Tag Archives: Syracuse

Excerpts: Poems for Lorca

Today, I present two poems from the chapbook Poems for Lorca, written by the late Syracuse journalist Walt Shepperd. I discovered the collection in the small gift shop in ArtRage Gallery.

I mistakenly thought the title referenced Spanish poet Federico García Lorca. But in the dedication page, Walt wrote: “For my daughter Lorca.”

Poems for Lorca by Walt Shepperd.

I’ve read this first poem multiple times, and I still don’t understand its meaning. But the ambiguous nature makes me appreciate the work even more. The words first hit me when I flipped through the book while walking along Crouse Avenue after leaving ArtRage on a sunny spring day. I think the poem has a timeless, universal quality.

An Easement for the Highway in Your Mind

The tinder has dried
and bridges
roots
and the canvas
in the windowframes
of someone else’s yesterdays
smolder
from sparks
carried
on an imperceptible breeze
down a road
between
trees
and tents
and tenements
over timbers
charred beyond support
of tomorrow’s weight.

They say
you can’t go home again
and they are mostly wrong
but your return
must be guided
by bulldozer tracks
and burial mounds
and streams filled in
with silt
of ruins crumbling
from your backward glance.

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The second poem also has a great title and a sense of mystery.

I Dreamt I Took a Two Week Vacation
in an Audrey Hepburn Movie

I never wanted birthdays
and Christmas
and mother’s day
to be what now
it seems
they must become,
excuses for remembering
that time is now a luxury.

We build new worlds
and gather things
that patch the strands
that chafe our shells
that brace our memories
into barricades
that must stand by themselves
for time is now a luxury.

The things we gather
gather dust
the barricades
won’t stand a charge
the boxes burn
the seeds grow mold
the papers crumble in the new light,
and love becomes the luxury.

Shepperd, Walt. Poems for Lorca. W.D. Hoffstadt & Sons, 2012.

I intend to place the book in a Little Free Library in my neighborhood so another reader can appreciate Walt’s words.

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Nine Months Later

Today marks nine months since my surgery to remove a benign brain tumor on my pituitary gland. Although it’s not a major milestone, it’s tied to a once-in-a-lifetime event—seeing Bruce Springsteen in concert on April 18 in the JMA Wireless Dome in Syracuse.

The concert was originally scheduled for September 7, 2023, and I would have been in no condition during my recovery to climb the concrete steps to the upper rafters of the Dome in Section 336, Row Y. I transferred my ticket to a co-worker, but then the tour was sidelined due to Bruce’s peptic ulcer disease. I’d like to think some heavenly intervention permitted me to attend the rescheduled event in April in a fully restored state.

I went to the concert with my wife, Pam—a rare night out for us and a break for her as she completed her first full year in her occupational therapy assistant program at Bryant and Stratton College. We hired a babysitter and took a Lyft to the show, arriving before the gates opened.

The Dome’s muddy sound system threw me off as the concert began. Bruce’s opening number was “Lonesome Day,” but I couldn’t figure out the tune. I felt like an outfielder in baseball who can’t pick up the ball off the bat. The first song I recognized was “No Surrender,” and the sound quality seemed to improve as the concert wore on.

Bruce and the E Street Band played the anthemic classics, which I have been reliving through the miracle of YouTube: “Badlands,” “Backstreets,” “The Promised Land,” “Thunder Road,” and “Born to Run.”

Up in the nosebleeds, an exuberant middle-aged woman with long, dark hair kept bumping me as she swayed, stomped her feet, clapped her hands, and pumped her fists. She kept apologizing, but I didn’t care about the incidental physical contact. I appreciated the pure joy she displayed, and we formed a bond through our mutual love of the music.

After “Born to Run” finished with a flourish, we shared a two-word conversation—screamed into each other’s ears.

I turned to her and said, “Amazing.”

“Right!” she said.

I hardly go to concerts, and I can’t remember the last stadium concert I attended. It may have been when I saw Bruce in Phoenix in 2002 during The Rising Tour. I went alone to America West Arena during the sweltering heat of August.

A Syracuse woman posted on Facebook that she didn’t enjoy the show because of the behavior of the people around her. And I know a debate persists about proper concert etiquette. As for me, I love it when fans dance and shout the lyrics at the top of their lungs. I mean, if you can’t let loose at a rock concert, where can you? They’re not serving tea and finger sandwiches. I think your ticket should come with a warning like “buyer beware … this isn’t your living room,” and I sang many songs, my voice growing hoarse as the night continued.

