POETS PLACE
APRIL EDITION
PARIS, FRANCE 2024
Bonjour Mon Amis! Paris is definitely a city for romance. The old crumbling cobblestone streets vying for attention. Lovers sitting in cafes dreamy eyes locked in each others gaze whilst sipping wine poured by handsome waiters. The french language is soft and fluid, enticing the passersby to eaves drop and attempt to join in on the conversation. I listen in, but only a few words are understandable with my limited French. I have been roaming the city looking around and down the narrow streets for places to explore. Before traveling, I had been studying the guide books, youtube travel shows, Rick Steves maps and getting tips from all my informed friends to get a lay of the land, and hopefully with daily practice of Babble, to learn the basic language of French. But when I venture out I’m still lost, as well as the French words and phrases I’ve learned! There are too many twists and turns in Paris, and when GPS fails, I have to resort to a map. Which way is North? Ah a sign that says The Bastille this way! Then I know I’m headed back towards my hotel! Paris is also a city full of street art and graffiti. I love street art! But they have nothing compared to Picasso. The Picasso museum blew my mind! His legacy incudes over 200 thousand paintings, sculptures, ceramics, and even poetry!!! I hope to check out the Grand Palais Urban art exhibit. And the many galleries all over the city. There is definitely too much to see and do in Paris and unless you are a savvy traveller, or have a lot of time, it’s impossible to cover all the ground!
Thoughts of You
By Linda Kaye
it's cold outside but the thought of you makes me warm
tickles my skin
thickens my heart
softens the weary lines
loosens braided charms
that have hung out to dry
now moistened with love
the drippings of lust laid raw
That’s What I Do
Terrance M. Whitten
I make things. That’s what I do. From my earliest years, I took apart, reconstructed, piled, stacked, drew on and experimented with whatever was at hand. My proclivity for making things was a fair clue as to any future vocation I might choose, if not actually steered towards. As the second son of a Roman Catholic family attending St. Christopher’s Elementary in mid-century Detroit, the Irish tradition of my mother’s family would have me be groomed for the priesthood, a family ambition likely dashed when I dropped out of altar boy training in the fifth grade without telling my mother because there was no way in Hell that I was going to memorize the big Apostle’s Creed that opened Act II of the Catholic Mass.
In Latin, yet!
In 1964, the liberalizations of Pope John XXIII that brought the English language into Catholic liturgy were a couple of years ahead. Still, the nuns in seventh and eighth grades were quite vocal about my perceived future as a priest, I was such a good and conscientious student. Not to mention that my mother was secretary to the Pastor in his rectory next door.
But I kept my skeptical misgivings about the whole Jesus business to myself.
By my 1967 graduation into an all-boys Catholic high school, that aura of future clergy bait still hung over my head, for I am certain that the Brothers at Detroit Catholic Central had their eyes on me. The age of 15 was when I finally acknowledged to myself a full turn to agnosticism, at least until the age of 28 when I experienced hallucinogens for the first time. That acknowledgement of my lapsed faith remained personal, for ambivalence marked my responses in any religious discussion, whether in class or out.
Growing up in the Motor City in the 1960s, the roadways were crowded with the expressive stylings of the city’s biggest export – our cars. Since the late 1950s, Detroit’s automotive designers all competed, producing flash and grace in equal measure.
My mother’s father was a line manager in one of General Motors’ production plants. As family, I was entitled to free enrollment in GM’s local Engineering and Design school once I finished high school. The age of 15 also saw me determined that automotive design was where I was headed. My schoolbooks and papers throughout later grade school had their margins filled with my little sketches of mid-60s Jetson-era car and architectural fantasies. The long Michigan winters kept students indoors during recess, my time post-lunch spent doodling up more fantasies, with fellow students anticipating what I would concoct next. And every September brought with it the beginning of a school year, the new TV season and the introduction of a freshly-designed batch of the Motor City’s most prized products by Ford, GM and Chrysler.
