Books
by Janine Canan available at Amazon.com (click
on title for reviews and ordering info):
She
Rises Like The Sun: Invocations Of The Goddess by Contemporary American
Women Poets, edited by Janine
Canan
|
Voyages
with
Janine Canan |
When
in France
When
in France, put your elbows
on
the table and order with heart, my Dear.
Look
at all the lovely lively people
chatting
over a kir.
When
in France, sink your fork
into
leeks dripping heaven.
As
the waiter gazes into your third eye,
savor
the flavor, and sigh.
When
in France, indulge your beauty-
a
small scarf, a silken vest,
some
whirling gold earrings.
Your
naked joie de vivre will suffice.
When
in France, let your hair down,
bend
eye to sparkling eye.
Let
your feelings snap and soar
like
a kite rising in the wind.
When
in France, sing your desire
with
your entire choir.
A
mousse a l'amour
will
send your coloratura even higher.
When
in France, stay longer than you can-
lay
your fortune on the wheel.
And
let this incarnation sweeten
like
a fat pink carnation.
Girls
among the Ruins
Tonight
in Teatro Marcello
two
young Romans in long black dress
play
flute and piano.
Past
the massive stones of ancient apartments
the
boulevard traffic courses.
A
few capped columns stand at attention
as
fluid sonatas permeate
the
warm filthy air.
No
longer required to serve tyrants,
the
stones relievedly crumble-
as
the girls gaily trill on.
Long
brown hair cascades down one slim back,
a
dark crop crowns the other,
as
four bare arms
move
among the moonless ruins.
In
glaring spotlights
the
audience listens, speechless.
Cars
grumble louder and louder, but the flute
does
not allow them to drown her out.
Leaning
into her notes, she intones
deeper,
charging the night
with
her radiant will.
A
Night in Rome
A beautiful
young couple in white and black shirts,
at
a white clothed table on the Piazza Navonna,
have
asked the waiter to take their picture.
Pausing
over creamy cannelloni, they smile
as
countless forms of humanity parade
along
the cobblestone square.
From
somewhere, a tenor sings.
A
horse-drawn carriage clops by-
to
no particular destination.
The
suave waiter in the smooth white jacket
presses
a large brown long-lashed eye
| against
the lens, and clicks.
The
silvery woman at a nearby table
needs
no photo to recall the vivid instant-
only
yesterday she too promenaded in magic.
The
lamp of the sky is softly lit-
the
lights of the piazza slowly come on.
The
waiters, jovial, consoling, know
how
brief is this delightful play.
Nor
does the ancient city bother to scour
its
darkening walls-soon, soon they will be rubble.
And
the poet who takes this notation-
who
knows how she will be cast
in
the next entertainment.
Rama
of the Himalayas
Gently
the monsoon clouds
roll
in from Bengali Bay
to
Himalaya's snowy peaks.
A
young yogi steps out of his cave
in
the first faint light,
carrying
his notebook and a long staff.
Waiting
nearby, a silent bear
follows
the tall dark-haired man
as
he climbs through brilliant beds
of
rhododendron, orchid and lily,
singing
hymns to the Great Mother,
to
the top of the white mountain.
To
the pure sky he turns his gaze
in
search of the One
who
planted this magnificent world.
Snow
Lotus
The
young yogi contemplates
the
wide blue snow lotus
half
buried in snow between two rocks.
"Why
are you here all alone?"
he
asks. "Your beauty
ought
to be adored.
Shouldn't
you give yourself to someone
before
your lovely blue petals
fall
and return to dust?"
A
cold breeze blows
and
the Lotus shakes her head,
leaning
forward: "You think I am lonely?
Here
I am one with all.
I
love these pure heights,
the
shelter of the blue parasol above."
How
he longs to pick this solitary flower
that
reminds him of his own life.
"And
if I crush your silken petals?"
"I
will only be glad," the Lotus smiles.
"My
fragrance will radiate everywhere
and
the purpose of my life will be fulfilled."
The
Mantra
"Why
do you come?" asks the old swami
who
sits under the ancient banyan.
"I
wish a mantra," answers the youth.
"You
will have to wait."
"But
Swamiji, I need it now."
"Come
back next year."
"How
many days, then, must I wait?"
"As
long as I require," the old one smiles.
And
so the young seeker waits patiently.
On the
fourth day the swami says:
"I
have a mantra for you, but first
promise
you will always remember it."
The
youth bows deeply, surrendering his promise.
The
swami leads him down to the river,
where
he stands silent, eyes closed.
At
last he says, "This is your mantra:
Wherever
you are, whether behind bars
or
in hell itself, always be cheerful.
Remember,
my boy, cheerfulness
is
of your own creation.
Always
remember this mantra."
Brief
Biography
She
loved her dutiful father
and
wanted, how she wanted
to
love her dangerous mother.
Of
course she loved the collie dog
and
the buttermilk cat;
above
all, the quiet night,
ancestors
blinking their diamond eyes.
She
didn't feel like an American,
nor
did she feel (as one of her patients
later
on) like a Martian.
She
loved France, native America, the soul
of
India where it all began.
She
wondered about reincarnation.
Who
was she?
Slightly
hedonistic- a transcendent gimlet,
steamed
mussels (fishermen slumped
in
peaceful blue unison on the dock),
bread
drenched in garlic,
and
an intelligent waitress.
She
liked for things not to be perfect
for
then they became perfect.
Perfectionist,
yes, a vast striving for That.
Was
she a feminist? How not.
She
adored, reveled, floundered, and soared
to
eye-opening heights, pure Himalayas
of
shakti, the divine feminine,
the
Divine Mother, Her.
Who
was she? Only time will tell.
Old Rose
When
the rose was told
she
looked young for her age,
she
was not flattered.
Afterall,
she wasn't blind- she knew
she
no longer looked like a dewy bud
unscrolling
fresh petals.
Was
he dead to the rich ripe musk
now
rising off petal after petal
that
rolled like Persian carpet from her Source.
JANINE
CANAN translated Star in My Forehead: Selected Poems by Else
Lasker-Schuler. She edited the award-winning anthology She
Rises like the Sun: Invocations of the Goddess by Contemporary American
Women Poets, and more recently The Rhyme of the Aged Mariness:
Last Poems of Lynn Lonidier. Her short story series, Journeys
with Justine, her collected essays, Goddesses, Goddesses,
and two new collections of her poetry, Changing Woman and
In the Palace of Creation: Collected Works 1969-1999, are
forthcoming. Dr. Canan, a graduate of Stanford and NYU School of
Medicine, is also a psychiatrist. She resides in Sonoma, California.
jancanan@vom.com
http://users2.vom.com/~jancanan
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