The radiant glow

from your eyes

could make

even the most withered flowers

blossom.

The Dixieland set ended with a thumping drumbeat, and the cornet player took the bar stool next to Hall even though several other seats were empty.   A sign on the bandstand identified him as Lucky Larssen – a small man with a wispy grey goatee. Hall looked straight ahead as if studying the arrangement of cognac bottles in front of the peeling mirror, aware from the reflection that Larson was looking right at him. Uneasy, he turned to face the man.

            “You weren’t tapping your toes,” Larssen said.

            “Is that important?”

            “Everybody else was.”  Larssen gestured toward the people behind them at the wooden tables crammed into the small semi-basement bar room.  Their voices echoed off the low, beamed ceiling, mixed with bursts of laughter.  “Our music makes people happy.  They come here to feel good.”

            Hall shook his head.  “I just wandered in because I was cold.”

            The door opened as a group of people entered, wool caps on their heads, scarves wrapped around their faces.  Hall could see up the steps to the empty square outside, the night wind whipping paper scraps across the cobblestones.  He shivered even though coals glowed red in the fireplace against a far wall.

            “Not a night to be wandering,” Larssen said. 

His Danish accent was common to the people his age Hall had encountered during his two days in Copenhagen.  The younger men and women spoke a neutral transatlantic English, textbook perfect.  Solveig had her own way of speaking, quite musical, clearly from somewhere else, though Hall hadn’t been able to guess until she told him.  It was the accent that had drawn him to her, the speaker unseen among all the people standing around the refreshment table for morning coffee before the conference began.  He had excused himself from the men he was chatting with to seek that voice.  Even before he found her, he knew she would be lovely, though he had never imagined a face framed by a crown of pure white hair.  But she wasn’t old.  He had seen that immediately, her skin without a wrinkle, her body lean and taut.  When she met his eye and smiled, Hall said, “I’d like to know you.”  “Isn’t that nice,” she had answered.  That evening at dinner he had asked about her accent.  “I grew up in Norway, went to university in England, and have lived in Copenhagen for years,” she told him.  “Do you consider yourself Norwegian or Danish,” he wanted to know.  “I consider myself an amalgamation.”  Hall carried the word with him from that moment on, whispered it to her again and again when they made love during the nights of the conference – “My amalgamation.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” Hall said to Lucky Larssen.

“Where should you be?”

Hall gave him a bleak look.  “I don’t know any more.”

“Then let’s say you’ve found a port in a storm.”  The clarinetist signaled Larssen, touched a finger to his wrist.  “Break over.  I’ll be watching your toes.”

When the music started, joyful and raucous, cornet and clarinet singing to the beat of the banjo and drums, Hall felt self-conscious.  Larssen’s eyes kept returning to him as he threw his head back, the instrument pressed against his lips.  But Hall kept his toes still, unwilling to submit.  Instead he let fingers tap on the bar top, hiding them under his other hand.  The bartender, a young man with a head of blond curls, noticed and gave him a smile.  Hall stopped.

A ceiling light glinted off the bartender’s gold earring.  Hall thought he should order another beer even though he didn’t want one.  He pushed his glass toward the man.

“Not your style?” the bartender asked as he tilted the glass under the draft handle. 

Hall shrugged.

“Not mine either.  For me it’s another generation.  No guitars.  No amps.”

“They don’t need amps in a place this size.”

“Loud and wild for me.  The louder the better.  Heavy metal.  Punk.”

“Then working here must be dull for you,” Hall said.

“Never.  Something happens every night.  Always a story to bring home to my girlfriend.”

Hall felt something bump his shoulder, turned abruptly to see a red dress leaning against the bar.  The woman had a thick braid of dark hair fixed to her head with a barrette, her eyes as dark as her hair.  But they seemed to be floating in liquid, unable to focus.  She held out a round, stemmed glass.  “Brandy,” she told the bartender.

While the bartender chose a bottle, she clicked a high heel against the floor in time with the music.  Hall noticed the bartender was giving her what looked like a triple serving.  “Tak,” she said when he put the glass down in front of her and took a deep swig before turning back to the room.  With her first step she swayed, then regained her balance. 

She was a big woman, Hall saw, her weight firm and curved against the tight red dress.  Shapely, she could be called, with an attractive face, but not his type.  Even sober she wouldn’t have appealed to him.

“Why did you give her so much?” he asked the bartender,

“Saves her return trips.  I put it on her tab, and I know she’s good for it.  Norwegian.”

So different from Solveig.  “So she lives here now.”

The bartender shook his head.  “She shows up once a month or so to give herself a good time.  That’s what Norwegians do.  They live in a repressed country.”

“Is she having a good time?”

“Are you?”  The man began washing glasses.

The music stopped again, and Hall joined in the brief applause, people at the tables quickly immersed in animated conversations, breathless laughter from one corner of the room, from behind the group standing to put on coats.  Hall wondered if it was the Norwegian woman.

Lucky Larssen approached him and took the empty stool again.  “You refuse to share in the pleasures of the evening.”

“Are you a social worker?”

“I play happy music.  I want everybody to be happy.”

“Not me.  Not this time.”

“But you’re in wonderful Copenhagen.  Why else would you be here?”

“Let’s say my plans didn’t work out.”

“And what is her name?”

Hall’s first impulse was to send him away, then realized it didn’t matter.  “Solveig.”

“Spell it.”

Hall did.

“Aha.  Norwegian.  Here it would be Solvej.”

“Is that important?”

“You never can tell with Norwegians.”

“I certainly couldn’t.”

“So what happened?”  Larssen leaned forward and stroked his goatee.

“She has a husband.”

“Many women do.”

“Not in the flat when they’re supposed to be on business a thousand miles away.”   Hall had flown for hours, climbed five flights of stairs with a bouquet of flowers, eager to embrace her, the word “amalgamation” on his lips.  “And that man opens the door.  She’s standing behind him, smiling, saying how nice it is that I came to visit.”

“So he offered you a drink, and you told him you couldn’t stay.  Handed her the flowers and ran.”

“Something like that.”

Larssen pressed a finger into his chest.  “I’ve been there myself.  The man holding flowers.  Do you love her?”

“We met at a conference.  I couldn’t keep away from her.  I’m here because I wanted to know what I felt.”

“The husband will have other business trips.”

“I can’t just stay here until that happens.  I have a job back home.”

“But no wife.”

“Not anymore.”

Larssen grinned.  “Like me.  But I’m a happy man.  No more wife but lots of music.”  He walked back to the band and wiped down his cornet with a handkerchief.

When the music started, Hall saw the Norwegian woman seize the arm of a man sitting at one of the tables.  She pulled him on to the tiny dance space, joining two other couples who drew back to give her room, her red dress dominating as she swiveled and kicked off her high heels.  Her partner made small movements, pumping arms, turning back to the people at his table to share their laughter.  At the end of the tune, the woman tried to keep him on the space, but he shook his head, kissed her hand in an elaborate ceremony, and sat again, his back to her.

She pushed her shoes across the wood planks toward the bar and then Hall saw in the mirror her noticing him alone on his stool.  She planted herself in front of him, hands on hips.  “Dance with me.”  Her voice was hoarse, breathy in its accent.  He could smell the brandy.

“I don’t dance.”

“With me you will.”

“I can’t.  Not to music like this.”

”You will.”  The words came out as a demand.

Hall turned away and faced the bar, noticing the bartender’s smirk, the mirrored red hovering at his back. 

“I don’t even dance with my wife,” he said, not remembering if he ever had.

“What wife?  I don’t see a wife.”   She closed her hands on his shoulders.

He shrugged them away.  “Look.  Listen to me.  I said no.  Even if I knew how, I’m in no mood to dance.”

She locked hands on his waist and swung the stool toward her.  “You will dance with me!”

For an instant Hall thought he would hit her but just hissed, “No!”

The woman put her hands under his arms, trying to hoist him up, grunting against his dead weight.  Hall caught the bartender’s eye with a pleading look, but the young man tapped his gold earning and watched.  Tonight’s story for his girlfriend. 

The music stopped abruptly, followed by a drumroll and a silent room.  Lucky Larssen stepped out into the dance space.  “We dedicate our next tune to our visitor at the bar and his charming partner.”  He reached out in a beckoning gesture.  “Please give us the pleasure of your pleasure.”

People began clapping, pounding the wooden tabletops with a steady rhythm, the voices chanting, “Yes, yes, yes.”  The bartender joined them, his mouth at Hall’s ear, his whispered “yes” like a scream.  Hall contemplated fleeing, seizing his coat and vanishing into the barren night.  But the way to the door was blocked, as if the others knew his intention and had moved to prevent it.

Trapped, Hall gave in, not touching the woman, not taking her hand, just following her onto the circle of wood.  The drummer twirled his sticks.  The room resonated with Yesses, resounding from the ceiling, louder than the music, Lucky Larssen’s head thrown back, emitting blasts from his cornet. 

They were the only dancers on the floor, Hall frozen, the Norwegian woman tossing her arms and legs in steps that had nothing to do with the music.  Her barrette flew loose, her dark hair whipping wildly.  Hall’s feet began to stir, a pulsation moving up his legs and through his blood.  He could feel the force of the music.  With no idea what he was doing, mind empty, he let his body submit to the rhythm.

The Norwegian woman tried to spin but lost her balance, staggered, and fell forward, her red dress a heap on the floor, her hands grasping at Hall’s ankles.  He skipped away, his limbs shaking, his body spasmed in a jolting rhythm.  The woman rolled onto her back and pointed up at him, mouth wide, her laughter lost in the shouts from the tables.  The people were all banging glasses on the wood, Lucky Larssen bleating his cornet.  Hall knew he looked like a fool but couldn’t make himself stop.

Here comes another open season

for jellied jargon veiled as vision,

a new dawn of old reasons.

When borders get porous

you can count on people

getting mighty nervous.

You can feel it like a surge of volts

running thru a crowded room 

when famous people meet.

Fame and money’s miracle

make all cures

possible, negotiable;

does not distinguish allure

from bait; desire

from mirror.

Everyone

here is anyone’s

name.

Meet them at the door; bow,

invite them in; come close, and

be bowed to.

Someone who comes was sent,

letting us feel happiness

not costing a cent.

Let the old mouth twist

something still human

from not-yet dust.

While the young use their looks like honey

for as long as they can and

get by on funny money,

the rich take hold of the Stock Exchange

and let you keep

the loose change…

that’s the gist of the text

our laughter hasn’t

demolished yet…

or is there no illusion

that feeds the emptiness

like this one?

As all waters into one sea run

tho we name them many –

Atlantic, Pacific, Arctic, Indian, Southern,

so we who are born

sons and daughters could have been any-

one’s, like the oceans that are run

into by rivers winding thru warring nations,

taking no side, shadow or sunny, out to

Atlantic, Pacific, Arctic, Indian, Southern

that swell, subside, like our salt, savory emotions’

ebb and tide, and stir us and savage the many

twined waters that into one sea run

the bad, the good, the blood of soldiers, civilians, children

that pool in parched sands where there isn’t any

moisture but stone strata of primeval oceans

that beyond looks on, beyond known

borders and shores, lives like rivers run on

and drown in one continuous unbroken ocean.

 New York Qasida

#1

Qasida of the Stride in New York

Windows, their yawn, their early morning blush

Glances falling into lit trapdoors split

the here and now, split sweet New York striding

Eleven ginko hand fans, cigarette

butts, down of eleven dandelions

in every stride. Eleven, gossamer

hour; hour of boots, mink, military coats,

muffs, hour of gloved hands holding hot coffee,

hour of holding hands across and beyond

ash, smashed crystal, the cold between windows.

#2

Qasida of the Railroad Garden

Steam, its sphere of dulled glass, jaw bone, lantern,

its hiss and tale. Engine cracking night’s work

into loftiness, rubbish, faith, despair.

Blacksmith working skeleton, metal working

muscle, offering to feed the hungry root

of all evil. Heaving rhythm, coal, sigh,

sigh, coal. Here a garden will grow, maroon

leaves, sweet peas, birches, unabashed green

filling the metal where men left pockmarked

ghosts of their bolted down longing. White steam.

#3

Qasida of the Upturned Umbrella

Jostling, buoyant, the umbrellas come (as

a sudden crowd of hungry ladybugs)

rushing in ecstatic unison, joined

loosely at steel extremities, gentle

“shoulder to shoulder” moment in Muslim

prayer. The subway is slippery, night

young. A single upturned umbrella sings

loud, sings for those cast aside, as itself.

Nudged by wind and a heavy downpour, it

flutters, a wounded gull— raindrops jostling.

#4

Qasida of the Frozen Fish

Help concrete, shiny eyes, help bitterness.

Say butter, say smile, shawl, say pearl onion

and hot pan. Thaw fish, give alms, fast, string

a garland. Swallow the nip in the air,

drink rejection with a straw, make a wide

bowl of your hands for rainwater, let fish,

the smallest darters swim their fill, flicker

in the dark spaces of your soul. Spark

a hole with shiny eyes, spark a prayer.

Roll dough, collect crumbs. Paint doors, tulips. Help.

