A Collection of Images and People from SWP Naropa Week 1, June 2010

It has been awhile, but the memories are growing. I hope to have more serious reflection in the future, but if not, know this was a wonderful time and experience, Life changing, Life giving, and FUN!  Peace, ko shin, Bob Hanson   Come with me next summer to Naropa!

One more thing...

If you are on Face Book, befriend me at Bob Ko shin Hanson and there is a full set of pictures on Naropa and this week.

Heading Home

I have a recording of my part in the student reading if anyone wants to hear it email me or leave a comment here and I will get it to you.

Saturday's Faulty was great. Jaime Manrique, my teacher read from his new, unpublished but finished novel. I need to figure out a way to drop them here some day. This whole week ended on a very high note. Naropa is quite a place.


Sunday evening, final packing, a day of final goodbye's, and begin to unpack all the memories, leanings, ideas and hopes. This has been a wee of remembering the important role of poetry and the poet in our world. This has been a week of training in engaged poetics in the spirit of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and so many others. I was reminded many times of Ed Sanders, one of the Beats. I had a writing week-end with him and the River Mountain Monastery in Mt Temper NY one time, what a character.

I will be adding to this blog for some time. I hope some of you comment so we can start a conversation. share some of your poetry. y the way next June, beginning around the 12th I will be in Boulder, hopefully or a month. Hope to see you before then.

I am sorry for the double text in the last comment, cannot figure how that happened.

Peace and a good sleep ko shin Bob Hanson from Naropa

Ranting: Second Draft Thursday June 17, 2010, ko shin, Bob Hanson Tuesday, June 15, 2010 10:22 AM Ranting, hell, why should I, or you for that matter Have you seen the water marks in houses in New Orleans The birds covered with Oil The foundations of a house near the Gulf, nothing left but memento's lined on the foundation, a football Helmet, some jewelry, a doll or two, ruined by the water and wind. Little sisters dress is just hanging on a hanger in one of the few barren trees left. People at the convention center, hungry, thirsty for water and attention, compassion, dying while the feds sit on their hands, and do nothing... No compassion, no love, just power is all that speaks to our leaders, even our new liberating ones these days… Remembering one mild January night, later, coming out of the subway near the place where the towers once stood, turned left and was stopped by wire fences holding back tons of cement, and remains, we will never know. It was foggy like, even under the streets, a haze of remains, and dust and left over's from the horrific fall, I walked right up to the pit that late evening, no tourist barriers yet thank God. I heard the bell and silence as another piece of human flesh was found, or maybe more, then covered with an American flag and carried away. The large trucks and their loads of steel, and who knows maybe more remains, we will never know… Ranting, hell, why should I, or you for that matter Picture this scene, a father placing his small son on the makeshift bed in the one room that is left of their home, covering him with a thin, torn blanket. "Daddy, why are there holes everywhere on the wall, why is there no ceiling in our toilet? What does one say? His wife could not get through the check points and lost her last baby, what do you say? His oldest son bring home an empty rocket shell, it has made in the USA, not China. Why not throw stones? Where is the hope? Ranting, hell, why should I, or you for that matter The USA is still studying the killing of Buddhist Monks in Burma, by a Nazi like government, still supported in some ways by the USA & corporations here, the freedom loving USA, the nine martyrs of the freedom boat killed in international waters, we must study the facts. Ranting, hell, why should I, or you for that matter I am tired of ranting, first CORE in the 60's, Housing Marches in Milwaukee, Birmingham, Dr King, Bob and John, Che by the ICA, the three students working for voting right of Blacks, on and on, I understand the language of Malcolm, Amiri Baraka, Mandela. I enjoy the rough language of some of the poets here, but where does ranting for the sake of being cool and angry take us? More of the same. I have heard the rants of the 60's I gave some good ones, profanity is wonderful, but where does this ranting take us? The bullet holes in the walls, the rocket made in the USA, the murder of freedom fighters in the name of my or your way of thinking… Another empty farm house, once alive with family, kids, pets, now the buildings stand empty, the corporations move in, destroy the family, the spirit of rural communities and steal from the earth for their pockets of gold…it seems to never end. Is there another rant? One that points to healing, justice, and peace for all creatures…maybe in seventy years I have found it is easier to rant than to build, a momentary climax to destroy rather than give life. Ranting, hell, why should I, or you for that matter

Ranting: Second Draft Thursday June 17, 2010, ko shin, Bob Hanson
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
10:22 AM

Ranting, hell, why should I, or you for that matter

Have you seen the water marks in houses in New Orleans

The birds covered with Oil

The foundations of a house near the Gulf, nothing left but memento's lined on the foundation, a football Helmet, some jewelry, a doll or two, ruined by the water and wind.

Little sisters dress is just hanging on a hanger in one of the few barren trees left.

People at the convention center, hungry, thirsty for water and attention, compassion, dying while the feds sit on their hands, and do nothing...

