Monday, September 07, 2009

New Work by Wayne H. W Wolfson










Black Swans and Stars

After all these years, there is still a sort of defeat in winning. I had to go into exile, I kept bumping my head on the roof of the city. Everyone else preferred to stay small and could not understand my complaining.
Exile, I won and now I was spending time with her. My punishment? Or maybe I just thought too highly of myself. I did not want to repeat the same old patterns and so kept my circle of friends small.
Enza was always around and sort of fell into my orbit by default. She had two small black swans tattooed on the back of her neck, heads bent as if supporting hers.
At first I thought she had been pulling my leg about never reading. She often had no idea what I was talking about but liked listening to the sound of my voice.
We fucked but usually as an almost after thought to the night. We found plenty of other things to argue about.


"Triple X Theater" (ink&paper)

I had just met my deadline, editor happy, I now had the illusion of freedom.
Enza had a new scarf which she was anxious to dirty up. We went out.
The drinks were the prize, winners, losers; the only difference was who had gotten caught.
She tells me about her day, none of that matters.
I am talking to me again through her, a two drink chorus. Now she is just letting me talk. No matter how clear my thoughts, I can not get the stars to reflect off of my fingers.
She has to run off for a moment, probably to score. The waiter with sleepy eyes which people mistake for wisdom watches her go.
Under the awning the heater is snapped on, Votives are lit. I have won and now have nowhere to go. It is not for Enza, I sit at my table and wait. It is for yesterday but a specific one, a far older one than that which carried me empty handed, into today.
My fingertips read the table as of brail. Eyes now wander down, the surface, stars, lattice holes which allow me to see my shoes, their hunger, starving.
I could have another drink. I do not wait, for anything. That first kiss, music of our youth, twirling her on the dance floor, red dress blossoming out with the undulating current of her motion, that first kiss with her, ours.
Believe me, it isn’t coming around anymore. I have forsaken or forgotten it all anyways. How could I not, knowing it would be I who broke that fragile shroud of memory.
Enza comes back smelling of smoke. Her pupils are two large, black pools which when seen from certain angles reflect the stars.


 
"Le Millionaire" (pastel&paper)


- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2009
Click on the post heading for artist's web page.

Sunday, September 06, 2009

Calling all Poets















Once again I am fresh out of rants, doubtless to the relief of many of those whose air of entitlement is only outdone by their vapidness. I will be reviewing Dot Porter's parting shot next week, so start curling your toes, oh milk-faced ones. In the meantime I am CALLING ALL POETS.

Just click on the SUBMIT tag at the foot of this post (I am still not getting a sidebar!!) and submit anything up to five poems, a 1000 word comment or review in the body of the email. NO ATTACHMENTS PLEASE. I have a very good turnover time, and that applies to most things I do. Just ask my bevy of exes.... The worse you will get is silence, as I won't comment on subs unless I can see some way of working with the author to make them more suitable for posting under the Bluepepper. There are no payments and thus no guidelines.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Blog probs

If you are looking for the submissions link, rather than trawl through this pre-industrial plaint, just click on the post heading.

But for any budding Paul Hardacres out there....

I have suddenly lost my sidebar to the bottom of the page, so anyone searching for links or archives are out of luck as I followed Google's advice and deleted it all. Anyone out there with a tip on how to rectify this problem is welcome to contact me through the submission tab now situated way down below (or to the right, depending on whether you have heeded my advice re the HTML gorgon in me).

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

New Poetry by Stuart Barnes












For Sale on Swanston Street

Indian diamonds
a rock of hammer
men in orange and
their swarthy God

but I'm not
in the market
for another banner,
to kick another dog


- Start Barnes 2009



Compliant

sums me up programmed like
my mythical C-3PO

violin skinned
like a cat before breakfast Venn

circles
overlapping like slapping hands in a manic kids'

game a kiss
on a murderess's cheek by the bus teeth

brushed at recess after school
on the oval take a punch

in the guts Centre
For Excellence {hyaena-

boys smoke} short-back-and-sides
braces

suffering Messerschmitt-
jokes Pritikin

Program weekly mass "don't write!" not a friend
on my boy-Elektra back a criminal's

colours
in my hand


- Stuart Barnes 2009



Stuart Barnes's unpublished memoir, A Cold Decade, was shortlisted for the 2009 Olvar Wood Fellowship Award. Living in Melbourne, he's currently editing his first collection of poetry and writing his first novel, a fable-fantasy.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Poetry First


For reasons known only to themselves, the editors of Melbourne's Cordite Magazine decided to open a comment stream left happily dormant for the best part of six years, a mangy hydra to which yours truly contributed his set of gnashing yellow teeth. I was not at my best in the early years of this decade, and no doubt suffering one of my Swiftian "episodes", replete with tiny feet in the night, hog-tied mornings and perfumed winds always blowing the wrong way. Paul Hardacre and I, well.....there is a good deal to be said for silence in this game, the space between words. And Richard King was more than happy, I'm sure, to leave me where he found me, under that rock I will always call home.

In the midst of all this petulant wank, however, sprang a gentle and very pertinent question: where does poetry spring from? I had steamed off by then in search of a mirror that would tell me what I wanted to hear, so for me the question sank like a stone. Only the truly great question the origins of their craft, leaving the rest of us to needle over our "profession", last refuge of the vagrant.

At the risk of a lawsuit I will paste the original dialogue here..if I can....JUST WRESTLE.....this f@@cking LAWYER!!.....off....my...arm....


THERE!!!........


Monday, November 17th

Who invented poetry?

Can anybody help?

While not being able to answer ‘who, we may be able to find out ‘why. A certain ms. hummburger has this to say: poetry sucks crap. it was invented so that people had something to talk about.......


