|
|
|
19th & 20th December, 2005
San Sebastian Strings
albums now available on CD! Order
now!
|
|
Photo by Edward McKuen 9/24/2005
A Thought for Today
It is not possible to love fully and not
be in receipt of more than you have given.
FROM the¨BOOKS
Christmas Now
There's tinsel in the town already
and wreaths so fragile
that I doubt they'll last
through Christmas Eve.
There was a time
when I was bothered by
commercial Christmas
starting in on All Saints Eve.
But now I welcome each reminder,
however early or ill-timed,
of that sweet saviors birth.
For if we ever needed Christ's
and quiet Christmas men,
there is no time when
they should be more welcome
than just now.
Each reminder -
carols of an evening,
trees trucked early into town,
merchandise in mad array
in downtown windows,
even plastic garlands
strung across every city street -
should only serve to prod us
into friendship and the fantasy
of goodness
set down clearly by the mystery
we chose to name as God.
Man can always use reminders,
be they old or new names
served as recipes for love. -from Women's Day, 1968
NINETEEN SIXTY-THREE: TOMORROW
I know that love is running in the snow.
I cannot see it but it's there.
As sure as caterpillars tunnel in the leaves
and winter weight bogs down the trees.
And so I search the highways and the hills.
There was a time
when bar talk and Bartok did the job
and I would hurry home -
a stranger in my arms or in my thoughts
to be content with San Francisco rain.
You'd be surprised
the way the dripping rain from rooftops
can ease a man from out himself
and into sun.
We're all older now,
This past year we have lost Piaf's smile,
Kennedy's promises
and Cocteau's jokes on everyone
( he said the ship was going down - remember. )
The year turns home.
Maybe tomorrow.
-from "Twelve Years of Christmas," 1969
Click
on the Stanyan House logo to buy Rod McKuen books, CD's and lots more
Click on the heart logo to
subscribe to the Rod McKuen mailing list
Catch Rod McKuen live!
Click on the links below for details of
concerts and appearances.
ROD McKUEN
CONCERTS
ROD
McKUEN APPEARANCES
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
Monday
19 December
Jennifer Beals o
Marianne Faithful o
Janie Fricke o
Jean Genet o
Daryl Hannah o
Elaine Joyce o Al
Kaline o
Richard Leakey o
Alvin Lee o
Amy Locane o
Albert A. Marks o
Alyssa Milano o
Edith Piaf o
Tim Reid o
Fritz Reiner o
Sir Ralph Richardson o
Jessica Steen o
David Susskind o
Nan Talese o
Cicely Tyson o
Robert Urich
And special wishes to Lynda McClelland
who hits the half century mark today.
Tuesday
20 December
Jenny Agutter o
Anita Baker o
Billy Bragg o
Hortense Calisher o
Charlie Callas o
Gigliola Cinquetti o
Irene Dunne o
Harvey Firestone o
Uri Geller o
Gordon Getty o
Nadine Gordimer o
Charlie Grapewin o
George Roy Hill o
John Hillerman o
Max Lerner o
Mala Powers o
Janet Reed o
Branch Rickey o
Chris Robinson o
Patti Smith o
Angel Tompkins o
Audrey Totter o
Kim Weston |
|
 |
|
The business of autumn is letting it lie where it falls. The
business of man is picking up himself and every member of his family who stumbles in the
yellow leaves.
I have no quarrel with your lovers, only admiration for their
taste.
If we go to beds of
boredom knowingly, we deserve the ill attention we receive.
|
|
THE DAYS OF THE DANCING, 1980 |
|
I cannot imagine thinking
more of love fifteen years ago
than I do today.
In the cushioned boardroom,
aeroplaning place to place,
walking, riding, flying.
In the X-ray room
or beneath the dentist’s drill,
in my living room -
still tongue-tied when friends
bring strangers to my house –
love is still the bell that goes on
ringing, singing in my head.
In rooms and out of rooms
beneath the sky and in it
love dominates all thoughts
and sometimes supercedes
true thinking.
All the songs are different,.
those of others and my own.
Titles and a snatch of tune
are for reference only.
And younger days
are sometimes yesterday,
this morning or within the hour.
Beretta’s now a mime
in New York City -
lovely as a princess,
though dressed up as a prince.
The lark still lives within her
and if he seldom sings
when he does, the melody
is more than music, even magic.
There are no Silver Dollar bars
in San Francisco
and thus no jackpots to be won.
Hustling is now an industry,
not done in shadows .
and finally, if one goes back
no Wasserman, need be practiced.
Legions must thank God for that,
I do.
Loving is even less collective.
Across the bay the cult of self
has reached proportions laughable
to some, and sad to more.
Still hardly anyone
dies from lack of love
if his dying place contains
a mirror.
The days of the dancing,
six feet apart
has now been so refined
that bouncer’s battle crowds
who come to die in discos..
These deaths are orchestrated
by Rubel, Regine and rhythm-sections
loud enough to make aspirins
unnecessary
and elevate the headache
onto a plane above mere pain.
Abercrombie’s split
with Fitch.
Sears wouldn’t speak
to Roebuck if he could.
To send a telegram
down the nearest street
requires a phone call out of state.
Communication ? Well,
there’s public access television
and the want ads too.
But what we want
we do not find
or those of us who do
protect our newfound treasures
as we used to sheath
our ducktail pocket combs.
When I think of love,
and I do all the time,
I think if I had
one more lover
I’d be satisfied forever.
Age hasn’t made my mind up
but how I’ve practiced
all
these years
I feel I could be good now.
I know I’m finally ready.
I worry too
that in this headlong
stumble forward
perhaps I missed the great love
or brushed aside
and didn’t pay attention
to the moment -
in my eagerness to investigate
new moments up ahead.
Sometimes it’s easy.
Love isn’t practiced
only thought about,
but then the need
like water to the driest land
overtakes me and I’m done.
Just now
want is such a heavy mantle
I’d sign away my eyes
if they’d had a final look
on someone I knew
would be there too,
and waiting,
within whatever darkness comes.These are the days of
the dancing
I now know every step
and I am eager to learn others
if that will help.
Steve always waves me past the buffaloes
and into green grass.
The music’s on a slippery slide
the lights are flashing faster
than a pulse beat.
It’s up to me
to not be carried
too far off by Gloria
and all the glitter.
I too can say I will survive.
I must. For even as the years
add up
I know that something waits.
There are no boundaries anymore
except one’s own good taste.
Pause in the dancing,
stop the speeding light,
try to remember to look around
it always worked before.
And so
it’s not the living
that’s important
re-living is the trick.
Remembering is the key
and that one passkey
unlocks all the locks.
I’m here. I’m trying.
Gloria’s got it ! I will survive.
For I have gone
beyond survival
to another plane
one that demands
a long reach backward
to pull through the rabbit hole
what I passed up
on the highway
or lost while sparring in the dance.
Happy the days
of the dancing
for they have all
turned into night.
The shadows are softer
and stars all twinkle
under clapboard skies,
but do not be mistaken
this is reality
as real as any you will find.
I’m moving straight ahead
it’s only that I’m finally learning
to look backward.
I see you.
Well, almost.
You have been
collected in my head
from all the things
I want and wanted.
I await your coming
like the tide
or some new moon.
I won’t forget
your first name this time.
I’ve practiced free association
till at last I’m free.
Bound by what I need
but free to have it
if I’ll try.
- from "Looking For A Friend", 1980 |
|
|
|
|
