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1 March 2023
“It is the work of feeling to undo expectation. A black-faced sheep looks back at you as you pass and your heart is startled as if by the shadow of someone once loved. Neither comforted by this nor made lonely. Only remembering that a self in exile is still a self, as a bell unstruck for years is still a bell.”
―“Sheep,” by Jane Hirshfield, from Come, Thief
The Best of Hubris Vol. I
From Elizabeth Boleman-Herring: This month and next, we are publishing two “Best of Hubris” issues back to back. We have also redesigned the magazine in toto (thank you, Tim Bayer and Jerry Zimmerman), and . . . renamed it: at long last, the Publishing-Editor has had to admit that Hubris is not, and will not again be, Weekly. Our 1 March 2023 issue revisits work by Diana Farr Louis, F. Theresa Gillard, Claire Bateman, Philip Nikolayev, Meredith d’ Ambrosio, Rev. Robin White, Sensei Jerry Zimmerman, Michael House FRGS, Wayne Mergler, Becky Dennison Sakellariou, Chiara-Sophia Coyle, Dr. Sterling “Skip” Eisiminger, and Barry Danielian.
About the artist featured on our March Home Page: Peter Edward Mackenzie Brown is a British Impressionist painter popularly known as “Pete the Street” from his practice of working on location in all weathers. He is best known for his depictions of street scenes and landscapes, and loves working “in the thick of it,” painting the streets of Varanasi to Toronto and closer to home in Barcelona, Paris, London, and his adopted home city of Bath. He insists on working directly from the subject, refusing to use photographic reference. Brown was born in Reading and educated there at Presentation College. After graduating in Fine Art from Manchester Polytechnic in 1990, he moved to Bath in 1993, where he lives with his wife Lisa and five children. He took up painting full-time in 1995, developing a vigorous en plein air style, happily interacting with passers-by while at work. “Working is like being at a party. I need to be at the centre of things,” Brown has said. “Consciously or subconsciously, what I experience finds its way onto the canvas.” The painter was elected a member of the New English Art Club in 1998, and became its President in 2018. He is also a member of the Royal Society of Portrait painters, The Royal Institute of Oil Painters, The Pastel Society and is an honorary member of the Royal Society of British Artists. In 2006, he became the first Artist in Residence at the Savoy Hotel, London. In 2008, he won the Prince of Wales Award for Portrait Drawing. (Those interested in his work/works should access his website here.)
Eating Well is The Best Revenge
“Remembering Culinary Gazientep,” By Diana Farr Louis
ATHENS Greece—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—The invitation slid into my inbox just two weeks before the event was to take place. The centerpiece was intriguing, a delicate Roman mosaic of a bird poised on the rim of a bowl, but the black print proved a bit hard to decipher against the brown background. Upon close examination, the gist became plain: The city of Gaziantep in southeast Turkey had been incorporated into UNESCO’s network of creative cities because of its gastronomic wealth, and a gala dinner would be held to celebrate in Istanbul in the presence of the President. On its own, it might have been easy to resist. Galas—not that I had ever attended one quite so illustrious—can be insufferably boring, with too many long-winded officials, lackluster food, platitudes instead of conversation. And did one really want to be in the same room with The Man Who Would Be Sultan? (Read more . . .)
Status Quo Minus
“John’s Daddy’s Blue Truck,” By F. Theresa Gillard
BOSTON Massachusetts—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—I wrote this back in 2001. My brother Brian and his best friend John were out in the yard talking and laughing like usual. I couldn’t hear their conversation. But, I did hear one phrase: “John’s Daddy.” Inspiration for this little tidbit. John’s Daddy’s Blue Truck. John’s Daddy’s blue 1964 Chevy truck was all I saw when I pulled up. A strong scent of honeysuckle enveloped me as I made my way to the grave. Death was the master of all life, until along came me. Yep, me. And, damn ‘em all to hell, if there was such a place. Sad and strange that people had so many choices during their existence, only to end up having two pre-determined outcomes. Hmmm, heaven, or hell? To burn, or not to burn? Me, I could care less. You spend your life believing, or not believing, and you’re gonna die either way. If I could die, I’d live as though every second was my last. Pure conjecture all of it. (Read more . . .)