November 26th

I think it was a mail order firm in Michigan. [apologies to Douglas Adams]

And so trail off the usual stale breadcrumbs into that toy forest of Australian academia....the glib response of the vagrant, the true professional [apologies to Jean Genet]. I am history for I am now. Like Uncle Leo with his painted eyebrows, both aghast and eloquent in all the languages of mankind as the interlocutor in us all backs away......








this did not help me at all ill make sure i never come here again you guys should get more serious i have research paper due and no answers to my questions yet you guys should Fuck off






Well, fuck off, poetry at this blog at least is a linguistic fossil, but all the more immediate for that. I hope that cools your ardour a little. An appendix of the soul, if you like, the medium through which we trained our tongue to our clumsy ear all those crazy parties ago. Language and song and story all live here, my little fuck off friend. Cricket came later, but completed the puzzle to this blogger's satisfaction.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

New Poetry by Brooke Linford











The Chant

I drift through time
rings of coffee on grey
the sleepless
can be so sinister
lips purple with cold
and hats pulled low
to hide eyes

it’s eerie
the chant
I don’t know what will happen after
when the plane leaves for paris
and the phone is quiet


- Brooke Linford 2009


Edges

we were in the city
a hotel with jagged edges
the room was a dark mahogany
dormitory-style
you watched me with appreciation
as I filled page after page
on the narrow bed
you didn’t have to touch me
but you did anyway
the 2am traffic a yellow hush
outside our window


- Brooke Linford 2009


Brooke Linford is co-editor of www.holland1945.net.au and was co-editor of egg(poetry) from 2002-2006. Her work has appeared in several Australian publications. She currently lives in Victoria where she works in administration and studies Italian.

Saturday, August 08, 2009

New Poetry by Ashley Capes












before Italy


hair penned in

as an afterthought,

a woolly plate and

everything a second edge

yellow a dream

only –

caricature even,

and Pompeii

nothing but a fork

beneath cloth.



- Ashley Capes 2009









bukowski and a wide range of landlords


some struggles are truly epic

like bukowski

and a wide range of landlords

or the hopeless

but well-meaning sign, painted

officious red

no alcohol in the cbd

and beneath it a smashed

VB bottle

coloured like a rotting

SA uniform

and my brother

snickering as we walk by

tastes like piss



- Ashley Capes 2009




Ashley teaches Media and English in Australia, while co-editing www.holland1945.net.au , http://kipplepoetry.blogspot.com/ and administering interactive Renku site http://issassnail.wordpress.com/ His first collection of poetry pollen and the storm was published with the assistance of Small Change Press in 2008 and his second, Stepping over Seasons, will be published by Interactive Press in 2009.

Saturday, August 01, 2009

New Poetry by Mark O'Flynn












ANNELIDS

(in September rain, for several days
a thousand earthworms,
clean and pink as intestines
rise out of the flooded ground
swimming in some mass saturation
on the concrete pathway
It’s not exactly a thousand,
I have not counted them, but many,
all with the same singular purpose.
How populated the soil is with living things,
for when the rain stops
and the path dries up
the worms shrivel and bake
like brackets, leaving not a footfall
of concrete on which to tread,
the earth hollow with their leaving,
the corpulent ducks too heavy to fly.)


- Mark O'Flynn 2009



EDGE

the knife edge dream
the cliff-top dream
the empty well
the windy skyscraper
it’s always the same
the paralysed view
the bottomless canyon
the rotten top-most branch
the crumbling edge about to topple
into the chasm
the racing pulse
the sweat so cold
the grace of flight
don’t get me started on flight.


- Mark O'Flynn 2009


Mark O'Flynn's most recent collection, What Can Be Proven, came out in 2007 through Interactive Press. He still has the great bounty of a dear and loving family, a very cute dog, and the good luck to have finally lost me as a neighbour. His poetry remains a compelling mixture of the tender and the sonorous, the hug and the bristle, even without my hairy visage propped on his fence.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

