lambda Literary Award in the category lesbian poetry.</div></span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12px;">Ellen Bass writes wonderful generous poems full of specific and very human details. I'll include here a couple of her poems and urge readers to visit her <b><a href="https://www.ellenbass.com/">website</a></b> for more samples and information on purchasing her books.</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12px;">First, listen to her <a href="https://www.ellenbass.com/books/indigo/sous-chef/">reading "Sous Chef"</a> as she prepares dinner with her wife.</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px;">And now here is a poem about her mother's life from her 2020 book,<i> Indigo.</i></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px;">BLACK COFFEE</span></p><p><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">I didn’t know that when my mother died, her grave</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">would be dug in my body. And when I weaken,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">she is here, dressing behind the closet door,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">hooking up her long-line cotton bra,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">then sliding the cups around to the front,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">leaning over and harnessing each heavy breast,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">setting the straps in the grooves on her shoulders,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">reins for the journey. She’s slicking her lips with</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">Fire & Ice. She’s shoveling the car out of the snow.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">How many pints of Four Roses did she slide</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">into exactly sized brown bags? How many cases</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">of Pabst Blue Ribbon did she sling onto the counter?</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">All the crumpled bills, steeped in the smells</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">of the lives who’d handled them–their sweat,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">onions and grease, lumber and bleach–she opened</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">her palm and smoothed each one. Then</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">stacked them precisely, restoring order.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">And at ten, after the change fund was counted,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">the doors locked, she uncinched the girth, unbuckled</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">the bridle. Cooked Cream of Wheat for my father,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">mixed a milkshake with Hershey’s syrup for me,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">and poured herself a single highball,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">placed on a yellow paper napkin.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">Years later, when I needed the nightly</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">highball too, she gave me this story.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">She’d left my father in the hospital–</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">this time they didn’t know if he’d live,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">but she had to get back to the store. Halfway</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">she stopped at a diner and ordered coffee.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">She sat in the booth with her coat still on,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">crying, silently, just the tears rolling down,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">and the waitress never said a word,</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px;">just kept refilling her cup.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>And here's a scene of two people at an airport from her earlier book, <i>The Human Line:</i></p><p>GATE C22</p><p><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">At gate C22 in the Portland airport</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">a woman arriving from Orange County.</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">like he’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">like she’d been released at least from ICU, snapped</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">kisses like the ocean in the early morning,</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">the way it gathers and swells, sucking</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">each rock under, swallowing it</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">again and again. We were all watching—</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">passengers waiting for the delayed flight</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots,</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">sunglasses. We couldn’t look away. We could</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">taste the kisses crushed in our mouths.