Camel

The Camel has learned a hard truth

to survive

in the desert

one needs inner resources

and a strong stomach

the price of which
is a surly disposition

         an unlovely aspect

and the ridicule

of hawk and hound and hyena.

Regrets

Rattling to April’s winding horns

          Intense, moribund

there is no release

          no letting go

for these few brittle leaves 

no sudden tumble to oblivion

Grief and love have fallen

          petal by petal

while these grotesques hang shaken

          by another season’s turning

implausible among the small new greening

the groping tendril, the thickening vine.

The friendly villagers of Spakenburg

           Because I’m a sailboat enthusiast, on my way to an academic conference in Germany a few years back I decided to take a side trip for a day or so to Spakenburg, an out-of-the-way Dutch village that harbors the largest surviving fleet of botters--the sturdy, traditional fishing vessels that have survived as pleasure craft. I got off the bus there at about noon on a Wednesday right around the corner from the VVV, the national tourist agency, a block from where the main street divides to form a basin for “the brown fleet.” To my surprise, the woman in charge spoke neither English nor German, so my meager Dutch and sign language had to suffice. I agreed to stay at a pension two kilometers distant for $18.00 a day, breakfast included, about half of what I had been paying for a tiny five-floor walk-up overlooking a canal in Amsterdam. When much to her surprise the agent realized I didn’t have a car, she phoned the pension and the proprietor, an amiable and talkative fellow in his sixties, drove in to pick me up.

          On the way to the Pension De Poort in Bunschoten we worked out a system of communication involving a few words in Dutch and English, supplemented by gestures and facial expressions. My host’s amiability was a harbinger of the treatment I later received from the villagers. When I stowed my gear and indicated I was going to walk back to Sparkenburg, the innkeeper led me to an outbuilding and offered me the loan of a bicycle!

          Though it rained on and off for two days, I managed to check out the old boat basin and the modern marina on forays from the village tavern, my headquarters. The brown fleet is maintained by an organization of owners who cover their expenses by chartering the boats to groups. I spent some time aboard one of the botters whose cordial skipper was tidying up, but regrettably the weather argued against going for a sail. On my jaunts to and from the pension I visited the village’s mini-museums, which featured model boats, folk costumes. and exhibits illustrating village trades and crafts of yore.

          The second time I entered the village tavern, I was treated as if I’d been coming there for ten years. I was included in the rounds the regular customers were ordering, and I found myself talking with Dennis from Surinam, whose English was pretty good. When he learned I was headed for Münster, Dennis introduced me to Edwin, who would be traveling there by car with two friends, and I was invited to join them. I was also invited to--actually ordered not to miss--the party that night for Christine, the tall, blonde, convivial barmaid, who would turn eighteen at midnight. I had taken her for about twenty-five!

          When I bought some postcards before heading down to the Oude Schans to take photographs. it was clear the clerk knew who I was and where I was staying! Outside the shop I was surrounded by a dozen or more schoolchildren who were excited by my Red Sox baseball cap, which reminded them of a character on American TV. Later that evening, in the tavern, everyone--including me--had to offer a toast to Christine and dance with her. When I commented on how friendly the villagers were, Dennis said, “Everyone in this town knows everyone else.”

          “Everyone here seems to know me too,” I added.

          “Oh?”

         “I told the people at the pension I was leaving today, but I changed my mind when the sun came out. I had dinner tonight at the Petersheim, the restaurant you suggested, and I bet you can’t guess what the waitress said when I walked in. I’d never been there before.”

          “What did she say?”

          She said, “Oh, it’s you. We thought you left this afternoon.”

         

          The villagers of Spakenburg were indeed friendly--and inquisitive.

The Kiwago Indians

At the center of the council ring Donald Kauth 

     in the feathered bonnet

 t

  and scant raiment of a Chief
          (over his bathing suit)

begins the solemn ceremony
     before the astonished eyes

of Harlem and Bensonhurst

As twilight deepens, Wakonda himself

the Great Spirit

  miraculously lights the central fire

which crackles and leaps house-high 

  (with some help from Gregory Corso

  who pulls the string)

The calumet is pointed to the four corners

  to the hot wind

  that he come not in his strength

  to the east, to the north, and to the west wind

  Eyune keyuniósneh nunweh!

After the Deer Dance 

  and four choruses of Shonni-Monni

  each kid is given a white wax candle

lit round the ring from the central fire

          Rise up old flame 

(they sing)

  by thy light glowing
          show to us beauty 

  vision and joy

We are the red men!

  feathers in our head men!

down among the dead men!  
  Pow wow!

A kerosine arrow arched to the lake below

signals the Chief’s departure

  (in an aluminum canoe)

and a straggling line of kids

  each guarding a candle 

  against the night

wend their way to the flagpole for taps

               Day is done

gone the sun

from the lake, from the hills, from the sky

all is well, safely rest

God is nigh

Nunweh!

New York Style Mexican Pizza

As ex-NewYorkers living in small-town Connecticut, my wife Barbara and I have spent considerable time trying to find a proper bagel, a genuine hot pastrami sandwich, cheese cake such as they serve at Junior’s on Fulton Street, and also a legitimate, thin-crust, NewYork style pizza. A few years back, at a deli-restaurant we happened upon  a real bagel, and when buying a dozen to take home, I learned they were shipped in daily from Brooklyn! When they went out of business, along with the other kosher deli in West Hartford, only one such establishment within reasonable distance survived, the New York style deli in Vernon, which is a bit of a drive for us and jam-packed seven days a week. Our solution was to buy the ingredients separately and concoct our own reasonable facsimiles of these tasties at home.

But pizza is a different matter. There are more than a dozen pizza parlors in our neighborhood--it’s a college town--and a couple of them are pretty good, though they don’t stand up to the perfection of our rosy recollections. And it would be difficult to replicate a real pizza in our kitchen, since the secret of the proper crust is a super-hot oven, brick or otherwise. A delivered pizza or even one you pick up yourself gets a bit soggy or limp, and late on a Friday night, when we often think pizza, we’re usually too lazy to drive to a restaurant. What to do?

On trips out west to visit our son’s family in California, I discovered Tex-Mex food, and to Barbara’s surprise, I was venturesome enough to give it a try it and become a fan. Though we occasionally go out to a Mexican restaurant, much more often, I concoct my own version of burritos with flour tortillas, mild cheese, salsa, and some form of beef or chicken, served with  scoops of sour cream and guacamole. But what about pizza?

Before folding a burrito I was working on I realized that laid flat it looked something like a small pizza, the sort they serve in Munich with a single anchovy in the center.  So I experimented and developed my own formula for Mexican pizza: a burrito-size flour tortilla, thin sliced or roughly grated mozzarella, red sauce, and sliced sweet Italian sausage. When this tasted too strong and was lacking something, I substituted thin slices of tomato for the sauce, and added oregano and a few drops of olive oil. This  ensemble I cook in a toaster oven without a pan until the cheese is melted and the edges of the tortilla are crisp and brown. Voila! Is the result a true New York style pizza? No, but it is close enough for Barbara and me. Incidentally, Mexican pizza is open to adaptations. Like something spicier? Use salsa instead of the tomatoes, or pepperoni instead of sweet sausage. Like something saltier? Add a few anchovies. Add or subtract whatever you fancy and enjoy!