The Carnival





You should never lend your tools to Pistoa. They will be returned broken like the smiles of the unsuspecting, and not because he is a bad man, or at least no better or worse than most, but because he is what the old crones would call distracted. I often pass him on the road between Dragon Pass and the old Venetian watchtower, his great bulk hurling its shadow down the precipice. There is something oddly effeminate in his walk, a maiden’s swirl of the hips when he thinks the world has its back to him, that massive weight pressed down on the very tips of those tapering, hairless toes. Pistoa does not sing or rain down curses on the world like most forced to ply their trade along this desolate road, but walks silent and heavy-lidded as though lulled by the whisper of his own girlish footfalls.
  I wrestle with the same conflicting emotions whenever I encounter him like this, for we are well enough acquainted to know that he cannot abide me and yet not well enough for me to be certain of anything more than the gentlest rumours of his provenance. I honestly believe he toys with me a little, knowing he has the better of me in this regard, but perhaps he is like that with everyone, turning each day on its head with a yellow leer.
*
  In what remains of my village smouldering on the wrong side of the Appenines (now dubbed somewhat cruelly “The Jade Terrace”), I was known as “the priest”. Why? Because I was taught the rudiments of reading and penmanship by a beet-faced mendicant who became a little too fond of my sister and who was left dangling from a gibbet until his flesh fell away into the oily pond of crows. Euclid came later, as did the revelation that my sister was in fact my cousin and that my father was in fact my uncle. It was my first lesson in how quickly the world can be turned on its head, a fact somehow encapsulated in Pistoa’s yellow leer.
  When this nickname of mine reached Pistoa’s ears, how or by whom, I am still not certain. We are a strange community of solitaries passing each other on the road with our sacks of tools trading greetings and rumours of jobs and occasionally to be found in a dissolute swarm where it remains to Pistoa, the most sullen and illiterate of us all, to apply the finishing touches to our stones, whistling a steely tune as he turns a dead weight into a living thing.
  “Bless this priest,” he has burred more than once as he returns me a twisted chisel.
*
  It is not just for his gruff manners or his delicate hands that Pistoa is singled out by this strange fraternity of ours.
  Since the Emperor and all the great Princes of Europe rode east never to be seen again, we who remain have had to find work wherever we can. The Chinese understand this and are happy to leave us free to ply our trade. City walls need constant ballasting, rotten struts replaced, stones cut for the old Roman roads. They have the same worries in the east. Cathedrals continue to rise from the charred allotments, but most of the money raised to build them now goes to Samarkand to be counted, and the Chinese are a very slow and deliberate people. They cannot understand why our places of worship need to be quite so capacious, or indeed why we should risk our lives and civic fortunes fashioning them out of stone. Yet my kind must fight our way through the same ragged hordes, chattering and laughing in Chinese, Tuscan, or Lombard it doesn’t much matter for it is always over the shriek of the saw or the sharp echo of the hammer.
*
  The few Chinese I have discussed the matter with agree there is a heaven, only theirs appears to have no God in it. What point, then, trying to reach it with our spires? They talk like Pistoa walks, smirking and heavy-lidded as though our language tickled their throats. But unlike them, Pistoa cannot forgive a slight, no matter how abstruse. He is one of those who talks of rebuilding Milan, often when he is drunk on rice wine.
*
  In Arezzo even now every man’s cousin is every other man’s apprentice. Pistoa is no exception, and when work is slack I lodge in his cousin’s old room in the house of Master Cano off the Carnival. The road has its own serendipity.
  The address is not to Pistoa’s taste, for to he and many like him the Carnival is not some harmless if rather ubiquitous distraction but a subtle tool of subjugation worthy of priests and Ghibellines.
  “Only a fool whistles at dragons,” he spat at me once through the haze and steam of their pipes and rice wine and the ducks basting to a warm terracotta while they exhorted us with their hands held in prayer to please cut off a slice.
*
  If I seem to welcome these admonishments of his with an involuntary grin, it is because of the stories that follow Pistoa wherever he goes, as stories do the solitary. They buzz around some men like flies. That he has been to Samarkand and worked there on the Prefect’s palace. That he has ventured even further east to view the great sarcophagus that houses the bones of the Emperor, seen the tattered Valois standard flapping in the dry silence. The mountain of Mongol skulls. That he returned fluent in the harsh language of the Chinese and comfortable with their ways. I believe these stories because they explain the strange expanse in his speech, the odd gestures, and I have seen him carousing with the off-duty sentries night after night. But I am yet to get to the bottom of his contempt for the Carnival, only that my love of it seems to reinforce his dark suspicion of all that exists.
*
  Now and then, because we both appear to have no family or friends, I will follow some vague, sunstruck, weary gesture of Pistoa’s toward an inn where we slump amidst a drunk and tired rabble of sentries and Lombard whores, and he will gaze at me as though at some shape in the mist while I ask him with my eyes if not with my tongue what is all this that has suddenly befallen us? Where does it come from and what does it mean?
  “This table is your home, priest,” he softly cupped the air between us last year in Ravenna that week of the crow clouds, before staggering off to the dice games in the corner where the chickens flap and die and he will dare the drunken sentries to bet their swords on a throw. More than once the captain of the watch has locked him up for doing this, but sometimes I think this suits Pistoa who has never been so sure of a roof over his head as a man with a sister for a cousin and an uncle for a father.
*
  In the house of Master Cano reigns an air of perpetual disquiet, as though something had arrived at the door one morning that no-one could quite put a name to. When the Chinese first knocked on the gates of our towns and cities, tired and bemused as we at the size of the world, two old soldiers were billeted in my very room. That was a long time ago. But like them I still find myself drawn back to this house and Master Cano with his foul mouth and soft voice and that sense of something lurking behind the fire. Pistoa spits whenever I mention it. But time here seems to pass like time was intent on passing when I was a child. As shapes rather than a line or the perfect circle of the Chinese. All different kinds of shapes, some familiar, some decidedly odd. Anyway, Pistoa spits at almost everything I say.



