Author Archives: Sans Souci

587. New York City Photo Journal: Part 2: Observations and Photographs

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In the preceding post, I replicated the guide to the World Trade Center Site. It contains a lot of fascinating information about what was, is and will be. The story of the survivor tree is one to be remembered. Just so you understand the sequence of the photographs there are three groups: A: a walk around Battery Park City and a visit to the atrium that has been reconstructed B: the visit to the WTC site: as you view the photos, just keep reminding ourself of the scale of the people against the buildings and the pools C: and Zucotti … Continue reading →

583. NYC Photo Journal: 5-5-12 Brooklyn, NY

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Part 1: The New York Times review made me do it. If you click on the review and give a read you will learn what is typically New York City. To wit: David’s Brisket House and Deli is in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. Once majestic it became blighted and crestfallen and was in no way a place you’d care to visit. But, like most areas of New York City in marginal areas, it is becoming–drumroll, cymbals–gentrified, which means the rents and prices of the old staid brownstones will be unaffordable. But this isn’t why I find this eatery so … Continue reading →

317. Poetry/Photos: Before The First Frost

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Before The First Frost 11/17/08 The rose bush produced one final beauty, fighting against time. I cut it. Brazenly, with a scissors from the desk. Tiny thorns tried to fight back, and its thin stem maintained a defiant posture. What makes a rose still want grow in November? Do roses fear dying? It was standing tall, proud, alone, still spunky from summer, maybe a teenager, peachy, against crisp brown, smelling of citrus and attar. It missed curfew; it mocked the season. It’s supposed to get quite cold on Wednesday, the first frost: I scurried around bringing in what I could. … Continue reading →

361. Poetry: Couples Series: 8. Nicole and Rich: Stones: Final in series and book

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This poem was just edited and is the final poem of the Couples Series in my book. Other poems in this series can be found on the index of my blog under Original Poetry Index 4. This, like all my work, is true. Nicole and Rich, 2006 Stones He gave her a princess-cut diamond. She wore it on her left hand. When she was a child, she learned that she was a little princess, and she dreamed about her prince—as girls do: The prince finds you, he looks upon your face with adoration, and he falls in love with you. … Continue reading →

326. Poetry: What The Birds Know

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What the Birds Know ©12/12/08/srk/poetry and art Through the back window, the apple tree stands, rooted and bare, beseeching the sky for the sun it recalls, reaching with black arms, dripping with cold rain. It wears the bird feeder; I hooked it into an old vacant wound, like one bohemian earring, and to it go fat, crested blue jays, bright cardinals– the females in drab. Small brown sparrows and red robins, feed from the soil below; the squirrels, wide-jerking-tailed, and gray fluffed, yank and pull, and spill the seeds, changing the bird dance, manipulating the food chain, and creating a … Continue reading →

311. Poetry Wednesday: Somebody’s Mother/Mary Dow Brine

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When I was 11, and in 7th grade, we were given a project to set-up a poetry book. In it we were to include any poems we liked and any original work. I remember thumbing through a poetry anthology while visiting grandma and aunt Florence in Brooklyn. Aunt Florence was my father’s sister, (she’s in her 90’s, outlived everyone), and she never married. In a mahogany bookcase with glass doors there were the likes of “Sex and the Single Girl,” to Shakespeare, all with stickers that said “Ex Librus, Florence Margulies.” I found the pocket book of poetry and borrowed … Continue reading →

283. Poetry: The Cricket Convention

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The original illustration by Sans Souci was in gif form: the crickets were animated and appeared to jump on the page… click to enlarge The Cricket Convention ©2001/post 9/11 I How comforting to hear the din of the crickets’ convention at 4 a.m. The joy, chatter, purring, singing, rowdy white noise at the grey hour between night and day. Lie awake and marvel at their fearless innocence. I think: How lucky they are. II November first and it is five a.m.; I awaken and hear the call of one lonely cricket who hadn’t the sense to hide from the world … Continue reading →

289. Poetry: Mary at the Tattoo Shop

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After doing a little research, I found that the author is 26 years old, and has achieved one of my dreams~publication by the esteemed New Yorker Magazine.  That’s where I found this poem. Background… From Toledo newspaper, The Blade By Ryan E. Smith BLADE STAFF WRITER Marcus Jackson couldn’t wait to get his hands on last month’s controversial issue of the New Yorker, the one whose cover caricature of Barack and Michelle Obama set the political world abuzz. It wasn’t the cover that interested the Toledo native, though; it was a piece of poetry – his poetry. Tucked within the … Continue reading →

254. b The Poet Speaks: Maureen and Don (read second)

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Though we had never met before, we were comfortable with theatre talk; playwrights, directors, actors, subscriptions. They were a handsome couple in their 50’s? 60’s? Unselfconscious about their appearances yet well put together, even-tempered, humorous, endearing.   They sat to my left: The first thing I noticed about Maureen was her lilting voice and red hair.  She said she did commercials and some acting. Don jiggled his legs as he spoke; he too, articulate, with a good, strong, voice We sat in the dark and laughed together; The play was well written and well acted but at times complex and … Continue reading →

208: Poetry: New Series: Couples: 1. Tanglewood

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This is the beginning of a series called “Couples,” a topic that intrigues me, based on observations. 1. Tanglewood, one evening in July, 2006**** © 7/02 He had that Hollywood look; the tan, the lined, outdoor face that said, “maybe I’m an actor.”  In fact, he reminded me of Patrick Swayze, in Dirty Dancing; He wore a tight tee shirt that was slightly faded in color, like army drabs, but on closer inspection I could see that there was a pattern of swirls of blues and greens and mottled browns, like marble.  He bent his dark and silver head of … Continue reading →

