Everyone's a Critic
The Observer's culture blog
Friday, June 12, 2015
MAKING A PRAIRIE: OUR LOCAL POET LAUREATE'S COLLECTED WORDS, by R. B. Schmerl
Don Thackrey, for many years a resident of Ann Arbor and now of Dexter, has long published his poems in some fifty or more "little" poetry magazines, justly acquiring a reputation as a gifted poet who has combined adherence to rhyme, meter, and traditional form with insight, clarity, and occasional humor. He has just published a collection of over a hundred of his poems in a beautiful book he calls Making A Prairie, complete with drawings, photographs, prose comments, and a map of his native Nebraska, showing the areas in which he grew up. The book's organization reflects the chronology of the poet's life, but the content is biofiction rather than autobiography, combining verifiable fact with the truths of fantasy and imagination.
Don, an editor, writer, and research administrator at the University of Michigan for many years, is now in the second half of his ninth decade, and thus has had time to see what life brings at its very different stages. That include serious illness, and the poet does not shrink from his description of his cancer and its effects. Readers of his generation, including this reviewer, may linger in particular over a sonnet like "Funereal Meditation":
He mourns his friends and kinfolk as they die, But, grieving, he can't help but feel relieved That sins known only by these dead will lie
In graves where they can never be retrieved
By snoops, historians, or local press.
Thus doting grandchildren, neighbors, new friends, The pastor, sheriff, councilmen ... none guess
That he is not as pure as he pretends.
He's not convinced that others also hide
A shameful past and that he's not alone
In struggling with those growing aches inside
From youthful acts that old age can't atone.
He knows the Lord forgives ... and that's a start ... But how forgive himself, the hardest part?
But this poem comes late in the book, in a section called "Harvest": first there are poems about the prairie, his family (particularly his parents), his youth, the farm and then the ranch on which he worked. That work occurred before rural electrification, motorized irrigation, and modern household conveniences. Many of these poems mingle keen observations of the natural world with astute perceptions of our own. And poetry itself, and its fashions, are also subjects of his verse, as in "Learning to Be an Edgy Poet." His introduction to this delightful little satire correctly notes that "anyone writing poetry today in traditional forms is apt to be stymied by the almost universal expectation that poetry is to be free from form and tradition." Don was not stymied in this manner, and we are the beneficiaries. But for those among us whose memories of prosody have faded, he has, most helpfully, provided an appendix elucidating the forms he has used.
Making a Prairie is privately printed but is available from the author (email@example.com) and local libraries in Chelsea, Dexter, and Saline. An online version is on Google at "Eleanor Suderman's Bookstore." Prices range from $39.99 for a paperback edition to $51.99 for a hardcover image wrap.
Posted by John Hilton at 1:26 p.m. | 0 comments
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
MARCUS BELGRAVE IN BARBADOS, by Tom Rieke
Written on 17 January, 2012. Marcus Belgrave died on May 24, 2015. Reblogged from http:
A few sunny mornings ago, I drove 30 minutes to the east coast listening to classic calypso tunes on my favorite radio station (Q FM), bought a bottle of water, and ran a few kilometers along an empty beach. Then I drove past a big rock, up a long hill, and down a steep one-lane path to Naniki for lunch.
The buildings are duplex cottages, $US 75 per night and up. The horizon is the Atlantic Ocean. On the other side: Senegal.
There was groovy American jazz on the sound system, just the right volume. Very few bars and restaurants in Barbados play jazz in the background. Four places offer live jazz a few times a week. Naniki is one of them. The owner, Tom Hinds, introduced himself and gave me the good news that he has live jazz most Sunday after- noons. "Last Sunday was really special. A great trumpet player."
Naniki was quiet. I selected a table two tables away from a British couple. After I ordered, a group of four sat down at a table two away from them on the other side. Mr. Hinds stopped by to tell me more about the music schedule, and he surprised me: "Last Sunday was the best. The trumpet player was Marcus Belgrave."
Amazing. One of the world's best trumpet players, a legend from Deroit, where he still lives and plays and teaches when he's not traveling. He played with Ray Charles, Ella Fitzgerald, all the Motown stars, Tony Bennet, and Aretha Franklin. He came to Barbados, and he played here?
Mr. Hinds said: "That's Marcus Belgrave over there." "Where?"
"The fella in the hat."
"That's Marcus Belgrave?"
And he invited me over to meet the people at the end of the deck: Marcus Belgrave, his wife Joan (an excellent singer), Mr. Belgrave's Barbadian cousin, and a British woman. The Belgraves are also refugees from winter. They're thinking about settling in Barbados for a good part of the year. His father was from here, one of the thousands of Barbadians who moved to Panamá a century ago to build the canal. He was one of the lucky survivors, and after the canal opened in 1914, he moved to the US. This week, the Belgraves spent a lot many hours tracing the family history in the Barbados Archives.
I said somebody should create a major exhibit (plus an e-book, and a fascinating web site, and a television series, and a documentary film, but I didn't mention all that) about the Barbadians who suffered in Panamá and to construct one of the most important projects in world history. We all agreed that it's a good idea, and Mr. Hinds said: "Mr. Watson at the Barbados Musuem is working on a similar idea, so you should talk with him if you think you can help in any way at all."
Joan said that Marcus was planning to play with the Royal Barbados Police Force Band later that afternoon, at Hastings Rocks, which is directly across the street from my bedroom balcony. Eventually, I excused myself and left them in peace from all my fan talk.
Lunch was grilled marlin, rice and peas, pickled bananas, and a salad. Mr. Hinds showed me the CD covers of the music he was playing today, so far: Monty Alexander, Oscar Peterson's Canadian Suite, and Grover Washington. A totally crisp complement to the easy breeze from Africa. He said:
"Oscar Peterson sat right over there a few years before he died and just chatted all afternoon." I told him about the Jazz Foundation of America. He knew about it, and he knows some musicians in New York who are involved in that work.
When I left, I mentioned the Louis Armstrong Summer Jazz Camp. The Belgraves knew all about the camp in New Orleans, because Marcus is a jazz educator in Detroit and elsewhere. In 2009, he received the Kresge Eminent Artist Prize ($50,000) for his lifetime achievements.They played movie-music medlies, a few Caribbean tunes, and a tribute to Michael Jackson.
As I drove back toward the west coast and turned south, Joanne Sealey on Q FM was hosting her Saturday reggae hour and taking phone calls from New York and Vancouver After I stopped at the supermarket, the new Q FM theme was classic R&B: The Best of Your Love, The Temptations.
At exactly 4:00, the Barbados Royal Police Force Band (founded in 1889) greeted a few hundred Barbadians and tourists with a Sousa march in a historic gazebo overlooking the Caribbean. They played movie-music medleys, a few Caribbean tunes, and a tribute to Michael Jackson.
The conductor announced Marcus, who consulted with Joan and a senior police officer. Then he joined the band for some Latino and jazz numbers, and he played a few solos.
During lunch, Tom Hinds, told me that he learned to love jazz from his father, who collected American records. When I asked him about jazz in Barbados, he said: "Too many people here think that jazz is an elitist thing, only for the intelligentsia. They're wrong. It's exactly the opposite. Those people don't know where jazz came from."
Among many other places, it came from Senegal and Barbados and Panamá and Detroit.
Posted by John Hilton at 6:32 p.m. | 0 comments
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