My mind returns always to poetry Not as a task but as a blessed relief It is the spontaneous, generous gift, "grace," "Free, and totally unexpected, and Undeserved." Someone remarked About Flannery O'Connor's characters That they were all seeking grace But grace, like poetry, cannot be sought My mind returns to poetry Not as a task and certainly not as a job But as a sudden, spontaneous, often surprising Lifting of consciousness, a blessing surely, Like the moment when your sins are entirely forgiven Or the moment when you understand That the person looking at you Loves you entirely and without reserve And would, if it were possible, take on your death. "Poetry," wrote W.H. Auden, famously, "Makes nothing happen," but I think this is wrong. Poetry IS the happening, the chance encounter with the angel, The sudden blessedness. It announces itself as a "feeling," A piece of "music" in the mind That tells you, "Now is the time." It does not transform the world like a program to end unemployment Or a vaccine that will cure coronavirus, It transforms YOU--you become a beacon, a light, The sudden, submissive vehicle of a consciousness That holds you and forces you, often reluctantly, To stand unalterably in its shining. Today is the birthday of KPFA-FM. It is 71, nine years younger than I, Though I have been broadcasting on it since 1988. For more years than most people have been alive KPFA has honored not only the political, The transformation of the world, But the transformation that occurs within the listener, The transformation that comes with the infusion of words and ideas. Echoing Cocteau, Jack Spicer said the poet Was a radio. The device becomes the person When your ears are tuned to a channel of endless, eloquent hope.   HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO A COMMUNITY RADIO STATION OF VERY LONG STANDING    

KPFA - Cover to Cover with Jack Foley

KPFA’S 71ST BIRTHDAY POEM

A celebration of the art of poetry, hosted by jack Foley.

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – April 1, 2020

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – March 4, 2020

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – February 26, 2020

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – February 19, 2020

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – February 12, 2020

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – February 5, 2020

Jack looked into his files and discovered a show with the late, wonderful Carolyn Kizer. It aired in 1996. Wikipedia: Carolyn Ashley Kizer (December 10, 1925 – October 9, 2014) was an American poet of the Pacific Northwest whose works reflect her feminism. She won the Pulitzer Prize in 1985. According to an article at the Center for the Study of the Pacific Northwest, "Kizer reach[ed] into mythology in poems like 'Semele Recycled"; into politics, into feminism, especially in her series of poems called "Pro Femina"; into science, the natural world, music, and translations and commentaries on Japanese and Chinese literatures." Jack writes, Ecco Press asked Carolyn Kizer to contribute to its volume of Dante translations. Kizer responded by translating Inferno, Canto XVII, into what she calls “antique hipster”:   “Yo, Dan, just give a look at this repulsive creature Called Fraud, the wall-buster; He’s the prime polluter, The poison in his tail’s an added feature.” Then Virgil gave the high sign to that stink Of rottenness, to make a three-point landing on the shore . . . .   It is an amazing effect--a little like translating Paradise Lost into baby talk. Dante's "Ecco" (like the press), usually translated, "Lo," becomes here "Yo." "Wall-buster is an accurate rendering of "rompe i muri," but it carries overtones of "ball-buster," a term with which a "pro feminist" like Kizer was surely familiar. "The prime polluter" (Dante's "colei che tutto 'l mundo appuzza") brings us even more definitely into the twentieth century with its ecological concerns, but a moment later the end rhyme of "creature / feature," alive with echoes of ancient American television, returns us to at least the suggestion of terza rima. Virgil signals the monster, "that stink / Of rottenness," to make a landing, and we go on with Dante's story.   Kizer’s version was, she tells us, "quite properly rejected for irreverence and 'not fitting in'" by the editors at Ecco Press. She published it under the title, "In Hell with Virg and Dan," first in the magazine 13th Moon and then in her book, Harping On. A note to the poem states, “I just don’t care for Dante’s obsessions with shit and revenge. For me, he ranks up there with St. Paul as one of the most destructive literary geniuses of all time.”   This is Kizer's poem, "The Intruder":   My mother—preferring the strange to the tame: Dove-note, bone marrow, deer dung, Frog’s belly distended with finny young, Leaf-mold wilderness, harebell, toadstool, Odd, small snakes roving through the leaves, Metallic beetles rambling over stones: all Wild and natural!—flashed out her instinctive love, and quick, she Picked up the fluttering, bleeding bat the cat laid at her feet, And held the little horror to the mirror, where He gazed on himself, and shrieked like an old screen door far off.   Depended from her pinched thumb, each wing Came clattering down like a small black shutter. Still tranquil, she began, “It’s rather sweet ...” The soft mouse body, the hard feral glint In the caught eyes. Then we saw, And recoiled: lice, pallid, yellow, Nested within the wing-pits, cozily sucked and snoozed. The thing dropped from her hands, and with its thud, Swiftly, the cat, with a clean careful mouth Closed on the soiled webs, growling, took them out to the back stoop.   But still, dark blood, a sticky puddle on the floor Remained, of all my mother’s tender, wounding passion For a whole wild, lost, betrayed, and secret life Among its dens and burrows, its clean stones, Whose denizens can turn upon the world With spitting tongue, an odor, talon, claw, To sting or soil benevolence, alien As our clumsy traps, our random scatter of shot. She swept to the kitchen. Turning on the tap, She washed and washed the pity from her hands.   ...   Jack remarks,   "The Intruder" shows contradictory impulses in the same person. Similarly, is Dante a hero of poetry or a villain of religion for Kizer? Clearly, he is both, and what is said about him depends entirely on which context you are emphasizing. This is one of the exhilarating aspects of this poet's work: it is never possible to predict what she will say about anything; she is constantly shifting perspectives...Kizer's poems are frequently very funny, but they are also very touching and personal, and various other things besides. They are evidence of a mind which stays wonderfully open to its own potential contradictions.   This is from "Anniversaries: Claremont Avenue, from 1945." It's a marvelous example of a loosely pentameter line and the subtleties of free rhyming. It also remains relevant to the problems we still experience in 2020.   It’s 1985: in pain, my Mother-in-law has died. Appraisers from Doyle pick through her possessions: old furniture blistered by sun and central heat. Twenty-One Claremont is no longer ours. Recollections are blistered and faded too: My husband’s boyhood toys, my fragments of Chinese. Mothers have disappeared. Wars come and go. The past is present: what we choose to keep by a process none of us can ever know. Now those little girls are grandmothers who must remember, after fifty years the doll, the chill, the tears. Greatness felled at a blow. Memory fractured. Black and white apart. No sense of direction, we Americans. No place to go.

