What France Brings to the Table

That French people come together on a hot summer afternoon to eat a ripe meal with their average fellow mortals – that makes me love the French.  For what France brings to the table in the family of nations IS the table, the utter love of fully immersing in finer points of food.  It might be  a crisped skin of a duck, cêpes, the potatoes of course golden; a wine that takes no prisoners.  The lunch might take two hours or even three.   “We’ll all arrive at noon at the same time,” the French saying goes.  Live in time, don’t worry about it. 

If this consciousness is the French tradition, gift and patrimony, does everyone get to sit at the table? In restaurants above the Victor Hugo market place in Toulouse (one amazing food town), the salt of the earth gather to eat their traditional fare.  There are “etrangers” who dig into the fat-laced patrimonial magret with their families like they were born to it..  France as a nation-state may devolve someday, but ripeness as an idea in the mortal should endure.  Happy Bastille Day!

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Wave if You Love Me

The children shuffle in, although to call them children is a stretch.  Most of them are aged 21 or 22, therefore majority age, therefore adults.  Some are 23 or 24 – there have been interruptions in their schooling, they have things to do in their lives, construction jobs or care-taking or they returned to their countries and were detained at the border.

Although they are adults, they are also, always children.  They are children because there are adults, a particular unit of adults, who will always consider them children, their children.  They had given birth to them, or adopted them and kept them in sandwiches and Nikes, in doctors’ offices and karate classes, for some 16, 18, 20-some years.

When these pairs – parents/children or adults/children or adults/adults – are separated, there is sadness, sometimes anguish that might be weighted more heavily one way or the other.  When they are reunited, you can hear the elastic snap, a sense of rightness, pride and relief at the return.  There is a connective tissue that some call “sacred,” a deep chemistry.  Neither bonded love nor accompanying fear is rational.   There could be a kidnapping, or a shooting at the corner store or sociopath in math class.

So even in a vast hall where there is an infinitesimal chance of finding one another, it will happen over and over – a hand will rise, it will wave madly hoping against hope to find the child out there, even if they will be reunited in an hour outside the hall when the ceremony is over.


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Robert F. Kennedy: No Place the Poet Can’t Go

Bobby Kennedy was recognized in his day as a Samaritan, a man deeply gifted in finding and speaking to the common core of diverse people.  He spoke in his own register – as a white, male, Yankee and “elitist” – but was nonetheless heard and embraced by blacks, Hispanics, the poor, and astoundingly, poor whites who had supported George Wallace.  From today’s fractious vantage point, it seems unfathomable.

The authentic humane poet came out in a crucible test.  Kennedy had planned to address a volatile black crowd in Indianapolis; but Martin Luther King had just been gunned down in Memphis, and Kennedy would have to toss his prepared speech and deliver the horrific news to the crowd with the obvious potential of violence.

The gutsy and real came together; stretched between grief and desire, pushed by deep emotion, Kennedy produced something transcendent.  “For those of you who are black, who are tempted to be filled with hatred and distrust at the injustice of such an act, against all white people…”  It would have been easy to deny that.  Instead Kennedy said, “I feel it too.”  For the first time, he talked about his bottomless grief for his brother, prescribing compassion and love.

And then to the crowd of stunned, seething people in the heart of the Indianapolis ghetto, he said, “My favorite poet is Aeschylus.”  What?  “And he once wrote, ‘Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.'”  It went straight to the heart.  Kennedy closed by quoting the Greeks again: let’s dedicate ourselves “to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.  Let us dedicate ourselves to that and say a prayer for our country and for our people.”   Amen.



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So I’m…..

So, I’m standing under a tree…

I’ve always had sly fondness for “so.”  As a social starter, it used to go something like this: “So,” the best friend might say with twinkling eyes, “what happened last night?” The gossip wags, “So…guess I saw together in the bar?

“So” hangs at the edge of the story, but doesn’t have the whole story.   It was a tool of wits who play at the art of conversation. I remember my six-year-old daughter, in full mimic style, placing her chin on her laced fingers. “So,” she said to me as a lady of the world, “how are you?”

I’m intrigued by the trend of people launching into social media in media res.  “So I’m sitting in my car…”   I and three thousand other of your closest friends lace our fingers and slide forward. But where are we in that floating ongoing conversation?  There are three thousand other ongoing conversations, not to mention the conversation of people we live with in our houses, dorms and cities, not to mention other ongoing conversations. The political conversation, the Trump conversation, the climate change and spring conversation.

We seem to be unfortunate intimates in the crazy Trump conversation.  Like many others, I’m choosing, at least today, to be a part of the flowering tree conversation. It’s late May, and spring has been a long time in coming.  “So you thought we’d never get here,” the trees say, the dogwood, cherry and magnolia branches layered like lateral Japanese fans. “You thought we’d abandoned you.” They lean their bright faces forward to us: “So.”

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End Days in Naples

End Days in Naples

Here’s proposing “End Days in Napoli”
as a fabulous opera – how perfect
this baroque jostling
everyone playing their roles –
sidewalk men singing arias, girls
swishing with trays of cafe;
churches losing their swirls
in the dark alleyways.
When the metro jolts, a woman shouts
Mamma Mia! Exactly!