Music provides bookmarks for people’s lives. Fans connect songs to significant moments in their lives. Bruce’s music sustained me during my darkest days when I was consumed by loneliness, shame, and self-hatred.

So when Bruce belted out the words to “The Promised Land,” I joined him and thousands of others in screaming:

Blow away the dreams that tear you apart,
Blow away the dreams that break your heart,
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing
But lost and brokenhearted …

And I didn’t care that my voice was way off-key.

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When Words Fail

While walking in my neighborhood yesterday, I visited the memorial site for five-year-old Nefertiti “Neffy” Harris, who was allegedly beaten to death by her mother in January. The girl’s remains were discovered last month in a field behind an apartment building off Salt Springs Road in Syracuse. People have left balloons, stuffed animals, signs and religious candles at the spot.

Memorial site for Neffy Harris.

On this spring day, birds chirped and pinwheels spun in the breeze. And the bright sunlight, blue sky and peaceful sounds gave me a feeling of tranquility while I reflected on the horrific circumstances of Neffy’s death.

Yet words seem futile when trying to process the murder of a young child whose voice is now silent. There’s nothing you can say to make this situation less tragic. My only hope is that Neffy is in a better place. As I walked away, I also considered the mother’s situation, and the thought that popped into my head was, “Everyone is redeemable.”

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Ralph Rotella: The Sole of Syracuse

I’m happy to announce that my indie documentary short Ralph Rotella: The Sole of Syracuse, co-directed by my talented Syracuse University colleague Shane Johnson, will premiere at the Redhouse on Friday afternoon as an official entry of the Syracuse International Film Festival.

As many people in Central New York already know, Ralph is an amazing character with a generous heart, and it was a blast learning more about him.

After walking past his shop almost every day for the past few years, I felt compelled to go inside and talk to him. Inspired by Studs Terkel’s book Working, I wanted to do a mini doc to answer two questions: 1) Do people still get their shoes repaired in the 21st century 2) Can this man actually earn a living through shoe repair alone (taking into account the high cost of a downtown office building lease)? Or does he need an alternate income to survive?

Ralph Rotella hammering a heel. Photo Credit: Shane Johnson.

Ralph was a tough interview, and it was a challenge stringing together a narrative based on his terse sound bites, quips, and comedic digressions. And the film I thought I was making turned into something slightly different. But that’s the beauty of documentary filmmaking; if you take the time to pay attention to your subject, the story will reveal itself to you.

Photo Credit: Shane Johnson.

And through Shane’s fine cinematography—as we observed a “day in the life” of the shop, cinema verité style—we captured authentic personal moments that illustrate the bond Ralph shares with his customers on a daily basis.

This is Ralph’s work bench. It’s my favorite frame from the film. Photo Credit: Shane Johnson.

And here’s a little teaser we prepared in anticipation of the premiere.

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Urban Exploration

I had a morning eye doctor’s appointment earlier this week. And I had some time to kill before the dilation drops rendered my eyes useless for the rest of the day. After getting off the bus at Washington Street near City Hall, I cut across Montgomery Street while making my way to Presidential Plaza.

St. Paul’s Church. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Brick wall with ivy. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Along the way, I snapped a few photos with my antiquated, battery-challenged iPhone 8, jotted down a quick poem about some feathered denizens of the Salt City, and captured a moment of tranquility on a sunny morning downtown.

I felt grateful for the opportunity to capture a myriad of sights and sounds the universe sent my way. It was another reminder to always pay attention to my surroundings and be on the lookout for creative inspiration. Here’s the poem I wrote. It required significant revision as it made the transition from my pocket notebook to my computer.

Bird Chatter

Three pigeons
perched on a wire.

What are they
talking about
on this bright,
sunny morning?

But their conversation
is restricted—not for
human interpretation.

And the chatter ends
when the birds
lift from the wire,
taking off in formation,

flapping their wings,
and sending feathers
twirling to the ground.

 

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Post-Surgery Update

I just wanted to give a quick update on my recovery. More than two weeks have passed since my brain surgery.

I had a follow-up appointment with my ENT surgeon yesterday. For the endoscopic debridement with suction, they stick a probe up your nose and suck out the junk, but I’ll spare you the gory, bloody details.

The last time I had this in-office procedure after the same transsphenoidal surgery in 2011, the surgeon maneuvered the probe too close to my brain stem and I suffered the worst headache of my life.