  The girl who lives with Master Cano is very much in love with Pistoa. He cannot bear to hear this, but it is true nevertheless. I am nothing to her, worse than nothing for I make more work for her, except when I mention that I have seen Pistoa. Then she rushes to me, pats my shoulder and plies me with drink. Old Cano calls her his daughter, but she is not his daughter. There is no glint in his eye when he talks of her, merely a dark brooding, a kind of welcome shadow from the glare of the sun. Rumour has it she simply appeared one day, there in the attic room, dressed in a man’s costume with buttons down the front and barking incoherently into a tiny box that feels like soapstone to the touch. She speaks a strange dialect that seems to dart like needles from her mouth. Sometimes that tiny box of hers will make a whirring noise like pigeons in the eaves, but it must be rusty for it never seems to finish its cogitations to the girl’s satisfaction, although it did make her some money for a time at the Carnival. She is a lazy, foul-mouthed girl of twenty who is constantly complaining and raining down curses on Arezzo and all its people both great and humble. That we still queue for water at the Bishop’s fountain, for instance, or that we fix our hours by the motion of the sun as though Euclid were her uncle. She howled out once when the novelty of her whirring box had worn off on the crowds at the Carnival that she envied the Chinese their short walk home, and old Cano laughed so long and loud he made the embers crackle in the fire.
  She calls herself Rosa, and it is obvious to me that she has never worked on the land, because she gets her seasons all blurred like a child’s matins. Old Cano thinks me pedantic, and perhaps I am, but I have never in all my travels through these strange times encountered someone quite so at odds with the world. There was a time not so long ago when Rosa may very well have been brought before the Bishop, but the Chinese have put a stop to all that after the Prefect’s report on the last burnings in Milan filtered back to Samarkand.
  “Ah priest, she is only a girl!” is Master Cano’s stock reply to my misgivings about Rosa. For as far as the old man is concerned, the Chinese have outlawed the devil.
*
  When Master Cano speaks about Rosa’s mother late at night, drunk in that chair he never seems to leave, I know he is lying but I let him go on with his fabulous tales of love and loss and love regained because the telling seems to assuage some terrible need in him. That is the other reason I am known as “The Priest”, for I am easily waylaid. There is no doubt in my mind or anyone else’s that Rosa loves the old man, but that does not stop her leaving him alone for hours, sometimes days at a time while she cavorts with those harpies in the Piazza Grande. There is such a shine on her face when she returns, however, to find him just where she left him that I can’t help thinking he is her anchor in a very wide Sargasso. It is a shore I have sat on. But her relief soon enough turns to the usual howling and breast-beating about the idiots who surround her and the stench that rises from us all as though the flesh had already left our bones.
*
  For all their appreciation of our work, the old soldiers’ breathless lionising of the craft of men like Pistoa, caressing his dedications to the Virgin with their rough peasants’ hands, the Chinese have no need for us east of the Appenines. It was there, in my home, that the Mongols found themselves funneled between the mountains and the sea, and where as a consequence they wreaked their most horrific devastation. I am one of those, like Rosa, who has watched his life vanish before his eyes. It was there the Chinese finally caught up with their wayward cousins after pursuing them halfway across the world, and where, according to one old soldier who lodged with Master Cano, so deafening was the clash of metal on metal it brought the snow down off the mountains. Now the Mongols have vanished like a terrible mist, and the Chinese have no shortage of men to guard the mountain passes from round prying eyes. Even the meanest of goat tracks are peppered with their eerie hessian tents, bunched at the lip of the ridge east or west depending on the season, almost as though they had decided to retire their ageing auxiliaries this way, eking out a living in the mountains that shadowed my childhood with the sorry remnants of the Mongol herds.
*
  The little creature has eyes the colour of moss on a keystone. Lifeless, if you look at it a certain way, and the piercing cold of little things. It seems trapped in its tiny body. Pleading with us with a scratch of song, its stiff little wings flapping like the corners of the old man’s mouth who holds it on a string. Whirrs and preens as it jumps through hoops, the little string a mystery, a straight line through a circle, then settles down stiffly again on its bright copper perch. The old man then invites all and sundry to lift the rope and run our hands over its stiff little body, but that is the realm of children, and their expressions always seem a mixture of disgust and puzzlement. I can never decide whether at the man or the bird.
  I lay no claim to posterity in writing down what I see and hear, for I have learnt that the senses can only be trusted as far as reason holds them to account. Thus by putting these things into words I hope to see them more clearly. For the world seems to me to be full of dark shapes perpetually hovering in the corner of my eye. Perhaps, as Master Cano insists, they have always been there. Plato said as much, but I cannot account for what Plato saw in the Attic light of long memory, only that these shapes seem to demand my attention. And so I will commit them and their strange world to parchment, in the hope that by doing so I will bring us all a little closer to the world of light and reason.
  I have entrusted these pages to Master Cano who is my sole confidante in this life and who tells me of a loose board in my room that will accommodate them quite happily. The Chinese may have outlawed the devil, but old habits die hard and he shows no interest at all in what I am doing. It was not so long ago, after all, that words could kill a man. He is wise in his own way, but a head so crammed begins to unburden itself as it begins the slow ascent to heaven, so I am happy he does not ask too many questions. For there is something about the way that girl Rosa looks at me that reminds me of those dark shapes in the corner of my eye. As though she were awaiting my answer to a question she had not yet mustered the courage to ask.
*
  When spring finally arrives we are called away to clear the rubble in Parma. Needless to say it is back-breaking work at the behest of the local Captain, a leather-faced Turk with notoriously deep pockets who grows sheepish when he learns who we are. He explains that his soldiers are too old, and with a measure of deference he feeds and clothes us and lines our pockets when we are done. Even Pistoa is touched by the care the Chinese take with the dead and the maimed. Once the rubble has been cleared we dig down into the cold coughing loam, but we can find no evidence of subsidence. It is just like before, in Prato and Firenze, as though the buildings had been buffeted by a powerful gale.
  On my return to Arezzo, Master Cano tells me of other such incidents across the mountains, which would explain the sudden ageing of the local garrisons. He holds out a grey box to me and asks me to rub my hand over it. The surface is smooth as soapstone, much like Rosa’s little box. The old man tells me my room is full of these objects, and I go up to find them neatly stacked by the window, a hundred or more grey and placid as a lake except where the pigeons have been. He tells me Rosa knows something but is not telling and when pressed left the house in a storm.