At age 17, my professional future still looked to be in the hands of a corporate giant.
But then in my Senior year, I started working on the school newspaper. I would go on to enter Michigan State University as a Journalism Major in 1971, though 1970 and my Junior year found me more ambivalent about where my professional future lay. My options became more evident once my grasp of the world began expanding, as it does to all teens heading into adulthood. Though to my fellow students and my teachers, I still appeared to be prime for the clergy.
Then one day the entire Junior class was required during Father Heath’s Sociology class to take a multiple-choice vocational test. Several weeks later we all were handed the results of the test in a sealed envelope. This rather conservative student anticipated a rather conservative result. In 1970, I was antipathetic towards the swelling pot-smoking, long-haired counter-culture and found humor, along with the rest of the class when an exemplar of our class’s counter-culture fringe was determined to be a future mortician!
Then I opened my own envelope.
Musician.
What? I was surprised and a bit confused that the test saw that kind of energy in me, for good or for bad. Just three years post-1967’s Summer of Love and, to this inexperienced 17-year-old, the word “musician” carried with it a myriad of life choices that I did not foresee for myself. Sure, I was an AM radio pop-music junkie, with a childhood saturated with a vibrant soundtrack, and had taken music classes in just my Freshman year learning a clarinet so to join the school band - no passion for playing the instrument, though I do enjoy its woody voice - but I shared my vocational test result with only one classmate, a friend who sang in the school chorus and was teaching himself guitar. He was as surprised by the result as me.
I didn’t even tell my parents.
Well, come entry into college and the pursuit of a journalism degree, I would be sabotaged by my dyslexia when I continually failed the typing tests to qualify for senior-level courses. So I turned to my drawing skills and acquired a Fine Arts degree after a fifth year at Michigan State. As for the life choices that followed my commencement in 1976 and my stepping foot into the real world – that vocational test got it right, mostly.
The word “artist” does not fall far from “musician” as to the sort of life choices embraced. I have proven not to be made for the world that had been anticipated for me, for the counter-culture I once misunderstood in 1970 now defines me. My 1981 encounter with a hallucinogen and the subsequent dramatic redefinition of the universe, as well as the spark that really lit fire to a productive artistic life being a case in point.
All that was detected by a simple high school vocational test.
I have flourished as a visual artist over the decades and found my way back to the written word in the 1990s courtesy of the computer keyboard and the ability to correct and edit as one writes. Three screenplays, a novel and three other books bear my name as a result, besides the innumerable drawings from my hand.
As for the potential as an automotive designer, the mid-1970s oil crisis put an end to imaginative car design. I would have been discouraged had I taken that route and would have been eager for an alternative. That is one “what if” best not taken.
But there is another.
In 1966, this thirteen-year-old already had made his creative talents evident, so my mother tried to spark some creative energy out of a sister by renting an acoustic guitar and having my sister take weekly guitar lessons at a music shop in a nearby Dearborn shopping center. My sister displayed no enthusiasm for the whole business. Never practiced. I now can imagine the frustration of the guitar teacher.
At the time, I wished my mother would let me take over the guitar and the lessons, for The Monkees had just premiered on TV and this Beatles-fed fan with a good ear likely would have turned a capable hand to the instrument. And likely I would have written music as well, whether songs or more complex music, I would have made something.
That’s what I do.
But I didn’t say anything, and the neglected guitar went back to the shop in Dearborn.
A big “what-if,” a big “what if” that the vocational test detected in 1970.
In retrospect, I could have embarked on an adventurous musical life in 1966, one which musician Dan Fogelberg described in a lyric – audiences are heaven, the traveling is hell. That and all the other well-documented hazards of the musician’s life.
Is there regret in the recounting of these memories?
No. Music remains a substantial and colorful presence in my daily life. And a sturdy harmonica has been a friend for nearly 35 years. Though I really don’t know how to play the thing, I can make music with the instrument just the same.