</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">But the best part was his face. When he drew back</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">as though he were a mother still open from giving birth,</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">as your mother must have looked at you, no matter</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">what happened after—if she beat you or left you or</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">you’re lonely now—you once lay there, the vernix</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth.</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">The whole wing of the airport hushed,</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">all of us trying to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body,</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses,</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #1a1a1a; box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;">little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up</span></p><p><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></p><p><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #1a1a1a; color: white; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></p>Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-15989297818189555222020-05-21T14:49:00.001-04:002021-02-03T19:33:02.963-05:00We must risk delight: The poetry of Jack Gilbert<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMG_0IqTMQvYi6gcYNS6AsqM-_3ufQRi_yh-EAhEO6WKqVaskMHH3VzKh3cQHZjYMI7bx1ktOXK4ER0P8-aTYS0QULI8AtzbTKNRZJoChxPOOMC37dj5tCO-lrn9kxXCuLYco3Rnhq6Gw/s1600/jack_gilbert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMG_0IqTMQvYi6gcYNS6AsqM-_3ufQRi_yh-EAhEO6WKqVaskMHH3VzKh3cQHZjYMI7bx1ktOXK4ER0P8-aTYS0QULI8AtzbTKNRZJoChxPOOMC37dj5tCO-lrn9kxXCuLYco3Rnhq6Gw/s320/jack_gilbert.jpg" width="312" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I thought I knew American writers of his generation well but I had never heard of Jack Gilbert until a friend recommended him to me a couple weeks ago. Born in 1925, he is often associated with the Beat poets like Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti but he shunned publicity for his five decade long writing career. After winning the Yale Young Poets Prize and being nominated for a Pulitzer in 1962, he pretty much dropped out of sight for years, surviving as best he could overseas. Here’s one that gives a sense of how he found joy and beauty even in his failed marriage with the poet Linda Gregg. She also needs to be better appreciate. Read about her and her poems at the <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/linda-gregg" target="_blank">Poetry Foundation site.</a></span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Failing and Flying</span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's the same when love comes to an end,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">or the marriage fails and people say</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">they knew it was a mistake, that everybody</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">said it would never work. That she was</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">old enough to know better. But anything</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">worth doing is worth doing badly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Like being there by that summer ocean</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">on the other side of the island while</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">love was fading out of her, the stars</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">burning so extravagantly those nights that</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">anyone could tell you they would never last.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Every morning she was asleep in my bed</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">like a visitation, the gentleness in her</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">like antelope standing in the dawn mist.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Each afternoon I watched her coming back</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">through the hot stony field after swimming,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">the sea light behind her and the huge sky</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">on the other side of that. Listened to her</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">while we ate lunch. How can they say</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">the marriage failed? Like the people who</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">came back from Provence (when it was Provence)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">but just coming to the end of his triumph.</span><br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">After twenty years he published another book of poetry, and followed with three more over the decades. When asked where he had been, he answered that he had been falling in love with Linda Gregg and then with his second wife, the sculptor Michiko Nogami. He never overcame his grief when Michiko died of cancer and this is one of many poems he wrote for her:</span><br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<strong><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Michiko Dead</span></strong><br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He manages like somebody carrying a box </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">that is too heavy, first with his arms</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">underneath.When their strength