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

The Striped World of Emma Jones










After my recent experience of those who would call me "colleague", I will keep this short and sweet. In "Zoos for the Dead", the longest poem in this all-too-brief collection, young Sydney poet Emma Jones has given us a classic in the same class as Slessor's "Five Bells", but with the ear of Heaney and the precision of a Derek Walcott. Anyone anywhere who professes to love poetry needs to own this book. My prediction is it will be one of the most smudged and dog-eared collections in many years out of this country. Just click on the post heading to follow the links to my favourite publisher, Faber & Faber.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Not another casualty




It may seem wicked to some, considering the scale of suffering the US mid-west defaults have caused across the globe, but I feel I must make a call-out to anyone interested in the music and culture of this wonderful harbour city. In the six short years fbi radio has been gracing the airwaves of Sydney, it has served unstintingly to foster and promote local artists, writers and musicians who too often have the seat out of their pants in a city very much obsessed with the top end of town. Now the GFC has seen half their advertising revenue wiped away since February, and if people don't sign up to support them, they are going to go under. Just AUD$12 a month will make you a passionate supporter. Click on the post heading if you aren't already familiar with this wonderful, volunteer-run institution.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Size Does Matter














The chances are probably pretty slim that any Australian reading this blog will also have tickets to the upcoming Ashes cricket series beginning in Cardiff in two weeks' time (bearing in mind they sold out about eighteen months ago, and the Australian aversion to long-term planning), but on the off chance that there is one lucky bastard out there, I have a banner for you. Just add child-like scrawl of the islands in question, and I guarantee that at some stage you'll attract the TV cameras, and thus by extension the eyes of a billion people.









MY ISLAND IS BIGGER THAN YOUR ISLAND

Monday, June 22, 2009

New Writing and Art from Wayne H. W Wolfson










Kaiser Mélange

I know of the Cheetah who lives on the limbs of the tree behind the building. Your kisses can trap him. The eyes are the secret, a vertical truth. Stars, the spots on its coat. Always, you must set him free at first light.

There is a bleary eye, the color of a cigarette tip. The record player light. Hours before, the needle had stuck and I listened to the same Strauss aria over and over, until finally admitting a dawn defeat, I got up, humming, and put a stop to it. As to not appear completely beaten, I did leave the machine on though.

Dawn won’t quit, her last resistance, the small spear of light laid to rest at the bottom of the door.

Last night she had called me to have drinks in the hotel bar when there were no tourists to hunt.

There were always things she felt that she had to tell me, although none of it was true. She always thought I would cherry pick her incidents of heart ache for my stories.

Why pretend to care one way or another? How often had I sat in the café across from the hotel which still had a piano of Wagner’s in the lobby, two Kaiser Mélange, waiting for all her work to be done? She knew, she knew and could have used this to win, but never did.

It is now so late that it is early. I lay there with my eyes still closed. Below a car loudly idles, a dog barks. Through two slits, I now watch her. She briefly looks at me, trying to decide if I am truly asleep, quickly she aims her nose at her shoulder and inhales, then she pockets the money which earlier she had assured me that “she could not possibly take”.

Quietly, she closes the door behind her.

Ah, baby there is a cat in the anisette, a lie in your heart, the piano is broken. It is all us, it is all fading night and tired eyes, the spotted coat of a cheetah.





"Rue du Temple" (pastel&paper)



Black Swans and Stars

After all these years, there is still a sort of defeat in winning. I had to go into exile, I kept bumping my head on the roof of the city. Everyone else preferred to stay small and could not understand my complaining.

Exile, I won and now I was spending time with her. My punishment? Or maybe I just thought too highly of myself. I did not want to repeat the same old patterns and so kept my circle of friends small.

Enza was always around and sort of fell into my orbit by default. She had two small black swans tattooed on the back of her neck, heads bent as if supporting hers.

At first I thought she had been pulling my leg about never reading. She often had no idea what I was talking about but liked listening to the sound of my voice.

We fucked but usually as an almost after thought to the night. We found plenty of other things to argue about.

I had just met my deadline, editor happy, I now had the illusion of freedom.

Enza had a new scarf which she was anxious to dirty up. We went out.

The drinks were the prize, winners, losers; the only difference was who had gotten caught.

She tells me about her day, none of that matters.

I am talking to me again through her, a two drink chorus. Now she is just letting me talk. No matter how clear my thoughts, I can not get the stars to reflect off of my fingers.

She has to run off for a moment, probably to score. The waiter with sleepy eyes which people mistake for wisdom watches her go.

Under the awning the heater is snapped on, Votives are lit. I have won and now have nowhere to go. It is not for Enza, I sit at my table and wait. It is for yesterday but a specific one, a far older one than that which carried me empty handed, into today.

My fingertips read the table as of brail. Eyes now wander down, the surface, stars, lattice holes which allow me to see my shoes, their hunger, starving.

I could have another drink. I do not wait, for anything. That first kiss, music of our youth, twirling her on the dance floor, red dress blossoming out with the undulating current of her motion, that first kiss with her, ours.

Believe me, it isn’t coming around anymore. I have forsaken or forgotten it all anyways. How could I not, knowing it would be I who broke that fragile shroud of memory.

Enza comes back smelling of smoke. Her pupils are two large, black pools which when seen from certain angles reflect the stars.


- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2009



One of Bluepepper's most beloved contributors, Wayne H.W Wolfson is an American artist and poet who has just returned from his annual sabbatical in Paris.

Thursday, May 07, 2009

New writing by Wayne H. W Wolfson

Spanish Tinge

She said that she had always been lonely and I took her at her word. I kept telling her that with ice water in my veins, I was bad news and would eventually let her down in some way. It still had not happened and now she would smile whenever I gave her my warning, no longer believing it. Still, it served its purpose for this honesty made me feel no pressure to be good even though for the most part I had been.

There were things that we liked to do on certain days or daily at specific times. The start of the repetition slowly morphed into ritual which seemed to be working out for us. They all gained power not only from their success but because we had faith like children in these made up rituals of ours.

One of them was drinks during the hour of aperitifs at Olivier’s after which depending upon the weather and our mood we would go home and make dinner or go for a walk. The day had been long and hot so we would stroll.

