John Digby

TO STAN OUR MAN

When I first met Stan our cross-cultural friend
I found myself in the presence of a polymath
Like Marlowe and Milton and Christopher Wren.
I was astounded and thought, “Here is a man
Who would never play Faustus and sell his soul to the devil 
because he has already created in his books
a Paradise Regained.” But Christopher Wren
the great architect of St. Paul’s cathedral 
had another point of view. When he saw Casa Barkan
he said, “Clear it all out Stan and build a dome”!

That is my message hoping that your archives will
clear out the space and a dome will arise in
celebration of your accomplishments and birthday.

A toast to your generosity and warmth in
bringing together all of your poets and friends.


New York

POET GAME
(for Stanley H. Barkan/to Dylan Thomas)

And what of those times
When he found himself alone?
The slowed-down hours
After his bar-room boom,
The circus of bad behaviour,
The arrest of a breast
Of a lecturer’s wife,
The bardic boast that floored
The hosting party with laughter,
And the humbled groupies lining up
Like students of a mystic teacher.

And what of those minutes
Of boring tasks, the necessary
Masks removed for a while?
The pleasing smile
Put away with his books,
The packing of a suitcase,
The shaving of a face
That stared back serious,
The fidgety eating
Of a hotel meal.

And the going to bed,
The head like a bursting cupboard of scenes,
As strange as the surrealist
Dreams he put on paper,
The body allowing tiredness
To enter, the colliery
Drop of sleep,
To morning waiting
With its tall tales of Manhattan,
And another adventure
To set on fire.


FIRE, BIG SUR
(for Stanly H. Barkan)

Helicopters have thundered all the weekend,
The cabin shuddering when one is too close,

As the Big Sur fire unfolds its fast menace
Somewhere beyond the range of the mountains,

An isolated paradise teased by the Pacific.
They rotate their noise in military fashion.

Evacuation is a word being mentioned,
Though the devastation is being felt elsewhere,

Where flying tankers drop down their retardent,
A pinky red explosion becoming a trail.

I still try to write, to push a new novel,
My tea steaming up out of the cup,

As I watch through the window a helicopter hover
Like some sort of huge and metallic bee

Above the grey meditation of water.



CANTE JONDO

Listen to the loud wound
Of Cante Jondo.
It is being summoned,
It is aching on the strings
Of the saddest guitar.
The bird of blackness
Has poetry in its throat,
The history of the outcast
In the ascension of its song.
The wailing theatre unwinds
In the drama of the voice,
A fountain of tears
From the desert of the heart.
The guitar is fragmenting
All of Spain’s shadows,
Dropping its blood jewels
On the hidden pains of the past.

Flamenco is flowing like the wine
From green bottles,
The sounds are dancing 
In the summer of the mind,
Like passion and sorrow
In a young woman’s brown eyes.
Beneath the sharp sickle of the moon,      
A stream of laments wanders with Death
Through the silent squares
And the dark lanes of memories,
To settle on the dead             
In a graveyard for gypsies.

Cante Jondo - (Deep song), a traditional form 
of Andalusian song/flamenco.

UK

SNOWBALL’S BIRTHDAY GREETING

Last week my mom, Jony Pony, turned 74.
It was a shock for her as well as me, her only son.
I had a carrot cake baked in her honor
As we share in our tastes as well as our love.

If we had known that our friend Stanley
Were soon to have a birthday we would have
Baked a bigger cake to include him in
Our celebration—chocolate perhaps, or tiramisu
Knowing of his taste for all things Italian.

We hope it is not too late to send him greetings.
I am perhaps 36 in horse years which might be 80 
Or more though no one knows how to make a calculation
To equate human years with horses.

Yet I’m betting that Stanley and I have experienced 
Happiness and sorrow in about the same proportions. 
We are both poets and sensitive to the ways of the world.

Happy Birthday Stanley from your soulmate Snowball


FROM THE CATS TO STANLEY

Dorothy and her brood
Who live in the halo of Stanley’s love
Wish him 80th-birthday greetings
From hearts more loving
Than all those folks noshing inside.
Here is our heartfelt message:

We gather on his deck each day
Not only for food but for the love
Stan gives with each stoke of his hand
Each syllable of poetry
That pours forth in kindness
And in care that fills us with warmth
Even on the coldest nights
When he invites us secretly in to share
His books and sleep in calm
Dreaming in metaphors until dawn
When Bebe wakes.


New York

ONLY THROUGH ART
(for Stanley H. Barkan)
								
Only through art 	
does a language emerge  	
capable of expressing		
the hidden recesses		
of my psyche, 
the silk and smoke 
of love’s passion. 
The world, in its rush      
and digital blur     		
has little time or heart
for such sacred murmurings. 