#5

Qasida of the Rotten Cantaloupe

Hemisphere rotten-sweet, undeniably

under the shadow, rock on the outside,

ray inside. Ivy-veined, pebbled, jeweled

city of hemispheres, great city, great

loneliness. Hudson, its pewter mirrors

to poverty and desire, confines

of freedom. Meeting you halfway, tonight.

Turn at the light, corner of homelessness

and empire. Halfway my sweet-rotten, half

way my raised torch, undeniable light.

    (for Zachary, Grayson, Allen Kyle and Mrs. Quimby)

You see, Mrs. Quimby never thought she’d go up in a rocket.

Far from it, she felt, since she was a grade school teacher, that she’d

stay quietly, teaching her lovely students at the Tower School inWilmington, Delaware, and never ever thought about going up or having a rocket in her schoolroom

Rockets were far from her mind and her life,  at least that’s how things were.

Ah, but one day, that all changed…

It  seems that two young boys, whose father was not a rocket scientist, brought

to school a home made rocket, a bottle rocket, that they wanted to show Mrs. Quimby.

Being the good soul that she is, and a fine teacher, she talked with the  boys, Zachary and Grayson Kyle, and after a while, she decided it looked harmless enough, and she

actually wondered if it would take off or if it was just a big  joke, or something that they believed would rocket off, but wouldn’t.   So it was that Mrs. Quimby said, “Yes, Zachary, we’ll give it a try.”

Zachary explained that sometimes things didn’t go exactly right.  With this valuable information, Mrs. Quimby took the bull by the horns, and decided it would be best if she tried to launch this “so called bottle rocket.”

Now, before we go further with this story, let me explain exactly what this  alleged “bottle rocket “was made of and how it looked.

First, there was an old aluminum crutch, that had been left over from Allen Kyle’s fractured leg, he got this while skiing haphazardly in the Alps, jumping over a 500 foot  cliff, but not knowing it was 500 feet because the sun was so bright on the shiny,  sparkling snow that day, that he was thought it was only about a 15 or 20 foot drop. Of course, as you can guess, he landed, but too hard—this led to the fracture, it ruined his        skiing vacation, and led to the aluminum crutch that made up the vertical standard of this alleged rocket.

Next, there was some old PVC plastic pipe left over from an old plumbing job; it was about an inch thick about 1 to 1 ½ foot long, that went from top of the cane, and then another section was attached to it that extended downward so that it would accept a pump of pressurized air.

Then there was the moveable sleeve.  This was an old medicine bottle, left over from Allen’s medication after his unflappable skiing accident,and this slid up and down to

help seal the 1 liter , red and white coke bottle, filled by half with water, at the top of the  “bottle rocket.”

The boys had also brought their trusty bicycle pump to school so that they could fuel the rocket with air pressure.

So the scene was set.   There was Mrs. Quimby, in her new dress, her hair neatly done for  her birthday party the previous Saturday,   Zachary, anxious to show his friends in class this great rocket that he, his dad and brother had created, and Grayson, telling everyone that they should get helmets on in case it exploded all over them.

Ah, there so much anticipation in the classroom that you could hear a mouse breathe,

a worm move,  a snowflake melt—ah, the class had never been so  quiet—just waiting for the launch of this new, remarkable and exciting rocket!!

Mrs. Quimby went over the directions once again with the boys, made sure   she had to have the rocket sufficiently pumped up so that it would take off, and had the boys clear away after heeding the sage advice of Grayson.

So here it was, the big moment, perhaps the biggest single moment in the history of the Tower School, perhaps the biggest moment, really, of Wilmington, Delaware, it was  history making moment, a moment that neither the students or Mrs. Quimby or the school would ever forget.  Some of the students thought it might even get into history books on the history of Delaware!!

Mrs.Quimby took a deep breath. 

Grabbed the rope to launch the rocket.

(excerpt)

(…)

Many years later. My soul is trapped in an ice cube. The dream is so cold I wake up shivering. There is a hand on my thigh. My thigh is a hand or a piece of flesh. I cut it out of the picture and something bleeds and my blood freezes. That’s how cold it is. My breath floats somewhere above my solitary heater after he’s walked out, walked on. I’m still alive, I’m still breathing but yes, my soul is trapped in an ice cube.

            I pick up the atlas and look for the Equator. Somewhere warm and tropical to sun myself. Does it really matter where? The Republic of Lost Loves, where split couples gather to comfort each other. But it doesn’t exist on any map, at least not in this atlas. I’ve known all along that love is an endangered species, and that you should hold your lover tight, as tight as can be, the way chimps hold their babies to their hairy bodies. I will most likely cry right now. And it will be the warmest rain I’ve ever felt on my face.

            There is nothing left after the cold and warmth but lukewarm. So. I am officially one of those people who walk into hypermarkets or banks and queue up or don’t get a joke or don’t laugh or smile but somewhere in between: a laughile, an idiot, she doesn’t get it, it is obvious she has a problem. Hug a homeless person, kiss him. Lay your heart, your thoughts down on the table for anyone who will listen. Anyone. Let’s see: Ace of Hearts, Queen of Spades. The homeless person asks if I’d like to play cards. My heart is already getting warmer, it’s thawing.

            Something irrelevant always came up in my conversations with Danny. And when it did, Danny looked at me. Just looked at me and didn’t say anything. But I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking: What’s that got to do with anything? Or: Why did you bring that up just now? Or even: Are you trying to annoy me? But he didn’t say a word. That’s how much Danny loved me. Enough to take me with all my irrelevancies.

            I once wrote a story about a girl on an expedition to the South Pole and I told Danny she must be a courageous girl. She was in her thirties and didn’t have an iPod.

            What’s that got to do with anything? Danny didn’t ask.

            Well, because on the 900 kilometre expedition from the “Messner start” to the South Pole, on the 28^th day out of 40, the girl’s iPod broke. She had no music to listen to except the music inside her head, lyrics and music all squashed together in her mind and all that white monotony around her and not a single person in sight. And the girl thought white is such a lonely colour, such a strange song, she needed somebody to hold her hand, just to hold her frozen little hand, a bird without feathers. Fatigue is a word I don’t use that often but it appeared somewhere in this story about the girl on the expedition. And her dictionary too.

            What do you mean, Danny didn’t ask.

            I mean that she carried her dictionary around with her, like a bible, everywhere she went, and she wanted to see how far she could get in life without looking up another word in English or any other language. Because you can sometimes guess what a word means just by putting it in your mouth and tasting it, and then saying it out loud. Acquiescence. Delinquent. Saffron.

            It was really hard for her to live without her love by her side. It was really hard, all that fatigue, 900 kilometres, and no iPod. The girl looked a little like Natalie Portman. During her studies at university she wore a pink wig. She got a First Class Honours. The graduation ceremony went well but she ate and drank too much. And her feet hurt because of the high-heeled shoes.

            Danny had no idea what I meant. Are you trying to confuse me? he asked.

            She had those shoes on when she kissed her boyfriend for the first time. He was so tall, she wanted to reach him. Longitudes and latitudes. And the last time? All couples  remember the last kiss, how it leaves an aftertaste in the mouth, of salt water, and sugar.

            Oh, Danny, Danny. There are so many things I want to tell you. If only you were here. But you’re in another story.

(…)

From The Republic of Love,a micronovel by Nora Nadjarian (BluePrintPress, 2010)

Asleep on the train to Nepal…Heard the yelping of the mountain denizens..Cries of pain or passion or despair….the air thick with the smell of night soil…the aroma of a flatulent god…worshiped in abject poverty at the foot of Buddha’s acolytes…singing that song of suicidal mirth..Human lemmings whirring the dance macabre…Ballet of grunts and hard scrabbled men..their lives whittled down to pencil thin exoskeletal hominids…A thousand Gandhi Impersonators..The Indian Elvis…who never left the edifice he built on fasting and prayer…The train was whining from the stress of the teeming steamy human jigsaw..Goats and chickens..all aboard the night train to Nepal…My nose was wide open as the goat nibbled on my knapsack.I smirked and the ancient woman behind me slapped my neck and laughed in a high pitched epiglottal shriek…the goat scurried under the seat my glad bags fully in its omnivore gullet..ingesting plastic like M & M’s on Halloween..I began to chortle like a Tequila mad sailor…Suddenly the entire trainload of Indians began to slap their legs and pound their seats in maddening glee..The white European man had triggered a tribal ritual of human harmony…My sojourn to Sanjaiya a symphony of laughter as the Himalayan foothills appeared surreptitiously at dawn’s first light.

heat of july

your lips on mine

oh   yes

i was in the third grade

spending the weekend

at my nana’s when i found

my uncle’s playboy magazine

laying on his bed in plain sight

i picked it up and flipped

through the pages

i knew it was supposed

to be a big deal from the way

grown-ups talked about it

but i have to tell you

i wasn’t impressed

although i now had a

pretty good idea why

ladies were so soft

in certain places

the cartoons were interesting

but they weren’t funny

and just as i was going to

put it down i came across

an illustration of a T-Rex

and since i was all about

dinosaurs i started reading

the text which turned out

to be a story about men

paying money to travel

back in time so they could

hunt the biggest baddest

meat eater ever to roam

the planet and when T-Rex

showed up some guy

got scared and stepped

where he wasn’t supposed to

squashing a bug which

totally changed evolution

it fucking blew my 3rd

grade mind so i started

looking for anything

the author had written

finding his books at the

local library as his words

and stories eased the pain

of having a heroin addict

for a father

the next year my old man

o.d.’d and i sought comfort

in the pages of old books

looking for something to step on

a bug to squash

wanting to start over with

my pathetic 10 yr old life

so i started to write stories

diving deeper into an

ocean of words until

i couldn’t come up

for air and that led

to my first poems

now

48 yrs later

i’m still at it

and Ray,

you magnificent

storytelling s.o.b.

this is just me

apologizing

for how long it’s

taken to say

thanks

Por Mi Amigo Mucho, Carlos Fuentes

to write of sorrow in the heart

for a friend who’s died,

somehow

words –       never enough–

when we were together, laughing,

talking of Neruda or Borges,  it seemed

as if our words would never end–

you liked the way I walked,  the way

I laughed, said it reminded you of Neruda

I’d never thought of it, but as time has gone by

I’ve understood more

I always felt you should have been a prince,

you had that elegance, that care for people

a proper prince should have, with just

the  right words, deep feelings that came through

your eyes, from the heart–

with sorrow, I’ve read you’ve left us, just when

I’d thought of calling the Mexican Embassy

to find you,

how to get in touch again–

somehow, in our lives, at times

I feel as if I’m always

a step behind the curve,  just a bit late,

as in this case,  

though I write this poem,

you won’t be around to read it,

that’s the hell of it–

at times, I wonder why I’m even writing it,

but I hope you’ll read it from the other side–

sadly,  I wonder if anyone

will write a poem or essay about me,

but it’s of no bother,  we do as we can,

do as we feel,  always from our heart,

so Carlos,

though you will never leave my memory,

I wish I could have had more time with you

in Princeton or that last night

when you had to fly,

or if I’d tried to track you down earlier,   

somehow,

the speed of our lives took over,

caught in the flotsam of time’s speed,

we never got that other time we thought

we’d have again,

so I leave you this poem,

hoping you will hear it

and  some night,

you, like Lorca, Neruda, my mother and dad,

 will come back    talk to me— perhaps

you are causing me to write this poem tonight—

though I wrote an obituary essay for you, it was short,

personal,   but not long enough for a writer or friend

as great as you,

 I hope this poem does you more justice,

vaya con dios, amigo mucho, always in my memory,

you and your work     always in my heart

c: sam hamod, 5. 31 12  10. 30 pm revision 6. 5. 12 pm; Princeton,NJ; 6.13.12 Witherspoon Street

to write of sorrow in the heart

for a friend who’s died,

somehow

words –

never enough–

when we were together, laughing,

talking of Neruda or Borges,  it seemed

as if our words would never end–

you liked the way I walked,  the way

I laughed, said it reminded you of Neruda

I’d never thought of it, but as time has gone by

I’ve understood more

I always felt you should have been a prince,

you had that elegance, that care for people

a proper prince should have, with just

the  right words, deep feelings that came through

your eyes, from the heart–

with sorrow, I’ve read you’ve left us, just when

I’d thought of calling the Mexican Embassy

to find you,

how to get in touch again–

somehow, in our lives, at times

I feel as if I’m always

a step behind the curve,  just a bit late,

as in this case,  

though I write this poem,

you won’t be around to read it,

that’s the hell of it–

at times, I wonder why I’m even writing it,

but I hope you’ll read it from the other side–

sadly,  I wonder if anyone

will write a poem or essay about me,

but it’s of no bother,  we do as we can,

do as we feel,  always from our heart,

so Carlos,

though you will never leave my memory,

I wish I could have had more time with you

in Princeton or that last night

when you had to fly,

or if I’d tried to track you down earlier,   

somehow,

the speed of our lives took over,

caught in the flotsam of time’s speed,

we never got that other time we thought

we’d have again,

so I leave you this poem,

hoping you will hear it

and  some night,

you, like Lorca, Neruda, my mother and dad,

 will come back    talk to me— perhaps

you are causing me to write this poem tonight—

though I wrote an obituary essay for you, it was short,

personal,   but not long enough for a writer or friend

as great as you,

 I hope this poem does you more justice,

vaya con dios, amigo mucho, always in my memory,

you and your work     always in my heart

I wouldn’t wait

until you’re gone

and knock the doors

that locked.