As for my art and my writing over the decades – would I sacrifice them for a life of music?
No. They’re my children. Of course not.
Just as long as I am making something.
That’s what I do.
© 2024 Terrance M. Whitten
Terrance M. Whitten is a Detroit-born artist and writer, now a 25-year resident of Los Angeles. Keeping busy!
POISE
By:IE Carlo
21 February 2023
To speak, to admire, to lauder
To be poet
Poise is necessary
Look, see, view that young woman on the steps of the White House
Standing at the podium poised with the most powerful man the President of the United States of America
Who is she you ask, Amanda Gorman, by name, a poet laureate
And no games she plays,
Her posture, her eyes, the courage in her stance
Listen to Maya Angelou recite her words
See her manner of being her ‘not’ angular back Standing erect with the conviction of her words
You hear the vowels than consonants the nuance the narrative is clear and poetic
To be a poet takes ‘will’ not only writing it but delivering it The audience is waiting for they’re there to be impacted with the depth of your words they’re here for they have a self interest they want to know
From poise comes character to which the audience can identify with the poet they live the poets journey and ‘roll’ with It. It may have taken the poet perhaps hours, days, months, and even years to perfect those words being said and poise is calmness, and although the poet may be a word-smith, words don’t always come with the [what] of the poem needs to say...it can be grueling...but that’s what makes a poet! A poet must always be prepared, to enlight, making the audience feel uncomfortable at times may be what the poet’s intentions are, but be weary because if they're given a reason, any reason, they’ll turn you the poet off. A poet must be a humble-courage-artist-person. A butterfly of love...Paz
Ismael (East) Carlo, where to begin...on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio (no, it’s not how I came about my monica of “East”). That happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…
...mom, was an avid theater person, live stage was her favorite, movies every Thursday night at any of the Spanish theaters venues available. I mean they use to give away whole dish sets, one piece at the time, so she would take us all, in this way all would get one piece each of dish ware.
At the age of 33 East took to acting…”It was an easy transition for me. I mean you couldn’t get more material or characters than you could from observing people and their ways on one city block in NYC”.
Moving to Miami in 1973 was the start, things were changing and Hollywood was on the cusp of that change. Latino’s were in, and “East” was right there in that place where all things Latino was beginning to happen. Cuba was a hot topic, drugs, sex, and rock n roll was the thing.
One day out of nowhere East said to himself, “I’m going to Hollywood and play with the big boys and girls…” and that’s exactly what he did. But that grew into a bigger and more advantages career. It would also take him to what has always been his passion, music. He met Robert ‘Bobby’ Matos, and that’s where the creation of Cafe con Bagels and music recordings had its genesis.
From there to now; Bobby encouraged him to write seeing East had an awareness of what life and its meaning meant to him and others. Through writing East has been able to make inroads and contribute to awareness of that thing called life by way of a recording he and Bobby shared, titled: “Provocateur”.
East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...
For more about East, visit IMDB. He would’ve written more but Linda just gave him but one day to come up with this...LOL
Paz en Vida
The House Does Not Exist
By Gwen Freeman
The house does not exist
Anymore
Except
In dreams where laughing silhouettes fill the kitchen,
And pace the hall
And sleep in narrow beds.
Until
I open my eyes, and mourn the dead, and know again,
The house does not exist.
Gwen Freeman was born and raised in Virginia, a double graduate of the University. She is a lawyer and artist, living bicoastally with her husband in Mt Washington and in the rural Shenandoah Valley.
THE GUEST
By jerry the priest
Shiva’s on his way over with laughter and affirmations.
He’s offered the use of his car for the weekend. There’s a
festival in our honor in one of the little towns ’round here
and everyone’s invited to celebrate our love.
This is delightful and happening none too soon. Soon
it will be Autumn, but now it is high Summer. A thrill is
in the air. A very whisper of fulfillment.
These recent rains have cooled the mountain and it’s
just as well there’s little to hope for.