We had been walking without a clear purpose of destination. There was an unspoken and strong mutual sense of arousal. We could afford to take our time, the wait itself becoming a sort of foreplay that combined denial and desire. There was a nearby alley which we ducked into. For a moment I just stood there as a way of teasing, making her take the initiative. I was curious, what would she do, how far would she go? She put her back against a wall which I was pretty sure was dirty.

Here in this alley, the scent of her skin, slightly sharp from arousal and all the walking we had done mixed with that of the boulangerie down the street and the cobblestones at our feet that were never touched by the sun and had an almost wet, secret scent that I did not find unpleasant all combined to create a perfume which intoxicated me and made me throb. I was half-heartedly trying to think of the name of a jazz record or musician to pretend to be distracted by when I realized the Jelly Roll Morton record Marceau had told me about would be in today. The distraction became genuine. He was only getting three copies in and offered to hold one for me. I did not want him to do that though as the small label distributors that he dealt with did not always give an accurate description of the records. This could very well be tracks culled from albums I already own which have fallen into the public domain. If he held it for me and then I did not get it he would be sore, I did not want the pressure. I kissed her deeply and we ground against each other, if we were already home we would not be going out but as the record store was between here and home, I murmured to her;

“Jelly Roll…”



She told me to make it quick and sat on a bench outside as the place was always an oven. Marceau was not in; his assistant who always pretended not to remember me when I tried to strike up polite conversation was behind the counter. I looked through the bins and as I suspected the album had blurry liner notes on the back cover and tracks cherry picked from his Red Hot Pepper sessions. I had it in my mind now though to get something. There was a Bud Powell I had owned but worn out. In my exploration I always felt the urge to find new things and put restocking something I had already owned as low priority. The Bud Powell reminded me of Lapin though, and in that way, listening to Bud, I kept him close and remembered him.

I tucked the bag flat under my arm and left. She asked what I got, when I told her she did a small frown. The name was not exotic enough for her. She had started “collecting” unique jazz musician’s names as supplied by me: Papa Celestin, Cow Cow Davenport, Johnny and Baby Dodds, Bunk Johnson, Wingy Manone and Fate Marble. She would explore their music through my collection but often liked the names more than their work. Jelly Roll was one of the definite exceptions.

Ferdinand “Jelly Roll” Morton (1890-1941) claimed to have created jazz, the King of Jazz. This is a bit of self aggrandizing although not far off the mark, he, working concurrently with a handful of others got things started, if not the king, then definitely in the royal court. Jelly Roll had this concept “The Spanish Tinge”. It was a sort of rhythmic exoticism that he said was Creole/French. Lacking in his explanation was where Spain met its French (Creole) neighbor. Also missing was his articulation on the harmonic devices and actual cadence to be found in some of what was played, especially on piano. The much later (final) recordings of Jelly Roll when he no longer had to bow to commercial considerations most easily exemplify the Spanish tinge. Buddy Bertrand’s Blues No. 1 off of The Complete Library of Congress Recordings by Alan Lomax is a prime example in which one hears rhythmically how Jelly Roll mixes boleros and danzons all done in a delicate cadence which suggests Claude Debussy (1862-1918) playing the blues.

The music which would eventually become directly tied in with a sort of aural impressionism like a lot of great modern art did not have one definitive “Eureka” moment nor chief architect. The Spanish tinge more accurately could be said to sonically be the place where various Iberian rhythmic devices melded with a sort of (salon) classicism which was forward thinking, created in Paris by composers who daydreamed of or had come to Paris from Spain.

Issac Albeniz (1860-1909) was as important to contributing to a new musical genre as Debussy although not necessarily as well known. He was born in Gerona (Spain) and was a child piano prodigy. At the age of seven he was a private pupil in Paris of Antoine Francois Marmontel (1816-1898) who also taught Georges Bizet (1838-1875) and briefly, Debussy. There was an attempt to enroll him in The Paris Conservatory but despite passing the tests he was deemed too young. He returned to Spain to give concerts and also wrote his first composition Marcha Militar.

In 1868, still young, he attended what is now The Royal Conservatory of Music. His virtuosic piano playing had him being compared to Mozart (1756-1791) and considered Spain’s greatest prodigy. Popular lore has it that his studies began to bore him and he ran away from home, stowing away on a ship, first to Argentina where he earned so much from concerts that he was then able to travel to Cuba, Puerto Rico and finally America where he found himself in New York broke and having to become a baggage porter for steam liners to eke out a living while keeping up his chops by playing in dockside dives. While sitting at the upright he would try for extra tips by doing such tricks as playing with his back turned to the keyboard. In this way, slowly earning fare to San Francisco, San Francisco being his debarkation point back to Europe. While this makes for a compelling chapter in his mythos it is not entirely true. He did tour far and wide at a very young age but with his supportive father who was a customs agent that often had the practical turn of mind to have the tours adopt the same itinerary that he had to maintain for his job. Like the prodigy Mozart, Albeniz did sometimes chafe under his stage father’s presence. Also like young Mozart, sometimes payment took the impractical form of expensive gifts which did not leave them destitute but occasionally taking a financial hit when necessity dictated pawning them for which they would be paid undervalued prices.



He was fifteen years old upon his return to Spain and was becoming too old to use the child prodigy angle to call attention to his performances. This was still the age of the virtuoso with many of the romantic era greats still widely touring. Without the prodigy angle there was not as much to differentiate himself from the other virtuosi. He decided to once again study. This time he studied in Leipzig (1876) under two of Franz Liszt’s (1811-1886) students Louis Maas (piano) and Salomon Jadassohn (composition). In Leipzig he found himself often hard up for funds and did not enjoy the lifestyle with its accompanying formalized discipline. Unhappy after mere months studying, he returned to Spain

Back in Spain he gave a few recitals at one of which he was heard by Count Guillermo Morphy who was private secretary to King Alfonso XII. He helped Albeniz obtain a royal stipend to attend the Brussels Conservatory with his main interest of study being composition. In 1879 he won first in piano performance there. This served as a good promotional hook on whose strength he did a tour of Europe.

