Double Espresso, by Carol Tarlen

May 15, 2009

in the relatively anonymous

we come in the

 

contradiction between

Capital and Labour

 

I am dominant

when I lie

 

beneath your belly you thrust

raw material is pain is

 

subordinate public policy

experience interpreted

 

my hands are

encoded subcultures

 

my hands play

with social formations

 

leave the back door open

when you leave

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Fire, by Carol Tarlen

May 15, 2009

for Jeon Tae-il, teenaged South Korean garment worker who in 1970 committed suicide to protest the lack of enforcement of existing labor laws

His clothes soak gasoline
his face sweats gasoline
his hair shines gasoline
he flicks the lighter
flames surge up his arms and back
illuminate the dark alley
of his labor
we are not machines he cries
fire consumes his flesh
we are not metal he screams
we eat dust, we cough blood
fall asleep at our sewing machines
they inject dope into our veins
our skin burns with each stitch
we beg for time to eat
we beg for time to sing
we beg for time to strip naked
we beg to see the night
to see the sun rise
we beg for time to piss
we beg to eat
we beg for work
we are flames
we are not machines
we are not the engines that feed your dreams
we are blood and flesh

I burn
I burn for the small chest bones
of the girls bent with tuberculosis
I burn for the days and nights of constant work
I burn for the laws that are pissed on
I burn for my mother and sisters
who sleep on torn blankets
spread on the bare floor
I burn for all my sisters
who spit blood into their cupped hands
I burn for my brothers
forced to die in Vietnam
I am a monk who burns for peace
I am a woman burned by Christian priests
I am Joan burned for liberation
I am a worker burned as she pounds
on the locked factory door
I am the Russian Jew burned in a pit at Babi Yar
I am the child whose burning hands
are thrust through the barred tenement window
I am their flesh, I am their dreams
I am flames
I am not a machine
I am not a machine
I am spirit
I am light
I am love

The Snow Leopard’s Comrades by Carol Tarlen

May 8, 2009

“The new model is materialistic,”
they said, eating cabbage and potato soup
in their cramped, cold apartment.
“You have too many malls in America,
too many autos, too much.
We have nothing.”
“You have the snow leopard,”
their visitor said.

In Tajikistan only the blessed
glimpse the snow leopard’s white coat,
its black stripes
marking its small footprints
etched into ice.
How many are left
now that the walls have fallen
and poachers hunt their prey?

“It’s not the people’s fault,”
they said between sips
of their hot meal.
“They too are hungry.
All is endangered in Tajikistan.
Europeans collect everything.
Even insects belong to the free market.
Maybe we too will end up
on some rich man’s wall,” they laughed.

Their guest was silent.
He had visited empty zoos,
shared thin soups,
trudged through mountains
once protected by commissars,
crystallized icy beauty
now a stock market commodity.

“Oil companies are petitioning
our government to explore
with blasting caps
or whatever is cost effective,”
his hosts said.
“Economics come first.
Even we need soup,”
they grinned.

“What will you do?”
the American asked.
One man spoke.
“Here the people have lived for centuries
off the earth, as part of the earth.
There was no need for conservation.
But we have studied the market place
and we are now green.
We will educate the children.
They will understand.”

Yesterday the American had seen
a snow leopard’s cadaver,
toothless, thin, its coat spotted
with hairless patches.
“What happened to it?” he had asked.

“When a creature who lives off prey
has nothing to hunt,
its teeth fall out.
It’s the process of starvation.
We are all hungry creatures,”
the man explained.
“But we are hopeful
because we are the green movement
here in Tajikistan.
And because we are human,
we are foolish, but hopeful.”
They fell silent, looking
into their empty soup bowls.

The American, too, grew hopeful.
He had wanted to be blessed.
He had wanted to see a leopard,
sleek and sacred,
gliding over the snow.
“How many are you
in this movement?” he asked.
“Four,” they answered. “We are four.
But we are hopeful.”