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – January 15, 2020

Jack's guest is, again, Lola Haskins. This is the Author's Note to her new collection, Asylum: Improvisations on John Clare: "The quotes in this book are taken from the diary the poet John Clare kept in 1841, describing his escape from Dr. Matthew [Allen's] private insane asylum in Epping Forest and his subsequent struggle to reach his home in Northborough, where he hoped to reunite with Mary, who'd been his childhood sweetheart. He made the eighty-mile journey in four days, sleeping rough and staving off starvation by eating grass, which he said tasted like fresh bread. Six months after this odyssey, Clare was again declared mad and sent to Northampton General Lunatic Asylum where he died twenty-three years later. "I chose this frame for my collection for three reasons: first, because having been solo my entire writing life, I too have often felt like the only soldier in my own army; second, because I thought it relevant that Clare's journal addresses how hard it is to be free; and third, because the fact that "asylum" implies both lunacy and refuge resonates for me. I consider these poems improvisations because I see Clare's changing mental states as matches and my poems as the resulting fires, fire that I hope may, from time to time, burn out of control." This is John Clare's most famous poem, "I Am!":   I am--yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes-- They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love's frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live--like vapours tossed   Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.   I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Untroubling and untroubled where I lie The grass below—above the vaulted sky.   And this is by Lola Haskins:   In Tide Pools   lavender-spined urchins reside. And anemones with wavy mouths. And periwinkle snails, full of themselves because they have been given such a beautiful name. And over these low-dwellers, fine- haired grasses drift as if underwater there were always a wind. And since these communities, not touching, are like language groups that have grown apart, it is not surprising that each has its legends. In one, it is said that the Maker, taking pity on the rocks' empty cups, filled them. In this way, the rocks, once beggars, became kings. In another, that certain stars, unhappy to be among multitudes, found solace in these smaller skies. Elsewhere, it is said that long ago the dwellers in these valleys lived deep. But slowly and slowly, wave-rush drew them upward. And now they are visited every day by her who, breaking over them, leaves parts of herself, which they drink and want for nothing. It is not only humans who have religion. On the edge of the ocean, the finger limpets see the Almighty, and cling.   Part Two of Two

