Why me? What did I do?
Hours
We want to forgive our memories. The trees are blackened with snow. We can imagine
small pink flowers on them, the trees blackened instead by rain, and the ground streaked
with petals. Rain and snow smell a little alike, only snow is more dry, more hollowing
when breathed in. Rain is a sudden fortissimo. But we can only smell the snow.
We are followed everywhere, and even in the quietness of the deep country, the echoes
sound out our names. The water loiters around us, then slips away, calling. Even when
there is no sound, we hear ourselves spoken.
There is a flat rock in the middle of the woods where we watch stars. In the sky we see
rivers which flow differently. They stay still, but are not frozen. They expire loudly in
spheres of fire and dust.
Now it is summer again. In the night limpid flames burn through the forest. The last
figures flee, perhaps gathering their skirts, perhaps abandoning them, where they lie like
poppy petals in the flickering light.
Visit
He grazed a fencepost
on the narrow road,
the green pyramid top
glazed white in the sun
the fields are yellow with flowers
and a small woman in a limp
gray dress, his grandmother,
watches him pull up,
from her stoop,
in his big car
He brought her
yellow flowers
Mud Flats (Myth of the Weaver Girl)
Two crows pick at the muddy, dry flesh
of tiny fish washed up
along with
salt;
A pigeon’s found a mate
beneath the branch
of a gnarled, dead tree;
and the sun rolls
behind hills like moons
like a ball of yellow silk
coming
undone.
The story
is preserved.
The lovers
will
ascend the stars
and cross the sky.
Abigail Schott-Rosenfield attends the Ruth Asawa School of the Arts in the Creative Writing department, and is an editor of her school’s literary journal, Umlaut. Her poetry has been published in several journals, including Snakeskin Magazine. She lives in San Francisco.
THERE’S A LAND BEYOND THESE WATERS
By: Emmanuel Ikem Bertrand
from Amurri, Enugu, Nigeria
There’s a land beyond this water. You may not have paddled your way to it or stretched your
eyes enough to glimpse its travails, but there’s a land miles away from where your enticing
riches are blooming.
There are worlds confined within the walls of poverty – a name that ruthlessly obscure their
true colors from the eyes of the peering world. Poverty is more popular than the most
popular celebrity in Hollywood. So many persons fail to stop and consider that there could
be a heart-consuming pain flaming beneath the skin of that fame.
You may not have gone beyond the confinement of your riches to discover that there’s a
land in Africa, after every water that separated you from the rest of the world,
where infant mortality is no news to weep over, since it’s as familiar as the whistling of the
wind, and in most cases as certain as the coming of darkness.
You could be an African breed, knowing all her beauty and splendor. But I bet you’ve never
imagined a vast world outside your little enclosure, harboring the countless downtrodden of
this generation, who live through days without the certainty of winning a grain of rice from the
lottery of their drudges and who only have swamp or polluted waters that appease their thirst.
And of course you may never get to know the hell they pass through to get to the heaven of a
poorly equipped healthcare centre, since they dwell miles away from your don’t-approach-me
castle – where at a dial of a telephone, dozens of physicians queue to defend your life from an
accusing death.
Yet, if truly all men trace the same source, then beyond these waters dwells your poor family
whom the harsh wind of life has tossed into the dungeon of hopelessness. There, also, is your
poor village whose children perish in the hand of such conquerable diseases as Measles,
Polio, Malaria, River-blindness, and a basket full of the rest.
I know you’ve never considered it. But I thank God you’re still alive. You can yet build bridges
over these waters and link the infant souls and dreams ravished by penury to your future of
great abundance. So that the generation to come will not only celebrate your talent, wealth
and fame, but your kind heart which raised dead dreams, revived dying souls and alleviated
pains.
Believe me, there’s a land beyond any water you see, where flowering stars are falling before
their twilight. Yes, infant stars who are yet to taste the light of the sun are falling at Amurri
in Nigeria, at Soweto in South Africa, at ………….in Kenya, at ………………….. in Niger,
at ……………….in India, at …………………..in………. And the list is nearly as endless as
eternity. I call them “The Mirrors of the World”. Look into their eyes; whatever you behold of
yourself is exactly how you are.
You may not be able to change their life, but you can add a meaning to it. Don’t help
everyone; that will be obviously asking for the impossible. Just help someone and let’s see
where the star shall lead us.
Even when out of your Elephant Purse you lift an invaluable Ant of a gift you turn your back
and disregard the insatiable greed in men’s tongue. Whether they utilize it for your intended
course or not, you’ve played your part. Yes you have, but please, don’t turn your back till you
see a child smiling.
