Rainy Day
sheets of rain against the kitchen window
heavy fog hides mountain peaks
scarlet hibiscus and bougainvillea brighten
a gloomy day
Dusk
The wind died; stillness pervades.
A distant train whistle interrupts.
Tiny brown bird chirps its chitty song.
Mountains display navy blue and purple.
The western sky becomes cantaloupe color.
This is the perfect book for those interested in hominid evolution. I’ve been fascinated by Homo naledi ever since I first learned about them more than a decade ago. In 2013, paleoanthropologist Lee Berger first discovered them in a sizable cave system in South Africa. The initial discovery included the largest pile of hominid bones ever found.
In “Cave of Bones” Berger details his and his teams repeated visits to this cave system and their discoveries over time which allowed them to find evidence that naledi buried their dead, used fire, and drew designs on the walls near passages from one part of the cave system to another. Before their discovery, it was thought that only homo sapiens did any of these things with exception perhaps of neanderthal. The naledi walked upright, lived during the same time as early homo sapiens, and had a feet and body structure like homo sapiens (except they were smaller than most people today), but their fingers were somewhat curved indicating they used them for climbing. Their brains were smaller than homo sapiens. This has made some scientists question the validity of the findings since it has long been held than brain size relates to intelligence and many of the abilities that are distinctively human. The book contains photos of the cave system, of some of the skeletons, the drawings, and other relevant material as well as an extensive bibliography.
Fearless little bird with chocolate brown head runs beside me
on the road. At the intersection I circle to the left, following
a familiar route. The heavy tree canopy here always astonishes.
It’s almost like walking in a forest.
The architectural variety amazes: mid-century modern, Spanish,
colonial, ranch, the smallest I am guessing contains 3500 sq. ft. One
house encompasses an entire city block, fronted with heavy, high
fences and metal gates. Privacy obsessed.
I’m watching my time. I don’t want to be late for singing
practice. I take a new route, perhaps a shortcut. It’s
120 degrees of a circle. Not quite a regular street,
not quite an alley, a combination–fronts of a few houses
and the backside of others. At one place it angles more;
I come to a three story stone fortress with intricate
geometrical designs vertically running up and down
the walls. No windows. A sign says, “No trespassing.”
Realization hits me. This is the other side of a house
I saw last year through a gap in a wall on another street.
Three ladies, strangers, asked me about it, told me they’d
heard it was the creation of a famous architect. I researched,
asked others, no one knew. Back then, I tried to find the front,
failed. Now I’m looking at it, wonderstruck. It appears abandoned,
an architectural wonder belonging to another time and place.
Time to rush, a bit lost, I look at my phone map, finish the loop,
find a familiar street, walk faster. Then I see a large, white, colonial house,
weeds knee high, black shutters hanging askew. Here it is abandoned
in the midst of multi-million dollar houses. I wonder what the neighbors
think. Walking on I hear water rushing, peer through the hedges–a stream
runs downhill from the side of this huge brown house at least 100 feet
and gurgles in a pool behind the bushes. Hurrying, I stop in front of one
of my favorite houses, a one-story, tan, Spanish style, small compared
to the others nearby. I take a photo of the tree in front by the sidewalk,
its impressive girth impossible to ignore.
Finally, I’m near my destination, walking in front of The Gamble House,
a tourist destination made famous by the movie, “Back to the Future”,
a structure I see at least twice a week.
I started out thinking I would write a poem per day for National Poetry Month. Well, I’m a bit behind on that, but here are two of several I have written so far.
Spring
The mockingbird awakens me with his song.
A hummingbird, dressed in green with an iridescent
orange collar, flits by my head then sips nectar
from a scarlet bougainvillea blossom.
The neighborhood barn owl hoots at dawn and dusk.
A black and red/orange bird I’ve never seen before
lights on a palo verde limb.
A Western Bluebird dips its beak repeatedly in
the talavera birdbath.
Remember
In this world steeped in senseless violence remember
each day to find a piece of beauty:
-rosebuds opening
-the scent of jasmine
-a friend’s smile
-a bit of birdsong
In this world ravaged by wars remember
each day to find the jewels of joy:
-listen to a child’s laughter
-dance to a favorite song
-walk in the morning sunshine
-tell someone you love them
This book details the lives and relationships between two families, one native to the US and the other Iranian immigrants. When the young couple in each family adopt a Korean baby, their lives become intertwined. Every year on the anniversary of the arrival of the babies, they take turns hosting an Arrival Party. Two of the grandparents, one on each side, one male and one female, find their lives linked in unexpected ways. The book explores what it means to be an immigrant, how the native born sometimes view those from another country, and questions to what extent a person’s character is due to culture and what is simply the way that person remains regardless of culture. While a serious exploration of culture, family relationships, friendship, and cultural adaption, the book is also quite funny. I found myself sometimes laughing out loud and at other times feeling sad. I also found myself thinking more about my own personality and its development.