gives out, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">he moves the hands forward, hooking them </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">on the corners, pulling the weight against </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">his chest. He moves his thumbs slightly </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">when the fingers begin to tire, and it makes </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">different muscles take over. Afterward,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">he carries it on his shoulder, until the blood </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">drains out of the arm that is stretched up</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">to steady the box and the arm goes numb. But now </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">the man can hold underneath again, so that </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">he can go on without ever putting the box down.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In old age, he published the poem, “Brief for the Defense,” that might be his greatest. To quote Dan Albergotti:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“To say Gilbert has been working on his greatest poem for 80 years might be overstating the case, but it has certainly been 80 years in the making. Perhaps it is safest, though, to assert that he’s been at it since 1962.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Albergotti’s entire elegy on Gilbert, <strong><a data-original-title="" href="https://poets.org/text/coming-end-his-triumph-retrospective-jack-gilbert" target="_blank" title="">“Coming to the End of his Triumph,” </a></strong>on poets.org is well worth reading. Here is the poem where he says that no matter how terrible life becomes, we must risk delight:</span></div>
<div class="is-empty-p">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong></strong><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>A Brief for the Defense</strong> </span><br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">are not starving someplace, they are starving</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">at the fountain are laughing together between</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">the suffering they have known and the awfulness</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">in the village is very sick. There is laughter</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">everyday in the terrible streets of Calcutta,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">we lessen the importance of their deprivation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">but not delight.Not enjoyment. We must have</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">furnace of this world. To make injustice the only</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We must admit there will be music despite everything.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We stand at the prow again of a small ship</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">anchored late at night in the tiny port</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">all the years of sorrow that are to come.</span><br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“We must admit there will be music despite everything.” What a sentence!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Cross-published at the <a href="https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2020/5/21/1946714/-We-must-risk-delight-The-Poetry-of-Jack-Gilbert" target="_blank">Daily Kos.</a></span></div>
Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-9917370993928314862020-04-12T17:03:00.000-04:002020-04-12T17:03:50.824-04:00Easter 2020: The yellow birds that fill the trees<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUfaSVm-gS1lGR-WPCz3CTo-u1w-osiFZEW0ANlTOBOP_Z6wJG5r6QTeL52MBkq4FcTA_yS4w2poPQjizs3fYHJspDcpjwWOsiXqOGJrj4LaHBBNgDmNjntcfzbn3Crfcysf8JZL6OWHs/s1600/hundreds+of+birds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="852" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUfaSVm-gS1lGR-WPCz3CTo-u1w-osiFZEW0ANlTOBOP_Z6wJG5r6QTeL52MBkq4FcTA_yS4w2poPQjizs3fYHJspDcpjwWOsiXqOGJrj4LaHBBNgDmNjntcfzbn3Crfcysf8JZL6OWHs/s320/hundreds+of+birds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">No River Where We Parted</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>After
Eugenio Montale’s “Dora Markus”</i></span></span></div>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">There
was no wooden bridge, </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">no
river where we parted:</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">a
stream of taxis yellow as daffodils, </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">the
air tasting of smoke. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">With
a wave of your hand</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">you
pointed to the city of brick</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">where
an old man, almost motionless</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">at the window, </span>awaited your return.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Your
sadness made me think of a winter morning </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">when so many yellow birds
arrived</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">that
they filled all the trees in all the woods</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">that