Celebrating A Rebel Poet of San Francisco’s New Information Economy

May 4, 2009

Carol Tarlen,   1943-2004

Carol Tarlen, 1943-2004

Location: Modern Times Books, 888 Valencia Street, San Francisco                   Date:  Friday, July 10, 7 pm

Sponsored by San Francisco Labor Fest

Family and friends of  Carol Tarlen will swap stories, read poems, present a slide show, and sing to honor her work and spirit. Poets, writers, filmmakers, and performers will include:
Derek Dabkoski,     Marcus Duskin,     Jeff Goldthorpe.  David Joseph,   Sarah Menefee,     Louise Nayer,     Christy Rodgers,    Leslie Simon,      Alicia Tarlen,   Nellie Wong.

It has been five years since Carol Tarlen’s passing, yet her work has not received the notice it cries out for. We will not let her brilliant, incisive body of work be “disappeared” by the latest cycle of the info-economy’s “eternal now.” Her community is coming together to share the light of Carol’s words with the larger Labor Fest, progressive community. This event will give a sense of the range of Carol’s work, suggest her personal sensibility, and present the work of those she touched.

This blog has been established to prepare the way for this event. Carol’s friends, family, and co-workers need a site to share her work, reflect on her life and work, and discuss how to transmit her work to future readers. Please submit your favorite Carol Tarlen poems and short prose to the blog, post your own comments, and contribute to the planning of the July 10th event.

About the Author:  Carol Tarlen had her poetry and prose published in literary journals (Ikon, Exquisite Corpse, The Berkley Poetry Review, Sing Heavenly Muse, Hurricane Alice, Poetry USA) and in three anthologies:  Calling Home: Writings of Working Class Women (Rutgers University Press); Liberating Memory (Rutgers University Press); and For A Living (University of Illinois Press).  In 1994, she was the first place winner in the San Francisco Bay Guardian Poetry Contest.  She was active for many years in labor, peace, and homeless advocacy groups.  Ms Tarlen died in 2004.

Ah, Yes, Carol Lives by Nellie Wong

May 4, 2009

Ah, yes, Carol lives
She smiles from her abode
knowing that the picket line thrives
that UPTE’s striking on May 6
against UC Berkeley
for an unfair labor practice
while the president scoops up
almost a million bucks a year
and UC runs with corporate legs
and typists and researchers
and techs and laundry workers
dig deeper except their pockets
are full of holes
Ah, Carol, we know that you’re
with the workers, holding up
your picket sign, chanting
“The people united
will never be defeated!”
The angels’ liberation front
is the place to be seen
and heard and meanwhile
we’ll grab a burrito and, yes,
a Margarita at Puerto Allegro,
we’ll carry on with paradise
on earth on May Day
and feast on our victories
won each minute, each hour,
each day knowing that our labor
counts, that you’ll sing, a voice
that flows a river of flowers
amid the tools in our hands

Carol_01e

Event, time, place, sponsor, program

April 30, 2009

Carol Tarlen Lives!
Celebrating A San Francisco Rebel Worker Poet
Date/ Time: Friday, July 10, 7:00pm
Location: Modern Times Books, 888 Valencia Street, San Francisco
Sponsored by San Francisco Labor Fest

Family and friends of  Carol Tarlen will swap stories, read poems, present a slide show, and sing to honor her work and spirit. Poets, writers, filmmakers, and performers will include:
Derek Dabkoski,     Marcus Duskin,     Jeff Goldthorpe.  David Joseph,   Sarah Menefee,     Louise Nayer,     Kristy Rodgers,    Leslie Simon,             Julie Stein,   Alicia Tarlen,   Nellie Wong.

Life and Death of a Poet: Carol Tarlen (1943-2004) By Julie Stein

April 29, 2009

Life and Death of a Poet: Carol Tarlen (1943-2004) by Julie Stein June 29, 2004. 6:30. North Beach, San Francisco. Eighty or so family, friends, coworkers, comrades and fellow poets gathered in front of O’Reilly’s Pub for a wake for poet Carol Tarlen. The Green Street Mortuary Band set the spirit for the night by playing “Solidarity Forever” and then leading the crowd, each member holding a red rose, through the main corridor of North Beach and concluding at the famous Beat hang out, Spec’s Adler Museum Café where the band continued with some of Carols favorite songs: “When the Saints Go Marching In,” “Rebel Girl,” and the “International.” The wake continued in Spec’s where family, friends, and poets read Carol’s poetry, talked about her, and read poems about Carol. Poet Jack Hirschman said it was the best poet’s wake in North Beach since beat poet’s Bob Kaufman’s in 1986. Carol, my good friend for 20 years, was a North Beach Emily Dickinson, publishing widely in magazines and anthologies but never putting out a full-length book. She was the contemporary poet I knew closest to Whitman or Neruda: from her white trash impoverished childhood to her MA in English from San Francisco State; from her being a poet/delegate on the S.F. Labor Council to her getting arrested repeatedly for feeding the hungry and homeless in front of San Francisco’s Civic Center.  

