Render
poems by Joseph Zaccardi
Published by Poetic Matrix Press
87 pages, price $15.50
ISBN 978-0-9824276-1-3
Description
The Book
Render is a work that travels the path of a man who has seen the tragedies of life and searched through them to find the art of understanding.
The Love comes through
level of contemplation...depth…tender...connection...
serious...touch...dignified...compassion...arms wide...
horizon...dig into earth...reach sky...hands into the soil
of the world...buddhist sensibility...the love comes through.
These words have connotations for each of us in our daily life. In this instance,
the common thread is the poetic writing of Joseph Zaccardi. I was introduced to
Mr. Zaccardi through three exquisite poems he submitted to Poetic Matrix Press and
its online periodic lettR (see online lettR 2 in the Poetic Matrix archives) and
placed in this volume. "Tea Ceremony," "Search" and "Mulberry Leaves and the Apple
Garden" implied to me a depth of understanding of Chinese poetry and sure enough,
Joe has extensive study and translation in this area. His poetry excited me, exactly
because I had no experience with this area of poetry.
— James Downs, from the preface
Joseph Zaccardi
Fairfax, California poet Joseph Zaccardi is Associate Editor of the Marin Poetry Center Anthology. He teaches Transformations: a Poetry Tutorial, and volunteers at the Rafael Convalescent Hospital reading to individual residents. His poems have appeared in Seattle Review, Runes, Southern Poetry Review, Baltimore Review and elsewhere. He received a grant from the Marin Arts Council in 2003 for his first book, Vents, which was published in 2005.
From Render:
| Sea Willow | From Baker Beach to the Golden Gate |
|---|---|
|
I think of sand, how it reforms in the wind. Think of wind, the formless. I have come back to the windiest point in North America, to the light- house and the lens floating in a drum of quicksilver. And recall the Japanese pilots of World War II, flying Zeros, their vision so precise they could locate stars in the day, using locked points in the sky as guides. And I think of the sounds and shapes when we weren't here. No fingers for sand to slip through, no voices. And what of after? After we're gone. Old thoughts really. Today's noon falters as I walk back to my car parked between white lines. I turn to look again at the bare sea willow, the empty sand. |
Here the walking is good, the topography giving under my feet, and miles of wet life overlapping. A stiff breeze blurs. I top the sand dunes by taking three steps to gain two, walk between parked cars that look like graveyard mausoleums, to the two-lane road. On one side, the army housing of the Presidio, on the other, ragged ocean, choppy cliffs. It will take me an hour to get to the bridge, another fifteen minutes to reach midspan. Already I can hear the hum of traffic, the low growl of baywater rushing under and out. My thoughts wander to the last time I was here, nine or ten years ago, making subtle shifts to memory, rewriting the day colder, inking treelines as stark as pitch against a gray sky. I am changing things. Pulling the disparate together: those who leapt, those who walked away, and the man who wrote in his suicide letter that he wouldn't jump if only one person smiled at him. I reach midpoint, the two towers holding steel cables, I lean over the rail, sing to the blue-green gods, to the quiet below. |