213. Poetry: On Butterflies

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art by Sans Souci   I came across a link to a blog by someone who I am not affiliated with, and was moved by the request to make a yellow paper butterfly to remember Pavel Friedman.  It was said on the blog that he wrote the following poem while in the Warsaw Ghetto, but he was actually in the Ghetto of the Terezin Concentration Camp Terezin was the “model” camp, the sham, the lie, projected to the world to cover up the disgrace of the Nazis. It was billed to the elderly as a “retirement home,” when in fact … Continue reading →

219. Poetry: Series: Couples: 2. Dori and Ron

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2. Cousin Dori and Ron the day of Aunt Esther’s Funeral August 2006 Dori’s been through 2 marriages; the first seemed normal enough, to Jay, a college professor. But it ended.  Childless.     And then there was the second, to a rock musician, who also had been through a previous marriage; They produced a son together and  raised him on the milk of “The Sex Pistols,” and on various forms of second hand smoke, causing him to suffer from attention deficit disorder; he went on meds so he could function in school.   No one could figure out why … Continue reading →

189. Poetry: Connecting The Dots: Poetry Reading

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I realized I hadn’t transferred this poem from Yahoo.  Some people may have read it. Now you may listen, too. Please wait for the audio tracks to load.   Connecting the Dots ©srk9/17/07     I Seeing Stars   **** It was a cold day, maybe in November in 1954, around my 6th birthday or perhaps not far after, when my father took me by the hand. I see my plaid coat, I feel the itchy wool, coarse to my touch, I see its blue and green box design and a hat to match tied under my chin: the coat … Continue reading →

194. Poetry reading: (Part 2) Soldier Boy

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    It’s the summer of 1960, and your new transistor radio is in your hand. ***** **** It would be helpful to read the  introduction in the preceding blog before reading the poem. Part 1 Soldier Boy ©2/4/08 by the author, all rights reserved   **** The transistor radio was ready with fresh batteries; I got it in 1960 when I graduated from P.S. 61. My dad brought it home; it was red and had a brown leather case, there was a cut out on the side to access the knob to tune the dial.  Then the stick marker … Continue reading →

193. Poetry Wednesday: Introduction: Part 1

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Introduction to my memories A typical photo. This is the corner of First Avenue and 14th street. In the series, Sex and the City, the scene where Miranda [Cynthia Nixon] is going to work and is greeted by the guy in the hot dog suit; it was filmed across the street and in the lower left foreground.     Several of my poems refer to the place where I grew up, in New York City.  I felt that it would help the reader better visualize what I was referring to when I mentioned “Stuyvesant Town.” Stuyvesant Town is a housing development … Continue reading →

178. Poetry Wednesday: Civil War: Part 2

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When we returned “North” this is what happened… (The poem starts here: Civil War)     Civil War Part 2 The North His parents were away, on the heat-heavy night of our return on Eastern Airlines, “number one to the sun” and we were driven to the frigid refuge of his parents’ bedroom.   Then: partially unpacked bags, co-mingled damp underwear, condoms, Kools, cold, white king-size sheets. Skin tannned, wearing our hair and our watches we slept entwined until the light crept through the Venetian blinds and painted slats on our faces. ***Having some issues with imeem, please let me … Continue reading →

171. Adult Poetry: series (original) Civil War: Part 1: Pies and Bread

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The northern Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper presented an unflattering portrait of southern white womanhood in a May 1863 illustration. The depiction contrasted sharply with the view promoted by plantation elites of virtuous southern white mothers and wives who obeyed and deferred to men. The panel on the left showed southern women “hounding their men on to Rebellion.” The panel on the right depicted them “feeling the effects of Rebellion and creating Bread Riots.” The latter panel referred to the Richmond bread riot, which took place on April 2, 1862 when several hundred women frustrated by food shortages and high prices … Continue reading →

153. Poetry: Anne Sexton: Two poems

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Anne Sexton was born Anne Gray Harvey on November 9, 1928, in Newton Massachusetts.   She attended prep school and finishing school, then eloped with Alfred Muller Sexton at age 19 and relocated from Boston to Baltimore.  She gave birth to her first daughter in 1953 and was soon diagnosed with severe depression and was hospitalized after a breakdown.  She was released and gave birth to her second daughter in 1955.  She had another breakdown and attempted suicide. While recovering, her therapist recommended she write poetry as a form of therapy.  She was accepted into the graduate writing program at … Continue reading →

Poetry: In Praise of New York:Thomas M. Disch

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From Poems of New York Everyman’s Library Pocket Press ** (no title) – * I found this poem in a volume of New York poetry and it called to me. I saved it to this blog and kept it in draft mode, as I have issues with my own writing;  now and again I suffer from periods of drought and distraction. I’ve been feeling stressed and pressured by a manuscript deadline. I am not a procrastinator and yet I am procrastinating. I will get it done. I knew little about Thomas Disch until this morning when I decided to use … Continue reading →

96. Poem for Monday: Billy Collins.The Fish

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The Fish Billy Collins poet laureate of the United States 2001-2003 As soon as the elderly waiter placed before me the fish I had ordered, it began to stare up at me with its one flat, iridescent eye. I feel sorry for you, it seemed to say, eating alone in this awful restaurant bathed in such unkindly light and surrounded by these dreadful murals of Sicily. And  I feel sorry for you too– yanked from the sea and now lying dead next to some boiled potatoes from Pittsburgh– I said back to the fish as I raised my fork. And … Continue reading →