A strong ambition of Albeniz’s had been to meet and possibly study with Franz Liszt. Liszt had created the genre of the symphonic poem and championed what he termed “Music of the Future” (Richard Wagner, Hector Berlioz et al) devices from which Albeniz would over the course of his life freely draw from.

With the impetuousness of youth and not wanting to waste anymore time, he set out from Brussels for Budapest to meet his idol. There has been much written about how long Albeniz studied under Liszt. Some accounts have them meeting for several informal lessons, other seemingly reliable sources talk of Albeniz following his hero to Rome as part of his entourage. Albeniz’s own diary says that they met but once on August 18, 1880. The reality was that he never got a chance to meet Liszt even once. He had doctored the account in his diary as to avoid angering his father who had funded the trip. Even playing devil’s advocate with the dates, during the time Albeniz was in Budapest there are ample accounts and records of Liszt’s whereabouts at the time (Weimar, Germany). The facts of Albeniz having studied under two of Liszt’s students plus his own small white lie have over the years become misconstrued and grew into a legend.

From this failed attempt he returned to Madrid. He gave concerts and toured the major Spanish cities for the next few years. He also at this time managed and conducted a zarzuela company (cross between music theater, burlesque & circus). This was the impetus behind his first musical theater works (3 zarzuelas: Cantalone de Gracia being the “hit”). Three years later (1883) he finished what had felt like an endless tour and settled in Barcelona where he met Felip Pedrell (1841- 1922). Pedrell had a deep influence on Albeniz who up until now had mainly been drawing from the mode of European Romanticism style (Schubert, Chopin, Liszt). Pedrell urged Albeniz as he would many others to adopt his “Spanish composers should write Spanish music” philosophy. Albeniz would begin to consider inspirations outside of those normal for the Western classical tradition he had been working in adding traditional cultural elements from his native land.

This same year he also married one of his pupils, Rosita Jordana. In 1885 they move to Madrid. Albeniz quickly made his name as a teacher and continued also in his role as virtuoso. At this time he was considered the third greatest piano virtuoso (Liszt, Anton Rubinstein 1829-1894). The next few years would be the pinnacle of his career as a concert pianist (1889-92) with tours through Austria, Belgium, Great Britain and France. During all this touring he continued to compose, varying the styles of each composition from suites, dances and piano concertos now adding elements of Spanish flavor to his work. He was also given a contract by entrepreneur Henry Lowenfeld to both write and perform. It was through his dealings with Lowenfeld he once again reconnected with theater music. He worked first at The Lyric Theater then the Prince of Wales Theater.

The money he was now making allowed for him to move his family from Spain, London now being his home base during these virtuoso years. Showing an inate ability to write in the music theater style without it being vapid, Lowenfeld got Albeniz to write the lyric comedy Magic Opal (1893) which was stylistically in the vein of Gilbert and Sullivan. It proved popular and a year later, now translated into Spanish premiered as La Sortija in Madrid.

Moving among the London theater world brought Albeniz into contact with Francis Burdett Money Coutts (1852-1923) who aside from being heir to the banking fortune of Coutts & Co fancied himself an amateur poet and playwright. In 1894 he bought Lowenfeld’s contract with Albeniz. Unlike the dynamics between a lot of composers and their patrons Albeniz was given respect and enough money to live well the rest of his life. He was offered directorship of The Prince of Wales Theater (1893) which he declined. Instead he moved back to Spain from where he once again set off to Paris (1894). Although he had left London his patron became his collaborator, writing librettos (Henry Clifford 1895, Pepita Jimenez 1896, and Merlin 1898/1902).

“Merlin” was the first of what was supposed to be a trilogy under the umbrella title of King Arthur, inspired by the English folk hero and Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Merlin was not actually produced in Albeniz’s lifetime, Lancelot the second opera was never finished and the final part of the trilogy Guenevere never even attempted.

In Paris he became absorbed into the community so much so that he was given a post teaching advance piano at the Schola Cantorum (1898-1900). The Schola Cantorum had some of the most progressive French musical minds teaching who cast an eye back towards earlier music (Gregorian chant, 16th/17th century) even as they forged new ground compositionally. He interacted with the cream of musical society (Vincent D’Indy 1851-1931, Ernest Chausson 1855-1899, Paul Dukas 1865-1935, Gabriel Faure 1845- 1924). The effect of this artistic cross pollination was to make Albeniz reassess his earlier work which he now found lacking in sophistication and depth. He now wanted to strive for a greater complexity which would incorporate the diverse influences he had absorbed including those of Pedrell.

Sadly poor health made him go back to the steadily warmer climates of Spain. In Spain he worked with Enrique Morera in promoting Catalan lyrical works but made no headway in having his own staged partially on account of how distinctive they were and with varying influences hard to categorize. The frustration mounted until he decided to once again return to Paris where he was considered a star.

In Paris his home was a meeting place for Spanish artists (Joaquin Turina 1882-1949, Munuel de Falla 1876-1946 et al) to come and receive encouragement and socialize. Albeniz slowed down his performance schedule to concentrate on compositions. His compositional style had metamorphosed shedding its overall lightness for a greater complexity.

