Words + Music = Poetry Plus

Written last night:
Dear Friends,

This evening ended with art — or ukulele class, which is an art to me. I’m lousy, but coming to love it. (I hear Clark chuckling.)

After that — give me more art — I went to a poetry reading at the Crocker Museum. Each poet had musical accompaniment — piano, guitar, flute...  It was great to end the day this way.

Love,

k

Poetry emcee Rhony Bhopla

Pure Hula

Written Saturday, July 21:
Dear Friends,

At the hula competition today I was like a bee among tropical flowers. I didn’t exactly belong, but I was getting something out of it.  All the other women had flowers in their hair. The men wore flowered shirts. Baby strollers were shaded by flowered shawls. Food carts outside sold Spam and shave ice. I felt too tall, thin, and drab. But nobody cared, and soon neither did I. They closed the doors, told us not to take videos. Little girls came on stage, six or eight in a group, swaying the hula in full skirts and flouncy blouses, chanting, not singing, in their own language, in the way of Hawai'ians from before the Europeans sailed in. There were no ukuleles, just sticks keeping time and other rhythmic instruments. It was haunting. I stayed for three groups. There were many more, plus adult solos (men too). Lots of performers were from California and some were from Hawai’i as well. I’m glad I went.

Love,

k

Jump dance and ukulele

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

This is that busy season when festivals abound. And I love it. 

This morning Zing and I went to the farmers market — bustling as ever. We bought apples for a Thanksgiving pie. Then I went to a basketweaving demonstration at the Indian Museum, a cave-like space full of visitors. Signs said don’t take photographs, but I was tempted! Instead, I sketched and copied facts from the information on the wall. I was peering and writing in my small notebook when a woman started talking to me, describing the Jump Dance ritual of the northern coastal Yurok tribe that so engrossed me. Men wear the feathers of sand crane hawks and woodpecker crests. They bend on one knee and then fling that leg out, dancing troubles away from the people. Behind them they have erected a wooden wall; the spirit ancestors reside behind it, separated from the living dancers, but listening. 

Then my stepson Keith invited me to an ukulele fest at the Buddhist Church (not temple — not sure of the difference), which is close to my condo. There was a community room full of people, members of groups that took turns on stage. It was not a public performance — simply a large get-together, with tables of food and an urn that said “Japanese tea.” It was people entertaining each other. One group wore pineapples on their heads. Keith’s group was more restrained!

Love,

k