Lennox Raphael
Reading and Workshop with the Purple Poets
October 18th at 1 - 3 in The Crypt
Munster Square, London NW1 3PL
Free. Child-friendly. Wheel-chair accessible.
Lennox Raphael
In the past several years, here, Ive had 5 books of poems published; and
have given over a hundred readings, + Ive read at the Poetry Society of America
& many other places & published widely in magazines, such as Harper's
( long coverstory interview with the novelist Ralph Ellison, author of INVISIBLE
MAN), Evergreen Review, Tribes, & anthologies; and have lectured at the
City College of New York, and the University of Rhode Island. Was also a
staff writer for The East Village Other (EVO), in Manhattan.
Have also designed writing programmes for 14 schools in Delaware. (book of
this published).
Also played with the Plastic Ono Band, with John Lennon & Yoko Ono, notably
during a concert for John Sinclair, at Cisner Arena, Ann Arbor, Michigan.
Can be viewed in latest movie-documentary about John, my dear friend.
Apart from my first play, CHE!, which ran in Manhattan for over a year, Ive
written & directed the musicals Blue Soap, Dracula the Dreamer,
Rumpelstiltskin, and the musical drama, Waiting for Mick Jagger. .
A book of mine (co-authored), GARDEN OF HOPE, AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A MARRIAGE,
came out in the States last Christmas season; and im presently writing a
novel & completing a cycle of plays about love & jealousy.
Lives in Copenhagen with my wife, Helga Gimbel, a specialist doctor, and
daughter, Papaya Raphael, 11 January 6.
One of the artistic directors of DESARTS, www.desarts.dk, and www.2020visions.dk.
I swim in the sea every day of the year, especially during winter; and when
there is thickness we dig a hole & swim under the ice. absolutely marvelous.
which is my main meditation.
Plus I do lots of gardening, and help take care of Papaya's two birds &
rabbit; and long forest-walking every week.
This is certainly enough bio for the moment.
˜
APPRECIATING LILLY HELVEG PETERSEN
(of Denmark)/Against Illusions
Walking in the forest in Vanløse - Hareskov - Sunday afternoon,
after lunch at Daniel Nilsson's 19th birthday celebration, I was struck for
another time by the irony of autumn, in the forest and in our lives, and
I was thinking of Lilly Helveg Petersen, born 1911 to Carl Mortensen Lolk
& Karen Larsen, who, on October 10, 2005, passed away, and this phrase
certainly does not do her justice, as all her feelings were seasoned and
permanent, and so too those feelings about herself, and, having lived a full
life, she would leave when she was ready, when there was no longer any reason
to hang on, to delay the processing of another future into uncharted regions
that could only have been deferred by expectations, how beauty is fertilized
into wisdom, to restore the presence of a unique personality: as was Lilly
who saw through sham as easily as she herself would appreciate what was virtuous
and itself interesting and different and worthy of another look, or glance;
for, as human beings, and the forest at this time of the year reminds me
of this, that we too have our seasons and our material expressions of
immortality, and guiding us along the continuous carpet of leaves and messages
is the hand of an invisibility outside the dispersion of a kiss.
At last, then, there is some value to remembering a smile, or helping someone,
proffering a guiding hand that is taken in silence.
Like Proust, "I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief
that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior
being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and so effectively
lost to us until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass
by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison.
Then they start and tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we
have recognized their voice the spell is broken. We have delivered them:
they have overcome death and return to share our life.
"And so it is with our own past. It is a labor in vain to try to recapture
it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden
somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material
object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we
do not suspect. And as for that object, it depends on chance whether we come
upon it or not before we ourselves die."
I started writing after a long swim this morning in the sea at Klampenborg;
so, beware, what follows, as I continue, is an embarrassment of my warm heart
in the cold.
With the way things are, one is certain the day will come when death will
no longer be a foregone conclusion, when growing old will not be considered
the inevitable consequence of the human condition, but will be seen for what
it is, the result of accumulated damage at the cellular and molecular levels
that medical advances will soon prevent, or reverse, allowing people to go
on living normally for hundred of years: and death, the killer of our loved
ones, will cease to exist.
Of course, this would dismantle the traditionized archæology &
institutions of what it means (supposedly) to be human and, potentially,
a recipient of the benefits of heaven; or that other place.
Appreciating the imagination is not easy; and imagining to imagine is remembering
to understand (even) those memories that would seek to forget us.
Ok, as simple as impossible, we grow old, 150,000 people die every day, 2/3rd
of ageing (in one way or the other), we see people around us growing older
than we are, even when they are younger than they could ever be, and we
understand nothing, even as we take life for granted and assume that immortality
is merely a word like any other, and sits on its own nest of dreams, and
hatches memory: and, sometimes, perhaps, it's us.
But what's in it for me? Let's try again.