Enjoy the city of contradictions
as world war threatens
where energies peak
with regularity for your last day.
Go wildly religious with
marbled palaces or corner saints
though killer food will dominate.
Death by pizza (Sorbillo or Brandi)
ricotta pastries, balls of mozzarella,
anchovies, all the best, finished by
Gran Cafe Ciorfito or Bar Nilo’s espresso.

If and when the end hits,
look towards the flattened planes of
Pompeii –
it’s been done before.
On your way out,
take the elevator in the back
and bring your coin –
you get nowhere without
ten cents for the guardian.

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La Dolce Vita’s back streets

Capri is Capri, people say. It’s so beautiful and elegant, the lanes lined with pines and villas, white hotels trailing down to the famous rocky grottos, sly waiters in suit jackets in the central piazza. It’s true that imagination goes first, the feet follow. In mid-April when down jackets were competing with tight white trousers and ascots, it is easier to discover the old villages behind Capri and Anacapri. The hinterlands, old ways and regular people become visible.

Every morning a group of old timers climb walks to open Santa Maria, a hermitage church in Cetrella, on the cliffs over the glittering, glorious coastline. An old man stopped at the crossroads tossing his bag of snails over his shoulder as he whispered to a shrine of the Virgin Mary. Mothers pushed their baby carriages up hundreds of stairs, the only way of reaching their perched houses. The sharp smell of wisteria, firewood, damp stone, fishermen, workers painting and prepping mansions for the season.

Tiberius built his enclave in Capri more than two thousand years ago which makes newcomers of Rilke and Oscar Wilde, Godard, Brigitte Bardot and her pouty behind (the movie Contempt, Le Mepris was filmed here). La dolce vita is as old as la vita itself.

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The Mafia Dons & Culture


Florence still feels handworked, like burnished gold, and an astonishment of deeply human masterpieces.  The jewel box is also beset, overrun by tourists, but who can blame them – we dropped in, mother-daughter duo, for a quick day and a half.  We were under the umbrella (it rained) of centuries of wealth, but the stand-out banking family and political dynasty, the Medicis, have always intrigued.  As a young art history student, I asked if Cosimo, Piero and Lorenzo’s ruthless capitalism was worth the price for the brilliant Renaissance art they fostered – Fra Lippi, Botticelli, Massacio. I said yes.  Vita brevis, ars longa.   

History has always had rapacious capitalist mafia powerbroker in office – we have ours now.  The difference is ours doesn’t have a shred of civic minded humanism.  Our billionaire ego-in-chief can’t compartmentalize and rise above, even for a short time.  What if he could be a patron of real culture, not cheesy ersatz stuff.  Narcissism has always been a part of patronage; ego and power are part of the deal; real leaders see beyond to the bigger picture.  

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Ecco Easter, Testaccio

Testaccio, a working Roman
neighborhood where Easter
is every day,
slightly elevated,
as man is everyman.

The great dramas are woven
into the quotidian –
births and creations
and unraveling
our endless failings
(thus our fragile nervous systems)
tongue lashings
and everyday salvations –
espresso and cake among
fellow celebrants. 


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Debating Seder – for Mireille Knoll

What is Seder? A time to leave doors open
like Mireille Knoll, late of Paris:

“If she could have she would
have welcomed the entire world into her home”

entertain anyone who has a mother

though she survived the Nazis,
she was knifed in old age by traitors,

convinced everyone is good
she lived til 85, entertaining to the end.

Or aide memoire to have at the door
bags already packed; and travel lightly

nervous system prepared by history
tells us to be ready to flee; at first

so imperceptible hardly anyone notices;
comfort is a Pharaoh thing;

if not flight, fight on the side of moral

As Ecclesiastes might have said:
Nothing’s new; entertain all ideas

beat nothing but our rugs, honor the sacred
skein of freedom, pour the wine, please
welcome Elijah.
Let’s eat.

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Dispatch from Haunting Lisbon

Lisbon is a haunting city. It is misty, caught in the process of decadence; its ambiance suggests a city that people long to hold onto yet haven’t been able to. You feel the old grandeur of gracious villas, private palaces, 18th century buildings. The narrow blue tiled apartment buildings trace the fate of the wealthy seafaring country, globalizers whose cinnamon, elephants, Brazilian music is intertwined. The empire was badly lost over a century ago and the poor country of Europe recently plunged into depression.

Lisbon is holding onto its history, tints and traces although much of the city was lost in the Great Lisbon earthquake in 1755. This is at odds with the European trend of erasure.  Fado is the music of what was; what was lost at sea, left behind, left in the unknown and ungraspable. In a small tavern, the singer accompanied by a master of Portuguese guitar, it all makes sense. The stunning church of São Domingos is like Pompeii, its grandeur mottled and gnawed away at, an eloquent sign of earthquake, fire and beauty. The centuries meet not as strangers but in active dialogue.

Now the last unreconstructed capital of Europe has a skyline of construction birds. It also has superb modern art museum, the Berardo Collection, and an edgy avant-garde that pushes off from tight tradition. The in-betweenness makes it a place of spontaneous giving.

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