I wouldn’t wait…

and hit the walls

between here and nowhere

until I bleed

mute

deaf

when I’d be gone,

I wouldn’t leave behind

unwritten Russian novel,

when the human rises to its heights

with only reason,

to drop,

deep,

echoing hell

through the minds of living.

I want to tell you now,

while we both are here,

while I can

-I love you-

 It’s Chile in the clear dawn of my ten years

and over the living waters over the sea pools

I jump up with energy

in the Chilean  Black Island of Neruda

A red sea urchin                    pulsates

among the dark shadowy rocks

its  oceanic vitality              attracts me

and when nearing Pablo Neruda’s home:

I stop to see the live land and seascape

From the poet’s periscope window

his expert gaze   narrows down

 on my curious hands

I’m pulling down

 the red sea urchin from the entangled seaweeds

and while breathing in the marine iodine:

I stop to smell the sea mineral scent

As the fruit of the morning begins to ripe

my eyes can see two silhouettes

the village postman and Don Pablo

 arm in arm

 in the equality of their friendship

are walking down

 together       they go reciting

 line by line  to be heard:                          

“Come to be born with me, my brother…”

 On my tenth year 

 a thought stops me

friendship is        rain upside down

it is to shower others with  one’s gift

and in return

 to drink of their life’s water.

 Recordando a Don Pablo

Estoy en Chile en el claro amanecer                     

de mis diez años                                                        

y sobre  aguas vivientes                                    

sobre  marismas  de agua fría                               

doy brincos con energía                                       

por la Isla Negra Nerudiana.                                

Un rojo erizo              pulsa

entre las piedras oscuras y sombrías                  

su  vitalidad oceánica me atrae                            

y cuando me acerco a la casa de Don Pablo         

me detengo a contemplar  el paisaje vivo                                      

entre la tierra  y el mar.                                               

Desde la ventana –periscopio de Neruda

su mirada  llena de mundo se enfoca

en mis manos inquisitivas

que extraen  al  rojo  erizo del mar

enmarañado entre  algas

y mientras inhalo el yodo marino

me detengo  a  oler

la fragancia mineral del mar.

Al madurar la fruta de la mañana

 mis ojos vislumbran la silueta de dos

el carterito y Don Pablo

en el hombre a hombro

 verso a verso de su amistad

 caminan  el senderito     recitando:

 “Sube a nacer conmigo, hermano”

 Cuando cumplo mis diez años me pongo a pensar

la  amistad es  la lluvia  tupida del  sur

 es rociar al amigo con nuestro talento

 y recibir del suyo  el impulso

que  nos hace  de la tierra          brotar.

Reaching over

I kiss him

His lips are thin and wiry

And I wonder if I have made a mistake

But I hold firm

I am not planning on running away

For even an instant

The softness of his skin

As I ran my hands across the back of his neck

And into his thick chestnut hair

I have to know

If we fit

I lean into him

Tasting the beer on his breath

Knowing that I could not do this without

A few drinks

a perverted sense of strength

he pulls away from me

and I know

Lighting a cigarette

And hanging his head outside the window of the car

All I want to do is go home

Be alone

Embarrassed at all the reasons why

I thought we could be together

He offers me a drag

I take the smoke into my lungs

Allowing it to hit me

Like a drug

He starts the engine

I watch him differently now

I am not his girl anymore

Anymore

Whispering loud

Thin and wide

Vowels pronounced

Syllables outlined

Echoing

Echoing

Across the lake

Mowing

Mowing

Nowhere to go

Falling

Falling

Inside and out

Make me hear you

I say

Make me feel what you want

Bright beams

Reflecting slowly

As I move

Water pouring and seeping

Back and forth

Up and over

Inside and out

I rest my arms

My muscles aching

My scattered breath against the shore

Searching for your light

Holding you close

Even though

You’re not there

anymore

The pages of the calendar are falling fast;

it was always so,

they never last.

What’s new is the mildew

on the sills of heaven

where my mother’s sore elbows

lean as they used to high above

that open melee of mongers and hawkers

called a street now that I have

seen her those afternoons she sat

in all the years that weigh

more now than when she saw she was not

about to have any choice

of kin, home, marriage in an alien land, but

could refuse its language and alien voice;

and no longer being there,

from where she stared high above

the crowded street, below the sky, in diesel air;

high, but not so high

she could not know some day

how low she’d lie.

Truth is, our breath

makes do more and more with

a steadily increasing diet of death.

Each we grieve

changes our seeing

the world and leaves

it different, distant, detached, and you

not quite indifferent that your worst fear

must one day come true.

Meanwhile, in winter, like everyone,

we raise our wan faces any time

the sun deigns, however faint, to shine

on the faces of the beautiful, raised

mirrors in which we wish

to see ourselves appraised.

to fall in love

in spring,

is to lose all cares,

to be young again,

to be innocent again,

to hear birds singing,  songs

you’ve never heard,

to see delicate yellow flowers, hidden

in the grass,  that you’ve never seen

to joyously breathe

aromas

surrounding you    

 everywhere…

c: sam hamod, 5. 29.12   rev. 5.30.12

The day broke this morning with a chorale of song by my new neighbors some very lovely birds serenading me in and octave so singular and crystal clear. Only these birds could sing this welcome song I’m sure. Perhaps only I could hear it. Perhaps everyone heard it. This sweet charm song of harmony and minor and major matters sung on a sunny warm gracious dawn even as the rumbling trucks rolled down the asphalt tree lined street past the corner coffee shop and the dry cleaners.

He wanted to see our summerhouse

            in the mountains of Baabdat,

enter the pictures

                        where a young woman his age,

            her long hair flowing in the wind,

guided his first steps on the terrace.

He wanted to dream in a language never learned,

            see himself reflected in familiar faces,

recapture smells and fragrances.

He finally saw the orchard his father planted

            tree after tree, green and black figs, cherries, peaches, plums, pears, apples, almonds… 

                        One hundred fruit trees

            we would not see blossoming

                         spring after spring.

            And the purple grape seeds from Japan,

the miniature green seedless Banati from Egypt,

            covering the trellis, tempting clusters

hanging low, cast shadows on the shaded patio.

The cut stone house, its tiled roof,

            seemed out of place.

                        What ever happened

            to the one in the family album?

No longer surrounded by green mountain slopes,

nor an open view to the horizon. 

            Erratic buildings sprouted like mushrooms

                        during the civil war. 

Concrete was biting the flanks of the mountains,

            spreading like a contagious disease.

He rang the doorbell. 

The tenants were friendly, inviting him in. 

            They said the present owner was very proud

of his orchard, that he himself

            had planted each one of these tall, imposing trees… 

He called us excited, said he wanted to buy

            the house back.

                        We could spend summers there. 

Time regained, he thought…

            eager to relive our dream,

retrieve its lost broken pieces,

I tried to explain what does belonging mean exactly?

And does it really matter

originally published in Pirene’s Fountain

Qasida of the Stride in New York

Windows, their yawn, their early morning blush

Glances falling into lit trapdoors split

the here and now, split sweet New York striding

Eleven ginko hand fans, cigarette

butts, down of eleven dandelions

in every stride. Eleven, gossamer

hour; hour of boots, mink, military coats,

muffs, hour of gloved hands holding hot coffee,

hour of holding hands across and beyond

ash, smashed crystal, the cold between windows.

The Revival of the Qasida Form

Perhaps because “qasida” is an expression in Urdu connoting high praise, qasida as a poetic form conjures the image of a poet dressed in his best turban and court clothes, reciting a panegyric with a flourish before the emperor and other men in regalia; a scene from the Mughal court. A “qasida go” in Urdu is a poet who specializes in the genre of laudatory poetry: an occupation that does not appeal to our modern sensibilities. Some of the best-known nineteenth century Urdu poets who had the same inclinations as us rejected pure praise, thereby risking their popularity in the court. They incorporated satire in their qasidas, adding texture, and making the panegyric form more palatable, more modern.

The qasida in Urdu poetics was a result of various transmutations of the form. More ancient than the ghazal, and in fact considered to be its parent form, the qasida originated in pre-Islamic Arabia, and spread, along with the ghazal, across parts of Asia, North Africa and Europe with the Muslim conquests of these regions. Unlike the ghazal, the qasida was inherently locale-specific. The original qasida was part of the oral tradition of the tribal Bedouins, and was delivered at campsites. With its metrically consistent 60-100 mono-rhymed lines, the form was structured on a pattern of “movements.” Each movement had an expected theme, such as paying tribute to ancestors, praising the tribe, expressing the harshness of the desert, the pursuit of the beloved’s caravan, so on. When the Qasida became part of the Persian literary tradition, the Bedouin themes were no longer relevant. The Persian qasidas celebrated instead the local landscape and the beauty of the changing seasons.

Federico Gracia Lorca’s “casidas,” and “gacelas,” were inspired by the qasidas and ghazals of the Arabic language poets of Al Andalus, Spain (711-1492). Being a Granadan himself, Lorca identified with Andalusi poets of the past. Lorca’s twentieth century European iteration of the qasida form resulted from a most interesting transmutation as Arabic had been banned by the Spanish inquisition in 1492 and Muslim literary traditions completely erased. For the succeeding four hundred years, there was no qasida in Europe until Lorca’s resuscitation of the form in his Divan El Tamarit.

The qasida, in many ways, provides a good template for the “identity poem” in a world where we find ourselves poised between opposing forces, where we are global yet tribal, where we yearn for individuality yet we crave for fellowship, alienated from each other yet unified through modern technology. The qasida, as part poem of praise, part poem of contemplating origins, love, loss and the challenges of the present environs, allows in its prescribed themes much of the euphoria and dread of modern existence.

Entities are fusing and it is too late

to reverse the amalgamation.

Capitalism is prevailing and it is too late

to ban monopolization.

Bugs are rampant and it is too late

to control infection.

Internets are cast and it is too late

to curtail misinformation.

Interdependence is rife and it is too late

to advocate dissociation.

Reality is virtual and it is too late

to attempt solid realization.

Frail folk are reproducing and it is too late

to implement natural selection.

Boghos L. Artinian MD

It was a day in April

Spring was late to come

Shades of distant colors

on the trees

Shadows walking by

blind and deaf

What can I hope to gain

looking at the trembling leaf

Innocent as a dream

Petals bathed in dew

cut short by the blinding light

a lonely lark drifting

from the sea beats its wings against the sky

Far, far away

a dark cloud

shade the wings of a butterfly

Soft and fresh as virgin silk

No match for the gaze in your eyes

Pure as the child’s first smile

Someone forced

the game of guessing

to come to a sudden end.

No one saw it coming

The springs of yesterdays

lodged deeply in the well of memories

nourishing no beginning, no end

a faraway platform of a train station

the shadow of a lone passenger

in her hand a white butterfly

flutters no more

 (dedicated to all the children being killed in all the wars)

a child’s hand in the rubble

is not the same as a hand on a child–

why is it that parents

allow old men and women to make  wars?

      *              *               *

it was shiny,  just below the water

stuck in the sand,

shiny,

Mohammed put his hand on it,

suddenly,

his body and blood were on

all of his friends

cluster bomb

     *              *               *

 and who remembers

the zoo in Rafah,

the one that was destroyed at 3 a.m.

by tanks and bulldozers, killing

the animals, children huddled inside,

and the dream of children

for another day

     *              *               *

ah, but with wars, time passes too quickly

and everyday’s  killings all blend into one

so that the children and their times

and circumstances

blur in time

blur

blur from green, to blue to black to gray

then disappear

      *              *               *

for children

war is only a game they play,

unless you are a child in a war zone,

then it’s no game, 

there is no laughter, no second chance

it is life and death each moment,

—even if a  fragment, rocket or

 cluster bomb doesn’t get you,

fear kills you each day,

until after a while

you’re not sure if you are dead or alive

c: sam hamod,  5.20- 21-22. 12

  (from my visit to Lebanon)

The winter in Zahleh is better

for making a pitcher of the hands

and catching the juice of the mountain

streaming cold as from frozen fruit–

to feel warmth against the cold idea

of winters that sputter snowflakes,

and sun as if no clouds existed.

The winter in Zahleh is better

for sitting in the Casino

under the shade of steepness

and the rock that does not crumble–

for seeing just a scattered few

and then more goats grazing high

where one wonders at their sureness.

But many say Zahleh is better

when the sun sits so heavily

and the sea steams so bravely

that mountains beckon away from Beirut–

when the season is the mountain

and the town a teeming stream

of passersby and chatter.

(from History’s Twists: The Armenians by Helene Pilibosian)

 (dedicated to all the children being killed in all the wars)

a child’s hand in the rubble

is not the same as a hand on a child,

why is it that parents

allow old men and women to make  wars

If I were Maggie I’d ride around in a battered old Model T with Mr. Baxter who delivered fresh eggs twice a week from his farm. For years Mr. Baxter rode around with an old dog he called My Woman. When My Woman went to that place where very old dogs have all the bones and fresh flesh they want, he took Maggie off our hands because she’d bitten a nasty boy with ugly glasses and boils who played war games with my brother and called Maggie “the enemy.”

