how Simon Rodia showed me my craft
before i’d launched a single soul
or heard the cat call in my voice
some sanity insisted that i see
the joy leaps of your towers
Simon Rodia
in flat exhausted Watts
where no tree grew
i
twenty-six
afraid of my life
looked up at your craft-
a maze of spires
cathedral of steel rods
a window washer’s labyrinth of tile
what wind had ripped you loose
of the gray grind?
motorcycles growled revenge
spanish mothers prayed
their baby Jesus would survive
sixteen
cement and broken dishes
your creation: the ark
still pushes at the backyard fence
baptismal font awaits
the new born
and here a bench for sitting
in your Italian Sanctuario
inlaid with jewels from the garbage
are all the treasures of a boy- blue of broken tile
green fire of soda pop
seashells from the bottom of your pocket
ruby
of broken wine decanter
holy shapes that blossomed
in your hands
and in my northern neighborhood
when no wind blew
and nothing happened in the house
i would imagine that i had a craft
like yours
Simon Rodia
and every broken bit of color
that life washed up for me
would have a place in my design
the city fathers
tried to pull
your towers from their roots
Simon Rodia
not even swinging cement balls
could shake your work
i saw you
riding your joy leaps over their upturned faces
over the arches over the many
colored mosaics over the holy spaces
you had created a whole world for me
to visit
and a great wind
ripped me loose!
Note: Simon Rodia was the creator of Watts Towers, magical folk art structures whose cathedral-like spires were made of mortar, steel rods and mesh, and whose intricate mosaic designs were made of broken crockery. It took Rodia, a poor Italian immigrant, thirty-three years to construct his life work. When the Towers were completed in 1954 he deeded them to a neighbor and moved to Northern California. The Towers survived the Los Angeles building department’s demolition threat by standing up to a pull test to determine their safety. The Towers can still be seen in the southeast section of Los Angeles known as Watts.
—Naomi Lowinsky
comes someone’s music
comes the unturned page comes the name comes the footstep
W.S. Merwin....
comes wild
the word-
who knows who
blew it in-
says it is
ocean
oars’ creak
gulls’ cry
at sun’s set-
comes a pulse
knows it is someone’s
heart
lungs
liver
spleen
handclap of gypsies
footstamp of bharat-
natyam dancer
comes a certain music
does not remember
its name
whose famous old song
has broken
and entered
this house?
snatch of Sappho?
murmur of psalmist?
laughter of Miribai’s lord?
comes the old story-
night ripper-
the one about
going down
under
to visit her sister
veil torn
meat hook death’s eye-
comes long
silence-
she says-
can be language-
there’s a music
even down here
spirit moves
shades chant
in her dream
someone is singing
back
—Naomi Lowinsky