Відео

The event was wonderful, very intimate and familiar. I congratulate Maya and the CSU enormously for making it happen. Maya is a wonderful author and I feel she deserves all the attention she can get. I send you all my love from Costa Rica.

Brief Bio: I’m Al Fogel born in 1945 and at an early age began writing poems. In 1962 I was introduced to a neighbor who just returned from Avatar Meher Baba’s “ East west” gathering and handed me a book titled “The Everything and the Nothing” that included brief but powerful passages by Meher Baba that touched me deeply. In 2010 while on Jane Reichhold’s AHA website I perfected my Senryu and Haibun and am now considered one of the nations leading authorities on Tanka , Senryu, and Haibun. Here are some examples of each of my specialties senryu ~ dentist chair the hygienist removes my Bluetooth ~ Internet argument all his words in CAPS hers in EMOTICONS ~ after the divorce he spends more time at the dollar store ~ damsel in distress clarke kent still searching for a phone booth ~ cauliflower ears once a contender now boxing vegetables ~ under the influence - moonshine ~ Audubon sale all variety of seeds. . . early birds welcome ~ Buddhist fortune cookie the unfolded paper reads “ better luck next birth!” ~ sudden downpour. . . the adults run for shelter ~ sidewalk cafe the birds and people tweeting ~ busy crosswalk the seeing eye dog leads the way ~ **senryu is usually humorous, but it can also be serious. For example, the following two of mine are horrific and heartbreaking ( dealing with the Holocaust): ~ cattle cars between the slats human eyes ~ stutthof - the stench of burnt hair from the chimneys ~ thrift store purchase inside the leather jacket a tarnished half-heart ~ deserted train depot a long line of rusted tracks leading nowhere ~~ return to my youth lit by the tracks of Lionel trains. ~ Tanka: returning home from a Jackson pollock exhibition I smear my face with paint and morph into art ~ crowded bus a young lady offers me her seat it seems like only yesterday I was offering mine ~ deserted train depot a conductor once shouted “ All Aboard!” but now it’s just a long line of tracks leading nowhere ~ Haibun: The Mathematics of Retribution “Karma is i fathomable,” I inform her It’s late and our conversation turns heavy “ Seems simple to me, “my girlfriend responds. “If I murder you, then it’s reasonable that I will be murdered in this or another life to balance the ledger.” “ Not necessarily so” I’m quick to rejoin. “What if you murdered me in this life because I murdered you in a prior life karmic debts and dues are now equalized.” “But what if I get caught and I go to jail for life. Where’s the equal payback in that?” “As I said, karma is unfathomable.” We continue discussing reincarnation and then add the possibilities of “group karma” to the mix Finally, at about midnight, we fall asleep Stutthof - the stench of burnt hair from the chimneys ~~ Mama There were days when I pretended to be too sick to go to school - - just for mamas loving embrace -her arms the heat of home Even with the onset of dementia, her cheerfulness was so contagious it was a joy being around her despite the illness. She made everyone laugh with her spontaneous unpredictable behavior. nursing home bumper wheelchair her favorite pastime Once a week I would whisk her away from the assisted-living facility and we would spend several hours together -grabbing a meal or frequenting some of her favorite second-hand stores where she loved to shop and donate clothes. When we drove to her favorite thrift in November, her dementia worsened. thrift store the dress mama donated she wants to buy On a cold December morn mama passed. The funeral was simple. There was a light drizzle as the family gathered at the gravesite. One by one, with eyes full of rain, we said our last goodbyes. autumn twilight - oh mama tuck me under hug me one more time ~ ‘Round Midnight It was a huge ballroom on the top floor of a building on Broadway --an important midtown crossroads in the heart of the Great White Way. My uncle still talks with reverence about how -in his heyday -he would travel by rail to the corner of Lenox and walk inside to the beat of jungle music. Who knew what to expect? One night you might be listening with rapt attention to Theloneous Monk and Dizzy Gillespie the godfathers of bebop in their signature beret caps, or the Nicholas Brothers flashing their wild acrobatic spins and splits, or enchanted by the sweet taste of Brown Sugar -with Bojangles out front. And when the Bird was in flight, even the moon was not high enough. But in 1940 the ballroom closed its doors to make way for a commercial housing development and another kind of night. new Harlem the a-train replaced by the bullet ~ Atlantic City New Jersey I had just graduated from high school I remember stopping for saltwater taffy -as evening journeyed slowly into night. Nearing curfew, we sat on a protruded sandy enclave--holding hands, looking out at the ocean, not saying much. In the distance the lights from an ocean liner flickered as the night kept coming on in... first “french kiss” under the boardwalk “over the moon!” ~~ All love, Al