stood behind my father's house.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
spent the day shoveling snow </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">from
the neighbors' walks,</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">thinking
and thinking about hundreds</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">and hundreds of yellow birds.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western">
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">This poem, originally published in the Spring 1999 issue of the long vanished <i>Brownstone Review</i>, was loosely inspired by one written by the Italian poet Eugenio Montale in 1926, and continued in 1939. The woman in the title is someone he never met.</span><br />
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: normal; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmwCP3ewZkbdfs47VV391qmZskR10HtXza5B8LsrfqLlytsdYCDcEn1U4O-1hbVBLw5j6JhjBmZV3hTZ3CJf6RbGYxsn0j7kWeRqkYlaph0p37kPhBQ1CDGq5EpnXgqeUwh0H0Ga2rag/s1600/eugenio+montale.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="392" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmwCP3ewZkbdfs47VV391qmZskR10HtXza5B8LsrfqLlytsdYCDcEn1U4O-1hbVBLw5j6JhjBmZV3hTZ3CJf6RbGYxsn0j7kWeRqkYlaph0p37kPhBQ1CDGq5EpnXgqeUwh0H0Ga2rag/s320/eugenio+montale.png" width="314" /></a></div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small; font-style: normal;">Montale survived the Fascist era by concealing his meaning behind such intricate symbols that his poems can be interpreted in many ways, all of them beautiful. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-style: normal;"><br /></span>
<br />
DORA MARKUS<br />
<br />
1<br />
<br />
Fu dove il ponte di legno<br />
mette a Porto Corsini sul mare alto<br />
e rari uomini, quasi immoti, affondano<br />
o salpano le reti. Con un segno<br />
della mano additavi all'altra sponda<br />
invisibile la tua patria vera.<br />
Poi seguimmo il canale fino alla darsena<br />
della città, lucida di fuliggine,<br />
nella bassura dove s'affondava<br />
una primavera inerte, senza memoria.<br />
<br />
E qui dove un'antica vita<br />
si screzia in una dolce<br />
ansietà d'Oriente,<br />
le tue parole iridavano come le scaglie<br />
della triglia moribonda.<br />
<br />
La tua irrequietudine mi fa pensare<br />
agli uccelli di passo che urtano ai fari<br />
nelle sere tempestose:<br />
è una tempesta anche la tua dolcezza,<br />
turbina e non appare.<br />
E i suoi riposi sono anche più rari.<br />
Non so come stremata tu resisti<br />
in quel lago<br />
d'indifferenza ch'è il tuo cuore; forse<br />
ti salva un amuleto che tu tieni<br />
vicino alla matita delle labbra,<br />
al piumino, alla lima: un topo bianco<br />
d'avorio; e così esisti!<br />
<br />
1926<br />
<br />
2<br />
<br />
Ormai nella tua Carinzia<br />
di mirti fioriti e di stagni,<br />
china sul bordo sorvegli<br />
la carpa che timida abbocca<br />
o segui sui tigli, tra gl'irti<br />
pinnacoli le accensioni<br />
del vespro e nell'acque un avvampo<br />
di tende da scali e pensioni.<br />
<br />
La sera che si protende<br />
sull'umida conca non porta<br />
col palpito dei motori<br />
che gemiti d'oche e un interno<br />
di nivee maioliche dice<br />
allo specchio annerito che ti vide<br />
diversa una storia di errori<br />
imperturbati e la incide<br />
dove la spugna non giunge.<br />
<br />
La tua leggenda, Dora!<br />
Ma è scritta già in quegli sguardi<br />
di uomini che hanno fedine<br />
altere e deboli in grandi<br />
ritratti d'oro e ritorna<br />
ad ogni accordo che esprime<br />
l'armonica guasta nell'ora<br />
che abbuia, sempre più tardi.<br />
<br />
È scritta là. Il sempreverde<br />
alloro per la cucina<br />
resiste, la voce non muta,<br />
Ravenna è lontana, distilla<br />
veleno una fede feroce.<br />
Che vuole da te? Non si cede<br />
voce, leggenda o destino.<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Ma è tardi, sempre più tardi.ult to decipher</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">1939</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7551259792699771812" itemprop="description articleBody" style="background-color: white; color: #5d5d5d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 608px;">
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
As Montale found beauty and hope in a dark time, so may we this Easter:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEkxb6GKyhUDyBOqaqO4pasq0_yxT1svjWcLDRcXwfcUkW-HN_-4liG5qRmOHvygUaqslSDtTOGNxnJ1EjBrKIN5hyphenhyphenFrjELbFu5DmIuh1oHWGeawKzb6viPaGrc9Q6yq17cY-dRXWvL9o/s1600/Piazza+Navona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="124" data-original-width="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEkxb6GKyhUDyBOqaqO4pasq0_yxT1svjWcLDRcXwfcUkW-HN_-4liG5qRmOHvygUaqslSDtTOGNxnJ1EjBrKIN5hyphenhyphenFrjELbFu5DmIuh1oHWGeawKzb6viPaGrc9Q6yq17cY-dRXWvL9o/s1600/Piazza+Navona.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14.95px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>Now it seems, and I may be wrong, that</i></span></span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14.95px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>I will come to where you are sitting across</i></span></span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14.95px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>from the fountain in the Piazza Navona.</i></span></span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14.95px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>You have already ordered a bottle of Frascati.</i></span></span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14.95px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>You are thinking that I am late but I am not.</i></span></span></div>
