Thank You Jeffrey Brown of PBS News Hour

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Stephen Kuusisto to appear on PBS News Hour

Image: Logo of PBS News Hour

Tonight the PBS NewsHour will air a segment about my new book Have Dog, Will TravelThe piece features an interview with Jeffrey Brown whose reporting on literature and poetry is well known to book lovers across the nation. Jeffrey is also a poet whose first collection The News is available from Copper Canyon Press. In our time together we talked about poetry, civil rights, disability culture, dogs for the blind, the field of disability studies, and the power of literature to bring people together around social justice movements. And yes, there’s a lovely dog, Caitlyn, a sweetie pie yellow Labrador from Guiding Eyes for the Blind.

The program airs locally, in Syracuse at 7 PM. Check your local listings.

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Stephen Kuusisto and HarleyABOUT: Stephen Kuusisto is the author of the memoirs Have Dog, Will Travel; Planet of the Blind (a New York Times “Notable Book of the Year”); and Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening and of the poetry collections Only Bread, Only Light and Letters to Borges. A graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and a Fulbright Scholar, he has taught at the University of Iowa, Hobart and William Smith Colleges, and Ohio State University. He currently teaches at Syracuse University where he holds a University Professorship in Disability Studies. He is a frequent speaker in the US and abroad. His website is StephenKuusisto.com.

Have Dog, Will Travel: A Poet’s Journey is now available:
Amazon
Prairie Lights
Grammercy Books
Barnes and Noble
IndieBound.org

Have Dog, Will Travel by Stephen Kuusisto

(Photo picturing the cover of Stephen Kuusisto’s new memoir “Have Dog, Will Travel” along with his former guide dogs Nira (top) and Corky, bottom.) Bottom photo by Marion Ettlinger 

Fall Arrives in the Finger Lakes

The poets always say “if”
The mosquitoes say “now”
Exchange is a puzzle

**
Up river empty houses
Lean in the wind

**

When writing
Add footnotes—
George Washington
Spilled blood over there

**

By those birches
People tried in vain
To silence anxiety

**

Tattered maple tree
Squandering light
With its falling leaves

**

The summer has been dark as a bed

**

The poets always say “if”
As in: if the soul gets loose

**

When I close my eyes
I see Winter’s mask:
Gold animals

Shame on Domino’s Pizza

Unless you’re blind or a friend of someone who is you probably haven’t been following the story about Domino’s Pizza’s Supreme Court case. Briefly, Domino’s is fighting the rulings in federal courts that affirm accessibility of websites for the disabled is required by law.

Domino’s has been sued by a blind man because the corporate giant’s website is inaccessible to screen reading software for the blind.

Retro-fitting a website isn’t expensive and in fact Domino’s is spending far more money contesting accessibility before the Supreme Court than any reasonable group of men and women would chose to. Why?

This simple and clearest answer has to do with umbrage that the ADA exists at all.
The prevailing view from this sector holds that all accessibility lawsuits are frivolous.
Domino’s wants to be the corporate slayer of the ADA.

Because the Americans with Disabilities Act was adopted before the web became a global and commercial reality it says nothing about cyber-space.

But federal rulings about inaccessible websites—commercial, academic, governmental, what have you, is that they are an extension of public space and are therefore required to be accessible.

Domino’s opposition to a simple accessibility fix for a blind customer—perhaps millions of blind customers, is cynical, corrupt, and ultimately about contempt for the ADA and the disabled. Behind Domino’s stands the Chamber of Commerce which has been overtly hostile to the ADA from the beginning. See this article by Robert Barnes at the Washington Post for a good overview. You don’t have to accept my word on this.

This is a very critical moment for disabled customers, students, and yes, citizens. If the Supreme Court rules in favor of Domino’s they’ll have created a new “separate but equal” code for the digital age.

What really kills me is that the disabled and their families have plenty of disposable income. Why wouldn’t the Chamber of Commerce want their money?

I guess they already have plenty of dough to go around.

Thank You, Virgil Thomson

One of the pleasures of reading is the discovery of a superior voice, one you’ve been waiting for even if you’d no idea you’d been anticipating it. In my case the aesthetic affirmation comes from Virgil Thomson who’s polemical essays on music and everything else are original and beautifully “unlike” as the best writing should be. Consider this little nugget from his essay 
“Our Island Home, or What It Feels Like to be a Musician”:

“Among the great techniques, music is all by itself, an auditory thing, the only purely auditory thing there is. It is comprehensible only to persons who can remember sounds. Trained or untrained in the practice of the art, these persons are correctly called “musical.” And their common faculty gives them access to a secret civilization completely impenetrable by outsiders.

The professional caste that administers this civilization is proud, dogmatic, insular. It divides up the rest of the world into possible customers and non-customers, or rather into two kinds of customers, the music-employers and the music-consumers, beyond whom lies a no man’s land wherein dwells everyone else. In no man’s land takes place one’s private life with friends and lovers, relatives, neighbors. Here live your childhood playmates, your enemies of the classroom, the soldiers of your regiment, your chums, girl-friends, wives, throw-aways, and the horrid little family next door.”

