Postcards from Iraq and Burma: Li Pon

Postcard from Burma:

Li Pon in Burma – “Monks standing up to soldiers with their tanks, bullets, and fear. Monks, real monks, are fearless, because we embrace fear. Fear is seeing the bones of your own mortality. Fear is seeing the full insignificance of who and what you are: The dust of your bones swirling with the dust of the streets. Bullets will kill the flesh, but not the spirit. When you look into the eyes of the soldier who is going to kill you, fold your hands in prayer, bow to the Buddha that lives within him, and as he squeezes the trigger --breathe fully in knowing this is your last breath –in that moment – you’re free and fearless in blessing the soldier.”

Namaya in Vermont - “I could only imagine living my life with such spiritual integrity. I build too many of my domains on fear.”

Li Pon in Burma - “Fearless!”

Li Pon in Iraq- “Now, this is fear! The Buddha, ever present, seems like he’s taken a holiday. In every face there is fear, in the face of a child there is fear, in the American soldier there is terror and loneliness, in the Jihadist there is nihilism that is devoid of spirit, and this is a perfect place for me to sit and pray. I will sit by a bridge leading to Baghdad with three prayer flags: Love. Forgiveness. Redemption.”

Namaya in Vermont -“Autumn leaves are blowing in the new October wind: One of scarlet maple fire; a cluster of deep green leaves tinged with orange; and the last is a scrap of an old poem I burned on the fire that escaped incineration and is flying in the wind: Love. Forgiveness. Redemption.

Bring the Draft Back?

BRING THE DRAFT BACK?

I am a card carrying member of the ACLU and Green Peace, a Quaker, a Vietnam era veteran, and opposed to the war in Iraq, all of that aside: Is is it time to bring the draft back without exemptions? The rich, poor, cross dressers, college students, sons and daughters of politicians, and all those who had been exempt in the past would be up to serve. Liberals whine about how the burden of war falls unfairly on the poor and underclass, but don’t volunteer for the army or national guard. Republicans (especially the chicken hawks—those gun-ho armchair warriors who ducked the last draft) think that the Iraq war is a great idea and, while we’re there we should nuke Iran, but they’re too busy making money off the war to actually fight. War, ideally, is an equal opportunity employer and everyone should have the opportunity to put their ideals on the line. In short, it’s time to bring back the draft. Not a tiny little sniveling asthmatic draft, but a big cyclonic wind of a draft that brings all US Americans into the rank and file.
Though the Vietnam draft did NOT help the outcome of the war, it did level the playing field a little. For example, GW our gun ho president who made a brief appearance in the Texas Air National Guard declined a tour of Vietnam: Would a tour of duty in ‘Nam as a combat soldier wading through the muck of the Mekong delta carrying seventy pounds of gear have opened his eyes to the reality of war? The burden and consequence of war usually falls on the poor and disenfranchised, those with little education or ability to navigate in the new economy. It’s time to bring back the draft without deferment or waivers, fit, disabled, pacifists or not, rich or poor, everyone gets a chance. War, in the best of all possible worlds, is an equal opportunity employer.
I would prefer that those who want the war the most-- Halliburton, the Military Industrial contractors, the generals and their tribe at the Pentagon should fight, but they don’t; they hide behind computer screens and algorithms of combat. The next best thing, in a world filled with bad choices is the draft. Instead of everyone moaning what a terrible deal the National Guard is getting with their four plus rotations to Afghanistan and Iraq, we spread the pain among the children of the upper middle class and wealthy. If the draft was an equal opportunity experience, we might get GW Bush’s daughters in the Army or Dick Cheney’s kids on the front lines. Do you think there would be any change in attitude on the part of the administration or congress if their kids were stuck in the middle of a civil war being shot at by both sides? Would the health care improve at the VA hospitals if their kids came back as shell shocked quadriplegics?
The draft, though an imperfect tool in an imperfect world, would be an ideal way to draw children from all levels of society into the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. When the body bags and troop ships with the crippled soldiers come home to Scarsdale, Georgetown, or Grosse Point, there may be a pause, and parents may consider that the sacrifice of their children is not really such a smart way to resolve conflicts.
The burden and consequence of war needs to falls equally on all members of society, rich and powerful, poor and disenfranchised, and one way to ensure that is a draft. Perhaps, to seriously consider the even more absurd notion that war is not a viable way for nations to resolve conflicts and ideological differences, and that diplomacy and negotiation may be a more viable way to resolve disputes

Li Pon Noisy Monk Turning Left

Li Pon Noisy Monk Again

“When you write, you have to be careful about turning to the left.”