The new artistic phase birthed the songs;

Il en est del’amor, Deux Morceaux de Prose de Pierre Loti and some collections of poems of Coutts set to music. After attempts, some finished others not with lyrics Coutts lost his ambition to write librettos and Albeniz naturally gravitated back to writing piano music and the inspiration of his homeland.

La Vega (1896-98) showed the direction that he would take with Iberia (1905-08). These two pieces used components of ethno-national elements but not rigidly, synthesized with an overall impressionistic lushness that was just then emerging and which in turn would serve as an inspiration to many including Debussy and Ravel.

Iberia’s genesis lay not merely in finally hitting upon how to merge all he had absorbed over the years but also in the challenges of personal tragedy. In 1900 Albeniz began suffering from Bright’s Disease (Nephritis) at the same time as his wife had fallen seriously ill and one of their three children died. With all the distractions he could not finish the lyrical work he had begun nor could he get the finished opera Merlin produced. Artistically it was not where he wanted to be anyways and with ill health giving him limited amount of energy mixing with his desire to create art without compromise he decided to stop writing for the lyric stage.

The result of his desire of art without compromise which would encapsulate his total music identity was Iberia. Iberia was subtitled Twelve New Impressions. It is a suite of twelve piano pieces collected into four books. The pieces are notoriously difficult to play. Despite the complexity of each piece they are not rendered frigid by their technical demands. Part of the strong appeal of them is in how they manage to meld the cerebral with the spiritual. The pieces incorporate Spanish folk forms (mostly Andalusian which also allowed for Moorish exotica) and aspects of late romanticism (Liszt, Berlioz) along with what was incubating in Paris which would evolve into a sort of musical impressionism.

Pedrell had, aside from getting Albeniz into utilizing musical modes from his own country also emphasized the importance of not trying for an overall authenticity which could only make a piece stagnant as it would too quickly be trapped by the past but to color and flavor his work, give the “impressions of” what he wanted to depict emotionally.

Evocacion (song 1) the title could serve as a mission statement not only for itself but the entire suite. It is beautiful and calls forth a sort of nature induced daydream. Evocacion would not sound out of place among the pieces which constitute Liszt’s own three book piano collection Annees de Peleringe (1835-39-83). The lushness of the piece is made easily apparent by the slower tempo. Once could easily imagine that slight feeling of lazy intoxication which hits upon finding yourself someplace new which is full of sun and flowers. This piece sits squarely astride the fence between romanticism and the impressionistic palette as was being created via Albeniz and his Parisian peers. It is an easing in to the introduction of compositional evolution without sacrificing anything.

El Corpus Christi en Sevilla (song 3) starts with a sort of processional march. The piano offers up percussive like effects to simulate drum beats as might be heard by people in such a procession. Throughout the piece tension is built by alternating between bell like shimmering tones and the more percussive, urgent runs which also mark points of faster tempo. The ending finds a slow tempo, delicate toned minor chords. It is the end of the festivities, lamps are being lit, a man walks home alone only a silhouette moving against the flickering squares of light coming from the windows, softly humming to himself, stillness and the emergence of the stars.

El Albaicin (song 7) was the gypsy quarter of Granada located on a hill that faced Alhambra. Debussy professed himself to be a fan and influenced by this piece. It starts with quick single note pattern over which more discordant chords bubble up before a sort of call and response pattern is taken up by the single notes and chords. The piece’s rhythm alters as does its cadence; it takes on melancholy inflections of Moorish descent. It is a beauty made all the more so by its sadness. A descending pattern emerges peppered with ringing notes of discordance; it is a beautiful woman whose hair has come undone, a dance in the gypsy camp by firelight. This piece shows how Albeniz could rapidly switch emotional gears within one piece.

Lavapies (song 9) is the only non Andalusian piece in Iberia. It is named after a quarter in Madrid which at the time had many chic dance halls. It starts with a sprightly feel and tone. The image of woman in colorful dresses, which open like flowers unfurling as they wheel upon the dance floor, is evoked. The piano takes on the different attitudes of the women waiting to dance, she is shy, she is aroused, she is here just for the music and that one has had your eye all night as she waits to feel her palm against yours as she is lead onto the dance floor. Like attending a dance, the tempo throughout the piece alters, slow to fast to frenzied moments which are release. During some of the slower parts the piano actually takes on a near stately tone while keeping its Iberian rhythms, the contrast between the two working despite their seeming dichotomy.

Eritana (song 12) mixes virtuosic playing with elements of Andalusian dance. This piece shows how seamlessly Albeniz had learned to fuse the romantic compositional elements to those of his own idea. It presents a theme which is then altered with the sprinkling of modernist filigrees which alternates back and forth with more traditional sounding virtuosic runs. Again as had occurred in some of the other pieces, it is the heat of the sun, dance floor and what ever else may be brought on by beauty.

If she liked Jelly Roll then she would enjoy Iberia they were practically related. I was in a good mood now, I felt like going out or maybe making my Etouffee as can sometimes happen when I contemplate Jelly Roll.

We get home and I carefully file Bud where he should go on the shelf. I put on Rondena from Iberia and at the same time we meet each other’s eyes deciding to now go out, heading towards Port Royal for some live music and maybe a little seafood.

She wore her hair pulled tightly back and held in place by a large tortoise shell comb which gave her the look of a maja. It was her shorthand for letting me know that the old arguments and rules need not apply tonight. We had some drinks and the band, a bop trio, was good even though part of me was still in Spain.

A waitress squeezing by bumped the back of her head causing her comb to fall out. It fell to the floor breaking one of its teeth. The comb had been one of the first things I had gotten her and she looked beautiful when wearing it. Upset, she looked as if about to cry, I was going to tell her not to but I wanted to see it.


- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2011


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