I picture you dressing for the party. You’ve casually put
on the merest hint of makeup and your flimsiest gown, the
better to remove them when the time comes.
There’s a lilting raga playing in your womb. You’re moving
to its lush melody and infectious rhythm, mildly astonished
at how far you’ve come, and how quickly the transformation
has taken place.
Before long you won’t even be missing your crutches.
A lightning bug swoops in the open window, attracted
by your undeniable radiance. He is flashy and unafraid.
The two of you are dancing by candlelight as the rains
resume.
Its midnight in your bedroom. In mine it is high noon.
A letter arrived today. A contest it seems I’ve won, in
which my sorrows have all been loaded onto trucks
and removed.
I’m tempted to cartwheel. Aw, fuck it: Here goes!
…I form the shards into an offering and text
affirmations to Shiva.
I put on my finest shoes and a little cologne. I hide
presents in my beard, and thoughtfully put
the kettle on.
When Shiva arrives, he’ll be wanting tea.
jerry the priest, legal name Jerome Dunn, has been creating material for exhibition, publication and live presentation since 1979, when he studied experimental music at the University of Redlands. A vocal performer since early childhood, his formal study of music began with his first trombone lesson in 1967.
Essays, poems, stories and illustrations have appeared in Coagula Art Journal, La Quadra, the Nervous Breakdown, Bombay Gin and others, and his guitar/vocal/ trombone work and lyrics are featured on Cheap Disaster (’92), Stark Aloe Vera (’95), and Lovely Children (2011).
He’s lived and taught in Katmandu Nepal, Istanbul Turkey, Boston Massachusetts, Boulder Colorado, Portland Oregon, San Francisco/San Leandro/Los Angeles California, and written in Banaras, Bodhgaya, Konya, Damascus, Petra, Jerusalem, Mexico City, San Cristobal de las Casas, Antigua, Buenos Aires, Seattle, New Orleans, Chicago, Denver, Santa Fe, Bar Harbor, Vancouver, Halifax, Atlanta, Asheville and Manhattan, among other locales.
He holds a BA in Performance Studies from Naropa University, and an MFA in Theater Directing/Production from California Institute of the Arts.
jeromedunn·happythanksgrieving@gmail.com·707.227.6539
G. Billie Quijano-artwork
This photo is from my Cinematic Chicas series. It is my homage to Mother Earth and the Aztec Goddess Xochiquetzal. Honoring this season of La Primavera and the Equinox.
Xochiquetzal, Goddess of beauty, love, fertility, artists and La Luna. I am her daughter. www.artexola.com
G. Billie Quijano-Artista, Bruja, Poeta, instigator of beauty. Hija de East Los.
I am honored to know Linda Kaye. Her love and support of artists is beyond amazing. Now she is off to France to blow everybody’s minds. This is an exciting time.
The Swan King
By Ronald Carillo
He delighted in swans
And tell tale Manhattan gossip Of the highest order
An insidious mosquito author Past his prime
Put out to pasture
A parasite filling his inkwell On disaster
Unable to recapture his youth He decays
In decadent filth
An ugly duckling
Waiting for
Unanswered prayers
Those that were answered Took his last breath
The queen ate swan
He was a cannibal mimic Seeking salvation
Mercy from
Manhattan matrons Attempting suicide
When he was rejected Nonetheless he survived On the edge
Battling demons
From his past
He wrote his way to fame And settled for infamy
All in vain
Up in smoke
He choked on his muses They provided fine fodder But not nutrition
His words
Were a beautiful contrition That crossed swords
With evil doers
A shiny swampy orbit Where he listened Then lost his shine
A bevy of swans White elitists Trumpeter pens At their center
A single cob
Ronald G. Carrillo is a native Lincoln Hts Angelino, living in Eagle Rock and a retired LAUSD educator and influencer. He writes of his passion and rebirth into the golden age of living. He has been writing since high school and was initially influenced from the songwriters, Keith Reid, Joni Mitchell, Laura Nyro, Neil Young.