Li Pon leaped on my bed

made himself quite comfortable,

and played a pan pipe.

“Foolish poet!

Solstice day, time to play!”

I was in a surly mood and

wanted to spend the day writing.

“Get away from me monk! I’m

writing – I can’t be bothered

by your foolish chatter.”

“Indeed! You’re writing, careful

what’s on the left!” he laughed

so hard he fell off the bed.

“I have something far better

than your silly scribbling.”

“Leave me alone monk! No one trifles

with a poet in the midst

of making love with a muse! Not even Li Pon.”

I slammed the door behind him.

“Damn noisy monk!”

I heard more silly giggling

in the background.

Now back to the story I was writing:

I followed the journey which began

with a dream, I was in Marrakech

in Djemaa Al Fna and

knew this by the astringent smell

of leather dyes, cumin, coriander, spices

from the markets mixed with donkey shit…

I took the hidden entrance that faces south to the mosque, there are no names to the streets, they’re referred to as the House of Saiid Al Hadid or some other person who lived there in centuries past or even now – if you wanted to find someone’s house—Mohammed the baker whose brother is the tinsmith—otherwise you had no business going down that street. Not a street for tourists, they were consumed by the yawning mouth of the souvenir, carpet and tchchka shops. Flutes and the oued rose upwards from the inner sanctum of the Medina and I followed the thread of the music, the winding coil that lead to the center of a chambered nautilus. Down an alley so tiny, a man could easily touch each house and a fully loaded donkey could scratch the walls with its load. Centuries peeled back. I followed the music like a snake enchanted by a flute playing faquir. A woman in a face veil from Essouria appeared with a child in tow, a soccer ball rolled down the street and I kicked it back, smells of fresh cumin, coriander and fried onions filled my senses, and I came to a small square that opened to the ruddy snow covered Atlas mountains. I was lost. To the right was a café and a noisy crowd, and one loud squeaky voice singing a Mandarin Chinese love song in reggae rap, approximately translated as: “Me love ya/ Me Love ya/ because your/ backside so wide/ me love/ me love/ po po love/ po po love.”

There could be only one source of such absurdity.

In the middle of the tavern, a bubbling fountain of giggles surrounded by a Moroccan ska band, as Li Pon looked up at me and winked.

“Did I imagine you again?” he said to me. “When you write you have to be careful about turning to the left.”

CARE WELL

CARE WELL

Blue Heron Pond –

sacred body of water

which has taught me more

of reverence than any church,

wiser in its quiet wisdom,

than any holy book or tome.

Care well.

It seems to say.

Care well.

Swimming in the freezing

waters, ice cold springs

surprise and awaken me!

Finches, darts of yellow,

race across the fields.

Blue jay’s screech warns!

Care well!

He seems to say.

Care well!

Frogs’ night chorus more

joyous and godly than any

Bach chorale. Tulips divine

the intersect of mystery,

revelation from the earth

and desire for the sun.

Blue Heron, sage of

this pond who nests high

in the hemlocks,

is patiently biding her time.

Care well!

She seems to say.

Care well!

In time we will all leave

this mortal sacred space,

but I will not grieve this end.

I will grieve if we have

not loved this earth with

sublime tenderness,

reverenced the waters as

dearly as our gods, cherished

the wisdom of a flower,

and held the divinity of

each living creature as a

mirror of god’s love.

As god spun the planet

earth on her course and

brought it to life,

she set it free with this

single blessing:

Care well.

namaya 2007

Foreboding in Paradise

Foreboding in Paradise

Presentiment

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn

Indicative that suns go down;

The notice to the startled grass

that darkness is about to pass.