Speculative Friction
“Doug Van Gundy’s Poetry,” By Claire Bateman
GREENVILLE South Carolina—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—West Virginia poet and musician Doug Van Gundy directs the low-residency MFA writing program at West Virginia Wesleyan College. His poems, essays, and reviews have appeared in many publications, including Poetry, The Guardian, and The Oxford American. He is co-editor of the anthology Eyes Glowing at the Edge of the Woods: Contemporary Writing from West Virginia, and the author of a collection of poems, A Life Above Water, and two chapbooks, The October Poems and Pictures & Poems, a collaboration with photographer Matt Eich. Gundy is also a respected traditional musician, and plays fiddle, guitar, mandolin, and harmonica in the old-time string duo, Born Old. He has won many awards for his fiddle and banjo playing. (Read more . . .)
The Art of Forgetting
“Four Poems for the Providential Reader,” By Philip Nikolayev
BOSTON Massachusetts—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—From Elizabeth Boleman-Herring: I have come late to Philip Nikolayev and to his poetry, but am honored and very pleased to include in this issue four poems by this bi-national, bilingual writer, our newest Contributor at Hubris. In an interview with Jack Alun for The Argotist Online, Nikolayev states, “Writing is largely spontaneous for me and improvisation and self-surprise are important parts of it. . . . I write in hopes that what moves or interests or surprises me may also cause a similar response in someone else—the providential reader, in Mandelstam’s phrase, if you will. Often, I don’t know exactly where a poem—a certain kind of poem—leads me until the very end, where with some luck everything just happens to click sharply into focus.” (Read more . . .)
The Disappearing Land
“Remembered Springs,” By Meredith d’Ambrosio
DUXBURY Massachusetts—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—Every summer, my mother, whose stage name was Sherry Linden, worked as a pianist/singer in different resort towns throughout New England. When I was eleven, she began working at the famous Oceanside Hotel, a sprawling place overlooking the rocky coast of Magnolia, on the north shore of Massachusetts—a tiny Cape Ann village snuggled between Manchester-by-the-Sea and Gloucester. I stayed in Magnolia with her and my younger brother, Jerry, for nine summers. The following summer, after the Oceanside had burnt to the ground for the second time since the late 1920s, never to be restored again, my enterprising mother began playing at Hakim’s, an elegant restaurant and piano bar known for its Egyptian and French cuisine. Those nine years were the most exciting of my life. (Read more . . .)
Wing + Prayer
“Psalm 22: Honest to God,” By Rev. Robin White
PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” These words of lament from Psalm 22 generally appear in the Good Friday liturgy, though the psalm does come up in the Revised Common Lectionary at other times of the year. The thoughts and feelings that color this or any Lament may be difficult for us to hear, especially in the context of worship. These words of anger and grief challenge us, emotionally, intellectually, and in the context of our faith. The book of psalms, known as the Psalter, was the hymnbook of “Second Temple Judaism.” The early Christian church was influenced by the norms of synagogue worship, so they, too, read psalms as scripture, prayed psalms as prayers, and sang psalms as hymns. The psalms were used as liturgy, not just as a collection of prayers but, rather, as poetic lessons in how to pray. (Read more . . .)
Squibs & Blurbs
“Hello, Sensei!” By Jerry Zimmerman
TEANECK New Jersey—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—For the first eight years of training with my Japanese Aikido teacher, Yamada Sensei, he never said a word to me. When I started training in the wonderful martial art of Aikido some 27 years ago, I had an art studio in New York City not far from my dojo (school) and I would train four or five days a week there, sometimes twice a day. Yamada Sensei was not only the main teacher in this dojo, he was also the head of the USAF, the pre-eminent Aikido organization in the western hemisphere, and, to top it off, one of the most famous teachers in the world. To say I was awe-struck is a fair statement. Sensei’s classes were wonderful ; dynamic, exciting, powerful and challenging. Young, muscular Black Belts would attack him in all sorts of ways, only to be dispatched effortlessly and rather mysteriously. It took enormous attention to try to fathom what had happened and then to somehow replicate it. Almost nothing was said and less was explained: welcome to traditional old-school Japanese teaching! (Read more . . .)
