Grandmother Muse

The muse has not ceased to surprise me since the publication of “The Sister From Below.” In that book she is weird and uncanny—a siren, a seductress, a shape shifter—a being from the archetypal realm. The Greeks knew nine muses. Recently, I’ve been visited by a variety of forms of the muse. They inspire my poems. One is someone very familiar: my grandmother. Her spirit insists she be given her due in my pantheon of muses. How can someone as ordinary and safe as a beloved grandmother be a muse?

As the first child born in the New World to a family of German Jewish refugees from the Nazis, I had a special tie with my only surviving grandparent, the painter Emma Hoffman, whom I knew as Oma. Oma showed me that making art can be a way to transmute grief, a way to bear the unbearable. She did not show up as a muse until after her death and after a dream I had in which I saw her dying—a long hard labor—as in giving birth. I wrote a poem about that—“Self Portrait of My Grandmother“— forty years ago.

If a muse is a catalyst—a call to one’s creative spirit—my Oma is that. Her death agony, as I saw it in my dream, as I imagined it in my poem, was my birth as a poet. Oma called me into my calling. In “The Sister” I describe the writing of that poem as “a tunnel blasted through rock.” It opened me up to my passion for writing, and to the realm of the imagination. Here is a section of the poem:

Listen Oma: I’ll tell them!

I’ll tell them you painted tigers
and flowers and babies and trees
and you could make a shadow
outgrow the thing that threw it
so intricate, so subtle you drew it

I’ll tell them you bore six children and buried three
outliving the six million and all the generation
that you knew
a refugee Jew
But they say you must take your medicine now

Oma—when will this death be over?

(first published in” Open Reading.” Republished in “red clay is talking.”)

If a muse is an inspiration, my Oma is that. Her fierce focus, her life stories, the way she tied me to the past and to my future, inspired my first book, “The Motherline.” Here is a passage about her from that book:

Once a month as regularly as the waning moon we visited my Oma on Sundays, my first husband, my baby, and I. Oma was the right word for my grandmother. The resonant, round sound felt ancient in my mouth. Her eyes were so deep you could see eternity in them. She had soft withering skin and a slow thoughtful walk…

It was a chorus in my life, a monthly refrain that took us to a sanitarium inn the wine country, where Oma lived. As in a ballad, where each verse tell of events progressing although the chorus is always the same, so this visit was always the same, and that was a comfort. In the midst of studying for exams, the baby getting teeth, the car needing a brake job, and the growing protest about our country’s involvement in Vietnam, the visit to Oma was as predictable, as soothing as a lullaby. Her soft, inward melancholy, her hand on my shoulder, were a reassurance and a blessing. (p.121)

If a muse is a frequent visitor, a guest from mysterious realms, my Oma is that. She has come to me over the years, in dreams, in memories, in reverie, in her paintings. Sometimes a painting breaks through and I see it with new eye. I described a favorite watercolor in “The Motherline”:

Do the dead know when they walk with the living? Oma, do you know that you are always with me? Your life work of painting hangs in my home and my office. Do you remember the watercolor of the living room in Berkeley where I visited you often? You painted the light streaming in through the arched window onto floors and rugs. It is a painting of inner space—one you lived in as an old woman and I visited as a girl. You served me tomato soup and crackers in the light from that window…That painting hangs in my office now, grounding me in my own childhood as I listen to the stories of other people’s childhoods. (p.129)

If a muse is a call from the depths my Oma is that. Twenty years after I wrote that passage, I found myself flooded with longing for her. The poem that came to me then, refers to the same watercolor. It is the opening poem to my new poetry collection, “Adagio & Lamentation,” and the watercolor is on its cover. Here is the poem:

Oma

I wish you could stop being dead
so I could talk to you about the light so we
could walk among the vineyards as we did
forty years ago near St. Helena and you

could tell me again how the light of late
afternoon is so different from the light
of morning I was too young
to grasp your meaning but I believe

you said it is all about the fall of shadows
that when you paint it is not light that streams
from your brush but deep purple violet blue
you shaped emptiness and there was light