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – January 8, 2020

The year ends, the year begins as we cycle from light to light, darkness to darkness, from time to time. We'll keep an eye out for whatever awaits us in 2020. One friend made a calendar of 2020. He took many famous paintings and gave their inhabitants eyeglasses. Vision. Insight. Old friends Nina Serrano and Jack Foley, KPFA's interwoven pair, welcome the new year with one of their special radioromps. Listen as these elderyoung'uns give you the news--about themselves, about the world, about (yccch) what is the name of that presquedent? "King Liar lives in a house of White." A special feature of today's program will be songs by Tony Perez. Here is a poem by Nina:   BENICIA SUNSET   We brought folding chairs and blankets to the grassy cliff top surrounded on three sides by the Sacramento River to listen to John on his indigenous flute accompany the sun as it set slipping behind the Carquinez Straights into the glowing horizon Amazing! And yet it has been happening every night of my life unwatched and unappreciated by me So many moments of note going unnoted by me Me is missing the planets' major daily events They happen without my awareness My awareness is unaware My awareness is unaware   Missing Mother Earth's glories Missing Mother Earth's glories only an eyeful away   And here is Jack on the great Irish poet, William Butler Yeats (1856-1939):   W.B.Y.   Gone at 73, Poet of Ireland Poet of the Other World Looking for its traces In the Wind Among the Reeds None like him For the passion Of renunciation "O what a sweetness strayed To barren Thebaid" "The foul rag and bone shop Of the heart"-- Three books Quote that line And leave "foul" out-- None like him For the continual Recognition That language Always goes beyond itself-- Innisfree Haunted by the words Of a 3rd-century Neo Platonist-- The immense distance between This world And that other From which The "voices" came. Love of the woman Love of the woman as symbol The tragedy That spirit Lodges itself In the mire Of flesh And that a woman Must grow old-- Not "unity" But the fierce knowledge That all we have Is the power to know What we cannot be or emulate. The swans Leap up in the pool And descend again, and leap again. I love him for the clarity of his monumental, daring, unerring vision.   .   I have lived with him throughout my life Lived with the symbols The magic that leapt about his table Lived not where he walked But where he thought In that sky to which Helena Blavatsky brought him Demon Est Deus Inversus   .   In the dark you entered in 1939, Did Plato and Plotinus welcome you?   Did your soul rise, a falcon in the air Ignoring cries to bring it back to earth?   Did Cúchulainn honor you, show you the sword That killed in battle frenzy the hound of Culain?   Did Emer soothe the wounds that ended you And bind them deeply with a purple cloak?   Did honeybees ignore you in that dark Where wild swans flew and fire sweetly burned?   Did all the gyres end, did darkness sing? Did you become a consecrated bone?   .   Nothing is true, dear love, nothing is true.     [for Robert Sward]