Sorry you tasted a piece of my heart from a bitter voice. Yet, this is not the pot of it – you
know how incapable the hands could be in interpreting the words of the heart. But beneath
the consciousness of my incapability, I believe the truth is prevalent in this tiny piece: “there’s
a land beyond this water”, which yearns to welcome your Boat.
Emmanuel Ikem Bertrand is a poet, screenwriter, motivational speaker, and Gospel enthusiast from Nigeria. He can be reached at ikembertrand@msn.com.
do not destroy
by Shanna Williams
what if i want my roots back
want to dig into my skin and
pull them out of wet soil
wrap them around my neck
in spirals, all the way down
to my ankles
my birth rights are
written across my palms
the lines in my hands
are in hebrew
i want to know what it’s like to believe
in something and i want to know
what it’s like to be a part of something
a cultured community
of curly hair
i feel like my roots are waking up after
a long nap and they’re stretching up
and my body is shaking
my eyes are watered down
and my skin is taking in all the sunlight
that i’ve missed; i’ve been
blocking my view with a hate
for god, with a hate
because if there’s a god
why did my puppy die
why can’t i seem to figure out what to do with my life
why does my soulmate live in a different state
i want to grab my
religion by the neck
and i want it to fight
back and spit in my
face and beg me to
believe in it
Shanna Williams is a vegetarian from San Francisco and no, she doesn’t have her nose pierced or ride a Fixie bicycle.
A Review of Opera San Jose’s performance of The Pearl Fishers at the California Theatre
By Bramani Spiteri
A journey of forbidden love, secrecy, revenge, and regret, Opera San Jose’s 29th season, “Secrets
Revealed” opened on September 8, 2012 with French composer Georges Bizet’s The Pearl
Fishers at the California Theatre. Set on the shores of Ceylon (Sri Lanka) a village of pearl
fishers looks to Zurga, played by returning resident baritone Evan Brummel, as its leader.
Shortly into the first act, Nadir, a past rival and current friend of the new king, arrives. The role
of Nadir is filled by another returning resident company member, tenor Alexander Boyer.
The opening scenes of the opera prove to be less than tantalizing, with plenty of fault to go
around. There were, however, a few diamonds in the rough. The set and costuming create
great depth and color in most aspects, although a large head reminiscent of the 1990’s game
show Legends of the Hidden Temple proves a distraction. Only once, later in the first act, when
Nadir lies in front of the huge sculpted features after singing “Je crois entendre encore” does the
beautiful symmetry in posture and lines add to the visual interest of the set; it is otherwise a poor
choice.
A much-anticipated rendition of “Au fond du temple saint”, the famous duet where Nadir and
Zurga proclaim their dedication to their friendship and denounce the lustful wonders of an
unnamed priestess, does nothing to improve one’s impression of the first act. Boyer certainly
outshines Brummel during their duets, but neither is particularly spectacular. Brummel struggles
to project sincerity and neither stays on pitch.
Performers were not helped at all by a poorly tuned orchestra. Unfortunately, this was only
accentuated by the beautifully composed dissonant tones of Bizet’s pieces. Conducted by
Anthony Quartuccio, music director of South Valley Symphony, the orchestra seemed to
compete with performers, especially during the program’s featured duets.
In her company debut, Cecilia Violetta Lopez enters as Leila, the veiled virgin priestess, come
to pray for the fishers’ safety and honor her commitment to chastity. Lopez quickly becomes an
indispensable asset in an otherwise-shaky Act One. And although the dancers could seem heavy
on their feet at some points, choreographer Lise la Cour provides relief to the opening act by
incorporating ethnic lines into ballet form in an incredibly beautiful manner.
With the plot well on its way, the company completely redeems itself in Act Two, set in the
midst of the night. Lopez and Boyer are fabulous together as their characters, Nadir and Leila,
discover each other once again and fall to the will of their love despite the priestess’s oath to
the village and Nadir’s promise to Zurga. Silas Elash delivers a wonderful performance as
Nourabad, the priest tasked with keeping watch over Leila who unknowingly seals the couple’s
fate when he reveals the priestess’s identity to Zurga after they are found out by the villagers.
Zurga’s love for her flares, but his jealousy pushes him into rage. He condemns his friend and
the woman he loves to death. The orchestra has a shining moment of its own as a beautiful
cascade played on the flute transitions seamlessly into the clarinet. The sounds of the instruments
melt together creating an incredible alloy of talent. This is what the audience came to see!
The curtain closes on Act Two, and one is hopeful that the third and final act will continue this
upward trend.
