Sunday, February 19, 2017

After Richard Blanco's "El Florida Room"


After Richard Blanco’s “El Florida Room”

“Not a study or a den, but El Florida
as my mother called it, a pretty name
for the room with the prettiest view
of the lipstick-red hibiscus puckered up . . .”

Richard Blanco’s poem “El Florida Room” published in Looking for The Gulf Motel by the University of Pittsburgh Press in 2012 reminds me that I, too, had a Florida Room growing up, although two decades earlier. In my day, Florida Rooms were that special feature of the cement block “ranch” houses springing up in developments across the state, a marketing advantage for attracting folks from up north. Long and low and walled by windows on three sides (“jalousies,” when I was young), it represented tropical living in an era before central air conditioning, catching those soft moist breezes. 



As Blanco says, the Florida Room was not a study or a den, though it would have been a den in other climes with fewer windows and heavy dark furniture, a crocheted throw over the back of Father’s chair and real paintings on the wall. I would have liked to have had a den like those I read about (much cozier), but what I really wanted was the kind of family who had a house with a study, sophisticated tall bookshelves lining the walls, a late afternoon sun shining through an equally tall window with many small panes. 
  
“Not a sunroom, but where the sun/ both rose and set,” Blanco says. Since our Florida Room was on the west side, it was particularly oppressive in the afternoon. We had a terrazzo floor, though, cool and smooth, and a matching rattan furniture set – couch, side chair, end tables, and coffee table although no one in my house drank coffee after breakfast. It was more likely to be Jim Beam on the rocks or Coca Cola in a pop-top can sweating on the surfaces.

Although the Florida room was “not a TV room” or a “family room,” it was still where the family gathered and watched together the black and white picture in the corner. I have an old photograph in my mind of my father during an “on the wagon” night at home lying on his side on the couch, my little brother in his cowboy outfit perched on my father’s hip, and me sitting at the end at his feet in a seersucker sunsuit. We were all looking in the same direction toward what was probably a Western on TV, just as in Blanco’s family.

In his El Florida, Blanco’s mother taught herself to dance and it was where her son learned to salsa. For a brief period, I used ours to give ballet/tap/jazz classes for a quarter to the little girls on the street whose parents couldn’t afford dance classes three times a week like mine could. And there on Albatross Drive in Satellite Beach, we also had a view from the Florida Room of lipstick-red hibiscus just as Blanco did in Miami. So you can see, Richard Blanco and I have a lot in common even though I am a white, post-middle-age heterosexual woman and he is none of those.

But really, we do share a lot. We both lived sticky, sweaty childhoods under that incomparable, constantly changing Florida sky, accompanied by the swish-swashing of palms. We each sat alone for hours in our Florida Rooms doing many of the same kinds of playtime activities. I didn’t do much coloring, and I never thought to ask for glitter, but imagination played contently with solitude. It seems that the salty humidity provided something of a blanket for certain kinds of children who sat twenty years apart, not in a living room, but “in the light/ of El Florida, as quiet and necessary/ as any star shining above it.”


Friday, February 17, 2017

UPCOMING CLASSES: Writing Nature and a Sense of Place


I will be offering this popular class in various locations over the next year. Each workshop will be different based on the location. These are what are scheduled so far.  (Register via the organization sponsoring the workshop. If you want more info about the class, email me at lsbuck1@gmail.com. )

Writing Place: Landscape, People and the Natural World

 
Writing about place involves working with the elements that make a specific place unique. This may include the layers of history, natural history, human culture, and the built environment across time to bring us to the present moment. Writers might be advocates, critics, or lovers of a place but any way, a sense of place helps us ground our writing on any topic.

By developing the craft of writing about place, participants will discover more about their subjects, allowing them to better understand and present their world and experiences. The workshop is open to writers of all levels and suitable for writers of both poetry and prose.

·       Through writing exercises and prompts, participants will work to develop skills from the “writer’s toolkit” of image, voice, language, structure, and more.
·       We will look at the work of other authors for inspiration and modeling.
·       As weather allows, participants will write outside for some of the exercises.
·       The workshop will maintain a safe, supportive environment that recognizes there is no such thing as a mistake in writing, just the next draft.

Saturday, March 25, 10:30 - 2:30, Bangor Public Library:
Sponsored by Maine Writers and Publishers AllianceBring a bag lunch.