Writing no longer means anything when it says something; and reading between
the lines is like pulling the alligator's teeth when one is in a hurry.
Before we go any further then, here are the bare facts: this is an appreciation
of a grand & lovely person, 94, Lilly Edith Helveg Petersen, who departed
from these earthly shores on October 10, 2005, in mermaid city, after a
long/short life of loving & giving.
According to Kahil Gibran, in The Prophet,
"You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is
when you give of yourself that you truly give."
What stands out for Lars Kræmmer that night, six years ago, 1999, at
the surprise party engineered (by Karen Helveg Petersen) for me at his then
home (birthplace of the Copenhagen Art Club) in Sydhavn when Lilly gracefully
eluded being etiquetteized into an easy chair & climbed those
straight, precarious steps to the top floor action overlooking the harbor
and the constraints of age, as imagined by those who are much younger &
simply do not understand the strength of curiosity and how dreams either
build on what's already there, or tear us apart; and when I did leave the
surprise party, rather early, feeling I had to throw up, & stopped on
the highway, and couldn't, for there was nothing there that would come up,
only a feeling of chaos vanishing into light, only to discover, on reaching
home, that my own mother, Amy Friday Raphael, 86, had dep(art)ed in the interval.
For Lilly Helveg Petersen, dreaming was the cure, and caring, giving, by
being there for herself and others, especially others, even when she needed
to put more into herself, and she was a great mother, and mother figure,
with a calm and reasoned intellect, and a curiosity that would take her up
many straight & narrow stairs, until ……
She was my mother (in-law). We were both Virgos. That could have been one
of the reasons (too) why we got along so well, as I grew over the years into
Denmark, in her presence, and culture. For a moment I am thinking of the
afternoon we spent together at the National Museum, my first visit to a museum,
in Denmark, or my first dinner party at someone's home in Copenhagen, hers,
or my witnessing for the first time the burning of the witch, Sankt Hans
aften, in Langeland, in 91, when I spent a week here, in Langeland, with
she & Kristen Helveg Petersen, always proud that Huset was achieved on
his watch as Minister of Education, Alexis (who will remember the day some
years later when the two of us & his grandfather saw JURASSIC PARK, at
Imperial) & Niels (formerly Minister of the Economy and, more recently,
Foreign Minister, political to the core and genuinely charming, & Kirsten
Lee & Aase Eriksen, architect/designer of the children sections at the
National Museum and at Statens Museum for Kunst) and Karen Helveg Petersen,
kind, provocative and, tho she/d be surprised to overhear this, brilliant,
Lilly's daughter, like Anne Helveg Petersen, Alexis' mother, in whose heart
resides the soul of Denmark; and is in good keeping.
Anyhow, I feel stuck at this point, and dissatisfied, because I haven't yet
been able to make sense of why I always saw Lilly Helveg Petersen, formerly
Copenhagen Mayor (borgmester) for Tramways (later just Buses), Transport
in general, Energy, & other Useful Things, as a remarkable human spiritbeing
tending the flock with charm, restraint, emotional eloquence and fairness.
My friends were meeting her for the first time, that night of the surprise
party for me at Lars', and meeting too for the first time Niels Helveg Petersen,
then Foreign Minister, and Morten Helveg Petersen, now, like his father,
and grandfather b4 him, a member of Parliament, meeting my family, and Rasmus,
and meeting my friends. Or, me, meeting myself one of those first times,
that first time, at her home, sitting down to Christmas dinner, and dancing
around the tree & sharing presents. I know, I know. Writing hurts when
you leave things hanging. Hanging emotions are more manageable. One shouldn't
leave people (or oneself) guessing; and, it's useful to finish what you start.
But sentences have a way of wrapping themselves around a shadow.
Hearing of her death -
The anonymous moon shines on everyone.
One can do this another way, as I had started to, in Langeland, a week ago:
"Dear Niels, I returned from Oregon a few days ago & found out from
Karen that Lilly was no longer with us.
Altho she enjoyed what we can call a full life, her passing is a great
loss, compounded by the fact she was such a lovely person, and I just want
to say, having experienced this myself, life is different, after this physical
departure of mother and father. It is as tho, suddenly, and not that one
did not see it coming, we are set adrift from large trees, rock solid like
Guyanese greenheart; and it takes some time for this to set in: and, before
us, the vast ocean of life.
I know you loved her, and she was very good, and had been always kind,
and fair; and always thoughtful towards me; since 91;and I remember the two
of us visiting museums, and she pointing out certain things to me, without
forcing the point; subtle lessons in Danish Culture; and we got along as
well as two Virgos can; lots of sighs and silences; clipped, juicy sentences;
and, in my eyes, she was a grand person; one of the last of the imperishables,
and … well, Niels, I wish you the best. Regards to Kirsten. And Morten.