In my art, 		
the subtleties thrive–	
the cobalt heart   		
of the sea swoons, 	
and my angel’s love 		
touches me from afar . . .
	
Through my art, 			
prayers of healing 
cast by an invisible loom   
weave a gossamer offeeling 
so delicate that 
only the trees can hear. 

California

GRANDPA DADDY

Mazola margarine cups
Cleaned and ready for play
Flipping them on the floor
Watching them spin and tumble
Holding them to my ears
Hearing the ocean

Daddy comes to join me
I climb on his back
I want him to give me a horsey ride
He lies down on the floor
I bounce, saying “Giddy up!”

I lie down on his back
It’s warm
It smells like Daddy
He growls and tries to scare me
He succeeds, and I like it

He takes me for a bike ride
I barely fit in the rear seat
I can barely see what’s coming
My stomach climbs up into my chest
The ride is like a roller coaster
It scares and thrills me

We make it to the end of Wynsum Avenue
Where the cattails stand
Where the horseshoe crabs make their foam
Where brave daddy lifts them up, 
To view their many claws
I back and run away
Fearing he will try to make me touch them
I only touch the ones that can no longer move

Later at home, it’s getting dark
And it is time for daddy to scare me again
He watches scary movies
I’m afraid to watch, but I sit beside him
The Chiller TV show is on, with its 6- fingered hand 
Coming out of the slimy pond
Viewed between the cracks of my fingers

I head upstairs to bed
He recounts the scary movie
“Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark”
He whispers aloud “Sally, Sally”
Bringing to mind the goblins
Down below the fireplace

I’m in bed
The spooky ancient mariner nightlight glows
The little bull piñata affixed to the door
And the shadows of the room
Move ever so slowly
As if I wouldn’t notice

I fall asleep, and my nightmares arrive
The “Haaa” monsters make their appearance
Small, dark, bullet-headed
With short stubby arms & legs
Only an upside-down turned mouth
Saying the one & only word they could say
HAAAAAAAAA!!!
Like a siren, loud and reverberating
Chasing me down, tearing at my back
Until I wake up with the pain 
In the middle of my back
Never leaving my dreams 
Until the day I shouted out
Before they finished their final attack
“Let’s be friends”

I get up, sleep-running around the balcony
Yelling, “Mommy, Mommy!  Daddy, Daddy!
The boogie man is coming!  
The boogie man is coming!”

Daddy saves me before I reach the stairs
Lifts me back into my bed
Off into another dream
With some other monsters
That somehow Daddy put inside my head

New York

STANLEY IS STILL EIGHTEEN

When asked in school to write on the national flag
I described the colours of the leaves
fragrance of the flowers
flavour of the fruits
echoes of the birdcalls

Growing up later
I had to prepare a composition on Music and Moon
So I wrote about the magic of photons and gravitons
pulling out constellations and galaxies
from the hats worn by electrons protons and neutrons

When poetry became my destiny
people always wanted from me 
verses on marriages  newly borne  anniversaries
and of course on the splendour of nature
Gently declining such demands
I was caught by a pretty woman to write on her beauty
Without blinking I looked into her eyes
and asked her to marry me

I have lived long with her and poetry
and when she slept made friendship with Words
for their madness

Another of my clan
has done more
in the eighty years of his life

He has grown gardens for birds 
that merely needed a branch to perch
He has turned a ditty of joy
into a symphony for stars
Gathering an entire ocean
he has poured it in a flower-vase
He knows ninety three cultures and a hundred languages
and can print silences of Orpheus
in the darkness of synagogues
on reams of coloured paper
that roll back to the walls of his house
and burst out in festive laughter

The world has remained a Bebe of eighteen in his eyes
that have seen a thousand moons
he stands before a mountain
and taps the sky with his fingertip
to trace his name on the clouds
Stanley the poet with eighty springs surging in his heart
is before you with mischief in his eyes
and fists full of forests to fill your every breath


India

A POET I KNOW
 
I’ve known the man for a long time.
I’ve traced his footsteps even longer.
I think the way he seems to be thinking—
I dream the way he dreams.
 
I’ve known the man for a long time.
I’ve traced his footsteps even longer.
 
I’ve followed him from the Middle Ages.
I’ve seen him face to face.
I’ve dragged myself up to him.
He responds when I scream.
 
I grow when he grows,
I fall when he falls,
I can see the scars on his face—
I respond to his calls.
 
I write what he writes,
though occasionally we fight—
He is big as the open space,
I only live in a cage.

He is rich and high,
I am poor and shy.
He is strong and bold,
I am the one who is always cold.
 
I’ve known the man for a long time.
I’ve traced his footsteps even longer.

New York