 August 17 - 20, 2017: Whitehead Island Maine
Sponsored by Whitehead Light Station. This three-night program will be held on an island off the coast of Spruce Head with accommodations in the lightkeeper's house and all wonderful meals included. Definitely a special experience.
http://www.whiteheadlightstation.org/programs.html

October TDA: Midcoast Conservancy, Wiscasset,  Maine
http://www.midcoastconservancy.org

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Wise Women

  I.
“The island floating ahead of me like a moon, tugging me
forward. Whatever it has in store.
 . . .  there it was, pulling and me already going its way.”
Those are the words of Canadian poet John Steffler in his book, “The Grey Islands” re-issued by Brick Books in 2015. The narrator in this montage of story, poetry, and character monologues is a man undergoing something of a mid-life crisis. He leaves Ontario for Newfoundland, and  after a year or so, he leaves that part of the Province for an abandoned island offshore. He was already going its way.
The man is planning a year alone in one of the left-behind houses, and he is very alone except for the occasional stop of the mail boat with supplies or fishermen from other outports who sometimes come into the cove following fish or shooting ducks. They tell him stories of those who used to live on his island, the ghosts that haunt its landscapes, the predictable craziness of the weather. It’s these stories and his own regrets that keep him company when the winter ice moves in and isolates him completely.
I was fortunate this past summer to spend three weeks on Newfoundland. It was my fourth trip there, and the pull of the island for me is like, well, like the tide. Here’s a short essay of mine from that time.


II. Wise Women
            Northern Peninsula, Newfoundland

We couldn’t find the path, the trail through the barrens around the headland, the “official” trail. We followed narrow ones instead thinking, perhaps this will be it. But each only led to another made by the unseen—deer, berry-pickers, other wildlife we hoped to see, maybe even ghosts.
            We had been promised an official trail, though, and after twisting and turning and twisting, we were frustrated and grumpy. We cast about for explanation: How could experienced hikers like us go so wrong? Why didn’t they make it more clear? Where was the signage?
We eventually stopped as if to turn back—a waste of a trip. The rocks stood silent. The wind off the Labrador Sea blew into our collars. The cloud blanket held onto rain. The lichen never moved.
            Then the spirit of the place grabbed us and we said, Let’s keep on. We’re in it now. We’ll cross-country to the trail. We can’t get lost. We were reassured by the long view across the barrens showing a thin line of official trail along the bay in the distance.
            But we forgot about the many secrets of barrens and the melding of space and time among rocks that move imperceptibly over eons -- and sometimes over late summer afternoons. We should have know how the “next rise” isn’t necessarily the next rise at all, how there could be hidden bogs to go around and deep tangles of sharp spruce scrub taking you into another direction. We didn’t remember how climbing a stand-out rock for a better view forward can deliver the “wrong” view, the one you didn’t imagine, the uncertainty of your own certainty.
We didn’t care. We laughed. It was fun. It was freeing. The blueberries were ripe. We imagined others who had gone before, pack baskets against their bent backs. We embraced the day.
Until we realized how far away everything really was. The official trail wasn’t getting any larger (when we could glimpse it). We could see how high we had climbed and how down down down we would have to go, and could we even again find the way back from which we came? We remembered our sixth-decade bodies.
We came to an edge, a cliff. Not a terrible cliff.  Only a tiny stream trickled on one side, otherwise good-looking dirt. We could do this, we said. We would get there. We started down, picking our way. Rolling pebbles and gravel accompanied us. Roots offered handholds. The streambed sucked at our shoes. A wide meadow waited at the bottom and beyond that the bay. We were wise women that day, abroad in the country, knowing, after all these years the certainty of this life’s uncertainty.
III.
I’ll come back to Newfoundland in upcoming segments. For now, I’ll close with John Steffler:
“not man’s time here.
sun’s time.
rock’s time.
I begin to feel it.”






Saturday, February 4, 2017

A New Year, A New Start

With the New Year (plus one month), I'm re-re-branding my blog, formerly know as "Hullabaloo." I'll be posting on Sunday nights, or more, my new literary column, "Field Notes: A Journal of Story, Place & Ideas." In the not too distant future, there will be an audio version, too. So stay tuned. 


I.
“The moon and sun are eternal travelers. Even the years wander on. A lifetime adrift in a boat, or in old age leading a tired horse into the years, every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.”

That quote is from Matsuo Basho in Sam Hamill’s translation of “A Narrow Road to the Interior” published by Shambhala Books in 1991. Basho is one of my role models – a wandering poet in 17th century Japan. Basho’s practice at the end of every day was to make note of what he saw and heard, who he met, gossip, weather, and landscape. He used these observations to write his poems.