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – January 1, 2020

Jack's show for Christmas Day deals with a song written in the year of Jack's birth: 1940. The song is called "White Christmas," and it was composed by a man whose given name was Israel Isidore Ballin--Irving Berlin. How was it that a Russian Jewish immigrant came to write one of the most popular Christmas songs of all time? Does Christ have anything to do with "White Christmas"? The show begins, On Christmas Eve, my father had to work late at his Western Union office. We had a tree and there were presents, but I couldn't open them until he returned. The excitement was always intense. It was a mixture of desire, love, greed, astonishment. There are people who tell children that if they are good, they will receive Christmas presents, but if they are not good--if they don't do what adults want them to do--they will not. This has always seemed to me a betrayal of the spirit of Christmas. Christ is the "gift," but he does not give of himself because mankind has been good. He gives of himself because mankind has been wicked and can no longer find any means of salvation. He gives of himself because mankind has been bad and has not obeyed the great authority figure. Christmas is one of the primary means of uniting the Old and the New Testaments, and the figure in whom it centers is not God the Father but God the Son. I too was a son. Thirty years earlier, sometime in the early 1920s, my father stood on a stage somewhere outside of New York City and sang Irving Berlin’s song, “All By Myself.” He was stunned to discover he had stopped the show. He understood himself to be a good tap dancer but only a fair singer. “It wasn’t my singing,” he explained later. “The people there had never heard that song. It was the song they were applauding.” Many of Irving Berlin’s songs cause a sense of wonder and amazement—a sense that an enormously familiar, even trite sentiment is being presented in a totally unexpected way. “What care I who makes the laws of a nation,” Berlin wrote in 1929—paraphrasing Arius, perpetrator of the Arian Heresy, who said, “Let me make a people's songs and I care not who makes their laws”—   Let those who will take care of its rights and wrongs What care I who cares For the world’s affairs As long as I can sing its popular songs.   Unfortunately, as Irving Berlin became an all-too-familiar cultural figure—first an icon, then a dinosaur—that quality vanished. The songs became that terrible word: standards. There they “stood,” announcing to everyone their “excellence”—these are “good” songs, like them!—and their energy wasted away. If the early Irving Berlin celebrated “Satan"-- "Satan’s melodies makes you want to dance forever, / And you never have to go to bed at all"--the later Irving Berlin seemed to be an embodiment of Respectability. The demonic energy which fueled his early songs and made the composer an often extraordinarily difficult person (when the Allies bombed Berlin, one of Berlin's rival songwriters remarked, "They bombed the wrong Berlin") this demonic energy stepped aside and took up its abode in the young, the teenaged, the rebellious, the “simple-minded.” Irving Berlin couldn’t stand rock ’n roll, and rock ’n roll didn’t give a damn about Irving Berlin. “You’ll be doin’ all right,” crooned Elvis with just a hint of a tear and a snarl in his voice, “with your Christmas of white, but I’ll have a blue—blue blue blue—Christmas.” When Elvis actually recorded “White Christmas,” Irving Berlin was furious and attempted to persuade radio stations not to play the record.   ...   This is Jack's Christmas song:   WHAT ONCE WAS MAGIC: ANOTHER CHRISTMAS SONG   How can we write Another Christmas song When we know That "giving" means "buying" And "brotherhood" means "buying" The green not of holly but of our cash flow "Commercial" they say When the season comes along And we go Into the stores in masses-- All, lower to upper classes-- With the green not of holly but of our cash flow And yet you remember 25th of December A time you were told That magic happened In days of old A child's sense fills you As you buy more and more And fall to the folly The deep, deep folly Of the frantic,  fantastic,   fabulous department store... And you sing That giving means giving And brotherhood means brotherhood And you sigh Remembering What once was magic And is magic still Became a lie   (softly) Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas To all!   *   JACK'S DRAWING OF IRVING BERLIN:   somewhere inside him still was the little jewish boy who had to sing in the streets because his people were so poor