Grand Central Market
August 22, 2022; July 24, 2023
By Elizabeth Silk
We’re all here
Moms and teens and grands
Chairs pulled round a table
Waxy papers bloom from takeout boxes
In the shade of Grand Central Market
Kids toddlers carbed out on
pizza tacos soda
blankly stare
Bass and drums rumble the air
Chests thrum against metal chairs
Chatter ripples over heat waves
We are in it together
Breathing bad air
With satisfaction
In shallow breaths
Under aqua umbrellas brisk and perky
Like kites about to fly off over the hot wind
Pigeons stalk crumbs
Not about to fly off
A sunbright wall faces us
Its mural faded to Egyptian pastels
Blue block H E L O spaced between
Boarded windows
Since I, Elizabeth Silk, moved to Los Angeles in 2021, I have enjoyed writing poems about Downtown LA where I live. “Grand Central Market” is one of the first of those poems as well as one of the first landmark settings that I enjoyed.
bowl of cherries
By Charla DelaCuadra
dark and sweet
as your kiss
the one I want and cannot have
but right now
I have this taste of summer
on my tongue
feet bare
in front of this kitchen sink
spitting seeds as the sun slants
liquid-slick and ephemeral
as the bitter finish on my tongue
so pink and so lonely
for the company of yours
cherries in summer
(just like you)
always leave me wanting more
slightly dissatisfied
but also grateful
for the sweetness they bring
a skirt and a bra, honey
and I've got a mouth full of summer
so melancholy for the memory
of this moment
before it is even gone
Charla is a musician, writer, archivist, blogger, creative, thinker, planner, reader, feminist, lover, and student of life. She lives in Southern California with her patient husband, rescue pups, and a cat who thinks she rules the roost.
Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.
Please submit your written work to: lindakayepoetry@icloud.com
and include a short bio
Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, produces films, produces spoken word and art events and produces a poetry column POETS PLACE for the online publication LAARTNEWS throughout the Los Angeles area.
Linda’s poetry events have included several summer poetry salons, and shows at the Align Gallery, 50/50 Gallery, Gold Haus Gallery, Ave 50 Gallery and Rock Rose Gallery in Highland Park .The Manifesto Café in Hermon, Pilates and Arts studio in Echo Park, and Native Boutique, Zweet Café in Eagle Rock, The Makery in Little Tokyo. And at the Neutra Institute Gallery and Museum in Silverlake. Her first short documentary film “BORDER POETS” was a socially and politically inspired event with poets and musicians filmed at the border wall near Tecate, Mexico on the Jacumba, Ca. side of the US. The film co-produced by MUD productions is available for viewing on her website and on youtube. https://youtu.be/5Te4-dlhxco
Her rap music video project in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg This video was accepted into the Ontario Museum of History & Art show “We the People” Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow. February 2- April 16, 2023. So honored!!
And… February 19, 2022, she debuted her staged poetry production of “20 Years Left” at the historic Ebell Club in Highland Park! Two sold out shows with 2 standing ovations!! Check out the links to reviews and the video!
https://thehollywoodtimes.today/20-years-left-new-show-performance-poetry-music/
20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22
20 Years Left is now a short documentary!!!! Screening at a living room near you!!!!
Linda Kaye is a native Angeleno who grew up in the San Fernando Valley. She claims to be both a first-generation Valley Girl, and The Original Hipster. Educated at Antioch University and Cal State Long Beach in psychology and social work. Linda, now retired from medical social work, was working for her last seven years of employment as a psychotherapist and licensed clinical supervisor for an out patient mental health clinic. She was a licensed medical social worker for 30+ years working on the front line of healthcare, a private consultant for Physicians Aid Association and for skilled nursing facilities throughout California and Arizona. She was also an adjunct assistant professor at the USC Suzanne Dworak-Peck School of Social Work. Oh yeah.
Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry
http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://
shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/