Oma come visit me sit at your easel as you always did
your brush poised your eyes as fierce
as a tiger’s show me how to create
the luminous moment among so many shades

of sorrow so many dead how to gather the light
of all the windows from all the houses of our lives
to make this bright trail I still follow along the gleaming
floor of the room in which you showed me how

to draw out the french windows to the unseen
garden a river of light that lifts

the Persian carpet into the air

So you see, this Grandmother Muse has cultivated my art and wandered in and out of my poetry and prose for forty years. There is an ancient practice that has always appealed to me—feeding the dead. I’ve thought of my writings as offerings to my ancestor, my Oma. I wonder if the dead can be honored in this new medium, the Internet. Oma, in this month of your birthday, does it feed your spirit to have a blog posting devoted to you?

Naomi Ruth Lowinsky

Naomi Lowinsky is at it again, or is it The Sister From Below. . .

A Word from Naomi

Becoming a grandparent is one of the great amazements of a lifetime. Who knew the birth of the child of one's child could so change one's world? Maybe that's why the anthology, Child of My Child, is doing so well on Amazon. (As of 11/22/10, it is ranked at #33 on the Amazon.com Bestsellers List for poetry anthologies.) I'm pleased that it includes two of my poems "In the Garden" and "Emanuel."

The novelist Lucia Nevai, in reviewing this anthology writes: "'Little house of God -- may we deserve you' are the final lines from Emanuel, a poem by Naomi Ruth Lowinsky, which evokes just one of the dizzying number of surprising, yet universal emotions that explore the grandchild-grandparent relationship in this unique anthology. At first, one wonders how the scope of these poems can continue to broaden. But finally, one feels the subject is limitless. The publisher reports being overwhelmed with a mountain of submissions on the topic. Perhaps we can hope for Child of My Child Volume II."

Child of My Child makes a wonderful holiday gift for anyone who has, loves, or is a grandparent! It's a great time for them to buy the book, too, because Amazon is offering it at a 28% discount right now.

For the Amazon link click: Child of My Child.

I am also very pleased to be part of a Poetry Flash reading by poets whose works are included in Child of My Child: Moe's Bookstore, Berkeley, CA, Feb. 10th, 2011 at 7:30pm.

And now, one of the Child of My Child poems that was recently published by Fisher King Press in my newest book of poetry Adagio & Lamentation:

EMANUEL

on the day you descended into our world circles within
circles opened one hundred and fifty thousand
people marched up Market street to protest a wrong war
not in our name not in your name Emanuel they chanted
and the drag queens of the city came out beautiful in their highest
heels their sleekest black velvet and they thanked us so much
for coming out to say “no blood for oil” “war is not healthy
for children and other living beings” and an old man on rollerblades
gave yellow roses to the little girls and a woman bared her very pregnant
belly with a peace sign painted upon it and i spoke every hour
on my cell phone to your mother to find out how close
were her pains it was a few hours before your dark head
would crown your broad shoulders twist out and that glistening coil
of your cord from the other world which your father cut
while your mother cried out to behold you old wisdom
still clinging about you Emanuel it was the day after the full moon
in Capricorn and the people had awakened to the gathering armies the gulf
upon which we all teetered and returned to the streets as we had
when your mother was my baby girl and we walked up Market street
to protest a wrong war

Emanuel you have descended and the world is so new your first poop
is big news and your good latch upon your mother’s breast you are
so sweet so calm a being released from forever to sing among us

little house of God
may we deserve you

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Happy Thanksgiving to all you grandparents and grandchildren!