</div>
<br />Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-13525212537145077322020-04-02T18:20:00.000-04:002020-04-06T11:45:40.160-04:00Ezra Pound: the Best and the Worst<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvSc7Q1jJxwUXu6O0-7zF4zE1lMdf8Wi4KjXINO68AHXUF-KhvMvAqj_UBaVN6FwFHHEn1omKuPQB16-Y3zgVeGgI3EsaiU1aPeSnrINStckmGAVpNTwIuPQbKiycO0-2Vk_IY34rnpE/s1600/Lady+Wang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvSc7Q1jJxwUXu6O0-7zF4zE1lMdf8Wi4KjXINO68AHXUF-KhvMvAqj_UBaVN6FwFHHEn1omKuPQB16-Y3zgVeGgI3EsaiU1aPeSnrINStckmGAVpNTwIuPQbKiycO0-2Vk_IY34rnpE/s320/Lady+Wang.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Lady Wang, found in Mogao Caves, Tang Dynasty</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ezra Pound was a truly great poet - and he wasn't. Leaving the United States in the early 1900s, he settled in London and later in Italy and immersed himself in European and classical culture and literature. His best poems came early, but as he moved into middle age, his charm and generosity were displaced by a bitter anti-Semitism. This led him to make rather incomprehensible propaganda broadcasts for Mussolini during the war. And that, in turn, led to his arrest for treason and his subsequent commitment to a mental hospital for twelve years. Pound appears in my novel <b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Forest-Tombolo-Michael-Cooney-ebook/dp/B00ZSCSAMK/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=In+the+Forest+of+Tombolo&qid=1586187719&s=books&sr=1-2" target="_blank">In the Forest of Tombolo</a></b> in scenes set at a prison camp in Pisa in and at St. Elizabeth's Mental Hospital in Washington.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I prefer to remember him now for his early and remarkably beautiful poems, often loose translations from other languages. Here is my wife's favorite:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The River Merchant's Wife</span><br />
<i> after Li Po</i><br />
<br />
<br />
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While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead</div>
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I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.</div>
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You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,</div>
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You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.</div>
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And we went on living in the village of Chōkan:</div>
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Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.</div>
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At fourteen I married My Lord you.</div>
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I never laughed, being bashful.</div>
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Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.</div>
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Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.</div>
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<span style="text-indent: -1em;">At fifteen I stopped scowling,</span></div>
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I desired my dust to be mingled with yours</div>
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Forever and forever, and forever.</div>
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Why should I climb the look out?</div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; text-indent: -1em;">At sixteen you departed</span><br />
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You went into far Ku-tō-en, by the river of swirling eddies,</div>
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And you have been gone five months.</div>
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The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.</div>
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<span style="text-indent: -1em;">You dragged your feet when you went out.</span></div>
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By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,</div>
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Too deep to clear them away!</div>
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The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.</div>
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The paired butterflies are already yellow with August</div>
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Over the grass in the West garden;</div>
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They hurt me.</div>
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I grow older.</div>
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If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,</div>
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Please let me know beforehand,</div>
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And I will come out to meet you</div>
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As far as Chō-fū-Sa.</div>
