Celebrating Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919 – 2021)

Ferlinghetti was the author of more than thirty books of poetry and the founder of City Lights Booksellers & Publishers in San Francisco, California.  

These are Mary Nell Hawk’s 2017 photos of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s City Lights Bookshop. 

As you see, on the outside was a big illustrated mural-poem:

NOTHING 

IS HARDER

ON THE SOUL

THAN THE

SMELL

OF

DREAMS

WHILE 

THEY ARE

EVAPORATING

STOP

THE

DEPORTATIONS

POEM / READING:   Poetry as Insurgent Art (I am signaling you through the flames)

POET / AUTHOR:   Lawrence Ferlinghetti   (1919-2021)

I am signaling you through the flames.

The North Pole is not where it used to be.

Manifest Destiny is no longer manifest.

Civilization self-destructs.

Nemesis is knocking at the door.

What are poets for, in such an age?

What is the use of poetry?

The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it.

If you would be a poet, create works capable of answering the challenge of apocalyptic times, even if this meaning sounds apocalyptic.

You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are Mark Twain, you are Emily Dickinson and Edna St. Vincent Millay, you are Neruda and Mayakovsky and Pasolini, you are an American or a non-American, you can conquer the conquerors with words….

 NYMYSTERIES  February 19,  2021

Some Judsonites are keeping track of how often the former president’s name is mentioned in the New York Times. When I lived in Rome I learned about damnatio memoriae. Loosely translated that’s destroying the remembrance of an evil person. It usually applied to public figures such as senators and emperors. The next time you’re in Rome or any other ancient Mediterranean place, check out monuments that have had inscriptions destroyed and portraits of illustrious personages in which one is missing. Memory was an important part of learning in the ancient world. Who read? So it was equally important to erase the memories of felons, according to their accusers. Some example are Caracalla who erased Publius Septimus Geta, his younger brother. Another example is Constantine erasing Maxentius in 312 AD. In modern times Stalin destroyed photos of people out of favor. Do we practice damnatio memoriae when we remove statues from public exhibit? i.e. Robert E. Lee.

 NYMYSTERIES  February 12,  2021

At Judson Memorial’s Sunday service, Rev. Holly talked about Sam Cooke. an African American singer and songwriter known as the King of Soul.  1n 1963 his entourage was in Louisiana. They could not find a room. No one would take them in. Cooke became angry. He and his group left and went to a nearly town where he and his entourage were followed by the police and arrested for disorderly conduct.  He wrote “A Change is Coming”. 1964, the same year he died. Fifty seven years later, is his belief finally coming true? 

Chick Corea died at 79. He claimed that jazz was a little window where you explore. He thought of himself as a composer as well as a pianist. Corea was known for Jazz + Spanish, Cuban technique and along with Miles Davis, Jazz fusion. He is quoted as saying, “Play anything you hear. If you don’t hear it, don’t play it.” 

Winter is still here. Wally Wentink’s dawn photo proves it.

SNOW! We have had a mild winter until this past week. Lots of weather chatter and talk about staying inside. After Monday’s big storm snowmen – oops – snow people cropped up. The adventurous, not the snow people,  took to Central Park and Thompkins Square Park. Most of us saw the giant pandas, Mei Xiang and Tian Tian, sliding down a snowy incline and loving it. 

Snowy Night by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl

in the blue dark

tossed

an indeterminate number

of carefully shaped sounds into

the world, in which,

a quarter of a mile away, I happened

to be standing.

I couldn’t tell

which one it was –

the barred or the great-horned

ship of the air –

it was that distant. But, anyway,

aren’t there moments

that are better than knowing something,

and sweeter? Snow was falling,

so much like stars

filling the dark trees

that one could easily imagine

its reason for being was nothing more

than prettiness. I suppose

if this were someone else’s story

they would have insisted on knowing

whatever is knowable – would have hurried

over the fields

to name it – the owl, I mean.

But it’s mine, this poem of the night,

and I just stood there, listening and holding out

my hands to the soft glitter

falling through the air. I love this world,

but not for its answers.

And I wish good luck to the owl,

whatever its name –

and I wish great welcome to the snow,

whatever its severe and comfortless

and beautiful meaning.