Act Three brings an exciting twist of fate to the story, turning jealousy into remorse. Brummel
completely contradicts his earlier performance, filling the intimate theatre with the beautiful
baritone melodies of the third act. Lopez, Boyer, and Elash carry their strong performances
from the second act through to the end. The chorus balances male and female parts beautifully,
creating a fierce array of tones, a background that allows the soloists to shine.
With opening night jitters a thing of the past, it is a shame that the opera will only be running
until September 23rd. Fortunately, The Pearl Fishers is only the beginning of the 2012-2013
season. We expect that Opera San Jose will continue to deliver exceptional performances
throughout the year.
Bramani Spiteri is the coordinator of the performance arts network Soul Expressions (www.BramaniSoulExpressions.com). She can be reached by email at Bramani@BramaniSoulExpressions.com and by phone at 304-282-6826.
Good news for the folks who were craving for news of Oscar Wilde’s relatives: Lily Sauvage is working hard on The Importance of Being Dolly, and Synchronized Chaos had the privilege of attending the cold reading. The play revolves around the life of Oscar Wilde’s sexy niece, Dolly. Dolly is uber-gay, witty, and of course abuses drugs and booze.
Synchronized Chaos knows it all and even if “advice should only be passed on”, our humble opinion follows anyways.
When talking of Wilde, one expects the unpredictable. Let the plot swing; Oscar will be proud of you! Do not hesitate to abuse the uncle’s witty quotes–he doesn’t mind, he is dead. Mellow on the gay topic and the same goes for the drug abuse. Deja-vu, except if Dolly would dig deeper into the subject and contemplate on her motivational reasons to indulge in those illicit substances.
The Golden
If I sit here.
In the golden
I sit here
Where the light falls slanted through
the paint chipping trellis
where it catches on the
petals of the buttercups
and pools in the yellow
centers of jasmine
bounces
off the spine of the bee who
hums almost silently
just now in the Golden
Summer.
If I sit here and
sip mint tea
green.
out of a glass cup that
whorls and dimples like
the mint leaves
seeping,
run my fingers down the
Paint chipping trellis
and the slats of the porch
painted to match if I
sit here and
Pull the roots of the buttercups
from the dirt and
weave them through the jasmine
Disturb the bee hovering
over their sweet scent,
pull their roots still
clinging to dirt and rocks through my curls.
If I sit here
in the Golden Summer
with golden flowers in my golden hair
If my eyes catch the sunlight and hold it there
Could I keep my toes in the edge of the summer?
The Minnow Dance
You can turn your body like
a school of minnows.
body glitter coats you and sheds
like scales
You are one writhing silver being.
You are naked and
tender
the wind burns you and you never knew
knew you could turn like that
and you like it.
Do you like it?
My hands on tender hips
scales rubbing onto my fingers
like body glitter
making me as sliver
We are one writhing silver being.
One school of minnows darting
under the surface
light flickers reflects
and for a moment
we are the sun.
But I can feel a thousand pluses
beating from my fingertips temples hips and I
know that the sun isn’t this alive
doesn’t
burn as hot as your breath on my
cheek.
We are minnows
one seething mass of silver flesh
a tornado school of fish
in flux.
Alpine
North.
We wear sweaters
fingers caught
in the hems of sheep’s hair
fingers caught in curls.
I am winter blonde
hidden
and just beginning to be beautiful.
You are summer brown and you
unfurled in full glory
a long time ago.
We travel North and into Alpine
swathes of snow over
dust dirt and
the empty arms of
trees reaching
Tangling their fingers
in the clouds so wispy
thin that they don’t snap the delicate…
You
and the North
good with a cup of tea
and never making miss summer
good under blankets
in front of a fire
fingers in the sheep hair
in the fleece and
coughing over
the pine smoke burning
faces warm with contained flame.
Winter White.
She wanted to be as warm.
the way the snow melts in rings
around it’s roots
and the ground is a little
less frozen.
She loved the solemn faces
grown into the bark
haggard lines and
sleepy eyelids
she like how none of them smiled.
How the moss
the only green in all
of this winter white
blank white
the ground and the sky and the water
white
how the moss clung to the only
other warmth how
water rolled down
those weather beaten faces
like sweat.
The effort in stillness.
Control.
How the moss drank it
spilled it
stained themselves a darker green
living green against
the blackening bark faces and the
white
ground sky water
white.
Vast and unbreathing
cold white
cloudy ice
rubber room white.
She wanted to
leave her footprints under the tree
she was here and living
with other living
but the ground was still
to frozen between
the roots and
however warm they
may be they
weren’t as warm as:
the cloudy ice sky
sun shining cold
and white.