Basho was continuing a tradition from the 11th century maintained primarily by Japanese women—the nikki, or “day book.” Contemporary poet Andrew Schelling calls this practice a “peerless literary tradition based on the diary form.” Into it went observations of events, people, places visited, conversations overheard as well as natural history and local news.

Schelling writes that this tradition is being continued by Joanne Kyger, one of the early West Coast “Beat” poets. Kyger was the first wife of Gary Snyder and traveled with him and Allen Ginsberg to Japan and India. She has spent significant time in Mexico and calls her writing journal her “casa,” her little home when she’s on the road.

All of this will be familiar to naturalists, journalists, and anthropologists who write up their field notes ate the end of the day. Sailors keep logs as do lab scientists. And lots of writers and visual artists do their own versions.

That’s why I’m calling this column “Field Notes: A Journal of Story, Place and Ideas.” I’ll be bringing reports of my own as well as those of other writers. We’ll hear about Portugal, Newfoundland, Mexico, Sears Island and Satellite Beach. We won’t just be looking at visits to far-flung places, though, or even our own backyards. “Field Notes” will be about journeying through our days and paying attention to what we find along the way. After all, Basho said, “Every day is a journey.”


 II.
Here is a poem of mine that began its life as field notes.
Hymn
            Monte Alban, Oaxaca

Now that I’m here again, I remember the bees.
Thirty years ago, I was at this place and I remember
the bees, intense even then with their noisy work, swarming
us, making a life from this dry landscape: the moment
of flowering theirs.

A mere 2500 years earlier, humans built here to worship
over a wide ocean of bare mountains, leaving what we call ruins,
gods forgotten yet deeply remembered.

But the bees -
how many years for them the sweet nectar of their praisemaking?
And before that,
                        the hard-packed earth singing.

III.
I’ll be coming back to Mexico, and Beat poets, and maybe bees in future columns, among other things. Today I’ll leave you with an excerpt from Joanne Kyger’s chapbook “Patzcuaro” published in 1999 by Blue Millennium. Patzcuaro is a mountain town in the Mexican state of Michoacan.
“Could be    anywhere
on Earth    and Time    focused completely
focused on chopping
the tomatoes, chilies, and onions.”


Thursday, September 8, 2016

Writers' Obsessions: Carl Little


I've been MIA for the past three weeks traveling in Newfoundland (more on that later). I'm continuing my series on writers' obsessions sent to me by some of my writing buddies. This one is Maine poet and art critic Carl Little. (Be sure to check out some of the previous ones, too).

Flax Pond

From age one to age 18, I spent most of every summer by a pond in Water Mill, New York, on the South Fork of Long Island. Flax Pond, as I later came to learn was its name, was one of a group of bodies of water that inspired the name of our road, Lower Seven Ponds Road.
The pond was utterly alive, full of fish: pickerel, bass, catfish, eels, sunfish and perch. Snapping and painted turtles frequented its waters. Swans, ducks, geese and heron took up residence or fished in the reeds.
The pond represented a means of escape for me—a place of retreat from my family, from New York City where I went to school. At the same time, it meant family: fishing and swimming with my sisters and brothers and parents. It was a glorious place.
One of my first published poems, chosen by Robert Farnsworth for Columbia Magazine in 1980, was based on memories of a summer of drought when the edge of the pond receded a good 15 feet. At that time, I found myself in an in-between place, dealing with adolescence and family. I began exploring the edge of the pond, digging with my feet in the mud for remnants of past lives lived nearby, mainly antique bottles, milk and various medications. Unmarked bottles may have been from the potato mash still that had been set up at the back of our property. The poem, “Water Lily,” evokes the place and my mood. Here is the second stanza:

Deep in the pond’s mud shallows
my toe touches a bottle
but I pull up a water lily root.
It bobs at my knees,
it won’t stay planted.

I wrote about the pond’s denizens, including the snapping turtle:
Its beak is mean
even in the mud,
snaps at beauty like a man
who erases the eyes of models
in a magazine.    

The pond kept appearing in my poems, a constant presence even though my last visit was around 1990. A few years back, reading a book of poems by Russell Libby that featured several lovely poems about trees, I was inspired to write about the stand of pepperidge that formed a special space next to what I called “the perfect pond.”  In another poem I paid homage to the pickerel weed. Here are the opening lines:
I know these, too, from the pond
I skirted as a child, the green
cake knives clustered along the shore
doubling in shallows….