He’s very good at wooing:
gifts–chocolate cherries,
red roses, delicate lingerie,
I love you.
He wears his mask well,
keeps calm, a handsome spider,
weaving a silken web.
She laughs, tells her friends
just how very special she’s
sure he is.
He wears this mask for months,
finds them the perfect apartment,
swimming pool, gym, marble,
granite, luxury appliances.
She’s sure he loves her:
the gifts, the perfect apartment,
fancy restaurants, luxury weekends.
She’s late, heavy traffic, an
emergency at work. He
screams, wants to know
why; no explanation matters.
He hits her for the first time, her
torso, knocks her down.
Tomorrow 24 red roses
arrive at work. He begs
forgiveness. She’s sure
he’s sorry; it won’t happen
again.
Two months later, she’s
late again. Real reasons he
does not want to hear. He
screams, he hits, he knocks
her down.
She dreads red roses.
Note: This is part of my writing a poem per day for National Poetry Month. Regarding this poem, 34% of female homicides are women who have been killed by intimate male partners. Often when women kill a man attacking them, they are convicted of murder even when trying to defend themselves.
They tell writers, “Never ever use cliches.”
Sometimes I question that. When you
word a cliche, nearly everyone knows
exactly what you mean. For example:
This is a perfect spring day:
-birdsong wafting here and there,
mostly mockingbirds except for those
irredescent, orange-throated
hummingbirds at their feeder
-wind singing through the pines
-open windows for a change; it’s
75 degrees and sunny
-magenta and scarlet bougainvillea
climbing the garden wall
-white and lavender lantana
outdoing themselves with
spread and bloom
-geraniums in full flower
-mint growing so fast and tall
I already need to trim it.
I lounge on the patio reading
another novel, drinking rosewater
lassi, munching mixed nuts.
I feel gratitude for this
perfect spring day.
Before reading this book, I thought of French society as relatively egalitarian. Apparently, it is not if this book mirrors reality. One main character Renee, 54, lives and works as a concierge in a high class building containing eight, large, luxury apartments which the residents own. As she tells her story, she notes that this is her 27th year at this job. She describes herself as “short, ugly, plump”. She rarely says anything nice about herself or any of the residents. She notes she is uneducated, insignificant. She has one friend, Manuela, a cleaning woman originally from Portugal. Renee thinks it is her duty, her lot in life, to pretend to be something she is really not, a person totally lacking in intellectual and artistic acumen. She runs the television to make the residents think she watches mindless melodramas when she is actually reading Tolstoy as well as all sorts of literature and Marx, history, well every genre. After all, her cat is named Leo for a reason. She goes to art galleries, listens to all sorts of classical music, is basically an intellectual in the true meaning of the word, but works very hard to hide this, because she thinks she must stick to her station in life as she sees it. This works until one resident dies and a wealthy Japanese man buys the deceased man’s apartment. Both he, who notes her cat is named Leo, and a young girl, the other main character who lives in one of the apartments and plans to commit suicide and set their apartment on fire, suspect Renee is not as she appears to be. I do not want to give it all away, but this is a book with many life lessons, including that adage about not judging a book by its cover.
This is poem two for National Poetry Month. A friend wrote a poem following the prompt to write a poem about a book the writer has not read for a long time. She wrote about The Scarlet Letter. My poem is about the book, An Imaginary Life.
The Roman Emperor Augustus saw Ovid’s poetry as subversive,
a power threat. He exiled Ovid to a remote corner of the Empire,
somewhere over by the Black Sea, the Carpathian Mountains,
among the destitute, the superstitious, people who did even know
how to read or write. They believed in witches, feared ghosts, saw
evil in everything and everyone different. Different equaled
death.
Paid to host Ovid, the village leader teaches him to ride horses
bareback, hunt, become stronger. Ovid transforms from a weak
revolutionary who hates this place to one who sees the barren
beauty, wanders in the forests, plants a wildflower garden,
survives.
While hunting, they see barefoot tracks in snow, tracks
of a feral child, a boy. Ovid fears for him, finds him,
rescues him. An accident occurs. The villagers blame
the boy, want to kill him. He and Ovid escape,
wander far into the northern wilds, into
infinity.
Today is the first day of National Poetry Month. I am committing myself to write a poem a day. Here is the first one for the month.
Easter yesterday made me sad,
remembering children, grandson,
egg dying, egg hunting, family
together, laughter, joy.
Found photos of my family,
I, a child, dressed in Easter finery,
a family tradition. Dad bought us
corsages to wear every Easter,
pretty dresses in spring colors–
my favorite a pink dress trimmed
in scarlet, a unique combination
explained why I liked it so much,
felt special wearing it.
Today I wear pink and orange
together, admire the deep purple
and red bougainvillea, scarlet rosebuds,
snowy freeway daisies,
shining in the sun and wonder
will I live long enough to teach
a great grandchild to color
Easter eggs.
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