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Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-6363277356757801852020-03-31T21:57:00.001-04:002020-04-01T07:43:54.222-04:00Getting the news from poetry: William Carlos Williams <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1OtYjFJV8IjIbUc0uLW6V5eP1dNl85P_WE7KCXLl6Sa1qZ1UmFA2JcXtYOMeUygwKMGD7t3HcUmsrP34JQ9p1YTxyjaC-ZLlPhXukI8cp2lRafcFE0QV5qlw0V5vImbp6TY3af9U2zg/s1600/Pound+and+Williams+in+youth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="830" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1OtYjFJV8IjIbUc0uLW6V5eP1dNl85P_WE7KCXLl6Sa1qZ1UmFA2JcXtYOMeUygwKMGD7t3HcUmsrP34JQ9p1YTxyjaC-ZLlPhXukI8cp2lRafcFE0QV5qlw0V5vImbp6TY3af9U2zg/s320/Pound+and+Williams+in+youth.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<i>Ezra Pound and William Carlos Williams</i><br />
<i> in their early years</i><br />
<br />
It is difficult<br />
to get the news from poems<br />
yet men die miserably every day<br />
for lack<br />
of what is found there.<br />
<br />
<br />
Near the end of his life, William Carlos Williams wrote these words in his long, final love poem, <i>Asphodel, That Greeny Flower.</i> In an unprecedented historical moment like the present, poetry might seem like the last thing anyone needs to stay alive. And yet....And yet...<br />
<br />
Poetry could be defined in many ways but one thing it isn't is the collections of words spewed forth by Trump or by Jerry Falwell Jr. or by Sean Hannity. Or throw in Putin, Bolsonaro, Duterte or any other 21st century autocrat who mangles language on his way to destroying so much else. Nothing such people say is ever worth remembering. Read Williams' lines and think of that toxic phrase "fake news," and how dictators throughout the world are now using it. Wasn't the plague now devastating our societies branded for weeks as fake news by Trump, Bolsonaro and all the other little Trumps throughout the world?<br />
<br />
But sometimes words are put together in a particular order that can outlast many lifetimes, for example the words of Sappho or Akhmatova, Li Po or Rumi, or in his better moments a doctor from Paterson, New Jersey named William Carlos Williams.<br />
<br />
Dr. Williams was fortunate in his friendships. He met Ezra Pound at Penn and forty years later led the fight to free the crazy/fascist poet from the mental hospital into which he was thrown in 1945. He was also a good friend of the poet H.D. (If you don't know her, you should.) And he was a friend and early mentor of the young Allen Ginsberg who grew up in Paterson.<br />
<br />
Parallel with his lifelong career in medicine (he was chief of pediatrics at Passaic Hospital for decades) Williams was a major poetic innovator whose style influenced many succeeding generation of poets. He focused on images with a rare intensity, as in his well known <i>The Red Wheelbarrow:</i><br />
<br />
<br />
so much depends<br />
upon<br />
<br />
a red wheel<br />
barrow<br />
<br />
glazed with rain<br />
water<br />
<br />
beside the white<br />
chickens<br />
<br />
Williams is associated with the early 20th century poetic movement known as Imagism and a line from his book-length poem Paterson is often cited: "No ideas but in things." In fact, Williams was not so interested in ideologies or abstractions of any kind. Practicing medicine probably intensified his focus on actual physical reality and he admitted he had no patience for the very intellectual style of his far better known contemporary T.S. Eliot, author of <i>The Wasteland. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
In 1923 he published a collection entitled <i>Spring and All, </i>which gained considerable recognition, and he continued to publish through the following decades. I like the simplest ones best, such as this poem that could be found taped to your refrigerator:<br />
<br />
<i>This is Just to Say</i><br />
<br />
I have eaten<br />
the plums<br />
that were in<br />
the icebox<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably saving<br />
for breakfast.<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
they were delicious<br />
so sweet<br />
and so cold<br />
<br />
Williams was not all sweetness and light. He was clearly unhappy with his wife but he stayed married, writing love poems to her and to all the women with whom he had affairs. Picture the poet/doctor in this poem:<br />
<br />
<i>Danse Russe</i><br />
<br />
If when my wife is sleeping<br />
and the baby and Kathleen<br />
are sleeping<br />
and the sun is a flame-white disc<br />
in silken mists above shining trees,<br />
if I in my north room<br />
dance naked, grotesquely<br />
before my mirror<br />
waving my shirt round my head<br />
and singing softly to myself:<br />
"I am lonely, lonely<br />
I was born to be lonely,<br />
I am best so!"<br />
If I admire my arms, my face,<br />
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks,<br />
against the yellow drawn shades,<br />
<br />
Who shall say I am not<br />
the happy genius of my household?<br />
<br />
Not everything he wrote was great. He was not <b><a href="https://upstateearth.blogspot.com/2020/03/poetry-in-time-of-social-distance-anna.html" target="_blank">Akhmatova </a></b>whom I can read over and over, finding something new every time. I have never been able to get more than a few pages into the book-length <i>Paterson</i>, of which he was so proud. He was no <b><a href="https://upstateearth.blogspot.com/2020/03/another-poetic-companion-for-time-of.html" target="_blank">Sappho </a></b>whose every fragment evokes visions from the imagination. Much of Williams' stuff just goes on and on and on. Why then do I take the time to read him, especially now? It is because of the conflicted love poems that he never stopped writing even at eighty when he was near death after a stroke and a heart attack. That's when he wrote the long poem from which I took the quote about news and poetry. Here's some others;<br />