An Afternoon of Poetry, Music and Art

On a Sunny afternoon in September, 2010, in the Angel Room of an old Oakland, California church, several dozen people attended An Afternoon of Poetry, Music and Art to celebrate publication of Naomi Ruth Lowinsky's most recent book of poems, Adagio and Lamentation. The afternoon was lovingly captured in author Marvin Hiemstra's column, Poetry in Spite of Itself, and is excerpted below. Entitled, "Don’t Let the Light Go Out!," Hiemstra wrote,

"Poetry events tend to form impenetrable unpoetic thickets in the landscape: extra thorns, strange noises, and heavy breathing. In the Bay Area a dozen or more invitations pop up each day. How to choose? There are a handful of poets whose activities I will always attend if I’m in town. When an e shout for Naomi Ruth Lowinsky appeared as “An Afternoon of Poetry, Music and Art” to celebrate the publication of Adagio and Lamentation by Fisher King Press, I charged to my calendar and found Sunday afternoon, September 12, open.

"Musical Improvisations began the Afternoon of Poetry, Music and Art: Lisa Safran, fearless leader of the Bitter Mystics band, at the piano and Chris Evans playing the greatest rarity in captivity, a subtle and articulate cello.

"An impassioned suite of three songs brought the audience into the artists’ immediate families and beyond to the family of mankind. Misha Safran, vibrant soprano and Bitter Mystics member, sang a vibrant tale of her teenage son who loves to one up her. When Misha tells him, she loves him. The son fires back, 'I love you more!' Lisa Safran shared her happy song, 'Did I meet you in a dream? Was it yesterday or today? All I know everything went okay.' Chris Evans joined the two for a high speed love lament, 'Pick me up! Drop me down!' Cello cascades between the verses were both inevitable and breathtaking.

"The 1925 ... 1st Congregational Church of Oakland was adorned with paintings by Emma Hoffmann, Naomi Ruth Lowinsky’s grandmother. Born in 1881 Emma Hoffman transcended an impossible life in Germany where she lost 3 children and insisted on leaving the country with her husband at the most auspicious time: just before one of History’s most unspeakable period of Evil Incarnate.

"Focused in the realm of light like the French painter, Edouard Vuillard, Emma in America continued painting and created the radiant interior scape of the Berkeley home where Naomi, a teenager, often visited her “Oma.” It is a study in the mystery of light that illuminates the cover of Adagio & Lamentation. Naomi lovingly shared with the audience her understanding of the precious legacy of light in three portraits created by her grandmother: a self-portrait of a mature woman alive with raw sorrow and tenderness at the same time, a portrait of Naomi’s mother as a young girl also a study in the pain of sorrow drawn with tenderness, and a luminous portrait of Naomi at age 2. The resolute little exhibit featured a fine sketch of Albert Einstein who, proclaims a family anecdote, assured Emma Hoffman that she was a professional artist, but he was only an amateur physicist. The world owes much to Einstein’s humilitas.

"Naomi Ruth Lowinsky’s presentation of poetic journeys from Adagio & Lamentation anchored the intrepid afternoon. First poem in the heart felt collection is titled “Oma” and sketches with the greatest clarity Naomi’s relationship with her grandmother...."

Hiemstra reminds us that "It is always the poet’s challenge and prerogative to create the luminous moment among so many shades of sorrow.” He continues,

"...the three glowing musicians reappeared with a selection of Naomi’s poems set and/or alive on a musical line. 'What broke?' is an almost microscopic observation of a child’s world and the terrifying importance of every detail: at that moment and for the rest of that child’s life. The poem begins with the child/poet hiding under the dining room table wondering 'has it already happened or is it about to?' Premonition is often the most grotesque and perplexing bugaboo....

"Imagine, if you can, the power of 'what broke?' set to a double flow of poignant, questioning lyric voices.

“'Missing child' from Naomi’s book red clay is talking, Scarlet Tanager Books: 2000, was sung as a lament, a prayer, a search, and much more. It begins with a quote from Pablo Neruda:

And it was at that age…Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know
where it came from, from winter or a river.