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – December 25, 2019

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – December 11, 2019

Jack’s guest is Lola Haskins. Her new book is Asylum: Improvisations on John Clare. Wikipedia: “She was born in New York, and raised in northern California. Lola Haskins has lived in San Francisco, Greece, and Mexico. She now divides her time between Northern England and North-Central Florida. She has published fourteen books—the outliers being a poetry advice book, an exploration of fifteen Florida cemeteries, and a book of prose-poem fables about women, illustrated by Maggie Taylor. Her work has appeared in The Atlantic [1], Beloit Poetry Journal [2], The Christian Science Monitor, Prairie Schooner [3], The Missouri Review, Mississippi Review, The London Review of Books, Georgia Review, Southern Review. She taught computer science at the University of Florida [4] for 28 years. Then, from 2004 until 2015, she was on the faculty of the Rainier Writer's Workshop, a low res MFA program based at Pacific Lutheran University [5].” Jack writes: Lola Haskins’ book, Asylum, is haunted by the institutionalized (“asylum”) poet John Clare, who functions here as her muse. She regards both herself and Clare as “an army of one” that soldiers on. The book is extremely wide-ranging stylistically (haiku-like “music boxes,” a sort of unrhymed sonnet, etc.); the poems are often riddling (you have to guess the connections) and sometimes funny. One begins as a parody of Frost (“Something there is that doesn’t love a squirrel”) and goes on to parody Christopher Smart’s poem to his cat, Geoffrey. In another there is a swan and there is an old Saxon woman: what is their relationship? Haskins taught computer science for 28 years: there is frequently something binary about these poems. Nature—often named in a fanciful, myth-making, sometimes animated way—is a constant presence, as it is in John Clare’s poetry. Haskins has an excellent poem about a Florida river. She also asserts that “the sun wants only to be touched.” There is in addition the constant juxtaposition of the past (Clare, Romanticism, the Nineteenth Century and even further back) and the present. She has a poem about Tom Stoppard’s play, Arcadia, a work which also juxtaposes the past and the present, though she refers to Stoppard only as “T.S.” Another reference we have to guess. A sense of mortality is present too—the author, like me, is no spring chicken—and a parodied (?) desire for heaven. There’s a poem that is “after” the Catholic French poet Francis Jammes: “I am Frances Jane and I am going to heaven.” Another poem is called “Dead Stars.” Still another punctuates its stanzas with the words “dot” or “dash,” words which are played upon within the stanza: they turn out to be Morse Code for SOS. Clare’s “I Am” is relevant to it all. Is poetry a port, a haven, an “asylum” or is it a madness (“asylum”)? There’s an interesting typo in the book’s opening sentence: “The quotes in this book are taken from the diary the poet John Clare kept in 1841, describing his escape from Dr. Matthew Arnold’s private insane asylum in Epping....” Not Matthew Arnold: Matthew Allen. But as you read on you wonder whether it is a subtle joke rather than a typo: “Wandering between two worlds, / One dead, the other powerless to be born.” This is the opening poem of Haskins’ book:   Mortality   Every thrown stone falls. But there is a moment first as it hangs in the air   that the blurred hand that tossed it will not come again, thinks the stone as it flies.   And this is “Altar”:   Between Rhylstone and Cracoe the plague stone lies, tangled in nettle and fern, where once the villagers in the one that had not sickened left sustenance for their neighbors in the other—turnips and potatoes, tobacco and vinegars, and woolen mantles, cotton shifts dyed with tea, caps, scarves, trousers and skirts for those cold with fever—then crept off home to sit by their firesides from whence, though they found no tokens on their breasts or backs nor risings under their ears or armpits, they swore they could feel in their chests the coughs that poured from the dying like the blood of Christ. And in the mornings while their own babies slept, the pale faces of children— they all saw them—would drift over their roofs like mist off the hills, then vanish as if they had never been.   Part One of Two   [1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Atlantic [2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beloit_Poetry_Journal [3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prairie_Schooner [4] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_Florida [5] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pacific_Lutheran_University

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – November 20, 2019

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.” So begins J.R.R. Tolkien’s great myth of quest and redemption. Jack’s October 30 show featured Tolkien’s reading of part of “Riddles in the Dark,” the great fifth chapter of The Hobbit, first published in 1937. As Tolkien worked on The Lord of the Rings he realized that he needed to revise this crucial chapter to make it work within the structure of the larger book. In the revised text of The Hobbit, published in 1951, Tolkien writes, “More important is the matter of Chapter Five. There the true story of the ending of the Riddle Game, as it was eventually revealed (under pressure) by Bilbo to Gandalf, is now given according to the Red Book, in place of the version Bilbo first gave to his friends, and actually set down in his diary. This departure from truth on the part of a most honest hobbit was a portent of great significance…Its explanation lies in the history of the Ring, as it is set out in the chronicles of the Red Book of Westmarch, and it must await their publication.” The version of Chapter V that Tolkien recorded in 1952 was neither the version published in 1937 nor the version published in 1951 but something in between. It begins,   “Deep down here by the dark water lived old Gollum. I don’t know where he came from, nor who or what he was. He was Gollum—as dark as darkness, except for two big round pale eyes. He had a boat, and he rowed about quite quietly on the lake; for lake it was, wide and deep and deadly cold. He paddled it with large feet dangling over the side, but never a ripple did he make. Not he. He was looking out of his pale lamp-like eyes for blind fish, which he grabbed with his long fingers as quick as thinking. He liked meat too. Goblin he thought good, when he could get it; but he took care they never found him out. He just throttled them from behind, if they ever came down alone anywhere near the edge of the water, while he was prowling about.”   Note that there is nothing here about Gollum being invisible when he makes his attack: “He just throttled them from behind.” Tolkien is still working out his conception. “I don’t where he came from, nor who or what he was.” Later, the author asks, as if he himself does not yet know, “What was Gollum talking about? What useful thing could he keep out on the dark lake?” It is only then that “one very beautiful thing, very beautiful, very wonderful” enters the story: “He had a ring, a golden ring, a precious ring.” On today’s show we’ll hear the conclusion of the story along with other readings by Tolkien. Wikipedia: “The impact of Tolkien’s works is such that the use of the words ‘Tolkienian’ and ‘Tolkienesque’ has been recorded in the Oxford English Dictionary.”   Jack writes,   LEGENDARIUM   Fondness for forests, sadness at tree felling… At last a war that he could order and control And poems that he could write In old, outmoded forms For a world entirely his own In languages he had conceived He is everyone in the book, Bilbo, Frodo, Sam, Legolas, Strider Gollum is a portion of his mind My precioussssss And the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie. All of it colored by the Roman Faith (“Hmmmm, I’m devout”… Answered in Latin when everyone else spoke English) And a longing for a past that was not a past Old tales made new… Beren, son of Barahir: Day is ended, dim my eyes, but journey long before me lies. Farewell, friends! I hear the call. The ship’s beside the stony wall. Foam is white and waves are grey; beyond the sunset leads my way. Foam is salt, the wind is free; I hear the rising of the Sea.   Concluding lines quoted from J.R.R. Tolkien’s poem, “Bilbo’s Last Song.”   Part Two of Two.