I hope you don’t mind me sharing the following poem, one of my all time favorite meta poetic poems by a poet named “Howard Dull” titled “Suibhne Gheilt” that I recently chanced upon. When I read it, I became speechless. And most of my poetry friends consider this as one of their all time favorites. It was published in a 1970s anthology titled “ Open Poetry” and proves that once Poetry hits you in your heart, , you could be the worst nefarious scoundrel with kings and Empires at your command but you will be transformed and never again return to your previous Self. ~~ Suibhne Gheilt 1 He has haunted me now for over a year that madman Suibhne Gheilt who in the middle of a battle looked up and saw something that made him leap up and fly over swords and trees - a poet gifted above all others - 11 How could a proud loud mouth who yelled KILL KILL KILL as he plowed done the enemy - heads rolling off of his sword - be so lifted up ( or fly up as those below saw it - wings beating) be so suddenly gifted with poetry and nest so high in Ireland’s tall trees? Is there a point where all paths cross? And why am I so drawn to him that all my questions seem shot in his direction? “And they ran into the woods and threw their lances and shot their arrows up through the branches” What parallels could I ever hope to find - my refusal to fight ( weaseling out on psychiatric grounds)? my leaving my country behind? my poetry? “and my wife wept on the path below. . . Oh memory is sweet but sweeter is the sorrel in the pool in the path below” I fly down every night to eat 111 Sweeney like the rest of us would have been better off if he had never anything to do with women. But the point of it lies hidden in a pool of milk in a pile of shit for you to see when a milkmaid smiles Sweeney like the rest of us flies down and when she pours the milk into the hole her heel made in the cowdung Sweeney like the rest of us kneels down and drinks and dies on the horn the cowherd hid in it. So before you have anything to do with women remember Sweeney the bird of Ireland lying on his back in the middle of that path in the moonlight. 1V And on my way home this morning ( my wife waiting) my shadow racing up the path ahead of me I saw something ( a black stone?) thrown at the back of its head ducked and spun around so fast I almost fell down - it was a bird flying up into a tree V No good could come out of this war out of what burns in the heart of our highly disciplined John Q. Killer as a whole village bursts into one flame - the villagers streaming like tears towards the forest cover his helicopter’s blades blow the leaves off and and the flame towards. . . as we sit in front of our bubbles watching our president ( whose bubbletalk no one can escape and he is a little bit mad -calling the reporters in for an interview while he’s sitting on the bubble having a bubble movement) and first lady climb into their big bubble bed an Lucy, born of their own bubbles, crawls in between - “ Mah daddy has so many troubles turning the world into a bubble and sick of crossfire - the cries of the women and children flying over his head - he stumbled down to the riverbank and found, the wreckage twisted around the tree behind, his skull. . . Noises, there are noises, noises that can of themselves drive a man mad -NOISES! But last night the Stockhausen penetrated from the four sides of the auditorium, stripping each layer of feeling and thought until all that was left was something the size of a nut - so tiny, so hard, so impenetrable it was alone in the middle of an infinite space. . . -Howard Dull ~~ ps: Howard Dull was such an obscure poet that he never published a book and ( to my knowledge) never published another poem. But OMG, this was so brilliant that in my opinion it should be read and studied at the college level. All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, Al