This is, if not sidesplittingly funny, arresting enough and if you, like me, labor at a university (or any other professionalized but provincial arena) you know all about the dogmatics of professionals and the “everyone else community” or no man’s (or woman’s) land of private life.
If you don’t buy records or books, you are, according to the professional caste, just another prole. Reader: I went to the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and all I can say is this is spot on. As for the horrid little family next door it’s probably safe to say everybody hates them.

What’s delightful about Thomson is his candor about the no man’s land. Musicians and composers can make perfect art if they don’t tire of their trades. But then:

“Private life, on the other hand, is beset by a thousand insoluble crises, from unrequited love to colds in the head. Nobody, literally nobody, knows how to avoid any of them. The Christian religion itself can only counsel patience and long-suffering. It is like a nightmare of being forced to execute at sight a score much too difficult for one’s training on an instrument nobody knows how to tune and before a public that isn’t listening anyway.”

Mark Twain couldn’t say it better. (See Twain’s vision of heaven where no angel can play its instrument….)

That’s a delicious pronoun reference—“it is like a nightmare” points of course to private life but it picks up magnet-like, the almost witless patience of the church.

The poet in me loves the following:

“Everything the poet does is desperate and excessive. He eats like a pig; he starves like a professional beauty; he tramps; he bums; he gets arrested; he steals; he absconds; he blackmails; he dopes; he acquires every known vice and incurable disease, not the least common of which is solitary dipsomania.

All this after twenty-five, to be sure. Up to that age he is learning his art. There is available a certain amount of disinterested subsidy for expansive lyrical poetry, the poetry of adolescence and early manhood. But nobody can make a grown-up career out of a facility for lyrical expansiveness. That kind of effusion is too intense, too intermittent. The mature nervous system won’t stand it. At about twenty-six, the poets start looking around for some subject-matter outside themselves, something that will justify sustained execution while deploying to advantage all their linguistic virtuosity.”

Thank you Virgil Thomson. Thank you!

I have indeed however tried to make a grown up career out of a facility for lyrical expansiveness. As for solitary dipsomania, well….

Stephen Kuusisto and HarleyABOUT: Stephen Kuusisto is the author of the memoirs Have Dog, Will Travel; Planet of the Blind (a New York Times “Notable Book of the Year”); and Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening and of the poetry collections Only Bread, Only Light and Letters to Borges. A graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and a Fulbright Scholar, he has taught at the University of Iowa, Hobart and William Smith Colleges, and Ohio State University. He currently teaches at Syracuse University where he holds a University Professorship in Disability Studies. He is a frequent speaker in the US and abroad. His website is StephenKuusisto.com.

Have Dog, Will Travel: A Poet’s Journey is now available for pre-order:
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
IndieBound.org

Have Dog, Will Travel by Stephen Kuusisto

(Photo picturing the cover of Stephen Kuusisto’s new memoir “Have Dog, Will Travel” along with his former guide dogs Nira (top) and Corky, bottom.) Bottom photo by Marion Ettlinger 

Moon Glow

—I thought I saw a letter thrown on the porch
but it was only moon glow.”

—Eeva Liisa Manner

In the old days I waited for letters
As if they were commutations

A sure fire woman
A festive friend—

I could hear my breathing
While approaching my post box.

How light they were
Those moon notes.

Foolish to say
But I was so young

I thought of how
We might live inside

Lamps, radios, clocks.
Paper. Star paper.

A vanished lake.
A distant hidden room.

The old days…
No special beauty.

Slips of paper.
Hands. Moon.

The methodological problem of how to be human…

—after Eeva Liisa Manner

Living demands action that works—see Aristotle up to his neck in water counting insects.
I don’t know you and cannot. Three circles this way, five crosses that way.
Have me you lilies; call me you blossoming meadow.
Ruminate, versify, grow flowers…
Early morning—I see how small my hands are,
What do I know about truth?
As a small child I loved the telephone
With its shell sounds
Others so far away…
No day after tomorrow, no tales
That couldn’t be right
And the bear of falsehood asleep in his forest.
Autumn is coming.
I’m not absolutely young anymore.
I was something. If I was I.

As Jimmy Hoffa Dies

Image

–July 30, 1975

2:00 pm. Hoffa sits in the parking lot of the Machus Red Fox Italian Restaurant in Detroit and waits for his contact. The day is hot. Hoffa keeps the windows of his Pontiac open. He likes air conditioning but he isn’t going to pay for the gas. Though he’s been trying to quit he smokes a Pall Mall. He’s fucked: a man at the mercy of Gerald Ford and the Mafia and a hundred little fuckers every one of them dangerous. He smokes.

2:00 pm. Kuusisto sits on a roof in Geneva, New York listening to Billie Holiday. He’s 20 and blind and tiny crazed. He’s recently been in a mental hospital but now he’s alone and loves the line: “God bless the child that’s got his own”. He feels he understands it. He lights a joint wrapped in yellow wheat paper.

2:05 pm. Hoffa is agitated. No sign of anyone. He goes into the restaurant and gets some change from a waiter and phones a lieutenant. He blows off steam.

2:05 pm. Kuusisto is thinking about Holiday’s vocal energy vs. Leadbelly’s. On the Alan Lomax recordings he hears all the particles of Mr. Ledbetter’s body shouting together. Holiday still has this pain but she’s also found joy in emptiness.

2:08 pm. Hoffa is only aware of the apparent insult, not of the coming threat.

2:08 pm. Kuusisto turns the record over.