Cover to Cover with Jack Foley – November 13, 2019

COVER TO COVER with Nina Serrano and Jack Foley Wednesday, November 6, 2019, 3:00 –4:00 p.m., KPFA 94.1 FM (available at the KPFA website)   These are the times that try men’s souls And women’s too—may they try Trump These times of rigs and rigmaroles And, Darling, do you feel that lump? These times of fear and daring, too When forces of evil meet “The Squad” And oh, the fearful hullabaloo Goes all the way up to the ears of God She (God) says, “Heavens, look to Me, Don’t those people have any brains? May Trump and Pence forever flee— May Nancy Pelosi take the reins! YEAH! May Nancy Pelosi take the reins!”   So opine Nina and Jack. And perhaps others too.   Nina writes,   Poem   Flame that burns in my heart pumping the urge to fan the fires and fulfill my desires as strong as any wind I’ve ever felt blow my hair and the palm leaves in one direction   *   Climactic Conditions Condition You   Shaken awake last night by an earthquake Today “Sheltered in place” by an oil refinery tank burning “Close your doors and windows You are under clouds of toxicity and smoke” Last week we were told our electric power would be shut of because of high winds and threat of fire No light or refrigeration or electrically powered medical devices Explanations and orders emanate from computer and TV screen The night sky a backdrop for the silent moon herself under threat of invasion and siege   …   Jack writes,   CALIFORNIA   wind bangs tree limbs against my roof      lament of the burned houses: as if the trees suddenly revolted      we have souls, like you as if the trees were aware      they scatter into ashes of what we have done to them      and foul your air over the centuries      MALOS AIRES but I know      we house this is only my fancy:      your most intimate possessions I have heard of the evacuations, the vineyards, the foul air, the flames      they vanish with us I know why my eyes are beginning to sting      into the dangerous wind   *   waiting for the axe to fall           waiting for the axe to fall the bell to chime at midnight           the bell to chime at midnight waiting for godot to finally show           waiting for godot to finally show waiting for götterdämmerung           waiting for götterdämmerung waiting for the kiss           waiting for the kiss to reach the lips           to reach the lips (the stretch of time between)           (the stretch of time between) waiting for the murderer           waiting for the murderer who you know is merciless           who you know is merciless and who has you in his power           and who has you in his power to do you in           to do you in waiting for the age of anxiety           waiting for the age of anxiety finally to end           finally to end waiting for the apple           waiting for the apple to fall to earth           to fall to earth from the ancient tree           from the ancient tree waiting for the white pill you have just swallowed           waiting for the white pill you have just swallowed to do its work           to do its work waiting for PG&E           waiting for PG&E to turn it all off           to turn it all off

Cover to Cover with Nina Serrano and Jack Foley – November 6, 2019

A celebration of the art of poetry. A well-known poet himself, Jack Foley’s considerable historical knowledge and his awareness of the current “scene” are incorporated into his radio shows and have made them a kaleidoscopic, always stimulating attraction for anyone interested in poetry.

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KPFA - Cover to Cover with Jack Foley

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