Month: March 2019

Poem of the Day – March 13

He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.

We’ve all heard the song

In all its shades and voices

And we’ve gotten the message

Inscribed in that sentiment.

 

But some of us heard it

Long before its plangent

Delivery by a rock star.

My own brother and I

Growing up not far from

Father Flanagan’s Boy’s Town,

A place we might have been,

If not for a father and mother,

A fact I was sometimes thankful for,

And sometimes not.

 

The image, a boy walking,

Carrying a smaller boy on his back,

And speaking to a hidden presence:

He ain’t heavy, father, he’s my brother.

I could never quite imagine my own brother,

Two years older and many years wiser,

Taking on such a burden.

 

Heavy. As in That’s heavy, man.

Speech for hipsters, wannabes,

A strange, distant world.

Hidden by certain words, gestures,

Accouterments of being without

Familiar shape and substance.

 

In the company of those who appreciated

All that was foreign to parents

And unconscious siblings, he would

Acknowledge my presence with a

Smile curved in mischief and say

He aint’ heavy, he’s my brother.

And feeling uncertain though grateful

For the acknowledgment,

I would allow my own small smile

To twitch at the corners of my mouth.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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Follow-Up: On The Road, Virtually

Came across a reference today to Jack Kerouac, one of the subjects of a post yesterday.  And it is contained in a piece that I have to consider my find of the day, “Is This the Greatest Photo in Jazz History?” which I urge you to read, whether you are fan of photography, or jazz, or both.  Or just like interesting writing and history. The tie-in with Kerouac comes from a peripheral photo in the article, taken by one Bob Parent and shown here:

A photograph thought to show Jack Kerouac in the audience. (Photo Credit: Bob Parent)

 

Poem of the Day – March 12

For reasons not entirely clear,

The earth tilted too far on its axis

And everybody in North America

Slid south. Over the border

Into those regions filled with

Drug dealers, psychopathic gangs,

Men asleep in doorways

Beneath their sombreros,

Women with babies on their backs,

Rivers filled with crocodiles,

Jungles alive with wild beasts,

Cities steaming with lust and corruption.

 

The Canadians made the best of things,

Learned the language, the geography,

The culture far older and more exquisite

Than they had ever imagined

In their smug northern sanctuary.

 

But the Americans could not be bothered

To learn to say more than, cerveza, por favor.

They called all the men Jose,

And all the young women Chiquita.

And wondered where all the burros were.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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Yosemite Reflection (1973)

Digging through the ancient archives of unprocessed and forgotten negatives again.  Most of the new finds are headed for HappyHogRot, but here is one that might be suitable for a broader audience.  Taken in January on a warmish day when snow melt was producing some pools of water.  In Yosemite National Park, where I was interacting with Ansel Adams and other photographers.

Yosemite Reflection (1973)

On The Road, Virtually

With the addition of another Paperwhite (thanks, Nik!), we have become a two-Kindle household. One of my projects is to re-read some stuff that was important to me many years ago, along with some classics or other material from those authors. The first was the 50s work by Jack Kerouac: On The Road. Almost no sooner than I had completed the thing this past weekend, today the New York Times publishes a remembrance entitled, “Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s Enduring San Francisco“, a place that figured in Kerouac’s history, and that of other members of the “Beat Generation”.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti has had a lasting influence on the literary world, particularly on the Beat Generation, which included Jack Kerouac. Above, Jack Kerouac Alley. Photo Credit: Jason Henry for The New York Times

And in case you’re curious, I think I enjoyed On The Road more this time than upon my first acquaintance back around 1959. And certainly my appreciation of Kerouac’s writing has increased.

And as a further postscript: Now I’m taking on works of recently-deceased (2018) Philip Roth. Yes, I did read Portnoy’s Complaint in 1969, but I’m on a waiting list for it, so I’m reading Roth’s 2004 piece of historical fiction, The Plot Against America, in the meantime. And there are many other Roth books that I may have a go with.

 

Poem of the Day – March 11

Why is a mental lapse

Called a brain fart?

What does the failure

To remember someone’s name

Have in common with

A discharge of gas

From the intestines?

 

Maybe because both

Can be embarrassing.

What I’d like to know, though,

Is who first who said,

I’m sorry, I had a brain fart,

I don’t remember the

Vice-president’s name.

Or something along those lines.

And who heard it?

Did they laugh?

Did they repeat it the

First chance they got?

Or did they say,

That’s not a very nice image,

Flatulence from the brain.

I wouldn’t repeat it in polite company,

If I were you.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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