<br />
<br />
There is something<br />
something urgent<br />
I have to say to you<br />
and you alone<br />
but it must wait<br />
<br />
while I drink in<br />
the joy of your approach<br />
perhaps for the last time<br />
<br />
<br />
and:<br />
<br />
We danced<br />
in our minds<br />
and read a book together.<br />
You remember?<br />
It was a serious book.<br />
<br />
and:<br />
<br />
It is ridiculous<br />
What airs we put on<br />
to seem profound<br />
while our hearts<br />
gasp dying<br />
for want of love.<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's some lines from his poem <i>Rain:</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Unworldly love<br />
that has no hope<br />
of the world<br />
<br />
and that<br />
cannot change the world<br />
to its delight<br />
<br />
<br />
and from his <i>Ivy Crown:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Daffodil time<br />
is past. This is<br />
summer. summer!<br />
<br />
the heart says,<br />
and not even the full of it.<br />
No doubts<br />
<br />
are permitted -<br />
though they will come<br />
and may<br />
<br />
before our time<br />
overwhelm us.<br />
We are only mortal<br />
<br />
but being mortal<br />
can defy our fate.<br />
We may<br />
<br />
by an outside chance<br />
even win! We do not<br />
look to see<br />
<br />
jonquils and violets<br />
come again<br />
but there they are,<br />
<br />
still<br />
the roses!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Williams' experimenting with stepped-down lines can seem dated, and at times confusing. He could simply write too much that is forgettable. And yet, and yet are still jewels to be found in his poetry, as there are in the poetry of his friend, the great fool Ezra Pound. More on him later.<br />
<br />
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<i> Williams and Pound in old age</i></div>
<br />
Both Pound and Williams appear in my novel, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Forest-Tombolo-Mr-Michael-Cooney/dp/1514380897" target="_blank">In the Forest of Tombolo</a></i><br />
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<br />
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<i> </i><br />
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Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2925277268651697833.post-13599418846619534292020-03-30T08:43:00.001-04:002020-03-30T08:43:39.791-04:00Another poetic companion for a time of social isolation: Sappho<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Of all the poets of the Greco-Roman world, Sappho is the only woman whose name we know and whose words (at least a few of them) have come down through the centuries to us. Even this well known image of a female writer from a fresco at Pompeii is probably not her. ( Raddato, C. (2015, May 02). <a data-cke-saved-href="https://www.ancient.eu/image/3840/" href="https://www.ancient.eu/image/3840/">"Sappho" fresco, Pompeii</a>. <em>Ancient History Encyclopedia</em>. Retrieved from https://www.ancient.eu/image/3840/) <br />
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The fact that her poems exist almost entirely in fragments can be attributed not just to the erosion of time but also to the hostility of early and medieval Christians to the love for women which suffuses her work. As everyone knows, her home island of Lesbos gave its name to the love she celebrated. During the nearly thousand years of classic civilization that followed her, Sappho's poetry was traditionally performed by young women. References by other classic authors point to the existence far more of her poetry than the approximately 700 lines we have today.<br />
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Little is really known for certain about her life, beyond that she lived in the Sixth century BCE and was deeply involved in a community, or perhaps a school, of women and that she was a devotee of Aphrodite. There is plenty written about her on the net, including the ancient legends about her life. I like the concise version of the <a data-cke-saved-href="http://tps://www.britannica.com/biography/Sappho-Greek-poet" href="http://tps//www.britannica.com/biography/Sappho-Greek-poet" target="_blank">Encyclopedia Brittanica.</a><br />
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There is so much about Sappho that makes her an ideal poetic companion in this time of social isolation. She appears to be the world’s first lyric poet, the first to write as herself and to express her own emotions. She doesn’t hold back, and her fragments that have inspired many poets to write their own responses to the few words that she utters. We tend to love her and to think that we know what she intends to say, or at least that’s how I see it.<br />
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Of course, the monks who copied over the ancient Greek manuscripts and preserved them for coming generations hardly felt that way. Most of the existing fragments that we have came down in works of rhetoric which quoted her as an example of style or diction. Or sometimes she was quoted as an example of sin. Other fragments were found in more recent times recycled into the kind of cardboard mummy wrappings used in Egyptian burials during the Ptolemaic and Roman periods in Egypt.<br />
