Memoirous

October   Books litter the bed, leaves the lawn. It lightly rains. Fall has come: unpatterned, in the shedding leaves.   The maples ripen. Apples come home crisp in bags. This pear tastes good. It rains lightly on the random leaf patterns.   The nimbus is spread above our island. Rain lightly patters on un- shed leaves. The books of fall litter the bed. I’m still high from reading Nathan Kernan’s A Day Like Any Other: The Life of James Schuyler. Mental illness permeated his adult years—but also he was bound by the seasons. So many of his poems contain seasonal observations. This one hints at relationships: our island; at love: the bed; at unrequited loneliness: dreary autumn rain. For Schuyler there were rings of friendship—but also failed romances. There was getting older; memories of bygone days; unfulfilled dreams. October holds all of this. Goodbye October.

A Day Like Any Other: The Life of James Schuyler Nathan Kernan Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2025 Finishing A Day Like Any Other is like saying goodbye to a dear friend. Indeed, it is over 450 pages of a LIFE. A life like no other. Really. I used to think that Jimmy and I were a lot alike, that we could have been friends—had I gone to NYC in 1982 instead of Chicago. Instead, I met a lot of people like Jimmy. But, no, after reading the book, I see we are not at all alike. I think it’s the poetry I could relate to. So accessible. That made me feel I was sitting there in his SRO having a chat, the noise from the busy NY city streets floating up to us through a dingy window. His city poems, the ones describing flowers, his pastoral ones from Vermont, Great Spruce Head Island, etc. The ease of the “Morning of the Poem”, which, according to the biography took many mornings. Just like the long poem “A Few Days” was composed over several months. I need to keep the biography—not a critica...

I originally posted this Thursday, December 6, 2012 “December” by James Schuyler. I was first attracted to it for the snide oblique personal references, people’s names—as if trying to puzzle out relationships, decode the poet’s life. Schuyler’s sarcastic tone as I perceived it: *Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event” * The giant Norway spruce from Podunk Podunk. That one word illuminating his disgust for Middle America, the fly-over regions, folks—people who take the holiday seriously, who refer to it as Christmas, who over-spend while afterwards always say, Next year I’m keeping to a budget. The gaudy tinsel and shiny balls and bright lights. Yet . . . It grows on each of us. We re-visit the sights, sounds, smells in memory so that when we are surrounded by Christmas we can’t help but sink into sentimentality. The poet confesses: catching glimpses, hints that are revelations: to have been so happy is a promise, and if it isn’t kept that doesn’t matter. Wh...

It has been going on 3 years since I first posted here the poem “December” by James Schuyler. I was first attracted to it for the snide oblique personal references, people’s names—as if trying to puzzle out relationships, decode the poet’s life. Schuyler’s sarcastic tone as I perceived it: *Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event” * The giant Norway spruce from Podunk Podunk. That one word illuminating his disgust for Middle America, the fly-over regions, folks—people who take the holiday seriously, who refer to it as Christmas, who over-spend while afterwards always say, Next year I’m keeping to a budget. The gaudy tinsel and shiny balls and bright lights. Yet . . . It grows on each of us. We re-visit the sights, sounds, smells in memory so that when we are surrounded by Christmas we can’t help but sink into sentimentality. The poet confesses: catching glimpses, hints that are revelations: to have been so happy is a promise, and if it isn’t kept...

I’ve come to the end of the year, a busy year at that for publication acceptances. I’ve worked hard on revisions and submitting manuscripts to publishers, agents, and contests. I rode my bike up the Rhine River through Germany, France, and Switzerland. And, I’ve come to the end of new stuff to write about. So it feels like. Lately. Perhaps, I need to lower the bar or slow down. Part of my preparation for my talk at the Festival for Faith and Writing, Slow Looking, is about honing observation skills. Living in the moment. Creating a Zen-like attitude toward the world. Definitely not listening to the news. I never liked nature poetry. I relegated it to old ladies, to people who went to bed at 7 pm and asked for the senior discount at the donut shop. There was a 4 o’clock special at the Denny’s restaurant I worked at in Centerville, where we could count on the same retirees showing up with their potbellies and suspenders and pocketbooks full of half-used tissues and Hawaiian white g...

Chasing Golden Raindrops   After work one evening, I rode my bike home, the long way. The sky, enhanced by Canadian wildfires, Was itself on fire, the color of flames Orange and red, blue blaze. Ashy clouds with singed edges, wafted above, adding to the wooly haze. Air quality alert, my skin tingled— I felt a tightness in my chest as I Hurried along the path, in and out Of the trees, bright patches, then suddenly Submerged in shadow. adding to the eeriness. By the bridge over the marsh, a burst of rain Unexpected, as if dousing the sunset, The filtered light casting each droplet in gold.   In “Light from Canada” James Schuyler muses On the symmetry, the realization that the world, This giant ball, upon which we are all bound together, Living and breathing under one sun, one moon, one sky, standing on the water’s edge, the Atlantic Washes the shores of both Canada and the US, So also the wildfires, the air and light are shared. ...