Carol, circa 1953

Carol, circa 1953

Her most well-known poem is “White Trash: An Autobiography” which was published in Calling Home: Working Class Women’s Writings, An Anthology (edited by Janet Zandy; Rutgers University Press). In the first section “1948: Dysentery in the First World” her family is living in a trailer in Salinas when her younger brother gets dysentery and is taken to the local hospital: “After two weeks the doctors told my mother/to take him home to die. /Instead she took him to a university medical center. /He was given antibiotics and lived.” Also, her father was a truck driver with narcolepsy, a disease that caused him to lose jobs, so the family was constantly moving around California until they settled in Fremont, in a blue-collar tract. Carol herself was a diabetic since she was a teenager. After a short-lived marriage in Marin which resulted in two children, she moved to San Francisco, worked full-time as a secretary at UC San Francisco Medical Center while attending school at San Francisco State for six years to complete both her B.A. and M.A. “It was hard,” she said. “I never want to do it again. I was exhausted.” She devoted her weekends and summers to her two daughters who lived with their father in Marin. In high school she was a voracious reader, devouring Dreiser, Steinbeck, Hemingway, James Farrell, Brecht, Clifford Odets. In junior college she acted in Theater of the Absurd plays, growing to like Beckett, Ionesco, and Edward Albee.

 

Carol_01a

 

On her own she read Valejo, Breton, and Neruda. She especially liked Breton’s idea about the imagination. The imagination is central to her poetry and her life. She survived the numbing jobs she worked her whole life partially by using her imagination. For a short time she was on welfare, producing the enraged poem “Welfare Rights” how men, on finding out she was on welfare, would offer her money for sex. When she graduated with her M.A., she said, “There were no full-time teaching jobs in public school system or junior college system in San Francisco. They laid off tons of people in the late ‘70s.” With diabetes, two children to help support, and no family back-up she couldn’t get hired as an adjunct professor without benefits or job security, so she kept working as a secretary in the medical school at UC San Francisco, ran the poetry reading series at the Coffee Gallery (now the Lost and Found) in North Beach, co-founded the fiction magazine Real Fiction.

 

 

Carol and David

Carol and David

 

 