Maggie resembled a poorly painted Dalmatian but she had a lovely body. She had a litter sister named Aggie who looked like a pedigree lab and we had her for years.

Mr. Baxter accepted Maggie just the way she was. During their long drives together he’d tell her all sorts of tales about being in the trenches during the Great War and the occasional R and R he and his friends would have in town. “Whoopee, those girls were so beautiful and George Baxter young and handsome!”

With that he would produce one of his raspy laughs and reach over and run his toughened hands all over Maggie’s face. She, in turn, would look at him with eyes that would melt fresh peach ice cream like that I tasted one late spring day when a sore throat was the reason for me to miss school, something that was rarely allowed. What a marvelous sore throat that was!

Mr. Baxter asked permission to show me his farm and my mother was probably glad to have me out of the house because she readily agreed. Mr. Baxter drove around my neighborhood finishing his deliveries. Maggie sat between Mr. Baxter and me, and she didn’t seem to mind having less room for herself than usual.

I remember the farm as stinking like nothing I’d ever smelled, sort of like burnt rubber, baby’s barf and dirty diapers combined. Maggie seemed not to notice the stench. She ran around showing me her larger family, those cocky hens and commanding roosters who were carrying on some kind of continuous conversation. Here and there she showed me her treasures: bones buried near a huge, leafy tree and others half-covered with farm grime and lying on the ground. I was relieved. At Mr. Baxter’s, Maggie was treasured.

While Maggie was showing me her world, Mr. Baxter was in his. When he came out of the farmhouse he had this funny-looking wooden bucket and he announced he was “going to put the little lady to work, yes he was.” And for hours I turned a metal crank that got harder and harder to do until I simply couldn’t move it. Besides which, I had blisters on both hands, memories I nursed along by picking at the scabs for as long as I could.

Then Mr. Baxter opened the metal container and took out the clapper and said, “Here, you get to lick this.” What a wondrous taste! Bursts of peach covered with sweetened fresh cream covered my tongue and slippery little sugared sweaters clothed each tooth. Mr. Baxter, Maggie and I ate enough ice cream to supply several of “those poor men starving and freezing their little tails off,” but war was very far away.

I don’t remember much about the drive back home because I fell asleep. Mr. Baxter dropped me off at the back door with an extra dozen very fresh eggs for my mother. Some were still warm when we put them in the basket. I told my mother and she hugged me.

Mr. Baxter had accepted Maggie, badness and all. Nothing was needed to change her, just companionship and caring, as, over time, she replaced My Woman as his.

            By Pablo Picasso

About my own birth, the stories

change.  My mother is dead. 

I try to remember what she said

about my arrival.  It’s dust.  Mostly. 

A Caesarean, I had hair

the nurses combed.  In my fifties now,

dust feels closer than ever.  

The email arrives about a friend,

my age, with prostate cancer. 

Carl Sagan said at our deaths

the light we see may be that of

our entrance into the world. 

Light and dust—juggling,

one trying to get the upper hand. 

Picasso: Art washes the soul

of the dust of the everyday.  Memory

covers over with a fine silt.  Soon

we can’t blow it away, find

strange patterns, trace lines

that disappear, become something

unrecognizable.  Even my body

looks like dust when I see lines

that form, the hand that surely

can’t be mine but is 

grabbing at a darkness turning 

to bright flecks that fall and fade. 

They shot him down,
to silence a man of flesh and bone.

Even as the bullets tore through him,
the wind carried his name.

Far across the weary fields,
high above the stubborn peaks,
over the blood soaked streams,
the wind carried his name.

They shot him down,
to silence a man of flesh and bone.

Yet the wind carries his name,
to you and to me,
to them and to us.

They shot him down,
but his name resounds,
as it floats on the breeze.

And,

still they try to shoot him down,
to silence us all,
to stifle an ideal.

But the wind cannot be stilled,
and the wind carries his name.

“Che”.

(For Ernesto Guevara)

Мов у тяжкім сні,–

Отруїли ясні зорі

Серденько мені.

Леся  Українка  1884

Today I’m in sorrow, in grief,

Like in a heavy dream,–

The bright stars

Poisoned my heart.

c: Nina KO5/2/2012 translation from Ukrainian language.

Loved linens caressed by
a laundress hands
Loved knowing their warp and woof
The embroidery celebrated for
it’s flowers and birds and two hearts
joined upon it
Stroked and stretched threads
Oh beloved creatures and beloved world
Spread out all the sheets of the planet
Comfort the lovers with the scent of
lavender
Let them risk sleep
Sleep and dream

            In every nation across the world, there are legendary and epic figures that originate from historical events and even literary texts. With the possible exception of the fictitious Don Quijote de la Mancha, no other Spaniard has surpassed the heroic status of Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, el Cid. All over the world, el Cid is often perceived as a military mastermind, champion of Christianity, and loyal servant to his king, Alfonso VI. Undoubtedly, one of the major factors that has contributed to el Cid’s legendary reputation is the epic poem written by an anonymous author around 1140, roughly fifty years after his death. While the famous epic poem does contain a cast of protagonists that existed in real life and mentions several battles in which el Cid was victorious, historically speaking, the story is simply a work of fiction that presents us with a very biased and false portrayal of the real Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar. Even though historians have shed light on the true character of el Cid, his reputation and legendary status have remained unchanged. Menéndez Pidal explains:

The Cid… is a hero of a very different type. From the height of idealism he descends with a firm step on to the stage of history to face unflinchingly a greater danger than had ever beset him in life, that of having his history written by the very people on whom he had so often waged war and by modern scholars who as a rule show even less understanding than the enemies he humiliated. (418-419)

Consequently, the false portrayal of el Cid is still prevalent in the minds of many Spaniards today. In addition, television and cinematic representations of the legendary hero are usually based on the epic poem to some degree, and therefore, fail to depict the true life of Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar.

In December 2003, director José Pozo released the first animated feature film based on the life of el Cid. Unlike previous film and television adaptations, Pozo is the first to create a representation of the hero geared specifically towards children. This fact alone forces Pozo to rewrite the life of Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar completely because he cannot base his film entirely on the historical figure who “had slaughtered men; broken faith with his anointed King not once, but twice and possibly three times; had, according to some despoiled churches; and according to all sources had a man burned alive” (Throw 153). This type of content is obviously inappropriate for children; plus Pozo needed to present el Cid in a positive manner, like in the epic poem, otherwise the film would have undoubtedly been a flop. The famous epic poem that helped el Cid to achieve his legendary status also fails to provide Pozo with a solid base for the film. Since the poem also contains content that is very unsuitable for children, such as long descriptions of bloody battles and the rape of el Cid’s daughters by the infantes de Carrión, it can only serve as a loose basis for the children’s animated feature. Consequently, the story of el Cid as presented in Pozo’s film is much different from any historical account of Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar and only contains brief elements of the epic poem. Yet, he still manages to present el Cid as a legendary and heroic figure. Furthermore, the film presents the Muslim forces, the enemies of el Cid in a negative manner consistent with that of certain historical sources as well as the epic poem. In this paper, I will analyze how Pozo, through storytelling, elements of cinematography, and animation techniques, creates an entertaining film for children that, despite significant changes to historical and epic sources, portrays el Cid as a legend while depicting his adversaries as evil doers.

Since most children watching the film are probably unaware of the situation in Spain prior to el Cid’s rise to fame, Pozo uses a voiceover to provide a historical context to viewers so they will better understand the story. The information provided by this narrator is quite biased in his comments regarding the royal family of Castile and the Muslim forces. He explains that in 1064, King Ferdinand I of Castile and León returned home after having been victorious in several conquests including that of Coimbra. As a result of his success, a period of relative peace and coexistence between the Christians and Muslims began in Spain. Historically speaking, this is indeed true as there was a reduction in military activity under Ferdinand’s rule. The narrator claims that Muslim ruler, Ben Yussuf, began to invade Spain from Northern Africa which brought an end to this era of peace. Yussuf, in the film, most likely corresponds to the historical figure, King Yúcef of Valencia, a very powerful Moorish leader who set back the Christian Reconquest of Spain nearly a century (Carr 87). In any case, the narrator of Pozo’s film describes Ben Yussuf as the aggressor who sought to conquer all of Spain. Historically speaking, ever since the Moors invaded Spain in 711, all the way until the fall of their last stronghold in Granada in 1492, there were constant conflicts between the Christians, Muslims, and Jews of Spain. Some periods of time were obviously more peaceful than others, but all three religions sought to expand their influence over the Iberian Peninsula. In any case, Pozo employs the voiceover to establish Yussuf as the aggressor and villain, even though el Cid is the one that attacks King Yúcef in the epic poem. “Because El Cid is such a legendary myth in Spain, Pozo had to delicately balance factual events with dramatic storytelling” (Sequera 2).

Visually speaking, el Cid and Yussuf are portrayed as total opposites. When looking at the two, it is clear which one of them is the hero and which one is the villain. Yussuf is introduced first, in the narrator’s opening voiceover. Initially he has taken the form of a black snake. Satan, in the Bible, also disguises himself as a serpent; hence, this is a clear indication that Yussuf is full of evil intentions. By coloring the snake black, Pozo further adds to the Muslim’s malevolence. Once he has transformed into a human, Yussuf’s clothes are black and dark gray. He proceeds to distribute lances to ordinary Muslim men; once they take the weapon, their clothing changes colors to match his. One man refuses to take the lance, and Yussuf transforms back into the black snake and coils around him. As he is about to strike, the camera cuts to the film’s title slide. The manner in which Yussuf is presented is unique compared to the live-action adaptations of el Cid. If the Muslim leader were to change into a serpent in one of these live-action films, it would not make sense, but in the world of animation, such a transformation is possible and helps younger viewers identify him as the villain. The final visual element that depicts Yussuf as a bad guy is his left eye. See picture 1. It appears as if he has been blinded in this eye because the iris and pupil are missing. This physical abnormality could suggest that he was involved in a battle at some point which cost him his vision in that eye. Whatever the case may be, the problem with his eye further contributes to his creepy appearance. Overall, the colors of his clothes, transformation into a snake, and eye deformity combined create an imposing figure that is clearly the villain of the film.

On the other hand, el Cid does not have such a menacing appearance. Unlike Yussuf, Rodrigo is quite handsome with his clean-shaven face; later on he grows a beard. His long reddish hair sways gracefully as he moves his head back and forth. Several close-ups of his face reveal a perfect smile. Lastly, his large frame indicates that he is quite powerful and would likely perform well in battle. Again, when all of these visual elements are combined, el Cid has the appearance of a hero. There is no malevolent aurora about him nor does he look intimidating like Yussuf.

In terms of visual appearance, el Cid, along with a few of his companions do not look very human because their heads seem too small to fit on their large bodies. Sequera explains that, the movie has a very innovative graphic design.

The characters have a very risky graphic line, quite different from what is normally seen in productions about the Middle Ages. The movie’s creators staked on an ambitious graphic development, helped with an exquisite production design. Voluminous bodies and very small heads stand out, making it difficult for animation timing, storyboarding, and the framing of the characters. (4)

The small heads on overly large bodies give el Cid and his men a larger than life feel. The film’s animators needed a method to portray these heroes of Spain in a way that made them stand out as warriors instead of looking like ordinary men. In an interview, co-executive producer Aco Rodríguez comments that “the size of the heads in comparison to the bodies was one way we used animation to visually depict el Cid as a legendary figure.[1]” Again, such a portrayal would not be possible in a life-action film since it would definitely seem quite odd if the actors had heads too small for their frames. In the world of animation, however, such a size discrepancy is completely possible.

In addition to the visual appearances of el Cid and Yussuf, Pozo uses a variety of cinematic techniques in order to further portray them as hero and villain respectively. For instance, the film is filled with numerous shots of el Cid riding his loyal horse, Babieca. Over the course of the movie, Babieca stands on his hind legs several times. El Cid, with sword in hand and hair flowing in the wind, appears to be a very important and heroic figure while mounted on Babieca standing this way. This particular shot of the film is so important in potraying el Cid as a legendary figure that it is the shot used on the cover of the DVD. See picture 2. Shots are also used to convey Yussuf as a villainous person. In both animated and live-action films, directors frequently use low and high angle shots to convey a specific message. For example in the 2000 film, Chicken Run, directors Peter Lord and Nick Park employ a very low angle shot of farm owner Mrs. Tweedy to identify her as a cruel and imposing person. Pozo uses similar shots to further represent Yussuf as a brute. In one scene, he looks down into a pit where imprisoned men are forced into hard labor. Because of the heat of the sun and due to the physically demanding tasks, one of the men collapses after hauling a large stone. Yussuf scolds him and orders the man’s hands to be cut off. The camera cuts to a point of view shot of the prisoner who stares up at Yussuf from a low angle. Visually, he appears as a vindictive and domineering person, just like Mrs. Tweedy. Hence, the camera and various shots are other ways in which Pozo is able to have a child watching the film perceive el Cid and Yussuf as el Campeador and scoundrel, respectively.

