Miscellaneous Debris
Thursday, February 20, 2003
Film Series: Sokurov Elegies — I know for a fact that several people who read Long Pauses live within close driving range of the National Gallery of Art. Do yourself a favor and go see a couple of these film — films, I should add, that you might never get another chance to see (and that I almost surely won't). From the program description:
Of all Russian filmmakers past or present, Alexander Sokurov has achieved the distinction of being hailed as the most unreservedly spiritual in a country where spirituality in art is prized. With ten features and twenty-five experimental and nonfiction works (including the video and film elegies shown in this series) he has cultivated a unique aesthetic that delicately distorts and prolongs images, adds allusive sounds, and turns ordinary landscapes into mood poems. Individual scenes, although often imprecise, remain tranquil, meditative, and intense. Like his mentor Andrei Tarkovsky, Sokurov has never been termed an "official" Russian artist nor a dissident. He has chosen instead to develop, through an idiosyncratic range and treatment of subjects, a kind of "ethical enlightenment."
And, finally, through the fine folks at Beyond Magazine, I've been able to correspond occasionally with Katherine Grace Bond, whose latest poem is now part of the Poets Against the War collection. This group grew out of the public relations nightmare that was once Laura Bush's poetry celebration. Congrats, Katherine. Fantastic poem.
"The First Lady Invites You to a Symposium on Poetry and the American Voice"
Laura has always been a favorite name of mine
I think I met you first at church,
Your mind convinced,
Quoting scripture to lock it in securely. We scrubbed casserole dishes together,
And swapped stories about marriage.
I found out
We both have daughters With long, blonde hair.
I found out we both loved poetry. You don’t write it but you love
Emily’s trees
Langston’s rivers
Robert’s road.
I said that you should try your hand,
Throw some words down,
It’s expansive.
I read once
At Ladies Night Out.
We were supposed to bring
China teapots to hold up
And talk about our grandmothers.
I read a poem instead. You liked it,
You told me, but
Watched me warily after that.
We have lost touch, Laura and now
This invitation in the mail:
A gathering
To talk of trees,
To speak of rivers.
You will pour the tea.
My friend Sam’s
The original curmudgeon,
Translates Chinese,
Lives for words
And water.
He says he won’t come
To your party; he’ll send poems
Instead.
You like poems.
You told me so yourself.
This morning
The party is postponed –
Not cancelled.
But you have opinions
And these poets are clambering for war.
On February 12th, you huddle
With your tea,
Barricaded in the State of the Union.
You asked for poets thinking we would speak of chestnut trees,
Not cypresses. Did I forget to tell you
That Langston wrote of blood,
Emily of the necessary madness of dissent,
Robert of How Hard It Is To Keep From Being King
When it’s In You And In The Situation.
Now the poets are storming the gates,
Lobbing dead Afghan children,
The raped wives of Iraqi scientists.
Muslim mothers with dark-haired daughters
Scream in through the windows.
You needn’t cower, Laura;
This is friendly fire.
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