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The go-to book for the original Greek fragments is the dual language<a data-cke-saved-href="https://www.loebclassics.com/view/LCL142/1982/volume.xml" href="https://www.loebclassics.com/view/LCL142/1982/volume.xml" target="_blank"> Loeb Classic of Sappho and Alcaeus.</a> The translations are literal but are essential to get a sense of her meaning. My attempt to learn ancient Greek stopped at the ability to pronounce her words in the most faltering way. What I do like to read are the many wonderful efforts at rendering her ancient words into new songs. <br />
<br />
My favorite is Anne Carson’s fairly recent <em>I<a data-cke-saved-href="https://www.amazon.com/If-Not-Winter-Fragments-Sappho/dp/0375724516/ref=sr_1_11?crid=1QH5XQQ4A2NTU&dchild=1&keywords=anne+carson&qid=1585490389&sprefix=Ann+Carson%2Cdigital-text%2C191&sr=8-11" href="https://www.amazon.com/If-Not-Winter-Fragments-Sappho/dp/0375724516/ref=sr_1_11?crid=1QH5XQQ4A2NTU&dchild=1&keywords=anne+carson&qid=1585490389&sprefix=Ann+Carson%2Cdigital-text%2C191&sr=8-11" target="_blank">f Not, Winter</a></em> . Here’s some of her translations:<br />
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<br /></div>
You will have memories<br />
because of what we did back then<br />
when we were new at this<br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<br /></div>
Yes, we did many things then — all<br />
beautiful<br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<br /></div>
And then there are some poems of which only a single phrase survives, like:<br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<br /></div>
You burn me<br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<br /></div>
and<br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<br /></div>
as long as you want<br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<br /></div>
Anne Carson has great respect for Sappho’s original text, broken though it is, and gives us many poems which preserve the missing parts via ellipses:<br />
<div class="is-empty-p">
<br /></div>
] frequently<br />
] for those<br />
I treat well are the ones who most of all<br />
] harm me<br />
] crazy<br />
] you, I want<br />
] to suffer<br />
] in myself I am aware of this<br />
]<br />
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I also like the late Mary Barnard’s translations of Sappho from 1958. She captures the plain spoken nature of Sappho’s speech but works around the broken and missing parts of the text to create a smoother, but perhaps less accurate, flow. Here’s a sad one which also supports the idea that Sappho ran a kind of boarding school for girls on Lesbos:<br />
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We put this urn aboard ship<br />
with this inscription:<br />
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This is the dust of little<br />
Timas who unmarried was led<br />
into Persephone’s dark bedroom.<br />
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And she, being far from her home, girls<br />
her age took new edged blades<br />
to cut, in mourning for her<br />
these curls of their soft hair.<br />
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There are many others who have attempted translations of Sappho,including Will Barnstone, who is pretty good. And then there’s my two very free translations of a couple fragments which appeared in 2003 in a long defunct literary magazine:<br />
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Sappho to Atthis<br />
<em>Inspired by fragment 49 of Sappho, Loeb Ed., 1994</em><br />
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Trembling woman growing old<br />
dreaming of love in the darkening woods<br />
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The silver leaves that fluttered like the fluttering<br />
of your heart beneath my trembling hands<br />
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The red berries that we picked like the red<br />
of summer’s blood upon your lips and tongue<br />
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Sappho to Gongyla<br />
<em>Inspired by fragment 52 of Sappho, Loeb Ed., 1994</em><br />
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My face was hot. My need was strong.<br />
I saw you lifting your arms at the edge of the sea.<br />
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Did you truly expect to touch the sky?<br />
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You did not glance in my direction.<br />
You did not hear me breathing as I breathed your name.<br />
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When the moon sets, I will still be here counting the stars.<br />
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In this time when we are told every day that it could kill us to get physically close to another human being, I think that we ought to read (and maybe write) love poems and remember that sooner or later we won’t be afraid to hold each each other’s hands and to kiss each other.<br />
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(There are several older books on Sappho and her poems at <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/search/?query=Sappho" target="_blank">Project Gutenberg</a>)<br />
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<br data-cke-eol="1" />Michael Cooneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044319404000125750noreply@blogger.com0