A foreboding of the day for no reason at all. The day invited itself in with a bright sunny smile; green leafed reaching to the sky and each cardinal point. : It reverberated life. Pond is perfectly clear. Food in the cupboard. Money in the bank. Health good. Life is even and smooth; yet, there was an odd foreboding in the air, as if something was afoot in the cosmos. Strange, I looked to the floor and under the bed which appeared to be built on a solid block of stone. Granite, to be precise, not from the Granite State, but north near Randolph, a block at least 6 feet long and a few feet wide -- coffin sized. Yet, I was not ready to die nor was even thinking of this when I opened my eyes today. I sat up and had a cup of black bitter French Roast coffee and thought of illicit love. The mirror caught part of my image… unshaved, wild haired, and naked: Who would want to make love to him.

Yesterday, I visited Emily Dickinson’s house in Amherst by chance, I was on my way to a massage parlor a few meters from Miss. Dickinson’s home and though I was ready for a sensuous indulgence I saw the sign for her home a large yellow handsome brick house of a wealthy family and the spinster Aunt who spun poems that too few read. In the garden was an immense oak easily a century in years, perhaps even more, it reached out generously to all points of the compass, small garden paths, purple flowers, tiny white daisies, the lawn and the bushes precisely trimmed. The day was overcast, the garden sequestered in shadows, and the filtered shadowy light obscured by a massive oak.

Was the seed of this tree spawned when Miss. Emily walked these grounds? Imagination and reality are so imprecise when they converge. The private letters of an intensely private woman were on display, though too few revealed her truest longings, and the barest outlines of desire were written on the periphery of her words. Were they so imbedded deeply knit into the fabric and integument of the word fused to the paper that the true amorous passions were quite still? Did Miss. Emily ever caress herself and wonder of love’s ardor?

Who was this reclusive poet? A tubercular romantic waiting by the window watching the world pass by? On this small road a few carriages and horses passed each hour, a clatter of leather harnesses and metal, the high stepping hooves, the whir of the carriage wheels as they bounced along the road from town, and the sounds reached up to the second floor where Emily sat and wrote a poem about the Eternal Footman waiting. Many of her poems were about expectations, windows and the perspective of time, who looks in and who appears out, and the disintegration of time. While the United States was bounding forward like an unleashed adolescent, she withdrew further and further into the privacy of her words. I am jealous of her privacy. Writing demands intimacy, but the whore that I am loves to have group sex on stage. My words and imaginings are lovers and in truth, I prefer our trysts and rendezvous, assignations in lofts and garrets, as a sotto voce whisper hidden beneath well worn cotton sheets.

Curious, the roles and places we choose in life, she chose this monastic life cloaked as a spinster poetess who wove her poems mostly in secret. It was a strange slightly disquieting visit that was oddly at the same time quite serene. I peered back into the life of a woman who lived a hundred years ago and then, without realizing it, felt a quiet foreboding today and wondered of the granite block beneath my bed.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007 Travels with Nique 10-24 August 2007