This time every year I am reminded of James Schuyler's December--where even the most jaded or the atheist is summoned into the sublime, where we stand in awe of the season--and what it means. “December” by James Schuyler Il va neiger dans quelques jours FRANCIS JAMMES The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound, this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center. I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey. Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event” and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids, Vanillin, artificial rum flavorin...

The latter part of September (the days and months blurred together before finally moving!) I participated in an online panel titled: What We Talk About When We Talk About the New York School: Online Symposium (September 2022): For pandemic-related and other reasons, lots of our members were unable to travel to Paris for our spring symposium. We held an online symposium in late September, in order to hear from some of the poets and scholars in question. The symposium featured poetry readings from Greg Masters and Matt Proctor, and talks from Wojciech Drag, Jane Hertenstein, Susannah Hollister and Emily Setina, Marcella Durand, and Molly Murray, as well as some free-flowing discussion and questions at the end. The programme of talks and readings is attached, and you can watch the event on our website or our Youtube channel. Though I’m proud of my contribution, I feel as though I could look a less washed out. I did try—I wore make up—I thought about lighting and previewed myself on-ca...

Hey all you readers (both of you) I’ve been tapped to sit on a Zoom panel for this, the inaugural debut meeting of the Network for New York School Studies (NNYSS). Why? You might ask. Yeah, I know, me too  Well, it began in 2019 (actually much earlier, but for now let’s stick with 2019). There was a call for papers for the symposium in Paris and because, of course, I’d already written some stuff about my 2017 trip to Great Spruce Head Island and because I’d continued to do some research into topics aroused by that visit, I submitted a paper. It was accepted in Dec of 2019. My recollection—because, understandably a lifetime has passed since then—is that I confirmed at least I’d Skype in or something to deliver the paper via online, with, perhaps, the idea, I might also go to the symposium, which was definitely PUT ON HOLD when Corona virus was declared a major worldwide pandemic. Then lockdown, etc. So as I was browsing in my browser in February, I saw that the conference is back on...

 Snow predicted for tonight and into the New Year EMPATHY AND NEW YEAR James Schuyler A notion like that of empathy  inspires great distrust in us, because it connotes  a further dose of irrationalism and  mysticism. Lévi-Strauss Whitman took the cars all the way from Camden and when he got here or rather there, said, “Quit quoting,” and took the next back, through the Jersey meadows which were that then. But what if it is all, “Maya, illusion?” I doubt it, though. Men are not so inventive. Or few are. Not knowing a name for something proves nothing. Right now it isn’t raining, snowing, sleeting, slushing, yet it is doing something. As a matter of fact it is raining snow. Snow from cold clouds that melts as it strikes. To look out a window is to sense wet feet. Now to infuse the garage with a subjective state and can’t make it seem to even if it is a little like What the Dentist Saw a dark gullet with gleams and red. “You come to me at midnight” and say, “I...

  “December” by James Schuyler Il va neiger dans quelques jours FRANCIS JAMMES The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound, this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center. I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey. Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event” and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids, Vanillin, artificial rum flavoring; a milky impulse to kiss and be friends It’s like what George and I were talking about, the East West Coast divide: Californians need to do a thing to enjoy it. A smile in the street may b...

As a writer we are always looking for inspiration—be it nature or Netflix. I’m always amazed by writers who say when they are in the midst of a project refuse to read other’s work that might affect their own. I readily admit I steal. Poetry causes me to slip sideways. Words or phrasing ignites a memory of something softly hidden. Perhaps so ordinary it fell beneath the midden of everyday life. The attitude of who cares. Well, obviously this crazy brain of mine because it will suddenly offer up what was already there, wanting to be revisited. When I moved out to Eugene it was with a bicycle and a suitcase. Word. And, that suitcase could not exceed 50 pounds. I obsessively packed, unpacked, reconfigured items until I reached a number I thought could win me the Alaska Airlines lottery. At the airport I came in 2 ounces short of the maximum!!!!! More than clothes, more than Christmas gifts (though there were those, the lighter ones) I brought with me James Schuyler. His selected po...

 Sort of a wonky piece that I adapted for New Critique from an artist residency on Great Spruce Head Island in 2017. Link here: https://newcritique.co.uk/2020/11/06/essay-in-early-august-among-the-spruce-reading-schuylers-memoirs-on-great-spruce-head-island-jane-hertenstein/ [Essay] ‘In early August among the spruce’: Reading Schuyler’s Memoirs on Great Spruce Head Island — Jane Hertenstein A Personal Introduction Following the US presidential election in 2016, I was jolted off-kilter, steamrolled. There was a Before, then an After. That winter, I sat and stared out my dreary window upon a busy Chicago street corner, where a sign in huge lettering read: ‘Christ Died for Our Sins’. I recalled James Schuyler’s poem, ‘February’: ‘A chimney, breathing a little smoke. / The sun, I can’t see / making a bit of pink / I can’t quite see in the blue’ . [1]