Enjoyed your reading and poems. And your unique word choices enhanced your poems and kept me engaged throughout. I, too, am a poet specializing in Japanese forms: haiku, tanka, haibun, kyoka, senryu. I hope you don’t mind me sharing a tanka and my haiku tribute poem to Matshuo Bashō’s frog with short but in depth commentary by the late AHA founder and poet Jane Reichhold who considered my haiku among her 10 favorite haiku of all time! What an honor. Here’s the Bashō poem with Jane Reichhold’s insightful commentary: Bashō’s frog four hundred years of ripples At first the idea of picking only 10 of my favorite haiku seemed a rather daunting task. How could I review all the haiku I have read in my life and decide that there were only 10 that were outstanding? Then realized I was already getting a steady stream of excellent haiku day by day through the AHA forum. The puns and write-offs based on Basho's most famous haiku are so numerous I would have said that nothing new could be said with this method, but here Al Fogel proved me wrong. Perhaps part of my delight in this haiku lies in the fact that I agree with him. Here he is saying one thing about realism-ripples are on a pond after a frog jumps in, but because it refers back to Basho and his famous haiku, he is also saying something about the haiku and authors who have followed him. We, and our work, are just ripples while Basho holds the honor of inventing the idea of the sound of a frog leaping is the sound of water As haiku spreads around the world, making ripples in more and larger ponds, its ripples are wider-including us all. But his last word reminds us that we are ripples and our lives ephemeral. It will be the frogs that will remain. ~~ And my tanka: returning home from a Jackson Pollock exhibition I smear my face with paint and turn into art ~~ -All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, Al

you looking beautiful Barby doll mam Form India Katie👩

If a call had come this morning at three Obama would have answered for us tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps on it's petty pace until the last syllable of recorded time video of inauguration infinite what's wrong with this picture causing madness Putin terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought gluten free with pure gluten meat now vegan surgeon general's office says smoke if you got em sugar can be used to replace aspartame skip the seat belt all speed limits suggestions only chug the vintage wines you inherited let all the poisons that lurk in the mud hatch out the rest is silence Reverend Daniel James Ensor sheltering in place, regrouping I'll organize a revolt people don't drown because the water is too deep but that they stop kicking ass!

Rev D. J. Ensor tree climber emeritus can be reached at 505-433-0100 any time and date could but I tend to set aside 6:27pm for plunging into the mystery that is universally familiar

Next week trump will replace Obama and my mother doesn't want to live to see it. You can call her at area code 847 and then the first phone number I learned. A woman's voice would say " Number, please" and I would say Alpine one one six six two please yourself lady! again 847-251-1662 and keep in mind it has been a long time since my sister and you shot out of her house with scarcely gas money to get home. Time is seldom kind when your playing in the last quarter. She might not know if she's 98.5 or 99.5 just give her unconditional love if she says something you don't agree with you say yes! and... make her laugh. if you are incapable set up a conference call with me any date at 6:27pm Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight? Well, I did and made him laugh heartily.

I have both mother issues and sibling a just possibly avuncular but I will revisit the thesaurus unless my poet niece can make a suggestion. tell your uncle Danny a story. A story about Betty Russel and Bos Ensor do they live? Do they still have all their marbles as your mom told me our mom certainly still has?

I need an award winning poet stat! See Kristianna Amanpore interviews Trevor Noah and skim thru the comments until you find the one that suggests a way out of the impending trumpian doom That promises Erik Prince's sister's plans for your mumsie's public educational system as well as all her entitlements. Trump can't be the president elect until the election takes place on December nineteenth. All of our fourth estate fails to work out how the language has consequences. This is a job for an award winning poet!

the correct street number being 10443 Love all, trust a few, harm none

I have no idea why my spell checker changes "with" to "28th" but I am a man of my word and if Allison becomes a mother of 28 I promise to do the best I can by them. I do , however, have a possible additional proposal that if they come out as 14 sets of identical twins she and her poet sperm doner send me one of each set and we don't tell any of them about the others until their brains are fully developed, say age 25, and scientists have had a chance to study them. Monozygotic twins reared are nature's coolest experiment to that whole nature nurture thing.

I have an idea for a title "Ode to the Most Patient Uncle and the Plans He Has for the Seven Generations To Come" I love this poet. If she has children she should be planing with them for the Six generations, if not she should reproduce ASAP, preferably 28th another poet. If she doesn't agree this was the best course she can send her progeny to me at 1443 Don Giovanni pl, NM Albuquerque, NM 87114