She assisted her husband David Joseph in editing his pioneering magazine Working Classics featuring working class literature in the late 1980s. She was active in her union AFSCME, holding office in her local and as a delegate SF Labor Council. At the same time as Carol Tarlen was a union official in the 1980s she produced some spectacular poems about work such as “Today” celebrating having a day off with pay so she “sat in a bistro and drank absinthe/while Cesar Vallejo strolled past/praised the sun in its holiness, led a revolution ….” She wrote another wonderful poem called “The Receptionist Sits at Her Desk and Hums ‘Solidarity Forever.’” She wrote some great poems to her two daughters. Her first trip out of the country was to Nicaragua to witness firsthand the Sandinista Revolution. After the 1989 earthquake she spent several months traveling to Watsonville near Santa Cruz, California, where she helped feed agricultural workers and their families who had lost jobs and homes due to the earthquake’s destruction. She wrote short prose pieces, one called “Nellie Perkiss Speaks Her Mind” in the totally believable voice of an elderly feisty Appalachian coal miner’s wife. When there were ferocious layoffs in factories in the 1980s, she wrote “Work Slows Down at the Plant” about a trapped husband, fearful of losing his job, hitting his wife; the poem shows compassion for both husband and wife. Her poems broke your heart again and again. In the mid-1980s when mothers in Atlanta, Soweto, Argentina and El Salvador were mourning their children being killed she wrote “Cholo” where she witnesses her daughter suffering in an inner city high school in San Francisco. She teaches her own daughter about politics by speaking of the women of “Atlanta/Soweto, El Salvador, ask the mothers circling the plaza/ in Argentina. They write history/with the photos of teenaged faces/they hold to the sun which is not/blind to their witness.” She even becomes these women in the poem, standing in front of a “locked gate./I am facing the silence and I am/crying your name.” In “As an Angel Glimpsed by Blake” she sees Blake’s angel in the face of a hungry man “in a worn, black suit … standing near the doorway of steel-/encased office building.” She was a visionary poet like Blake, whose visions often reappear in her poems. In her poem “Believe in My Hands (Which Are Ending) for Cuban singer Silvio Rodriguez she talked about how the imagination “explodes into white carnations” and how she trusts in “the mystery of the future/which is always beginning.” She knew her roots: knew her ancestors were indentured Anglo servants come form Britain to U.S. She was a Quaker and took me to the Quaker meeting hall south of Market Street. She knew about the Diggers, those English landless peasant communists who during the 1650s went to establish communes on abandoned land. When Cromwell, servant of the rising bourgeoisie, sent out troops, they decimated the Diggers who inspired a group of young hippie anarchists during the 1960s to start regular feedings to give food to runaway teenagers. The S.F. Diggers inspired Food Not Bombs, which Carol joined for ten years to feed the hungry in Civic Center, work for which she was repeatedly arrested. After one arrest, Carol wrote a prose piece about the prostitutes she met in jail, her fellow human beings. She introduced me to radical English culture of singer/song writers Billy Bragg and Leon Rousellon, playing for me Rousellon’s two great songs The Digger Song (aka “The World Turned Upside Down”) and “Bringing the News from Nowhere” about William Morris. To paraphrase Rousellon, she like William Morris came with a vision and walked through the river of fire. Carol like Whitman was a poet for democracy. During the Gilded Age of the 1980s, 1990s and the 2000s about the working people who were increasingly smashed and pushed aside and who have fought back with verve and passion, she was writing a poetry necessary for America just as Whitman’s poetry had been necessary for the Gilded Age of the late 19th century. To write such poetry, she adapted the poetics of the international avant-garde of Breton, Valejo, and Neruda just as Whitman had adapted an international avant-garde poetics in an earlier generation. She knew the people she was writing about: her people, knew them in her bones. Her family. She was the warm humane beating heart of the city of San Francisco. She had heart bypass surgery about the same time as Ferlinghetti did–knew him from North Beach where they lived the last years of her life–and compared notes with him about their surgeries. She wrote a poem about her heart disease “Recovery for the Red-Hearted Masses” answering Ginsberg’s ‘Howl” saying “I’ve seen the best chests of my generation cracked and broken—Mario, Allen….” This poem is also a marvelous evocation of the North Beach she so loved. But her North Beach was made up of the working people like the poor Chinese woman with fragile bones walking against the hard wind. Her attempts at having her work published in a full-length book of poetry were repeatedly rejected, but she did have her work circulated widely in magazines and anthologies. She was marginalized in the Bay Area literary community for being working class. As the years went by and her diabetes and heart disease worsened, she lost her blonde beauty; in her fifties she walked stoop shouldered, making her even more marginalized. She knew it. Well, Whitman was marginalized. Dickinson was marginalized. They knew it, too With worsening diabetes and heart disease, she retired from her job in January 2005, and applied for disability, as her retirement wasn’t enough to live on. The insurance company turned her down, knowing full well that 80% of applications for federal disability are rejected. With her limited pension she couldn’t afford to move and had to live in a third-floor walk-up in North Beach.

 

Carol and Kate

Carol and Kate

 

 

Still, she remained active, going out daily to meet friends and family, read at poetry events and take part in demonstrations for the homeless and against the war in Iraq. She had to daily walk up the stairs to her third-floor walk-up, running out of breath on each landing as her heart disease was getting worse. June 15 she died of a heart attack.. On July 10, Friday, 2009, 7:30, Modern Times bookstore, Valencia Street, San Francisco there will be a “Celebration of the Life and Work of Poet Carol Tarlen of the New Working Class of San Francisco.” I will be there along with other San Francisco poets reading her poems.