The Polemicist
“The British Monarchs: Birds in a Gilded Cage . . . or Scam-Artists?” By Michael House FRGS
WEST HAMPSTEAD London England—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—To be a Republican in the US is to be a hissing and a byword. To be a Republican in the UK is a badge of honor, as will be explained below. I did not watch Oprah Winfrey’s interview with Harry Windsor and Meghan Markle. I am not interested in these people, with their silly titles (baby Archie is apparently an Earl) and their tedious feuds. But anything that undermines the monarchy and encourages the UK to grow up as a nation has to be a good thing. The interview also, I understand, pointed up the everyday racism here that people of color know only too well. Young nations, or old nations that have run out of viable monarchs, have tended to seek a king among the minor royalty of Europe. Greece did it twice in the 19th century, first with Otto, a German princeling. That didn’t work out too well, so, second time round, they went for a Dane who proved to be a better bet. (Read more . . .)
Above The Timberline
“Barefoot Boy with Snake,” By Wayne Mergler
ANCHORAGE Alaska—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—In Ray Bradbury’s wonderful classic, Dandelion Wine, there is a now-famous chapter in which the young protagonist, Douglas Spaulding, age 12, as soon as school is out for the summer, puts on a pair of tennis shoes for the first time since the previous September. Bradbury’s description of the way those tennis shoes feel on the much-abused, respectable feet of schoolboys, is one of the priceless jewels of contemporary fiction. Bradbury writes: “Somehow the people who made tennis shoes knew what boys needed and wanted. They put marshmallows and coiled springs in the soles and they wove the rest out of grasses bleached and fired in the wilderness. Somewhere deep in the soft loam of the shoes the thin hard sinews of the buck deer were hidden. The people that made the shoes must have watched a lot of wind blow the trees and a lot of rivers going down to the lakes. Whatever it was, it was in the shoes, and it was summer.” (Read more . . .)
Where Words Go
“Becky Dennison Sakellariou’s Almond Tree Song”,” By Becky Dennison Sakellariou
ATHENS Greece—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—Poet Becky Dennison Sakellariou was born and reared in New England, but has lived all of her adult life in Greece. Of late, she has been “making her way home” to New Hampshire, where she now spends half of every year. Writing since she was seven, Sakellariou has published poetry in a wide variety of journals. Her chapbook, The Importance of Bone, won first prize in the Blue Light Press (San Francisco) competition of 2005 and her full-length book, Earth Listening, was published in 2010 by Hobblebush Books of Brookline, New Hampshire. In 2013, Finishing Line Press (Tennessee) brought out her chapbook, What Shall I Cry?, which was followed by a two-year long collaboration with Greek poet, Maria Laina, for The Possibility of Red/Η Πιθανοτιτα του Κοκκινου, a bilingual edition of eleven of her poems, also published by Hobblebush Books. In 2015, Passager Books (Baltimore) brought out her art/poetry book, Gathering the Soft, a meditation on cancer illustrated by Tandy Zorba. (Read more . . .)
Clicks & Relativity
“A Farewell to Donkeys,” By Chiara-Sophia Coyle
SONOMA California—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—Growing up on the island of Mykonos in the 1960s, my brother and I were the only blond and blue-eyed children in sight. In fact, we were among the very first foreigners to live on the island. Our shared nickname was, simply, “The Americans.” As far back as I can remember, I was always desperately trying to fit in. Blend in. Like a fly in a glass of milk, as a friend said, oh, so eloquently. “Be” one of them, not the one they pointed at while making various comments (positive ones, for the most part, at least while I was a child, but still). My parents had various ways of our “being,” however, that ensured blending was never going to happen. For example, I was never allowed to eat sugar and was therefore “the American girl who was not allowed sweets.” If you know anything about Greeks, you know that sugar, for them all, is the path to the heart. (Read more . . .)
Skip the B.S.