EMPATHY AND NEW YEAR James Schuyler A notion like that of empathy  inspires great distrust in us, because it connotes  a further dose of irrationalism and  mysticism. Lévi-Strauss Whitman took the cars all the way from Camden and when he got here or rather there, said, “Quit quoting,” and took the next back, through the Jersey meadows which were that then. But what if it is all, “Maya, illusion?” I doubt it, though. Men are not so inventive. Or few are. Not knowing a name for something proves nothing. Right now it isn’t raining, snowing, sleeting, slushing, yet it is doing something. As a matter of fact it is raining snow. Snow from cold clouds that melts as it strikes. To look out a window is to sense wet feet. Now to infuse the garage with a subjective state and can’t make it seem to even if it is a little like What the Dentist Saw a dark gullet with gleams and red. “You come to me at midnight” and say, “I can smell that after Christmas letdown coming like a h...

 Yesterday while walking past the Jewel parking lot I smelled pine. Already the Christmas trees have arrived. Suddenly I was engulfed in a James Schuyler poem “December” by James Schuyler The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound, this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center. I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey. Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event” and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids, Vanillin, artificial rum flavoring; a milky impulse to kiss and be friends It’s like what George and I were talkin...

James Schuyler, In January "In January After Ibn Sahl The yard has sopped into its green-grizzled self its new year         whiteness. A dog stirs the noon-blue dark with a running shadow and dirt         smells cold and doggy As though the one thing never seen were its frozen coupling         with the air that brings the flowers of grasses. And a leafless beech stands wrinkled, gray and sexless–all bone         and loosened sinew–in silver glory And the sun falls all on one side of it in a running glance, a         licking gaze, an eye-kiss And ancient silver struck by gold emerges mossy, pinkly         lichened where the sun fondles it And starlings of anthracite march into the east with rapid jerky      ...

Monday, December 25, 2017 That After-Christmas Let Down Empathy and New Year A notion like that of empathy inspires great distrust in us, because it connotes a further dose of irrationalism and mysticism. Lévi-Strauss Whitman took the cars all the way from Camden and when he got here or rather there, said, “Quit quoting," and took the next back, through the Jersey meadows which were that then. Butwhat if it is all, "Maya, illusion?" Idoubt it, though. Men are not so inventive. Orfew are. Not knowinga name for something proves nothing. Right now it isn't raining, snowing, sleeting, slushing, yet it isdoing something. As a matter of factit is raining snow. Snowfrom cold cloudsthat melts as it strikes.To look out a window is to sense wet feet. Now to infusethe garage with a subjective state and can't make it seem toeven if it is a little like What the Dentist Sawa dark gullet with gleams and red. "You come to me at midnight" and say, "I can smell...

Bright Invisible From Kyle White of Kyle White Ink a fellow flasher and November 5 birther brother: Hi Jane, I read this in one-sitting in the Northwoods today. I enjoyed the Chicago start, the history, your vivid poetry, and your tributes in-the-style-of. Felt like I was on the island. Resonated with your "imposter" moments, too! Thanks for sharing it! It's lovely. Bright Invisible: Word Sketches from Great Spruce Head Island a PDF chapbook, This chapbook will appeal to readers of the New York School—particularly fans of James Schuyler and John Ashbery. Great Spruce Head Island has been a source of inspiration for generations of artists and writers. I was invited to GSHI to spend a week walking where Frank O’Hara, Ashbery, and Schuyler walked. Through essays, journal entries, persona letters where I channel James Schuyler, I attempt to experience the island through their eyes. CLICK on image to request *FREE PDF The “imposter moments” refer t...

Yesterday while walking past the Jewel parking lot I smelled pine. Already the Christmas trees have arrived. Suddenly I was engulfed in a James Schuyler poem “December” by James Schuyler Il va neiger dans quelques jours FRANCIS JAMMES The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound, this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center. I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey. Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event” and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids, Vanillin, artificial rum flavoring; a milky impulse to kiss and be fri...

June 30, 1974 for Jane and Joe Hazan Let me tell you that this weekend Sunday morning in the country fills my soul with tranquil joy: the dunes beyond the pond beyond the humps of bayberry – my favorite shrub (today, at least) – are silent as a mountain range: such a subtle profile against a sky that goes from dawn to blue. The roses stir, the grapevine at one end of the deck shakes and turns its youngest leaves so they show pale and flower-like. A redwing blackbird pecks at the grass; another perches on a bush. Another way, a millionaire’s white chateau turns its flank to catch the risen sun. No other houses, except this charming one, alive with paintings, plants and quiet. I haven’t said a word. I like to be alone with friends. To get up to this morning view and eat poached eggs and extra toast with Tiptree Goosberry Preserve (green) -and coffee, milk, no sugar. Jane said she heard the freeze-dried kind is healthier when we went shopping yesterday and she and John bought crude blu...