Europe 2007
New York to London: The seven hour hop
This is my niece’s 15th birthday present as we have taken our other nieces and nephews on trips when they are of age, The Grand Tour that many young have taken in times past with a tutor. Though she isn’t a culture maven, we may be able to incite her imagination a little bit.
Europe is expensive! The Euro is robust and the dollar is anemic, and the price of a coffee is about $5 whether in Venice or Marseilles. Nevertheless, traveling in Europe is a great joy, though for the savvy traveler it will require planning ahead to prevent breaking the bank or more accurately the necessity to rob a bank. Food in Europe even at the grocery store is twice as expensive as in the U.S with the exchange rate plummeting and the Euro at a robust height. Bring the peanut butter and jelly! Last year I was in Oslo and the prices were easily triple of the US. For years US Americans lived in Paris dirt cheap and now: Where are the writers of this generation holed up? Morocco? The Balkans? Is there any cheap place in Europe? I’m looking to Essouria for the winter this year and nestle my bones into the seaside splendor. But now with our trip before us in a wildly implausible trek: London for a quick stop, Milan, over to Venice, down to Ravenna and towards Chianti, Pisa and overnight train to Marseilles, up to Nimes and Ponte de Garde, to Fleurat in the back country, Severagac, to a night in Limoges then on to Paris.
9 August 2007
The night plane is a relatively painless seven hour flight. Surprisingly the American Airline staff is fairly cordial (they must have taken tranquilizers), which is something of a miracle for AA, why do so many seem like they’re suffering from PMS? There should be a course for passengers in dealing with Flight Attendants: Raise your arms in the arm as if to surrender and say: Ï am not the enemy. My hands are in the air. I bring greetings of peace from my planet. Please let my frequent flyer miles take me on Singapore Air, Quantas, KLM or any other airline.
Last year in Turkey we had been delayed and I got on to the plane and needed to use the toilet. The Flight Attendant did a full body block with a stiff arm and pushed me back as I was going to the toilet. Fly American – the Unfriendly Skys.
Travel Tips: Travel business or first class, the best is a private jet! However, as I can’t afford that, I try to make the best of steerage, as soon as you have a reservation, aim for the bulkhead seats they’re the best, though you’ll usually have to arrive early at the reservation counter to ask for them it’s far more comfortable. I also bring a bag of cough drops and face masks, as there is someone invariably with a vigorous tubercular cough. Also, order vegetarian food, it’s usually much tastier and fresher than the cardboard entrée that passes for beef or chicken. Screaming babies – offer them a boob or if one isn’t available can I offer them valium soaked pacifiers?
Night plane travel 11 am the plane is ready to soar. By the time we level off the food is served and it’s time for a bit of a nap and then breakfast of a sorts. We land in Heathrow half asleep and still manage to leap on a bus for a six hour splash in downtown London: Parliament and up Whitehall to Trafalgar square that looks barren without the hoards of pigeons. The heightened level of security is prominent with the Prime Minster’s residence swarming with security and the military. At one time you could leisurely stroll past the Prime Minster’s house on Downey Street, but with England back in its second attempt at conquering Iraq (War in Mesopotamia mid l930’s) it’s vulnerable to blowback. Parliament is completely blocked off with heavy iron black barricades and the trim lawns overlooking the Thames are only for ornamentation. Cameras are at every street corner and on each lamp post, I have the chilling feeling I’m living in the book 1984. It’s apparent the need for security when every malcontent can download instructions in how to build a bomb and blow himself and others up. Look at Oklahoma, a couple of dumb yahoos got a truck load of fertilizer and blew up a government building. Though I still want to know who really blew a hole in the Pentagon, but that mystery is another story.
With the increased security there is a lack of public toilets as you would find in Paris. Though it was particularly satisfying, though inappropriate, and with a very full bladder and not a toilet in sight, I found a relatively obscure corner on the outside of Westminster Abbey. My Irish roots felt a bit of satisfaction in this splendid release. I could see the headlines, “Foreigner busted for whizzing on England’s most sacred monument.”
London is over the top in price – it’s about $20 for one ticket to Westminster. The dollar is tanking and I’m feeling poor. They should have a better pricing system – Students, Retired, and US Americans. London, naturally in August is swarming with tourists, hot steamy day, and all I want to do is stretch out beneath a tree and take a long nap until the next plane.
We’re off to the Brown Hotel for a proper high tea with the clotted cream and jam and the towers of biscuits, sweets and small sandwiches. This is the England of old that I miss. The door man in long grey tails and a high hat didn’t seem a bit out of place, it brought back my longing for England before the war years. In the back country of Kent or in the Midlands there still is kind of quiet civility and reserve, but too much of pop television and football mentality has taken over, and the London of civility and quiet has almost disappeared.
Recollections of London: Several years ago I was in Putney, London totally sober and then realized I had stepped back in time. Transported back to l945 to the last day of World War Two, standing on a street corner and the church bells were peeling and the announcement from a speaker called, “The war is over.” After five long years the daily new of death and battle that pervaded every moment of the day was finally at an end. The last day of the war, I and others cried--- the end; though I, this writer, was born in l954. Surreal London.
MILAN
We roll into Milan and there are several hookers on the main boulevard with their boobs hanging out, wearing hot pants, and smoking cigarettes waiting for customers. They have the nervous twitching of crack heads. An American girl from the Midwest in the back of the bus says to her seat mate, “Are those prostitutes?”
Without pause I yell back, “No, they’re Italian nuns.” Pray to Santa Mona and all your sins will be healed.
At a small hotel near the train station we tumble into bed exhausted, rolled down the shades, and slept the sleep of the dead. We get a phone call from the front desk – It’s 12 noon do you want to wake up?
Porque no?
Disoriented even from the brief sojourn we make our way downstairs for some coffee. Good to be back in Italy though I’m completely dazed. We wind up at the Duomo it is absolutely stunning this cathedral from the 13th Century in this lovely Gothic style. Spires twist and turn, giving this massive building a whimsical light feeling, all points of the roof and towers reaching to the heaven. The best part is taking the elevator to the upper reaches of the cathedral and walking along the roof top with Milan stretching out below. It is a bit mind boggling when you’re walking on the roof of this massive cathedral second only St Peters in Rome can hold up to 40,000 people that it was built with the most primitive tools – sweat, block & tackle, & very simple geometry. The golden statue of the Madonna as the crown guards the city.
To the West is the Galleria named after Victor Emmanuelle II and the shopping arcades from the l800’s that was largely destroyed by Allied bombings and rebuilt afterwards. Sitting down for a six dollar coffee: Ouch! But we are drinking a café in the Galleria, transported in time to the late 1800’s when this was marvel to behold with its Victorian glass and steel design, light and airy, and a boy of thirteen is playing a lovely Mozart piece of the violin.
At the end of the passage of the shopping esplanade is the statue of Leonardo in his various roles as artist, engineer, scientist, and so forth: The quintessential renaissance man. Though I had seen it in an earlier trip, the Leonardo Museum with most of his inventions reproduced it’s staggering to see the wealth of his imagination with hundreds of contraptions from dredging machines, war machines, and his most famous attempts at an airplane. What is amazing is that he knew that one could build a flying machine and had all of the right ideas, but not the technology. If he had had a simple gasoline engine he would have had the means to do it. In one exhibit in Venice there was even the rudimentary idea of an automobile, if he had figured out the means to a steam engine or internal combustion engine, people would have been flying by the 1600’s
Unfortunately, I didn’t make the reservation for The Last Supper and though I’ve seen it before, I always relish in that experience. If there is one painting that you should see in Milan it is the Last Supper an enduring classic.
What is the saddest thing is the Joia the Mecca for vegetarians was closed in August. I asked the chef Pietro if they could at least make a doggy bag for me. Unfortunately, this magnificent 5 star (in Namaya’s International Guide to Vegetarian Restaurants) was not serving in August. If you are within a thousand miles and want a relatively inexpensive, delicious 5 star vegetarian meal, with terrific service… Joia is it.