“The Professor is (All) In,” By Dr. Skip Eisiminger
CLEMSON South Carolina—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—Over the 40 years I taught English and Humanities at Clemson University, students arriving at my door in Strode Tower were greeted by a bewildering array of passive-aggressive cartoons, photographs, and quotations. These were taped, glued, and thumb-tacked to my door, door frame, and bulletin board. I’m not sure where the impulse arose, but it might have been Emerson’s advice to write “whim” on the lintels of the door posts as a reminder “to follow your bliss.” I had no such romantic pretensions; I only wanted to introduce myself to those waiting for an audience in my chambers. Many times, I arrived and, finding students reading my door, I was reluctant to interrupt them. Often they were not my own, but I was always pleased that someone was paying attention to this vast, conceptual “work in progress.” When I retired from full-time teaching, I used a razor blade to peel off each of 754 items, which I then compulsively glued to 39 3X5 cards. These cards are now in my file where, one day, someone will have a ready supply of material for a biography or elegy. (Read more . . .)
Rumi Nation
“A Muslim Musician Speaks,” By Barry Danielian
JERSEY CITY New Jersey—(Hubris)—1 March 2023—I love quotes. They’re short little gems of wisdom, easy to remember and often expressed in clever prose. I maintain a tradition, when performing gigs with my own group, of reciting quotes throughout the gig. Sometimes, they have a connection to the song we’re about to play; sometimes they reflect what is “in the air” at that time, be it politics or social commentary. The particular performance that’s the subject of this column was held during a time when segments of our country were being manipulated and put into a state of fear by a rising tide of Islamophobia. To be fair, misguided actions perpetrated by some of my co-religionists were adding fuel to this fire and, indeed, a large part of the Muslim world has been dysfunctional for quite some time. It was within that specific context that I decided to take all my quotes that night from the sayings of The Prophet Muhammad. It was a great night of music, the band was slamming, the crowd was very excited, and they were enthusiastic and responsive to the quotes. (Read more . . .)
Skip the B.S.
“Caring Enough: Selflessness,” By Dr. Sterling “Skip” Eisiminger
CLEMSON South Carolina—(Weekly Hubris)—1 February 2023—Though I expect Ingrid will deny it, I married a mensch. I had suspected it all along from the empathetic way she acted around animals and children, but my suspicions were confirmed when we were driving on black ice the day after we wed, late to the train that would take us to the Harz Mountains for a three-day honeymoon. Speeding toward a narrow railroad underpass, the car suddenly began skidding across the cobblestones. As the passenger-side wheels struck the curb, ejecting a hubcap, I realized as I fought to correct my guidance system that Ingrid’s left arm had reached out to protect me even though the direction of our skid was toward her side of the car. Naturally, she wasn’t just thinking of me, for her right hand gripped the dashboard. As we emerged from the underpass, whose dry pavement probably saved us, I grasped her hand on my chest, and thanked her. “Naja,” she said, “of course. We’re married now.” (Read more . . .)
Speculative Friction
“The Poetry of Jeff Hardin,” By Claire Bateman
GREENVILLE South Carolina—(Weekly Hubris)—1 February 2023—Poet Jeff Hardin is the author of seven collections of poetry, most recently Watermark, A Clearing Space in the Middle of Being, and No Other Kind of World. His work has been honored with the Nicholas Roerich Prize, the Donald Justice Prize, and the X. J. Kennedy Prize. Recent poems appear in The Southern Review, The Laurel Review, Literary Matters, Zone 3, The Cortland Review, Cumberland River Review, Southern Poetry Review, and many others. Hardin lives and teaches in Tennessee. About his book Watermark, A Clearing Space in the Middle of Being, Hardin writes: “In 2004, I had this idea that I would find phrases from failed poems of mine and use them as titles for new poems. When I wrote the first line (‘How quiet must I be’) at the top of a page, I suddenly thought of an x/y axis from math classes, so I turned the statement vertically and visibly down the left-hand margin. I began stitching my new lines back through each word of this five-word statement as if I were anchoring myself to a whispered prayer, or a subliminal message, back behind my thinking, perhaps not even noticeable on a first reading.” (Read more . . .)