"Many landscapes in the poet’s childhood are visited: all looking for the moment poetry arrived in the child’s life. From the midst of the exploration:

the totem pole of all
the children i have been
is falling into place
down to the baby
on a blanket in the sun
tongue reaching for
the shape of sound
before it turns
into a word

"The poet/child must and can wander everywhere or anywhere. That is the precious legacy of the poet. There is no place that imagination cannot take the poet/child:

no wonder you’ve been lost
I watch you wandering off
into the 16th century
winter scene by breughel
that hangs over the living room couch
you are standing among the hunters on the hill
returning after a long cold journey
among the dogs sniffing
the scents of earth under the snow
you have no voice
you have no body
you are longing for the unseen
interior
of some house
tucked away in the valley
in the bottom
corner
near the wooden frame—

longing for poetry

to arrive

"For a final gesture the villanelle title poem, Adagio and Lamentation, was first read by Naomi and then sung by Lisa and Misha with an ethereal cello counterpoint by Chris. Lisa composed the reverie based on sublime modulations loosely based on Bach progressions. Here are the first, third, and sixth stanzas following the poet as she works her way through the present and the past:

when my father’s fierce fingers made Bach flow
our dead came in and sat with us a ghostly visitation
and my grandmother sang lieder of long ago
music accompanied us into the valley of the shadow and lo
Bach was torah Mozart was our rod Schubert led us into contemplation
my grandmother sang lieder remembering long-ago
long gone now my grandmother my father although
sometimes I call them back by villanelle by incantation
come my fierce father play for me water my soul in Bach’s flow
sing my sad grandmother your song is my covenant with long ago

"So much Enlightenment and Comfort in one unforgettable afternoon! Thanks to Dan Safran, the poet’s stalwart husband. Thanks to Mel Mathews and Patty Cabanas from Fisher King Press who presented a table of poetic treasures for the event. Thanks to the Angel Room site with its noble genius loci, faded, but filled with love. When that remarkable building is someday gone, where will the joyful spirit of music go to dream of moments well-played?

"To thrive in the midst of a resplendent family is a rare privilege. To share that privilege with the world is a great gift of compassion, understanding, and delight. Adagio & Lamentation is Naomi Ruth Lowinsky’s generous gift to all of us."

Marvin R. Hiemstra’s book, A Poet Wrangler at Work, will appear in 2011. His column, Poetry in Spite of Itself, appears regularly in the Bay Area Poets Seasonal Review. Comments about this column are welcome. drollmarv@aol.com

Child of My Child: Poems & Stories for Grandparents

A new anthology, "Child of My Child: Poems & Stories for Grandparents," features two poems by Naomi Ruth Lowinsky,"In the Garden" and "Emanuel," about her grandsons.

Naomi, who has 10 grandchildren, was interviewed by Janice De Jesus for a recent Contra Costa Times article about the anthology and Naomi's work. In the article, Naomi recounts her memories as a teen-ager of visiting her grandmother, Emma Hoffman who wanted Lowinsky to be a painter. One of Naomi's poems, "Oma," in her newest collection, Adagio and Lamentation, pays tribute to Hoffman, whose self-portrait and other paintings serve as inspiration to Lowinsky's poems. "My grandmother taught me that art could help you hold yourself through tragedy. She taught me that you could be a mother and still be an artist."

IN THE GARDEN

for Obie

In your new house—painted shades
of sunlight and sky—there are many rooms
and windows that contemplate

summer hills, the bay.
Your little brother clatters from playroom
to living room to kitchen over shining floors.

You show me your garden, its secret
hiding places, the apricot
brimming with fruit and your own

personal apple tree. You give me a taste
of the tart green fruit; we talk of death¾
my father’s, and that of Florence

the Great Dane. “She stopped breathing”
you tell me. “Did your father
stop breathing too? Why?”

You are not yet four.
I pray that this house
with its filtered light,

its many rooms that remember
other lives, will protect you. Long
may your parents and your brother

breathe, long may you taste
the fruit of both trees
in the garden.