It felt like a gorilla had grabbed my head and shook my skull like a coconut—side to side and front to back—until my brain swished around and undulated on the waves of cerebral spinal fluid. I almost couldn’t drive myself home afterward.

Hence, I was anticipating a similar experience yesterday. But after Dr. A. performed the procedure, I had only a mild headache throughout the day and into the night.

He also saw no signs of a CSF leak, so I feel incredibly grateful. Although my right peripheral vision loss hasn’t improved yet, I am getting stronger every day and anticipate returning to work before the end of the month.

Thank you very much for the kind words and continued prayers—they are helping me!

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Literary Words of Wisdom

While walking yesterday, I encountered the words of famous writers with connections to Syracuse. The quotes were hung on panels attached to a fence adjacent to Forman Park near downtown Syracuse. The Syracuse Writers Project is a public art project created by the Locus Design Group.

The stunning prose of Joyce Carol Oates, an alumna of Syracuse University, captured my attention, and the excerpt from her 2002 novel I’ll Take You There seemed suited for the overcast skies on a warmer-than-normal early January day.

Joyce Carol Oates’ quote, excerpted from I’ll Take You There (2002, Ecco Press).

Joyce Carol Oates’ quote, as part of The Syracuse Writers Project.

Tree and sky. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Other writers quoted include Twilight Zone creator and Syracuse native Rod Serling; F. Scott Fitzgerald, who resided in Syracuse as a child; the late Syracuse University alums Shirley Jackson and Lou Reed; the late poet, short story writer and creative writing professor Raymond Carver, who taught at SU; and the late writer Toni Morrison, who once lived in Syracuse while working as an editor.

Rod Serling quote.

F. Scott Fitzgerald quote.

Shirley Jackson quote.

Toni Morrison quote.

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Books for Sale Locally

Two of my books, Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems and Outward Arrangements: Poems are available in the Local Authors section in Parthenon Books, the new bookstore located on Salina Street in Syracuse. I stopped by Sunday morning and was excited to see the books lining the shelf, in company with works by other Central New York writers.

Books on display.

 

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Urban Sculpture Mystery

While walking to work this morning, I noticed a new bronze sculpture parked in a traffic median, blending in with some trees, along a busy stretch of Genesee Street.

Unnamed urban sculpture. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

The male figure is wearing glasses and carrying scientific or mathematical equipment. Two words at the base of sculpture—“Inventive Spirit”—offer no further details about the piece. No artist name is listed.

Inventive Spirit. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

I wish I knew some background about the piece and the artist who crafted it. But the mystery also appeals to me.

Sculpture along Genesee Street in Syracuse. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

When I first saw the sculpture, the person who jumped into my mind was Tom Jones.

Tom Jones.

If nothing else, the encounter inspired me to listen to some Tom Jones tunes on shuffle on Amazon Music. I forgot what a booming, masculine voice he possesses, and I embraced the nostalgic feelings he stirred in me. Hearing his songs reminded me of my parents and a 1970s living room scene with me camped in front of a boxy TV set. And I hit replay on”Green Green Grass of Home” at least three times.

 

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Night at the Ballpark

Here I am, back to the blog. It’s been so long. I apologize for the absence, but I’ve been preoccupied with work, family, and side creative endeavors (which I will keep private to prevent jinxing the results). And now summer has ended, and a new semester is unfolding on the campus of Syracuse University.

NBT Bank Stadium. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

I have one note worth sharing. My family and I attended a Syracuse Mets game for the first time this August. My father used to take me to Syracuse Chiefs games at the old MacArthur Stadium, and I was impressed with the confines of NBT Bank Stadium, the ease of parking, the friendliness of the stadium workers, and the blue and orange color scheme in keeping with the New York Mets affiliation.

Mr. Met image on a stairwell at NBT Bank Stadium. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

My wife Pam and I debated taking our autistic son Colin to the ballpark, but in the end, we decided exposing him to the experience of a live baseball game on a perfect summer night was worth the risk of potential outbursts. We feel it’s worth trying new things with him, even though we endure stress, frustration, and humiliation when he acts out. Our hope is he grows more comfortable in public settings.

Colin sitting in the stands on the first-base line. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

And on this night, he fared well. He ate French fries, popcorn, and mini brownie muffins (brought from home). He paid no attention to the action on the field, and when the crowd roared, he unleashed high-pitch screams, drawing the attention of other fans. We left in about the fourth inning with the Buffalo Bisons leading the Mets by several runs. But we considered the evening a minor victory and felt encouraged to attend another game in the future.

Pam and Colin outside NBT Bank Stadium. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

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