On the Other Hand
“An Argument for Holding Certain Rituals Above Ground in Winter,” By Anita Sullivan
EUGENE Oregon—(Weekly Hubris)—1 February 2023—As I walk across the sunlit rug towards the front window of my house, I see a small movement in the leafless hydrangea outside and quickly realize it’s a reflection of my feet—the fuzzy pink socks, the red sandals. Just such ghostliness! Since your death, my entire body has gradually dismembered, so why shouldn’t my feet be outside in the bushes walking around by themselves while at the same time not really there at all? The chalk outline of my previous self has been erased to release a horde of molecules. They thunder here and there like a herd of aurochs seeking the familiar scent of lions to steer them onto a coherent path. My bones have splintered into kindling and what remains offers no more than an awkward set of arcs on which to hang a face. “I am selfless!” I whisper with a grim smile. Yes, so recently unselved by grief, I’m easily rescued now by smaller things: coal in ash, saffron in water, boulder crumbling on hillside, feather in air. Lately I have begun to move by surges, by mists and clots of delayed-response to a mind that seems to be evaporating without leaving any salt. What personhood will ensue from this stately and ancient pattern of suffering? (Read more . . .)
Eating Well is The Best Revenge
“Revisiting The Magical Island of Chios,” By Diana Farr Louis
ATHENS Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—1 February 2023—It’s been so long since I’ve been anywhere beyond my own backyard(s)—Athens and Andros—that I’m beginning to feel a nagging wanderlust. All the fuss involved in going abroad doesn’t tempt me, but how I would love to get into the car and head south to the Peloponnese or north to Macedonia. Or board a ship and sail until it reached its final destination. This being winter, and not one but three viruses are making their presence felt, a trip seems out of the question at the moment, so I’ll content myself with memories and take you with me on a series of visits to the remarkable island of Chios in the northeastern Aegean. Although I spent many summers sailing with friends in the Cyclades, Dodecanese, Sporades, and Ionian islands, I never went to Chios until my dear friend Becky Dennison Sakellariou and I formed a partnership called Modus Scribendi and started editing a magazine for the Chandris Hotels. Τhe chain was small, just four hotels—in Athens, Crete, Corfu, and Chios, where the family, more famous in the shipping world, originates—but they were luxurious. And we were treated, with our spouses, to long weekends, all expenses paid, naturally. (Read more . . .)
Words & Wonders
“What This Woman Wants,” By Kathryn E. Livingston
BOGOTA New Jersey—(Weekly Hubris)—1 February 2023—When one of our grown sons was in high school, the Honors English teacher posed the question “What do women want?” She was probably discussing Portrait of a Lady, The Great Gatsby, or some other literary work, though my son doesn’t recall and neither do I. What I do recall is my son’s answer when the teacher surveyed the room, pressing various young scholars for their responses. “Food,” was my boy’s serious, curt, and dry response. Ms. M (not her real initial) was not at all amused. Hearing of the exchange later that day, I was annoyed that my son’s response was summarily dismissed. His answer was authentic, and it was certainly true based on his experience of living in a house for 16 years with myself, his hungry but loving mother. Such answers as “love, respect, trust, children, a compassionate spouse, an intellectual equal, a soul mate, a fulfilling career, to make a difference, to feel valued or honored” . . . and so on, may have garnered more approval from the teacher and classmates. But were these answers really true? What more could a woman want than food? (And perhaps new shoes?) (Read more . . .)
Planetary Hospice
“You Killed My Planet: Prepare to Die,” By Dr. Guy McPherson
BELLOWS FALLS Vermont—Weekly Hubris)—1 February 2023—William Goldman’s The Princess Bride, (full title: The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern’s Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure, The “Good Parts” Version) was published in 1973. Adapted for the screen by its author, the film version, directed by Rob Reiner, was released in 1987. To date, it is the only feature-length film I have seen more than twice. I’ve seen The Princess Bride three times since it was released more than 35 years ago. Over the course of the action, a character played by Mandy Patinkin, one Inigo Montoya, repeats often, and in its entirety, the line: “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” The expert swordsman then proceeds to demonstrate his proficiency with his sword (as well as his feet), and we feel certain he will make good on his promise (once he locates the culprit responsible). A few years after seeing the film for the first time, I adapted the line from Inigo Montoya to fit my own narrative, and reflect my own dire conclusions: “Hello, my name is Guy McPherson. You killed my planet. Prepare to die.” It took me a few years to settle on the maxim because I still held out hope that our species would make a serious effort to retain habitat for itself and for other species. My fondness for every aspect of the living planet interfered with my ability to think in a rational manner. (Read more . . .)