I was reminded of that place again when my son James and I went fishing on Somes Pond here on Mount Desert Island earlier this summer. His life-long friend Sargent Pepper, who is now a certified fly-fishing instructor, had taught us how to cast on the lawn in the morning and then took us out trolling around 6:00 p.m., dusk, a beautiful time of day. I felt my senses revive even as calm came over me.  
I read recently that Elizabeth Bishop had a fear of repetition in her poetry. With the help of her psychiatrist, Dr. Ruth Foster, she began to consider each poem as part of “one long poem” as “they go on into each other or overlap.” I’m grateful for that insight and feel reassured—and ready to revisit the pond again and again.

Carl Little is the author most recently of Art of Acadia, co-written with his brother David. He lives in Somesville on Mount Desert Island.

Monday, August 1, 2016

A Poem: "Flowering. At the Ruins of the Seven Churches, Inishmore"


 Today I feel like running this poem that has appeared in various places beginning in the UU World Magazine and most recently on the on-line project "A Year of Being Here" (http://www.ayearofbeinghere.com/2015/10/linda-buckmaster-flowering.html). I've been thinking about this place -- Waldo County, Maine -- that I've called home for the past four decades as well as the people in my life I have lost over the years including my brother Ric this past April (you might have seen him in some of the essays I've posted on this blog). 

"Flowering" was conceived sitting behind a rock to escape the wind on Inishmore in the Aran Islands. If you know anything about the Aran Islands, you know that the winter winds blow the topsoil away every year and so islanders, from the medieval monks who lived out there to current residents, have to rebuild the soil from seaweed and what we'd now call compost to plant their potatoes.


Flowering
            At the Ruins of the Seven Churches, Inishmore

Pick a crevice
a homey gap
between stones
and make it
your own.

Grow a life here
from wind and
rain, the memories
of ancients embedded
in limestone.

The bees will use you
for their sweet honey.
The rock will soften
under your touch. You
will draw moisture from
fog and hold it. Your
presence will
build soil.

This is all
we have in this
life, all we own:
a flowering
an opening
a gap between
stones for tiny
tender roots.

Copyright 2007, Linda S. Buckmaster

Saturday, July 30, 2016

Writers' Obsessions: Kristen Lindquist

After I wrote my post "Turtle Moon: Genealogy of an Obsession," I put a call out to some of my writing buddies locally and internationally to find out about their writing obsessions. I'll post them over the next couple of months. --Linda

Kristen Lindquist

Since I was a child spending summers and vacations at my grandparents' saltwater farm in Lincolnville, Maine, I've had recurring nightmares on this basic theme: as I watch, the ocean rises in a storm surge or a freak high tide to break over the front lawn in huge destructive waves that eventually wash us away, house and all. I still have dreams involving big waves breaking where they aren't supposed to--even still washing away my grandparents' house, a place that no longer exists as it did. 

I guess it only makes sense that I have tried to decipher my recurring dream over and over in various poems. In some, I try to draw a direct metaphor between the dream image and loss of childhood, loss of my grandparents, and/or loss of the only place that was really home to me as a child who lived in over a dozen different places before college. In others, I just describe either the dream itself, which has variations, or describe it as an imagined reality. I've tried writing about it in essays, too, to parse out its significance and why those dreams keep coming to me.

The wave has become a motif for me--like Hiroshige's Great Wave--in my writing and in my life, as I try over and over to embrace what I fear, to embrace that lost child(hood) of the past, to embrace the unembraceable, the overwhelming, the stirrings from the deep subconscious.

Last year at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts' special exhibit of Hiroshige's work, I stood for a long time before his Great Wave wood block print, mesmerized. The image is used everywhere, it's almost a cliche at this point. But for me, it's personal; when I wear the baseball cap with that wave image on it that I got at the MFA gift shop, I feel as if I'm representing my own inner team, the one with the intimate imagistic relationship with deep water, with the amoral power of the sea.

Kristen Lindquist is a freelance writer, poet, and naturalist living in midcoast Maine. Garrison Keillor has read three poems from her poetry collection TRANSPORTATION on The Writer's Almanac; she writes a monthly natural history column for the local online paper, Pen Bay Pilot.

Website: kristenlindquist.com (where you can find info on how to order her book TRANSPORTATION)
Daily haiku blog BOOK OF DAYS: klindquist.blogspot.com