Philomene's Page
• Philomene's
Page
• We open a door - Philomene
Long
• Philomene - Scott
Wannberg
• Eau de Bohemia - Susan
Hayden
• For Philomene - John
Macker
• Philomene Long Thomas - Pat
Hartman
• OH PHILOMENE - Aya
Rose
• AMERICAN SONNET (41) - Wanda
Coleman
• LAUGHED/LEFT - Alan
Rodman
Philomene’s
Page
Last month the Beachhead
devoted its issue to a memorial for Philomene Long, Poet Laureate of Venice,
aka, Queen of Bohemia.
That issue sparked
more remembrances of Philomene, some of which are reproduced on this
page.
Philomene will live on in our hearts as
long as there is a spirit of Venice that values poetry and
beatitude.
------
We
open a door
To
where
There is no
road
We take
it
–Philomene
Long
-------
Philomene
She
invented dance
in the deaf end of
town.
Vulnerable solar
systems
played basketball according to her
vocabulary.
Meet me in the
rhythm
by which she built us
up.
The roads all
smiled
when her barefeet reached
apogee.
Waltz soft
tonight
through all argumentative
weather.
Philomene, fair
lady
of the castle of you got
it.
You and John are toe to
toe
on the ongoing process of
hey.
Feel the backbeat rise up to all
tasks.
Today I hang my mind’s
history
from her driving
sky.
She active nouns the textbook of
soiree.
Smile. Wash my hair. Around and
around
we roll.
Philomene
created the
party.
A time and then
some
was had by
all.
– Scott
Wannberg
remembering Philomene
Long
-------
Eau
de Bohemia
by Susan
Hayden
For Philomene Long, in beloved
memory
“It will be apparent that it is
difficult
to discern which properties each
thing
possesses in
reality.”
(Democritus, 8th century
B.C.)
If you were a perfume, it would be
Earthy,
the top note a forest
blend
that would descend into
oakmoss
and fresh mown
grass,
a mercurial bath of Irish
whiskey.
It would smell like your
dreams,
the ripening of first
fruit
and
bloodroot
with heart notes of orange
groves;
Los
Angeles,
before the permanent
roads.
The dry down would
reveal
cracked leather and lavender
rose,
poetry and prose as a saltwater
path
toward the Boardwalk
sun;
at once a yearning and a leap
of heat meets
alchemy.
Your scent would be
worn
by both peasants and
royalty:
Slaves to the half-open
window,
queens beneath the arch of the
doorway,
counting the days in
sighs
while memorizing escape
routes.
Eau de
Bohemia:
A tenacious
fragrance
with a lasting
theme
and a dreamy aroma that
lingers.
The wearer will feel signs and
seasons.
The wearer will feel worthy of
anointment,
with good
reason.
-------
For
Philomene
I believe in the wanton
fertility
of
hope
a star cluster rings the
sun
coyote brandishes
a
mouthful of
seeds
in the yellow dawn
heat
I believe in the beehive
creek
the sturgeon’s
river
ancient
trees
the dakota
snow
the Pacific Ocean out
her candle shrine of a
window
my old black
dog
hobbled by immodesties of
age
still barks at
the
howling butterflies
of
the summer
moon
over
Venice
Philomene Long
fallen
catholic into the lap of
zen
ocean goddess
of
gull love: only once I
kissed
an Old Growth
Tree
growing feather
words
wrapped in black beach
blanket
chic
queen
of bohemia we love
you in the lonely gull
coming
autumn mime of
morning.
– John
Macker
-------
Philomene
Long Thomas
I call her that because
some of the changes I made to the web pages about Philomene and John were due to
the evolution in her thinking about what to call herself. In addition to all the
contributions to her own pages, she was beautifully supportive of the whole
VirtualVenice.info project. Actually, only one other artist has had so much
impact on the site.
