from Startles

Not the image itself, but a memory of the image. Not color or black and white, more a pattern with feelings attached like nuts that burn in the light. Deer fleeing the fires run from between trees in France. The caption tells me there’s a barrier they can’t cross. I turn the video off.

A scrum of men on the street in Madison; three or four on top of another man-shape. They don’t move, at first, image of violence without the act. The caption reads that one of them executed the man on the ground, calmly put gun back in holster. I turn the video off. And I turn it off again when the scroll comes back.

Blurry image off a video of boys in a boat. Diptych of dialogue from 911 call, white words on black screen, no names attached. Someone has cleansed the audio of superfluous sound. “Don’t die, Nolan!,” someone yells. They’re already planning the cover-up. I push past that post; it’s a cue ball in my heart space.

Horses run through a French village, down the street, headlong. Behind them, plumes of smoke. They were ok; they found the beach, the caption reads. Still I cannot watch, even if there’s beauty in the terror of their galloping. I’m sick to death of terrible beauty.

I cannot see what happens in the interval between a man running and his lying on the ground. I cannot turn that interval off. There’s no memory there, but there’s still blood and enough syntax to recollect. Michael Brown in his Cardinals cap, dead nine hours in the sun. I cannot turn the video off, because it’s not on my screen.

A scroll can be sacred. To scroll is action (a movement between messages) and it’s also heresy. An old philosopher ascends to heaven, perhaps, but not these men, these women, these horses on the ground. Ground is verb not noun; there’s no ground on which to stand when it burns away. Woke up scared.

 

Susan's house-hunting tour of Volcano

Volcano, HI.

 

"I'm not interested. Trespassing isn't my thing," said Jill, before Evelyn and I walked onto someone's property. There was a sales sign at the unpaved road (Sotheby's, no less) and no sign of inhabitants. Evelyn and I walked around, looking in the windows, noting the single red chair in the living room. No other furniture to be seen, though the water pump went off occasionally, as there was a leak under the house. "Where's Jill?" I asked. Oh, farther down the hill at an old one room shack made of old and new windows, transparent roofing (used for walls), an old fold-down couch with cell phone charger cable on it. She was already taking photos. The space was hardly empty, though, as there were cat toys (a stuffed mouse), an earring, a larger toy (for dog?); the walls all bore writing. Not poetry, per se, but thoughts, a lot of them. About relationships, some lists, quotations, and references to Harry Parch and Philip Glass. You needed a ph.d. in literature to parse those lines, scrawled in pencil and pen! Some of the handwriting resembled that in Albert Saijo's notebooks, capital letters. The other writings reminded me strongly of something I had seen somewhere else. I thought maybe the man who builds canoes had written similar phrases and lines in his workshop, the one I took photos of that now appear on a Hawai`i journal's website. The photos he gave me permission to use, later objected to, and later again acknowledged in a friendly tone.

 

We made our way back to the side road. In one direction was a larger side road, in the other a burned down house we'd already visited. There was a story there that we could almost remember. It had to do with a squatter, a fire, and a woman who'd been attacked. Evelyn dashed off to the right to pick up a piece of wood she liked from the junk pile. She did not return quickly. Jill said we should just keep walking and Evelyn would catch up. It felt like a pattern.

 

She did, a bit out of breath, as we approached Haunani Road. She'd met Andy!!! He's building the small A-frame next to the lot with the burned out house. He's a photographer and a poet!! (Evelyn is possessed of a marvelous enthusiasm.) He told her who the guy who lived in the shed was, and he was indeed the man I thought he'd be. A carpenter, very well educated. (He'd once told me he's half-Hawaiian, half-Nebraskan, military family; he seemed to know a lot about chickens.)

 

As we walked back toward my home, we saw evidence of the carpenter to the right side of the road. I walked toward the house he worked in front of and called out to see if anyone was there. Someone saw Jill and Evelyn, who hastened to tell him that it was their friend who wanted to say hello. He greeted me with, "Oh the canoe connoisseur!" 

 

Somewhere along the way, Jill and Evelyn had asked if they could be Lilith for this walk. Oh yes, I said, it's a Lilith story. "Let's trespass together again," said Evelyn, by way of farewell.