Besides the aforementioned visual elements, sound is also used extensively in order to associate specific feelings with each of the characters. In regards to el Cid, during the second voiceover, the narrator explains how he rose to fame and glory by defeating Muslim forces throughout Spain. The film cuts to a montage of shots of el Cid and his men successfully taking over castles and sending riches obtained back to Alfonso VI in Castile. During this sequence, music plays in the background that is fast paced accompanied by religious chanting. Overall, the sound perfectly suits the visual images as it highlights el Cid’s triumphs and indicates his victories are in the best interest of Spain. A much different type of music accompanies Yussuf when he enters the frame. On one occasion, the camera cuts to a shot of the drawbridge of his castle being lowered. He and his men ride out on horseback fully armed and ready for battle. The fast paced music that plays as he departs the castle creates a sense of danger and suggests that something bad is about to happen. When he is first introduced in the opening voiceover, there is also music present; the song is fast paced as has an eerie sound to it. The soundtrack is used in a similar way in the “Night on Bald Mountain” segment in Disney’s 1940 classic, Fantasia. The pace and intensity of the song increase as Satan emerges on the top of Bald Mountain. Music helps to portray him as an evil being just as it does with Yussuf in Pozo’s film. Overall, a combination of sound and visual images is used in order to indicate to the audience that el Cid is the hero and Yussuf is the villain.

In order for the film to bring el Cid to a legendary status, Pozo and his team needed to carefully craft a tale that would be interesting to children. Much consideration and planning was necessary as the new story had to maintain some historical facts and eliminate the violence associated with the renowned hero. The central focus of the epic poem is the restoration of el Cid’s honor on two different fronts. First, he seeks to redeem himself after being banished by King Alfonso VI. Years later, after his many conquests, he is once again forced to regain his honor after his daughters are viciously attacked and violated by the evil infantes de Carrión. It is because el Cid is victorious on and off the battlefield that he becomes a mythical figure in Spain. Accordingly, Pozo could not simply focus on el Cid’s battles against the Muslim forces; he needed to incorporate another part to his story that would prove that Rodrigo was more than a military mastermind. He accomplishes this task by developing the relationship between el Cid and his wife Jimena beyond historical accounts and the epic poem. With all of these significant changes, Pozo consistently portrays el Cid as a hero and never as a rogue.

One of the first challenges that Pozo faced was how to deal with Rodrigo’s banishment. Obviously King Alfonso VI needs to have a reason to send el Cid into exile, but if he commits a heinous act worthy of such a form of punishment, then younger viewers may perceive him to be unlikable and unworthy of being called a legend. However, since banishing someone was considered an extreme reprimand in Spain during the Medieval Era, the offense must be atrocious. If it were only something minor, Alfonso would seem to have a personal grudge against Rodrigo because the consequences would not fit the crime. Thus, the king might be perceived as a villain if this were to happen, and, as a result, the film would again flop for portraying Alfonso VI in a negative manner. Neither history nor the epic poem has an exact answer as to why the real Cid was banished. Quintana comments that several theories exist. Some speculate that he betrayed several of the nobles in the king’s court, that he had stolen a tribute paid to the king, and that he lead an unauthorized expedition to Granada in 1080 (26). Whatever the case may be, none of these three possibilities would work for the animated film since el Cid would come off as either a thief or a brute. Instead, Pozo creates a scenario in which Rodrigo becomes the victim of circumstance and accused of a crime that he did not commit. As the film begins, el Cid is madly in love with his future wife Jimena, but since he has not yet achieved such a legendary status, her father, Gormaz, believes he is unworthy to marry his daughter. On a stormy evening, he and Rodrigo have a physical altercation; Gormaz accidentally falls off a balcony to his death. His dying wish is for Jimena to marry Ordóñez instead of Rodrigo. During that same evening, Sancho II, brother of Alfonso VI is murdered by his sister Urraca and her lover; el Cid is accused of being a conspirator to this offense as well. Since the audience is well aware of his innocence in both crimes, they sympathize with him when he is sent into exile. This change also sets up the two quests of el Cid –to win back the respect and honor of his king and dear Jimena.

With Rodrigo banished from the court of Alfonso VI, Pozo must first establish him as a fierce warrior that battles against the Muslims in the name of Castile. Historical accounts and the epic poem have documented that over the course of his journey, el Cid was victorious in many large and very bloody battles. For example, the author of the epic poem describes the encounter between Rodrigo and the Muslims at Alcocer:

‘Attack them, knight, for the love of the Creator! / I am Ruy Díaz, el Cid, the Campeador de Vivar!’ / All rushed the rank where Pedro Bermúdez was. / They were three hundred spears, each with its pennon; / all struck blows and killed as many Moors; on the second charge they killed three hundred more. (87-89)

Besides being unsuitable for children, due to the nature of animation, this scene would be extremely difficult to visually depict since there are so many characters that would need to be drawn as well as creating the violent battle of spears and swords. Thus, Pozo needs to come up with another way to show off el Cid’s battle skills. He accomplishes this task by two ways. First, he incorporates a voiceover narration that explains Rodrigo’s victories across Spain. “These battles are heard about but not shown, perhaps because they involved the large-scale slaughter of non-Spaniards” (Holland). Secondly, Pozo places emphasis on shots involving lots of action. “Many fight scenes are one-on-one and, though neatly done, pic fails to exploit the epic potential of the many battles fought by the El Cid of legend” (Holland). The numerous sword battles between Rodrigo and his adversaries highlight his combat skills and show that he never gives up. At the very end of the film, there is a lengthy sword fight between him and Ben Yussuf. Even though at certain moments, it seems like Rodrigo will be defeated, his determination and strength are too much for Yussuf to overcome. As a result, he restores peace to Castile by defeating his enemy and regains the respect of King Alfonso VI.

With regards to el Cid’s relationship with Jimena, Pozo yet again makes a significant change to history and the epic poem as both indicate that the couple was married prior to his first banishment. As the film begins, the two are desperately trying to hide their feelings from her father, Gormaz, who does not approve of the relationship. This change is quite significant as it sets up Rodrigo’s quest for love. Strzelczyk explains, “In order to infuse children’s films with adult appeal, most movies now feature a drawn-out romantic love story, sexual tension, intense drama, and a raise level of violence that has long surpassed the violent death of Bambi’s mother” (196). Hence, it is possible that Pozo made this alteration to the story of el Cid to create a film that is more appealing to an adult audience since it contains a romantic love story, but the change also poses another challenge for the hero to overcome. After the accidental death of Gormaz, Jimena is quite devastated and says that she never wishes to see Rodrigo ever again. As a result, it seems highly unlikely that he will ever be able to marry the woman that he loves deeply. Following his departure from Castile, he vows to defeat the Muslims to regain his honor and earn Jimena’s hand in marriage. If he were to accomplish both, el Cid of the film could earn the legendary status of the historical champion of Vivar. After speaking with his father, Jimena leaves Castile in search of Rodrigo because she is following her heart. On the way, she is captured by Yussuf’s forces. With her detainment, el Cid has even more of a reason to attack Yussuf and end the Muslim occupation of the territory surrounding Castile. At the end of the film, el Cid defeats Yussuf and restores peace to Castile. King Alfonso VI is pleased with his courageousness and bravery that he permits the marriage between el Cid and Jimena, thus Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar has achieved legendary status in a very different way from history and the famous epic poem.

In any case, Pozo’s film El Cid: La leyenda offers a unique portrait of the legendary hero that is quite different from that of history, the epic poem, and all other previous film and television adaptations. Part of the reason for this is due to the nature of animation. “Film animation… has constantly been viewed against the backdrop of the real: at times as approaching too near the real… and at others as drawing its very identity and value from its difference from the real (and from live-action film)” (Telotte 8). The latter is definitely the case with Pozo’s film as he has created a new history for the mythical hero of Spain during Medieval Times. Another factor to consider is the fact that the film is geared specifically towards children. Therefore, it would be impossible for Pozo to include the bloody and violent battles against the Muslims in which el Cid earned his title and legendary reputation. Plus, he needed to omit the second and third cantares of the epic poem that deal with the attack and rape of his daughters since it would not be appropriate for children. Had the film been geared towards adults, Pozo could have created an adaptation that was more faithful to the poem. He does, however, create a delicate balance between history and fiction as the film does contain historical people and events. Furthermore, by using the elements of animation, cinematography, and visual images, he manages to present Rodrigo as the hero and Yussuf as the villain. With some significant changes to history and the poem, most notably the relationship with Jimena, Pozo achieves his goal of portraying el Cid as the legendary hero of Spain.

Appendix

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Picture 2

Works Cited

Carr, Raymond. Spain: A History. Cambridge, UK: Oxford UP, 2000. Print.

Chicken Run. Dir. Peter Lord and Nick Park. Perf. Mel Gibson, Julia Sawalha, and Miranda Richarson. Aardman, 2000. Film.

El Cid: La leyenda. Dir. José Pozo. Perf. Manel Fuentes, Carlos Latre, and Natalia Verbeke. Filmax, 2003. Film.

Fantasia. Dir. James Alger and Samuel Armstrong. Perf. Deems Taylor and Leopold Stokowski. Disney, 1940. Film.

Holland, Jonathan. Rev. of El Cid: The Legend, dir. José Pozo. Variety 29 Dec 2003: 5. Print.

Pidal, Menendez. The Cid and His Spain. London, UK: Frank Cass & Co, 1974. Print.

Poema de Mío Cid. New York, NY: Merwin Publishing, 1962. Print.

Quintana, Manuel José. Vidas de españoles célebres. Madrid, Spain: Colección Austral, 1959. Print.

Rodríguez, Aco. “El Cid: La leyenda.” Interview. Secuencias: 2004. Print.

Sequera, David. “Spanish Myth Challenges the Animated Features from US.” AWN (2003): 1-6. Print.

Strzelcyk, Florentine. “Fascism and Family Entertainment.” Quarterly Review of Film and Video (2008): 196-211. Print.

Telotte, JP. Animating Space: From Mickey to Wall-E. Lexington, KY: Kentucky UP, 2010. Print.

Throw, MJ. El Cid: The Making of a Legend. Stroud, UK: Sutton Publishing, 2007. Print.

            In terms of cinematic adaptations of works of fiction, renowned film critic André Bazin argues that due to the differences in semiotics of the cinema and literary texts, directors and cinematographers should attempt to recreate “equivalence in the meaning of forms” rather than focus on fidelity to the original text. Indeed, one of the most uninteresting ways to compare a literary work with the film adaptation is to solely focus on plot and faithfulness to the original source. “Yet, fidelity is a misleading and unproductive notion because it establishes a hierarchical relation between the original and adaptation, and also because it assumes that there is some uniform set of standards for comparing two artworks in different media” (Yoshimoto 258-259).  Thus, it is not justified that the majority of movies based on literature are usually viewed as inferior to their literary counterparts, especially when the work is by a well-known author such as William Shakespeare. Yoshimoto further argues that “the original is always valorized over the adaptation, which is never granted autonomy regardless of its aesthetic value. The discourse of adaptation is therefore less the discourse of aesthetics than that of power” (259).

Legendary Japanese director Akira Kurosawa, in 1957, released Throne of Blood, based on Macbeth; this was the first of his three films adapted from Shakespearean tragedies. Unlike all of the other previous films based on Macbeth, Kurosawa transformed the Western drama into a film that reflects a completely different culture. Jack Jorgens explains, “It is a highly formal work with images of great force and beauty, a blending of the Japanese equivalent of the western –the medieval Samurai film –with the conventions of Japanese painting and the Noh drama” (Shakespeare on Film 153). By transplanting Macbeth from about 1040 A.D. Scotland to feudal Japan, Kurosawa needed to make significant changes to the story so that it would fit in the new setting and time period. Feudal Japan, however, is an excellent era in which to plant the concept of Shakespeare’s drama because Macbeth betrays King Duncan just like barons and warlords did to their clan. According to Ana Zambrano, “As the court lost touched with the people, feudal barons arose defying and finally destroying the court’s ruling families… it is in this feudal era of Japan’s history, with its tumult and rivalry between warlords struggling for power that Kurosawa sets his film” (262).

Unlike most adaptations, Throne of Blood uses virtually no dialogue from Macbeth; therefore, it is not surprising that many literary critics do not consider it a true Shakespeare adaptation. Roger Manvell comments that “Kurosawa’s transmutation of Macbeth is a radical one; he relies only on Shakespeare as a scenarist whose vision is constant with his aim, and never as a master of parameter, which can only too easily become ludicrous on the screen” (106). When the film made its debut in the United States in 1961, critics from The New York Times, The New Yorker, and Films in Review failed to see the film’s full potential as they all measured it against Macbeth; it was not until December of that year that the Time magazine recognized the film as a true work of art (Suzuki 93). Undoubtedly, Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood is very unconventional as it makes drastic changes to the original text; however, it is one of the few adaptations that can stand on its own as a cinematic masterpiece due to the rich imagery and sounds.