This is an excerpt from
“My Philomene” (first published at
Earthblog.net):
“Of her I had
only had the tiniest sliver, the most miniature facet: an e-mail correspondence
about shared interests. She was a lot of other people’s Philomene, to a
much greater extent and in very many ways - wife, mother, sister, daughter,
friend, neighbor, teacher, filmmaker, mentor, guru, Poet Laureate of Venice,
keeper of the flame of memory, Queen of Bohemia, and living national treasure.
She was one of those people where you say, “They broke the mold.” Of
the Beats, one of those small enclaves of like-minded geniuses who inspire whole
subsequent generations, she was almost the last remnant.
Others knew a different Philomene
Long. All I can speak of, selfishly and from a limited perspective, is the
Philomene who was mine. I never even met her. “What right do I have to
cry?” I ask myself. “Quit being a drama queen,” I tell myself.
Yet people cried for JFK and Dr. King and Princess Di. They too were iconic
figures who represented something large and
significant.
When I wrote that, it
seemed there was something missing. I thought I remembered a message that was
very positive, but couldn’t find it. Without explaining my complicated
prioritizing system, and less-than-optimal method of copying e-mail into word
processor documents so the memory in the e-mail program doesn’t choke,
it’s enough to say I found it later, misfiled. I think it dates from
mid-June. I’d written, “I hope things are going well in your
world.” Philomene replied, “I have entered a new - not page, not
chapter - but new book in my life. After five years of deep mourning, I have
been released from intolerable pain. Not that it will ever go completely away,
but now tolerable enough for me to begin work on his manuscripts - which I am
doing simultaneously. My love for my husband
expands.”
– Pat Hartman
-------
OH
PHILOMENE
–Aya
Rose
born on the steps of the
nunnery
you couldn’t wait to climb the
wall,
become the bride of
god,
be safe within your
faith.
your devotion devoured
you
you believed it was
Him--
but it was only your
passion
waiting to hear from
you.
you bolted the wall to
freedom,
invoked
poverty,
moved closer to the bare
bones
of truth and
tenderness.
you barely sat
still
between
birthings,
between the buddha’s
arms,
between
lovers.
you gave everything you
had
and they took it
all
--who wouldn’t want a burning
heart
a holy muse to love
you?
you brought down the
heavens
and washed it clean with sea
water
and like all the fools before
you
melted into
love.
you skated on the edge of
death
blew roses over your gods
incarnate,
living on the litanies of poet
songs,
wearing the crown of a ghostly
queen.
then love died, one by
one
and you spiraled into the cold
night
with grieving irish
lullabies,
endlessly weeping, ashes on your
lips.
did we embrace at our last
meeting?
i can’t remember
much--
all i recall is a pair of wild cat
eyes
staring at me in a noisy darkened
room
and numbness, and me
wondering;
are we miles from a state of
grace
or have we finally made it
home?
then you were swept
away--
and when i reached
out
you were gone from
sight;
not even a small shred of fur
left
for me to cry
over,
or set upon my altar…
-------
AMERICAN
SONNET (41)
By Wanda
Coleman
every death a haunting/deep
sleep of word
lives pass and overlap their
cadence a farewell
dreamlessly streaming in
slumber in rising
feet glow and drop to the
floor/blooms
taking root, becoming limbs,
climbing after light
it is
unfashionable to rhyme, to adorn sound
with
pain, content with manner, to spitefully
whisper
in Spenserian ink or Shakespearean
blush. it is
passe to slip into paper/wear
parchment’s timbre
stained saffron and
rose with splendor’s overflow
crosslegged, the poet dripping moon
from
spirit torn collects
the leavings of her
pillow
and pens her book of
stone
from Bathwater Wine,
Black Sparrow, copyright for Wanda Coleman 1998, reprinted here to honor the
Home Going of Philomene Long on August 21st
2007.
-------
LAUGHED/LEFT
Not
long
for Philomene
Poet
of power passing
beyond
gone even
beyond
beyond
*
A silent pond
at
midnight
Shining
unseen in reply
to questioning asked by the
moon –
*
Where now are you
not?
–Alan Rodman
Posted: Mon - October 1, 2007 at 08:06 PM