 

from Startles

She misses her furniture. Her ex-husband, late father-in-law, childhood bric-a-brac. Anger’s sturdy as a plank; depression a constantly popping balloon. Her blind dog grows deaf, his nose banging against walls; he has his own issues with furniture, though he still wanders outside and returns to see if she’s in her chair. The word “clustering” was changed to “chair sharing,” marking the diminishment of faculty and resources.

Meditation clears the one, if not the other. My bookcases were all marked “dispose” on my last day in the office. Grieving stored in my hips, I couldn’t walk for two months. The chair I lived in bore witness to morning shadows, late afternoon light. I took photographs of the lanai floor, snail trails, murky puddles, moss.

Kan`eohe would have been a nuclear sub harbor, according to one state master plan. The master always has a plan, and this included industry where the cemetery is. The dead lack industry, but landscape crews do not. Cameras on poles watch them mow and whack and weed. The cyclops is myth, but what it watches is not, is the history of late capitalism, vision folded into threat.

Vulture capitalism. Buddha sits in his temple in the valley, surrounded by signs that order you not to wear beach clothes in his presence, and by others that beckon you to a cultural event of the corporation’s construction. Bon dances have been replaced by photo shoots of tourists in expensive fake Japanese coats. You can ring the bell after the long line dies down. Sacred greed, release us.

Homeless (not the) wander like tourists down Kahekili. They are our furniture, set out at the curb to be taken away. Old man end-table, young woman torn blanket, dog tongue. We can’t set up house with them, but once we clear them out, we see so much less through their eyes. Even unfurnished, the rentals are extravagant, unaffordable.

from Startles (Volcano)

    

Playing the changes. Dissonant ones. Bright and dull orange rust barrel, fern shadows magnified in a pool of orange water. Circles inside of circles. Metallic sunset that’s all sun and no set.

Forest battered into rock and dirt road; orange circles of cut trees, laid down like corpses beside flat planks. At the back opening, a rock strewn circle around a rock strewn hole in the ground, overseen by yellow earth mover framing `ohi`a trees. To the right side, on a dirt hill, two pigs sniffing. At the road, a pile of tires, shredded, punctured, heaped up, a memorial of sorts. Behind me, a large rock, positioned to be decorative, in front of the hole in the ground, gray and rust colored.

At the road’s end, boat, large stuffed animal, and abandoned cars gone. Abandoned house still empty, weeds installed in the gutters like front facing cow licks. What was abandoned is now gone. Nothing’s been restored, just cleared, except for cans and a card that reads “Humility, Respect, Honesty” on one side, “Disorder, Enemies, Distrust” on the other. Both bear a faded ALOHA at the top.

The card had been a rectangle, torn on its right side (which was the right side), or left on the other side (which is that of “loneliness” and “suspicion.”) I had to flip it to reverse the field. A less forgiving geometry than the circle, which might ease the transitions, if not acknowledge opposites. Two cats sit on the lanai, mother and daughter, one calico, the other black. They are not abstractions.

Abstraction is reality cut out of context, which is what renders it confusing. Do I see part of something larger that I cannot intuit? Or do I see a pattern adjacent to another that might be a sign (like Texaco) or the fullness of sunset (with the set). Do I inherit flat rectangle or circle? Is circle a burnished orange or is it a rock filled hole in the ground?

If one, or the other, there’s no moral to be taken. Momma cat cocks her back leg, puts it down again. Motion is thought is my seeing of it turning. I’d believed the words so long I couldn’t see the evidence of smudge, orange, a morning light as vivid as Robert Glasper’s tear, which is the music running down his cheek. The black cat came inside and disappeared.

See/hear Glasper here: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/oj_ex4NgcDw

More Io ed! Section 3 in italiano

Sono contenta che sia stata pubblicata sulla rivista I Martedì, nella rubrica #Poeta in angolo, la mia nota allo splendido poemetto di Susan M. Schulz, tradotto da Pina Piccolo e Lou Vezzali! Auguri a questo libro ecologico, filosofico e originale nella struttura e nei temi.