One of the hallmarks of Macbeth is the very poetic dialogue, which is one of the reasons why it is considered as one of Shakespeare’s finest works. Macbeth is not only a fierce warrior; he is also an incredible poet. Consequently, it would seem logical that a director hoping to create a successful adaptation would maintain the rich poetic language, but the fact that Kurosawa does not use the text is what makes his film unique. He, however, takes it one step further because Kurosawa does not rely on dialogue at all to convey the message of the film. Yoshimoto states, “Instead of pronouncing words articulately, they loudly yell so fast that it is often impossible to understand what they are saying. One critic, who is extremely upset by Kurosawa’s alleged disrespect for sound quality of the actors’ pronunciation, demands that he add subtitles to the film” (267). Since Kurosawa has eliminated Macbeth’s poetics and does not place emphasis on his own protagonists’ words, the film’s power lies with the visual element. Because Throne of Blood is as visually rich as the dialogue of Macbeth, it is considered by some critics to be the best Shakespeare adaptation and is one of the few adaptations that stands out as a classic in its own right.

As in Macbeth, nature and the weather play crucial roles in Throne of Blood. Kurosawa uses many forms of the natural world such as fog, animals, and a labyrinth forest to add great power and meaning to his films. In the opening shot of Throne of Blood, the ruins of a castle in the mountains are concealed by a dense fog. Yoshimoto states that, “Much use is made in the film of mist and rain… where fog symbolizes what is hidden and mysterious” (254). Likewise, weather is a key component to the first scene of Macbeth in which the weird sisters discuss meeting again so they can see Macbeth. Every time that the three witches or Hecate are on stage throughout the entire play, they are accompanied by lightning, signifying their mysteriousness and wickedness. All three of them chant, “Fair is foul, and foul is fair. / Hover through the fog and filthy air” (3). Without any words, Kurosawa recreates the fog and filthy air as dense fog accompanied by the chilling sound of the wind. He further adds to the mystery of the scene as a chant begins that reveals the history of Washizu (Macbeth) and the once great castle.

Behold, within this place, now desolated stood, once a mighty fortress, lived a proud warrior, murdered by ambition, his spirit walking still, vain pride, then as now, will lead ambition to the kill[1].

Throughout this entire chanting, the camera cuts to various shots of the misty mountain and the remains of the once great fort. As their song draws to a close, the camera is drawn to a large wooden marker, the final resting place of Washizu who has never left the castle grounds. Upon the conclusion of the chant, the fog thickens and Kurosawa brings the audience back into the past to retell the story of Washizu’s rise and fall. The manner in which Kurosawa uses the weather, specifically the fog, is quite poetic and adds the element of mystery that the weird sisters and storms bring to Macbeth.

Without a doubt, the scene in the Spider Web Forest in which Washizu and Miki (Banquo) encounter the spirit is one of the most memorable moments in the film. Again, Kurosawa captures the essence of Shakespeare’s text through visual imagery. Right before encountering the weird sisters, Macbeth speaks his first lines of the play, in which he comments about the ambiguity of the weather and his own actions. “So foul and fair a day I have not seen” (8). As Washizu and Miki attempt to navigate through the disorienting forest they also notice the strange weather through Kurosawa’s fusion of contradicting natural forces. Jorgens states, “Twice in their ride through the forest on magnificent horses, they stop in bewilderment: first to notice the paradoxical weather consisting of sun and rain, daylight and darkness, and second to discover they are riding in their own footprints, that without realizing it they have ridden in circles” (Throne of Blood 167). Through the chaotic shots of the two warriors struggling to make their way through the forest and the bizarre weather, Kurosawa creates a visually rich him.

Shakespeare’s three weird sisters are reduced to a single entity in Throne of Blood; however, the forest spirit is equally as strange and confuses Washizu and Miki as much as the witches perplex Macbeth and Banquo. Shocked by their absolute hideous appearance, Banquo questions the evil trio:

What are these, / So withered and so wild in their attire / That look not like th’ inhabitants o’ th’ earth / And yet are on’t? / Live you, or are you aught / That man may question? You seem to understand me, / By each at once her choppy finger laying / Upon her skinny lips. You should be women, / And yet your beards forbid me to interpret / That you are so. (8)

Based on Banquo’s comments, the weird sisters look so vile and disgusting that he wonders whether or not they really should be on the earth. At the same time, they still have a somewhat human like quality to them since the nobleman indicates they “should be women.” In the case of the forest spirit, it, too, has an other worldly appearance. For several of his characters, Kurosawa employs the concept of masks from Japanese Noh Theater. In an interview with Japanese film critic and historian, Kurosawa gives details about how Noh conventions were used in the movie. “Drama in the West takes it character from the psychology of men or circumstances; the Noh is different. First of all, the Noh has the mask, and while staring at it, the actor becomes the man whom the mask represents” (Manvell 103). In the case of the forest spirit, it wears the Yamanba mask, that of a demon. When Washizu and Miki first confront the spirit, they ask it if it is a human or a spirit. The asexual figure never carries any expression on its face. Both warriors are confused by its presence since the prophecies seem preposterous; however, like the weird sisters, this chilling creature knows more about the present and the future than any human in the play. Washizu is so perplexed buy its presence that he draws his bow with the intent to fire twice, but does not as the spirit is not intimidated. It knows that man never learns. Once the spirit reveals what the future it has in store for Washizu and Miki, it vanishes only to reveal a pile of bones and skulls; the future becomes the present. Again, Kurosawa creates a powerful scene without using Shakespeare’s text.

During this crucial forest scene, Kurosawa makes a change to Shakespeare’s story which changes the overall dynamics of Macbeth / Washizu. From their initial encounter with the weird sisters, Macbeth and Banquo simply learn the basic prophecies –Macbeth will be king and that Banquo will never ascend to the throne, but his son and descendants will. Washizu and Miki discover the same information from the forest spirit, but they learn something much deeper about mankind. Jorgens states, “She fills the men with visions of power while at the same time chanting of human vanity, morality, the lack of an afterlife, and the hollowness of ambition” (Throne of Blood 169). The spirit tells the two men, “Death will reign; man dies in vain… You human! Never will I comprehend you. You are afraid of your desires –you tried to hide them.” When the spirit finally vanishes, it raises up the bones and remains of warriors that have already fallen. Humans are caught up in the vicious cycle that the spirit alludes to in her song. It is through this cyclic bloodshed that it becomes Washizu’s destiny to kill the Lord of Spider Web Castle. In a latter scene between he and his wife Asaji (Lady Macbeth) that the audience learns that the Great Lord Tsuzuki had murdered his way to the top. Hence, Washizu, to preserve this seemingly natural order must also betray and murder his lord. The same cycle repeats itself at the end of the movie when Washizu is murdered by his own men.

Unlike Washizu, Macbeth has a choice. The witches reveal to him that he will become king; they do not state that he has to kill to ascend to the throne. With a significant amount of persuasion from his wife, he decides to murder King Duncan when his majesty comes to Inverness. Macbeth could have waited to see if the weird sisters’ prophecy would come true in time without committing regicide. Washizu did not have any choice in the matter because it was part of his destiny and the vicious cycle that the forest spirit and chorus at the beginning and end of the film speak of. According to Anthony Davies,

Among other things, Macbeth is a drama about the power of choice, and the exercise of that power. Throne of Blood, on the other hand, is a drama about the inevitable prophetic truth… Where Macbeth has choice, Washizu has only destiny, and this distinction… is forcibly announced at the beginning and end of the film, by the chanting chorus which rings out the inevitable fate of ambitious men and proclaims it to be a truth which transcends particular circumstances in history. (155)

Hence, when Macbeth is beheaded in the end by Macduff, peace is restored to Scotland as the rightful heir to the throne, Duncan’s son Malcolm, becomes the new king. In the case of the Spider Web Castle of Throne of Blood, there will never be peace because as the spirit explains, “Death will reign; man dies in vain.”

Another remarkable element of the sequence in Spider Web Forest where Washizu and Miki encounter the forest spirit is the numerous visual contrasts. During this scene, the two warriors’ banners are visible to the camera as they stand side by side staring at the forest spirit. Washizu wields the flag decorated with a centipede; Miki’s banner depicts a rabbit. Centipedes are often predators in the realm of bugs and insects as they possess sharp claws, fangs, and venom that can paralyze their prey. This animal is quite fitting for Washizu as he is aggressive and ultimately murders his lord. Rabbits, on the other hand, are gentle creatures that are prey to dozens of deadly animals. It is indeed appropriate for Miki since he does not murder anybody and falls victim to his comrade Washizu.

Also in this scene, there is striking visual polarity between Washizu and the forest spirit. Washizu, based on the messenger’s comments to Lord Tzuzuki at the start of the film, is a fierce warrior on the battlefield. He wears a full suit of armor and carries a variety of weapons with him; he is the epitome of an aggressive male fighter in the prime of his life. Yet, despite his stern appearance, he cannot intimidate the asexual forest spirit that appears to be quite elderly. A simple robe is all it wears for it has no need to protect itself with swords, spears, and arrows; its words and prophecies are much more deadly than any of Washizu and Miki’s weapons. Kurosawa furthers this contrast with the spirit’s small, flimsy hut made of branches and held together by spider webs. This shelter would not withstand an invasion nor does it offer much protection from the elements. Washizu is easily able to open the door to confront the spirit. On the other hand, the Spider Web Castle is a seemingly impregnable fortress. In one of the first shots of the movie, the messenger bangs on the immense door that occupies the entire frame, quite a dramatic change from the small latticed door of the spirit’s hut. With the tall, thick castle walls, it would be challenging for an enemy to pose a serious threat. The spirit, however, has no need to build such a strong fortification, but man does because people fight amongst themselves. Yet, it will not protect Washizu from Yoshiteru, Kuniharu, and Noriyasu’s forces. Kenneth Rothwell adds, “The witch’s makeshift hut ironically counterpoints the brazen strength of the fortress that Washizu will rule over. In a further irony, it is the forest that will finally win out over the fortress when Birnan wood comes to Dunsinane” (195). Again, these stark visual contrasts in the forest add a visual richness to Kurosawa’s film that does not originate from Shakespeare’s original text.

While Washizu and Miki’s encounter in the Spider Web Forest provides several unique visual contrasts, the manner in which Kurosawa portrays Washizu and Asaji (Lady Macbeth) through Shakespeare’s lens is very interesting. Both resemble Noh masks just like the forest spirit; he wears that of Heida, the warrior while she represents Yamanba, the aging beauty on the brink of madness (Suzuki 97). In Washizu’s case, he, like Macbeth, is best suited for the warrior mask; the two are ferocious on the battlefield and have no trouble engaging in acts of violence. Washizu and Macbeth are initially hesitant to murder Tzuzuki and Duncan, respectively, but they both agree to it after some persuasion from their wives. Asaji and Washizu are in the blood stained room of the previous traitor when the discuss the assassination of the Great Lord; he slowly paces about the room, revealing the deep tension going on inside his mind. As the birds, that also cry out in Macbeth, croak he really begins to breathe deeply. As Davies explains, “Washizu moves like an animal. He paces up and down, he breathes heavily, he flexes his facial muscles rhythmically and bares his teeth” (160). After the deed is done, Washizu returns to his chamber with the bloody spear in hand. He does not say a word; he simply sits down and is, again, breathing heavily. Asaji has to struggle with him to get the spear out of his hands so that she can plant it on the guards. Suzuki states that “Asaji wrests the pike from Washizu’s hands and exits, but the camera remains centered on Washizu sitting absolutely still, his face frozen into the grimacing expression of the warrior-mask, Heida. From this moment, Washizu has become ‘possessed’ –though not completely –by the spirit of his role” (98). The lingering camera reveals his descent into madness as he has just committed one of the most dishonorable acts in feudal Japan. Again, Kurosawa has no need to use dialogue or Shakespeare’s text to show the pent up emotions and internal conflicts of a murderer. At this point, Washizu’s mind is “full of scorpions” (47) like Macbeth’s. Likewise, no amount of water will wash away Washizu’s guilt or the blood from his hands since Kurosawa’s camera shows his intense frozen facial expressions. Faced with the exact same scenario, Macbeth asks “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood / Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather / The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red” (29).

Washizu and Asaji both worry about Miki since he heard the forest spirit’s premonitions; Macbeth and Lady Macbeth likewise fear Banquo and decide to arrange his execution. Kurosawa makes a distinct change to his tale because at first Washizu wants to let the prediction that Miki’s son, Yoshiteru (Fleance), come true since he and Asaji have no children. Kurosawa’s twist comes right before Washizu plans to name Yoshiteru as the heir to Spider Web Castle. This arrangement immediately changes when Asaji reveals that she is with child. As a result, Washizu orders his men to eliminate both Miki and Yoshiteru, but, like Fleance, Yoshiteru escapes the ambush. Following the planned executions, Kurosawa maintains Shakespeare’s scenario of a banquet where Washizu reveals he is guilty of the murder and Asaji attempts to defend him. At the beginning of this scene, Kurosawa borrows a page from Hamlet as a single actor begins a Noh-like play about a lord that was destroyed by ambition. King Claudius in Hamlet is overcome with guilt so he dismisses himself from the play within the story that also alludes to his own misdeed. Washizu, who feels the exact same way, orders the performance be stopped right away.