Laundry List of Wishes

Laundry List of Wishes: An Art Installation Project with banners of poetry.
First installation Brattleboro


NAMAYA a poet/performance artist is presenting a fusion of Art and Word/ Poetry Design with his installation project "Laundry List of Wishes." This whimsical display of common laundry items (slips, pillow cases, etc.) serves as a medium for poems and word art celebrating Spring. These fabric art poems are designed and created by Namaya with the artist Jacqueline Perry. Namaya's new collection of poetry is a celebration of Vermont and its seasons "Blue Heron Pond: Love Song for the Earth."

Namaya said, "This installation project is part of our on-going work in creating banners of poetry with art, as well as larger scale projects that fuse the Word & Art. We currently sell banners & posters of poetry that help to raise money for Grace Cares a not for profit foundation that supports grass roots community development in Central and South America. My interest has always been to expand the notion of the word through multimedia performance that include dance, music, and art. This is the first stage in our production of VERMONT ART POETRY that serves as a market place for art, music, multimedia and poetry.
Banners can be ordered at www.vermontpoet.com

Namaya has been a performance artist for decades, beginning with the St. Mark’s and East Village poetry scene in the l970’s, featured at the Nuyorican Café and Bowery Poetry Club, and with international tours of Europe, Japan, Ireland, & New Zealand. He is the co-founder and lead performer with the Jazz Beat Blues Poetry Ensemble. He has been published in numerous magazines and has several collections of poetry to his credit: Eros to Godhead, GOD SEX POLITICS, & Blue Heron Pond. A new CD "Amerika Uber Alles" is scheduled for release in Fall 2007. His new play Beatnik Cafe a Musical Review of the Beat Generation premiered in August 2007.