Poeta in angolo

a cura di Loredana Magazzeni

  

Susan M. Schultz

3

Eucalipto ed io esistiamo fuori contesto; io sono

l’occhio dell’occhio della macchina fotografica

mentre si fissa su una goccia di resina rossiccia che

proietta la sua ombra come un’esca. Io e il testo non

siamo la stessa cosa, anche se io guardo la sua goccia

nera su una pagina virtuale bianca. Ma tutto il resto

vive nella sua luce. Non è una luce sacra, a meno che

non ci si inchiodi sopra una targhetta di bronzo con

un nome a renderla tale. L’albero è luce nella misura

in cui riflette; stamattina sono luce anch’io, a quanto

pare, col variare del sole. Ieri ho sperimentato una

simulazione d’eternità, immutabile sotto la pioggia

grigia. Stamattina i colori si distinguono. È tutto nel

contrasto. Una donna sta ferma accanto a un albero

(la sua cagna dal guinzaglio rosso strattona), scatta

foto senza capire il perché. Se si tratta di fermare

il tempo, l’eucalipto è già piuttosto lento. Se è per

commemorare il momento, il momento insiste nel

dichiararsi vivo in quanto flashback (termine tecnico

per memoria). Questa è l’eterna origine dell’arte:

l’essere umano che si confronta con una forma che

attraverso di lui vuole diventare un’opera. L’albero

è allora una forma con cui mi confronto? Oppure

la forma è la foto, che opera attraverso di me a un

secondo grado di distanza?

[…]

Da Io ed Eucalipto, traduzione di Pina Piccolo e Maria Luisa Vezzali, Diálogos, 2025

Susan M. Schultz, scrittrice, poeta, critica letteraria e docente di Letteratura Inglese, nata in Illinois, Stati Uniti, vive a Kaneohe e Volcano, nelle Isole Hawaii. Fra le sue ultime pubblicazioni Meditations: December 2019-December 2020 (Wet Cement Press), Lilith Walks (BlazeVox), I Want to Write an Honest Sentence (Talisman) e una serie di raccolte Memory Cards a cura di varie case editrici. Scrive di memoria e di oblio nel contesto di storie personali e pubbliche. Ha diretto la casa editrice Tinfish Press e ha fatto da portavoce per la salute mentale presso la University of Hawaii di Manoa. Io ed eucalipto è stato tradotto per la prima volta in Italia da Pina Piccolo e Maria Luisa Vezzali.

Un piccolo, innovativo lavoro di poesia e filosofia è il poemetto Io ed Eucalipto (edito da Diálogos), un’opera sperimentale della poetessa statunitense Susan M. Schultz, che intreccia prosa, poesia, fotografia come fonti di dialogo e conoscenza. Il rapporto intimo e filosofico tra essere umano e natura, tra civiltà e sua possibile dissoluzione per cause ambientali, fa di questo libro uno dei più potenti e innovativi libri di ricerca, che sa spaziare fra i generi e le arti per avviare un più profondo discorso su natura e umanità. La poeta americana parte dal pensiero di Martin Buber per riscrivere la dualità fra l’io e l’altro, dialogando con un albero, grazie a ripetute e lunghe passeggiate, dialoghi e silenzi, che mostrano anche la profondità e necessità per tutti noi di un diverso approccio alla natura. Il poema si articola in 21 capitoli, ciascuno accompagnato da uno scatto dell'autrice, e invita a una riflessione ampia e approfondita che attraversa il senso della vita, le relazioni umane, l’ecosistema, il desiderio di preservarne pluralità e bellezza, come unica forma possibile di futuro per l’umanità tutta.

Posted on Facebook by Loredana Magazzeni

What you don't know won't hurt you

We'd no sooner left our house this morning, then Raschelle called to say she saw us in the cemetery. Oh, a woman in a red shirt. One problem only: no dog.

 

Up the hill at the back of the cemetery, Lilith was getting her good attention from Ola and Hoku. I asked what the odd smell was. They pointed down the hill near the maintenance shed to a puff of smoke rising from the trees. The crematorium. To no one in particular I said, "it's my job to be observant, and I missed that for ten years?" "All day every day," said Ola.

 

"Now you know, aunty," said Hoku.

 

Dementia Blog conversation with Richard Hamilton, part two

Part two is about part one of the sequence, which is only just.

 

https://rh4075.substack.com/p/part-2-interview-with-author-susan

Please support Richard's substack, if you go there. It's well worth the visit.