Suzuki argues that Washizu is not fully “possessed” by the spirit of his Noh mask after the murder of Tzuzuki. Indeed, this is the case because Washizu transforms into the warrior Heida when he visits the forest spirit for the second time. In Shakespeare’s play, the corresponding moment is when Macbeth orders the killing of Macduff’s family; however, Kurosawa eliminates this subplot from his film. When Washizu seeks out the forest spirit after seeing Miki’s ghost at the banquet, he wants to learn his own fate and if Yoshiteru will become Lord of Spider Web Castle. During the banquet, Washizu exhibited some symptoms of paranoia and hallucination with regards to the ghost. Robert Hapgood comments, “We like Washizu can at first see Miki’s ghost; yet when we can see that it is no longer there, Washizu continues to slash his sword” (246). As he talks to the forest spirit, he learns that until the Spider Web Forest moves towards the castle, he will be victorious in battle, giving him as much confidence as when Macbeth receives his second set of three premonitions. The spirit continues by telling Washizu that it if he chooses the path of bloodshed, “then climb to the very pinnacle of evil.” To which, Washizu promises to murder Noriyasu (Macduff), Yoshiteru, and Kunimaru (Malcom), “lay a fresh mountain of corpses over these bleached bones”, and stain the forest crimson with blood. This warrior is confident enough to take on anything. He’s truly deserving of the Heida Noh mask at this point.

Asaji’s Noh mask also suits her character perfectly as her actions bring about her madness and ultimately push her over the edge. As Steven Prince explains, there is a key difference between her and Lady Macbeth.

By eliminating Lady Macbeth’s speech in which she calls on the spirits to unsex her and to fill her with the direst cruelty, Kurosawa transforms Asaji into a figure of unmitigated evil, lacking the human dimension of Shakespeare’s character because she is ‘endowed instead with a purely physical power.’ (143)

Kurosawa highlights Asaji’s evil side in a number of ways. For instance, whenever she is walking inside one of the castle buildings, her silk dress squeaks along the polished wood floors creating a very menacing sound. When she and Washizu have decided to carry out Tzuzuki’s murder, she plans to give the Great Lord’s guards some sake so they will get drunk and fall asleep. She proceeds to retrieve the drink from a closet. After opening the sliding door, she enters into the completely dark space, disappearing completely from the camera’s sight. The camera remains lingering on the entryway and she emerges from the darkness with a jug in hand; it is as if she is emerging straight from the dark depths of hell. Furthermore, when Washizu goes to murder his lord, the shot stays with Asaji. Davies explains, “The camera holds Asaji in its frame while she waits in silence. Suddenly, to the accompaniment of shrill, dissonant music, Asaji rises and begins to dance with frenzied and ecstatic movements, ‘as if acting out the violence’” (161). Clearly, Kurosawa’s images portray Asaji portray her as a very evil soul.

Following the murder, Asaji, like Lady Macbeth, washes the blood off of her hands with a bowl of water. “A little water clears us of this deed. / How easy it is then!” (30). For both ladies, water, unfortunately cannot cleanse the soul or a guilty conscience. Slowly, Lady Macbeth loses her mind and begins to have hallucinations about the blood on her hands. “Out, damned spot! Out, I say! One / –two –why then ‘tis time do’t, Hell is murky” (84). Ultimately, the guilt is too overwhelming, and she commits suicide. Kurosawa recreates the same hand washing scene in his film; however, Asaji’s downward spiral into insanity is brought about by the death of her stillborn child. Zambrano argues that, “When she loses the child there are no more goals to sustain her, and physically and emotionally weakened by the birth, she goes mad” (273). Visually, Kurosawa demonstrates Asaji’s madness since she continues to wash her hands even once the bowl is removed and fails to acknowledge her husband’s presence even when he shouts and grasps her hand. As Prince argues, “Asaji’s act of handwashing is performed as highly stylized mime and lacks the elaborate verbal expressions of anguish Shakespeare permitted his character” (143). Again, there is no need for Kurosawa to use Shakespeare’s text since his visual images are strong enough to carry the film.

After learning of his wife’s suicide, Macbeth utters what are perhaps the most well known and poetic lines of the play, his “tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow” speech. The bitter nihilism of these lines indicate that Macbeth is already dead in spirit since the incredibly strong love between he and his wife is gone forever. Furthermore, he indicates that all of our actions “signify nothing”; therefore, his previous atrocious acts of violence also have no meaning.   Kurosawa’s film condenses Macbeth’s speech into one simple word, “Fool”. Washizu finally realizes that his murderous ambition has got the best of him, and it is too late for him to undo what has been done. After seeing the trees of the forest moving towards the castle and his own men turn against him, Washizu, like Macbeth, realizes that he is defeated, but he only needs one word to describe himself.

In any case, Throne of Blood is undoubtedly one of the most unique Shakespeare adaptations because it does not use the highly poetic text of Macbeth, nor does it need to because its visual imagery is so powerful that the film can stand on its own. Throughout all of his films, Kurosawa places a strong emphasis on the visual elements, the key component of the cinema, in order to create aesthetically rich scenes. Specifically regarding Throne of Blood, Kurosawa faced an additional challenge since he needed to transplant the Western drama into a stylized work reflecting the culture and times of feudal Japan. By associating Noh masks with his protagonists, he was able to create Japanese equivalents of Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, and the weird sisters. Thus, Kurosawa no longer needed to rely on the text of Shakespeare’s play; instead, he only uses the scenario of the work. Furthermore, by replacing the lyrical text with visually striking images and stark contrasts, the imagery of Throne of Blood becomes as poetic as Shakespeare’s text. There is no doubt that Kurosawa’s film is a masterpiece in its own right and one of the greatest Shakespeare adaptations.

Works Cited

Bazin, André. “Adaptation, or the Cinema of Digest.” Film Adaptation. Ed. James Namore. New York, NY: Routledge, 2000. 19-27. Print.

Davies, Anthony. Filming Shakespeare Plays. New York, NY: Cambridge UP, 1988. Print.

Hapgood, Robert. “Kurosawa’s Shakespeare Films.” Ed. Anthony Davies and Stanley Wells. New York, NY: Cambridge UP, 1994. 234-249. Print.

Jorgens, Jack. Shakespeare on Film. Bloomington, IN: Indiana UP, 1977. Print.

–. “Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood: Washizu and Miki Meet the Forest Spirit.” Literature/Film Quarterly 11.3 (1983): 167-173. Print.

Manvell, Roger. Shakespeare and the Film. New York, NY: Praeger, 1971. Print.

Prince, Stephen. The Warrior’s Camera. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1999. Print.

Rothwell, Kenneth. A History of Shakespeare on Screen. New York, NY: Cambridge UP, 1999. Print.

Shakespeare, William. Macbeth. New York, NY: Penguin Books, 2000. Print.

Suzuki, Erin. “Lost in Translation: Reconsidering Shakespeare’s Macbeth and Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood.” Literature/Film Quarterly 34.2 (2006): 93-103. Print.

Throne of Blood. Dir. Akira Kurosawa. Perf. Toshirō Mifune, Isuzu Yamada, and Takashi Shimura. Toho, 1957. Film.

Yoshimoto, Mitsushiro. Kurosawa. Raleigh, NC: Duke, UP 2000. Print.

Zambrano, Ana. “Throne of Blood: Kurosawa’s Macbeth.” Literature/Film Quarterly 2.3 (1974): 262-274. Print.

we collect things,

I think,

thinking we can shore ourselves up

against time, to

hold on

to life and memories,

not only of things we’ve lived

but of a life we wish we’d had

but never did,  as if that antique

serving platter

was when we lived on a farm

but never did, or brass dishes

from northern China, even though

we never lived there,

but our minds are tricky,

if we allow ourselves to wander

some who never left Nebraska

were world travelers,  fought

in 3 or 4 wars, and when studying

the barometer in a wall hanging

were with Vasco DiGama when

he was  on the hot and humid Niger,

at other times, it’s a kind of cup you had

when you were young, but has been lost

in time and space,  as we all are,

each of us in our own orbit, but never knowing

when we will spin out of it,

but we hold these things

close to our heart, but never fully realize

why, but at the deeper level, it is to hold time back,

hoping so long as we have these things

we will live as long as they do

c: sam hamod, 5. 12. 12

she snakes her body

slowly

around my hips,

her thighs

tho velvet, yet steel,

squeezing me

into her,

body pulsing,

she swells,    breasts

pushing,

arms encircling,

her teeth

into neck,

blood taste

hissing in my ear,

biting back

into her body,

mouth and body,

wound around,

all the same,

hers and mine,

clinging

together,

in this deadly grip

c: sam hamod, 4.29.12

who repeatedly proclaim they’re poets

or compose sestinas just to show

they can but never see that wordplay’s

not the same as poetry, which matters

so much more since it confirms

that those who wield the pen

cannot help writing what they write

because the secrets that they learn

whenever they’re inspired reveal

how poetry comes when it comes,

and when it comes, it comes

as unexpectedly as summer lightning,

and the few struck numb are dared

to say just once what only

rarely can be said at all,

but, dared or not, they strive

the way undaunted sculptors

carve and whittle masterpieces

out of ice although they’re cautioned

in advance that warmer Fahrenheits

will swallow everything they sculpt

like substance silenced into shadow—

but still, but still they do it.

SAMUEL HAZO is the author of poetry, fiction, essays, various works of translation and four plays. Governor Robert Casey named him Pennsylvania’s first State Poet 1993. He served until 2003.

From his first book, through the National Book Award finalist Once for the Last Bandit, to his newest poems, he explores themes of mortality and love, passion and art, courage and grace in a style that is unmistakably his own. He writes with equal feeling and clarity about political and artistic figures and the complex synchronicity between life and art. He is extremely interested in the wonderment and discovery that emerge in the act of writing, in the movement toward wisdom that results from the expression of feeling.

As the founder and Director/President of the International Poetry Forum, Dr. Hazo has brought more than 800 poets and performers to Pittsburgh in the past forty years. These have included Nobel Awardees (Heaney, Walcott, Paz, Milosz), Pulitzer Prize winners (Merwin, Kumin, Wilbur, Kinnell, Kooser and others), Academy Award recipients (Gregory Peck, Princess Grace of Monaco, Eva Marie Saint, Anthony Hopkins, John Houseman, Jose Ferrer) as well as public figures who understand the relationship of poetry to public speech (Senator Eugene McCarthy and Queen Noor of Jordan), playwrights and composers (Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Gian Carlo Menotti) and new poets of significance and promise.

Dr. Hazo is McAnulty Distinguished Professor Emeritus at Duquesne University. He has received eleven honorary degrees, is an honorary Phi Beta Kappa member, and has been awarded the Hazlett Award for Excellence in Literature from the Governor of Pennsylvania, the Forbes Medal, the Elizabeth Kray Award for Outstanding Service to Poetry from New York University, and the Griffin Award from the University of Notre Dame. His recent book, Just Once, received the Maurice English Poetry Prize.

We are honored to feature Dr. Samuel Hazo’s work in Contemporary World Literature: Journal for the Arts

    I know but never know

    I know until I write it.

I trust you to be born

    when due but not a second

    before.

                Your birth will be

    as always breech—an ordeal

    of hours, luck and anguish.

I trust you to be difficult

    but not impossible.

                                      I trust you

    as a dog trusts his nose.

I trust you more than fathers

    trust their sons, or brothers

    their brothers since truth at last

    is truer than blood.

                                      I trust you

    to be sudden as redemption or defeat.

Since pressure doubles when volume

    shrinks, I trust you to confirm

    that poems are compressed intensitites.

I trust you to be unforgettably

    the first and last and only.

SAMUEL HAZO  is the author of poetry, fiction, essays, various works of translation and four plays. Governor Robert Casey named him Pennsylvania’s first State Poet 1993. He served until 2003.

From his first book, through the National Book Award finalist Once for the Last Bandit, to his newest poems, he explores themes of mortality and love, passion and art, courage and grace in a style that is unmistakably his own. He writes with equal feeling and clarity about political and artistic figures and the complex synchronicity between life and art. He is extremely interested in the wonderment and discovery that emerge in the act of writing, in the movement toward wisdom that results from the expression of feeling.

As the founder and Director/President of the International Poetry Forum, Dr. Hazo has brought more than 800 poets and performers to Pittsburgh in the past forty years. These have included Nobel Awardees (Heaney, Walcott, Paz, Milosz), Pulitzer Prize winners (Merwin, Kumin, Wilbur, Kinnell, Kooser and others), Academy Award recipients (Gregory Peck, Princess Grace of Monaco, Eva Marie Saint, Anthony Hopkins, John Houseman, Jose Ferrer) as well as public figures who understand the relationship of poetry to public speech (Senator Eugene McCarthy and Queen Noor of Jordan), playwrights and composers (Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Gian Carlo Menotti) and new poets of significance and promise.

Dr. Hazo is McAnulty Distinguished Professor Emeritus at Duquesne University. He has received eleven honorary degrees, is an honorary Phi Beta Kappa member, and has been awarded the Hazlett Award for Excellence in Literature from the Governor of Pennsylvania, the Forbes Medal, the Elizabeth Kray Award for Outstanding Service to Poetry from New York University, and the Griffin Award from the University of Notre Dame. His recent book, Just Once, received the Maurice English Poetry Prize.

We are honored to feature Dr. Samuel Hazo’s work in Contemporary World Literature: Journal for the Arts

and make it appear like a bargain from God.

It takes as much work to sell rubies as toothpicks,

but watch how the difference quintuples your profits

and let that convince you the difference is worth it.