And Rasmus - Lennox.": and, then, to Anne:
"Dear Anne, It doesn't happen, it does. Mother goes. Mother comes &
Mother goes. This is life; cruel and just at the same time, leaving us, taking
away, giving, separating us from our loved one, mixing up the pack of happiness.
Lilly was a wonderful person, perhaps one of the last of the grand intelligences
in this country, or anywhere, and, for me, always an inspiration, someone
I looked forward to seeing and knowing, and whose company and reticence I
enjoyed always, respecting the way she managed her aloneness, precisely,
and was all family and place; and gentle, firm referee. I returned this month
from visiting Raphael & Ginger & Zeal in Eugene, Oregon, where I
had a reunion with three of my sons and Papaya, one son, Jah, the last, who
lives in Texas, I was seeing for the first time in 18 years - while Sasa
flew in from the farm in Puerto Rico - and we rented a beach mansion on the
Pacific & had such a great time + Papaya & Helga & I went swimming
- and got a note from Karen telling me of Lilly's transformation.
This is just a simple note of appreciation to you, Anne, & hi to
Alexis. And cheers to Tina and Birgitta. I know how much, quietly, she meant
to you, and I am certain the whole emotional culture of her passing, and
the immediate times before that, drained you tremendously, but you, too,
have the strength, and fragility, and caring, and may God bless you forever,
Anne; and know I feel always close to you and admire you, and consider you
a human artist of the first order. Life is a puff, the oval bulb of the dandelion
one holds up to the sky and blows on it and seeds parachute to the ground
and continue forever, or take to the sky, as would Lilly's spirit/soul, and
her deeds, immortal as a smile, or a kind word, or glance - Anne, let's meet
& break bread & rejoice. Lennox."
Well, I felt then I was getting somewhere. Writing had become a distinct
and diminished pleasure. We can say to someone, before they go, as they are
going, that we would miss them, but no one bids death goodbye. That last
time is always first and beyond the pleasure of its own suspicion, and we
hope our loved one/d cling to the rainbow of life forever.
Lilly was a delightful conversationalist & attentive listener, never
one to dominate the conversation or turn away from a dissenting view, and
always there with a chuckle to moderate the intensity around the dinner table.
To appreciate is to live.
And people like Lilly Lolk Helveg Petersen never die. It is as though, for
them, death is merely a reminder of volumnity interred in illusion, and what
matters is gently doing the good works that serve as buoys to keep one alive
in one's own eyes; and that too is immortality: appreciating oneself, the
first task, or stop, along the way to living forever, as Lilly Helveg Petersen
would, always, in the inner memories of Karen & Niels & Anne; and
many, many others; and, to begin with, 4ever is now; bye to the good, but
not goodbye (as yet); and, continuing to appreciate Lilly, I/d say, in my
own eyes, she was modern, like 'modern art', conceptually beyond age &
secure in a private classicism; a painting - a study in active life - Turner
mixed with DeKooning, Gertrude Stein, Tracey Emin, and Matisse's stained
glassed future of the art of being free/freed of time; proud, circular and
curious as lilies on a pool (of life).
By then, it was too late to turn back.
I must write to Rosemary Parkinson, author of CULINARIA CARIBBEAN; remembering
too that late afternoon the three of us spent together having tea, cakes
& biscuits, and chocolates, and indulging in gossipy laughter framed
by Lilly's wry, deft humor.
What more can I say?
The theory of everything is nothing; and only life remains uniquely precious.
This is the dance of life; and we are on the floor.
It is interesting writing a piece that one doesn't want mistaken for an obituary,
which is often bare & vanishy, and, at the same time, attempting to locate
the subject (especially when dealing with values), and seeking to wrap it
up in an artistic frame, so it is a work of art, the way I saw Lilly Edith.
"O, Karen, she was such a lovely person, and I am thinking of that time
alone with her, the first time I visited the National Museum. Love,"
The writing was over & done with. Then the rain came, and would not return
to Spain, and, in the King's Park, a stone throw from Rosenborg Castle, home
to the Crown Jewels & the Danish Crown Regalia, leaves were falling furiously
waltzing tipsy to the floor and, soon, the ground was shaggy, like a dream,
and I thought of our own hastiness and Nature's cruelty, how, without warning,
it combines with the seasons to strip trees of every dignity, and would soon,
by Merry Christmas, have them covered in snow as though wanting to hide their
shame; if any; but not so with memories like these whose mulch, even by itself,
returns to earth mother, and leaves us a hint of where the soul is taken
when we sleep, or when, in broad daylight, seek our attention and, afterwards,
touch the horizon, and, as guardian angel, heal too by absence.
LENNOX RAPHAEL
People have very kindly offered
to bring food and drink for this potluck affair,
many thanks for your contribution.
