October 19, 2007

how Simon Rodia showed me my craft

 

 

before iíd 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 washerís 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 departmentís 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

 

Posted by dwaber at 12:31 PM

October 18, 2007

 

comes someoneís 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

                                                            oarsí creak

                                                            gullsí cry

                                                                                    at sunís set-

 

comes a pulse

            knows it is someoneís

                                    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 Miribaiís lord?

 

comes the old story-

                        night ripper-

                        the one about

                                                going down

                                                            under

                                                            to visit her sister

                                                                              veil torn

                                                                              meat hook                                                                                                                              deathís eye-

 

                        

comes long

                        silence-           

 

                                    she says-

                                                can be language-

                                                            

                                                            thereís a music

                                                            even down here

 

                                                                        spirit moves

                                                                        shades chant

                                                                        in her dream

                                                                        someone is singing

                                                                                                

                                                                                                                        back

 

—Naomi Lowinsky

Posted by dwaber at 09:04 PM