I’ve done this for years so I know what I’m saying.

It’s true that men buy, but smart women shop,

which means that they notice while men merely look.

When choosing a car, a woman will favor

a color that makes it the key to the deal,

and the man has no choice but to buy it to please her.

I’ve dealt with all kinds so I know what I’m saying.

With Arabs you haggle, with Brits you’re exact.

Don’t deal with Chinese, or you’re certain to lose.

A Frenchman in business is cold but correct.

A Spaniard stays calm unless he feels cheated,

but if he feels cheated, you better leave town.

I’ve traveled a lot so I know what I’m saying.

Don’t brag of your gains, or you’ll gain the wrong friends.

When you lose, you’d be wise not to mention your losses.

Gripe, and you’ll find that you bore your defenders

and gladden all those who were happy you flopped.

Look up when you’re down, look down when you’re up.

I’ve lost and I’ve won so I know what I’m saying.

Of men need to choose for today or tomorrow,

they’ll choose for today, and tomorrow can wait.

This means that you sell them what tempts them right

now before they can muster a reason to tell you

they would if they could or thanks, but no thanks.

I’ve learned how men think so I know what I’m saying.

Selling yourself is a game without mercy.

If nobody buys, you’re equal to zero.

The name of the game is how much you are worth.

If you make a million, you’re worth what you’ve made.

If you take in nothing, you’re not worth a thing.

I’ve sold my whole life so I know what I’m saying.

SAMUEL HAZO is the author of poetry, fiction, essays, various works of translation and four plays. Governor Robert Casey named him Pennsylvania’s first State Poet 1993. He served until 2003.

From his first book, through the National Book Award finalist Once for the Last Bandit, to his newest poems, he explores themes of mortality and love, passion and art, courage and grace in a style that is unmistakably his own. He writes with equal feeling and clarity about political and artistic figures and the complex synchronicity between life and art. He is extremely interested in the wonderment and discovery that emerge in the act of writing, in the movement toward wisdom that results from the expression of feeling.

As the founder and Director/President of the International Poetry Forum, Dr. Hazo has brought more than 800 poets and performers to Pittsburgh in the past forty years. These have included Nobel Awardees (Heaney, Walcott, Paz, Milosz), Pulitzer Prize winners (Merwin, Kumin, Wilbur, Kinnell, Kooser and others), Academy Award recipients (Gregory Peck, Princess Grace of Monaco, Eva Marie Saint, Anthony Hopkins, John Houseman, Jose Ferrer) as well as public figures who understand the relationship of poetry to public speech (Senator Eugene McCarthy and Queen Noor of Jordan), playwrights and composers (Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Gian Carlo Menotti) and new poets of significance and promise.

Dr. Hazo is McAnulty Distinguished Professor Emeritus at Duquesne University. He has received eleven honorary degrees, is an honorary Phi Beta Kappa member, and has been awarded the Hazlett Award for Excellence in Literature from the Governor of Pennsylvania, the Forbes Medal, the Elizabeth Kray Award for Outstanding Service to Poetry from New York University, and the Griffin Award from the University of Notre Dame. His recent book, Just Once, received the Maurice English Poetry Prize.

We are honored to feature Dr. Samuel Hazo’s work in Contemporary World Literature: Journal for the Arts

     were an excuse. . .

                                      After all,

     the girl could hold her own

     in argument, dispute her brother’s

     platitudes and sing Elizabethan

     songs while strumming on a lute.

And she was beautiful as girls

     in adolescence are before they realize

     how beautiful they are.

                                               What ended

     everything was when she let

     herself be used and then

     denied it to his face.

                                         He never

     was the same . . .

                                 It took so little

     to destroy so much the way

     a microscopic but malignant speck

     can wreck a body, or a misprint

     maim a poem or a name.

SAM HAZO – please see author’s complete bio in additional featured works and on his author’s page.

    we are four plus a far

    distant cousin we’ve never met

    who have the same first

    and last name.

                              At times

    it’s understandably confusing.

My wife will call one Sam,

    then hear a trio of answers.

Choosing the French and Spanish

    way of asking not your name

    but how you’re called, we’re nicknamed

    Sam, Sam-Sam and Sam A.

Apart from first and last

    names in common, we’re not

    at all alike.

                         Grandfather,

    father and grandson qualify

    as wordsmith, maker of music

    for symphonic winds, and a pupil

    with yet unknown potential.

Sometimes we seem like runners

    in a relay passing off our name

    like a baton from life to life.

Since I’m the eldest, I can think

    in generations but still feel pushed

    like someone ranked in a succession.

It leaves me living in a time

    that’s never ever time enough.

Imagine a clock with no hands

    but ticking flawlessly with utter

    disregard for twelve irrelevant

    numbers.

                      Each tick’s a heartbeat

long.

            That kind of time. . .

please see Sam Hazo’s full bio on the home page; his additional works MAY/JUNE, and on his author’s page.

    the death of language itself,

    beginning with English.

                                               Most

    visions with apocalyptic endings

    leave me cold, but not this one.

In his book called Speak he cites

    the disappearance of Sumerian

    as evidence.

                          He hints that evolution

    of the larynx, lungs and lips

    might make unspeakable the words

    we speak today.

                                  As one

    who lives from dawn to dusk

    I’m leery of foretellings that require

    eras to come true.

                                    It may be

    otherwise in Sweden, but for me

    all words are breaths.

                                           If breath

    and life are interchangeable,

    then every sound we fashion

    out of breath is simply life made

    audible.

                    It could be basic

    as Greek, fluent as the Latin

    sister of the Indo-Europeans,

    gutteral as Finno-Ugric, plural

    as Anglo-Saxon or diatonic

    and curt as Arabic and Farsi.

They all were born from breath,

    just breath.

                        And afterwards they stayed

    alive in alphabets and books

    where memory survived long after

    talking had returned to silence.

To think of every tongue on earth

    extinguished like Sumerian or doomed

    by evolution seems too unforgiving

    a finale.

                  Of course, a change

    could be much better than we think.

We all could draw our breath

    in peace, and silence would become

    the universal language spoken

    only with the eyes.

                                      No one

    would have to beother with translations.

Babels woudl have no cause

    to tower to the sky.

                                       Everyone

    would speak the truth and be

    believed at sight because

    the eyes are too illiterate to lie.

SAMUEL HAZO is the author of poetry, fiction, essays, various works of translation and four plays. Governor Robert Casey named him Pennsylvania’s first State Poet 1993. He served until 2003.

From his first book, through the National Book Award finalist Once for the Last Bandit, to his newest poems, he explores themes of mortality and love, passion and art, courage and grace in a style that is unmistakably his own. He writes with equal feeling and clarity about political and artistic figures and the complex synchronicity between life and art. He is extremely interested in the wonderment and discovery that emerge in the act of writing, in the movement toward wisdom that results from the expression of feeling.

As the founder and Director/President of the International Poetry Forum, Dr. Hazo has brought more than 800 poets and performers to Pittsburgh in the past forty years. These have included Nobel Awardees (Heaney, Walcott, Paz, Milosz), Pulitzer Prize winners (Merwin, Kumin, Wilbur, Kinnell, Kooser and others), Academy Award recipients (Gregory Peck, Princess Grace of Monaco, Eva Marie Saint, Anthony Hopkins, John Houseman, Jose Ferrer) as well as public figures who understand the relationship of poetry to public speech (Senator Eugene McCarthy and Queen Noor of Jordan), playwrights and composers (Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Gian Carlo Menotti) and new poets of significance and promise.

Dr. Hazo is McAnulty Distinguished Professor Emeritus at Duquesne University. He has received eleven honorary degrees, is an honorary Phi Beta Kappa member, and has been awarded the Hazlett Award for Excellence in Literature from the Governor of Pennsylvania, the Forbes Medal, the Elizabeth Kray Award for Outstanding Service to Poetry from New York University, and the Griffin Award from the University of Notre Dame. His recent book, Just Once, received the Maurice English Poetry Prize.

                                       For me

    you’re younger than ever.

                                                    Nothing

    is truer than that.

                                    Tonight

    I thought of life without you,

    and I died—no one to kid

    or kiss, no one to say

    that blue is not my color,

    no one to shuck mussels with

    from the same bowl, no one

    to live the patience that is love

    in waiting.

                         You’re always new

    to know—a mate I choose

    all over every day.

                                       You make

    our lives seem one long day

    with no past tense.

                                       I love you

    for the times you’ve slowed me down

    before I would have blundered.

I love you for the hundred ways

    you saw what I would

    never see until you’d seen it

    first.

              We’re nip and tuck,

    saddle and boot, a pair

    of gloves, a study in rhyme

    from A to Z without a flub

    between.

                      We’re grateful so

    for one lone son whose music

    loops the globe, grandchildren

    three, and Dawn who keeps

    all five in love together

    and intact.

                        If I could make

    right now eternal as a song,

    I would.

                    Impossible, of course,

But not the wanting to. . .

                                             That’s why

    I want impossibility to last,

    regardless.

                        That’s happiness.

please see author’s complete bio on the homepage; in additional works, and on his author’s page.

    with amplified guitars low slung

    and aimed at fans who clap

    and yelp and ought to know

    better.

                 Add flashing lights

    and smoke, and there’s the formula.

What’s total din for me

    is ecstasy for them, and tens

    of thousands pay to hear it. . .

Give me the years of Benny

    Goodman in his prime.

                                              I

    saw him twice but loved

    his music long before

    I saw him once: Krupa

    on drums, Hampton on vibes

    and Teddy Wilson on piano.

To show he could, he guested

    With the Philharmonic and performed

    the Paganini variations to a tee.

The night I saw him last

    he let the spotlight stay

    on Ziggy Elman’s trumpet

    dialogues with Krupa’s paradiddles.

He listened like a king in shadow,

    snapping his fingers and tapping

    his toes.

                    Watching him prime

    his clarinet and prep his reed,

    we waited like the amateurs we were

    to hear the solo that we knew

    would come.

                             And when it came,

    we heard a maestro in performance

    at his best, unamplified and perfect.

Please see author’s complete bio on the homepage feature, author’s page, and additional works.

    that’s nine parts mirth

    and one part doubt, the chin

    untucked and the left eyebrow

    arched a fraction.

                                    Never

    a different face in public

    than in private, never a pose. . .

She sees whatever is there

    as if she’s seen it twice

    too many times to be

    impressed.

                         And that’s what you

    recall as you recall a French

    woman’s way of dismissing nonsense

    with a click of her lips.

                                              In films

    she’s totally indifferent to how

    beautifull she is.

                                   It’s not an act.

And there’s no need for nudity

    to bare the woman within.

The face is nude enough

    to speak in every alphabet

    plus silence.

                            Silence especially. . .

When someone noted that Deneuve

    had perfect features, a connoisseur

    from Montparnasse demurred

    with a smile, “Not perfect, but better.”

SAMUEL HAZO is the author of poetry, fiction, essays, various works of translation and four plays. Governor Robert Casey named him Pennsylvania’s first State Poet 1993. He served until 2003.

From his first book, through the National Book Award finalist Once for the Last Bandit, to his newest poems, he explores themes of mortality and love, passion and art, courage and grace in a style that is unmistakably his own. He writes with equal feeling and clarity about political and artistic figures and the complex synchronicity between life and art. He is extremely interested in the wonderment and discovery that emerge in the act of writing, in the movement toward wisdom that results from the expression of feeling.

As the founder and Director/President of the International Poetry Forum, Dr. Hazo has brought more than 800 poets and performers to Pittsburgh in the past forty years. These have included Nobel Awardees (Heaney, Walcott, Paz, Milosz), Pulitzer Prize winners (Merwin, Kumin, Wilbur, Kinnell, Kooser and others), Academy Award recipients (Gregory Peck, Princess Grace of Monaco, Eva Marie Saint, Anthony Hopkins, John Houseman, Jose Ferrer) as well as public figures who understand the relationship of poetry to public speech (Senator Eugene McCarthy and Queen Noor of Jordan), playwrights and composers (Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Gian Carlo Menotti) and new poets of significance and promise.

Dr. Hazo is McAnulty Distinguished Professor Emeritus at Duquesne University. He has received eleven honorary degrees, is an honorary Phi Beta Kappa member, and has been awarded the Hazlett Award for Excellence in Literature from the Governor of Pennsylvania, the Forbes Medal, the Elizabeth Kray Award for Outstanding Service to Poetry from New York University, and the Griffin Award from the University of Notre Dame. His recent book, Just Once, received the Maurice English Poetry Prize.

well you know,

Charlie Parker, he didn’t

just jump into bebop, he came out

of some lean, sad blues,

and when he did those ballads, you

knew how soft his heart really was,

but he covered it with that hard driving bebop,

that noise that never stopped, and those scales

where he tried to reach heaven with each note,

but never got there,

he was actually closer

when he did those soft ballads, those

blues soft numbers like “Stella By Starlight”

“My Funny Valentine,” and the enchanting

“Autumn in New York,” 

there was that song that came

from his heart, that whisper of love

that he wished for so long, so deeply

each note,   each breath,   each stretch

of his emotional reaching 

vibrated

then resonated

all the way into our hearts

please see author’s full bio in additional works, and his author’s page.