Waking Point
“Tempests Over San Francisco,” By Helen Noakes
SAN FRANCISCO California—(Weekly Hubris)—1 February 2023—Our days are darkened by angry skies. There is a river in the great grey clouds that occlude the sun. And when they release its full devastating deluge on our parched and burned soil, our streets become waterways that sweep away refuse and lives, alike. Terrifying winds so powerful they rip trees, young and ancient, out by their roots. Lightning strikes very close, its shattering zing leaving a trace of ozone. Thunder rattles my windows so wildly I think I feel the house shake. Although alarmed, I stand in awe, gazing at the heaving trees, the white caps crashing on the grey ocean beyond, and understand more fully why our ancient ancestors deified the forces of nature. How else could one describe this tempest but “the wrath of God”? The tumult of raging nature that I watch with fascination incongruously stirs a memory of a Greek song I learned as a child where Thunder is a giant woman whose bracelets rumble as she dances. “Tουμπου, τουμπου, τουμπου, τοομ, θα βραχιόλια της Βροντούμ.” (Loosely translated, “Thump, thump, thump, clash Thunder’s bracelets.”) (Read more . . .)
Vinyl Tap
“Manny Albam: Essential Jazz Listening,” By Dean Pratt
PENDLETON South Carolina—(Weekly Hubris)—1 February 2023—Manny Albam was a terrific musician, composer, arranger, teacher and, best of all, a warm, funny human being and friend. I first met Manny when I was in high school in Rochester, New York, performing in an area all-star high school jazz band directed by the Reverend George Wiskirchen. One year, this high school band had the opportunity to perform during the final concert of the Arranger’s Holiday Workshop at the Eastman Theater in Rochester. Since Manny was one of the teachers at the workshop, the good Reverend had rehearsed several charts from Manny’s newly released Solid State LP “Brass On Fire.” When I made it to New York a few years later, I had the good fortune to run into Manny often and we struck up a friendship; I and the entire music community will always miss him. I had already acquired some of the LPs listed here below (as essential jazz listening) when I first met Manny that night in Rochester, and that gave me the courage to approach him. Fortunately for me, it would not be our last creative encounter. (Read more . . .)
Addison
“If You Weren’t A Donut, You Could Be A Model,” By Mark Addison Kershaw
ATLANTA Georgia—(Weekly Hubris)—1 February 2023—Editor’s Note: This fall and winter, Mark Addison Kershaw’s identity, Lo, his very being, fell into the hands of thieves, varmints, and villains. His intellectual property writ large (and captioned) across the vasty spaces of the worldwide web was purloined and sullied by anonymous pirates bent on doing him harm. There was nothing his editor here could do about this besides wring her hands. Reader, I wrung my hands, and wring them, still. Mark is a diligent, charming, and honorable soul, all of which shines through his gentle, if piquant, cartoons. He wouldn’t harm a flea in a bunny’s ear, a bear holed up for the winter beneath a preacher’s porch, a goldfish temporarily removed from its wet element onto a (dry!) linoleum floor. I know, from his humor, that Mark would somehow relocate the flea, encourage the pastor to find another avenue of egress, and scoop up the goldfish in a flash. But the web is a dark and hazardous place now, and, without a savvy webmaster (and iron-clad passwords), I and my own trove of scribblings might have gone the way of Kershaw’s more profitable ink. I suppose I’m sharing this information with you, my and Mark’s readers, because he really has been through it during these most recent holidays. So, I’m happy as a flea on a bunny to have him back with us this February. And, at the very end of this month’s issue, here’s dessert, as usual—single-panel sweetery by our resident Addison. Happy Valentine’s Day, Mark! (Read more . . .)
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