No compassion, no love, just power is all that speaks to our leaders, even our new liberating ones these days…

Remembering one mild January night, later, coming out of the subway near the place where the towers once stood, turned left and was stopped by wire fences holding back tons of cement, and remains, we will never know.

It was foggy like, even under the streets, a haze of remains, and dust and left over's from the horrific fall,

I walked right up to the pit that late evening, no tourist barriers yet thank God. I heard the bell and silence as another piece of human flesh was found, or maybe more, then covered with an American flag and carried away. The large trucks and their loads of steel, and who knows maybe more remains, we will never know…

Ranting, hell, why should I, or you for that matter

Picture this scene, a father placing his small son on the makeshift bed in the one room that is left of their home, covering him with a thin, torn blanket. "Daddy, why are there holes everywhere on the wall, why is there no ceiling in our toilet?

What does one say? His wife could not get through the check points and lost her last baby, what do you say?

His oldest son bring home an empty rocket shell, it has made in the USA, not China. Why not throw stones? Where is the hope?

Ranting, hell, why should I, or you for that matter

The USA is still studying the killing of Buddhist Monks in Burma, by a Nazi like government, still supported in some ways by the USA & corporations here, the freedom loving USA, the nine martyrs of the freedom boat killed in international waters, we must study the facts.

Ranting, hell, why should I, or you for that matter

I am tired of ranting, first CORE in the 60's, Housing Marches in Milwaukee, Birmingham, Dr King, Bob and John, Che by the ICA, the three students working for voting right of Blacks, on and on, I understand the language of Malcolm, Amiri Baraka, Mandela.

I enjoy the rough language of some of the poets here, but where does ranting for the sake of being cool and angry take us? More of the same. I have heard the rants of the 60's I gave some good ones, profanity is wonderful, but where does this ranting take us?

The bullet holes in the walls, the rocket made in the USA, the murder of freedom fighters in the name of my or your way of thinking…

Another empty farm house, once alive with family, kids, pets, now the buildings stand empty, the corporations move in, destroy the family, the spirit of rural communities and steal from the earth for their pockets of gold…it seems to never end.

Is there another rant? One that points to healing, justice, and peace for all creatures…maybe in seventy years I have found it is easier to rant than to build, a momentary climax to destroy rather than give life.

Ranting, hell, why should I, or you for that matter


Many more drafts will be necessary, the workshop group wrote some very helpful comments I will work on later...

Thursday, Socratic Rap on engaged poetics, and another Oral Tradition

During our workshop on this day we touched on ranting by reading Federico Garcia Lorca and Juana Ines de la Cruz,"I have a Dream" and wrote out own. The next blog will have my piece, "Ranting, Hell, why should I, or you, for that matter?"

We read on our own an essay by Lorca The Duende: Theory and Divertisement" "Duende" being the spirit that springs out of everything. It is more complex than that.Lorca, a Poet in NY" is a real necessary read. It is a reflection on being in Harlem at the time 0f the Crash for a year. He really hits it on the head as they say.

I wish I could speak more clearly on the interesting lecture we heard by Jennifer Moxley, but it was a bit adult if you know what I mean. The tile was: Head Notes; The Other Oral Tradition. Jennifer is one of many lesbian scholars and poets. Her reading Thursday night was powerul.

Anna Waldman let the first of four weekly "Socratic raps' where she shows video's and plays audio from the large Naropa archive and calls for conversation around the role of poetry in our lives, community and world There was a very moving piece on Charles Olson and good conversation and questions.

The Faculty Reading again was special.

Wednesday of the Summer Reading Program

There is always the meditation time that I appreciate. Wednesday was a somewhat free day so I biked around for most of the morning At noon Bobbie Louise Hawkins, one of the elder performance poets gave a very practical session on how to approach reading poetry in public and performance work. She was wonderful.

At 4pm we met with two men outside the Ginsberg Library and they talked about a project they have started a few years ago called Fallen Fruit Project. They map neighborhoods for fruit trees that hang over or our on public land, of course in many cases being wasted and pick the fruit in working with neighbors. They have an event called " a Jam festival" where hundreds of folks come to an art place and make Jam for all people.

Check out there site: www.fallenfruit.org it is quite interesting and fun.

The Scholarship Recipient''s Reading was Wednesday night and quite moving. Two Native students were very good and one woman read a series of poems about her dad's journey and theirs with Alzheimer's. I have recordings of these.

I was working on my reading for Friday night, and the second draft draft of the piece above. Hard to believe this week is half way.

Poetry Reading Tuesday Evening at Naropa

7:30 - 10pm Faculty Reading
Thalia Field, Ross Gay, Joanne Kyger, Linh Dinh, Bobbie Louise Hawkins
What a wonderful evening of many styles of poetry. I have a recording hopefully I can get it on here somehow.

The day was filled with our work shop in the morning after Meditation time. We were challenged after reading part of Sor juana ines de l Cruz's "First I Dream" and then Federico Garcia Lorca's "Cry to Rome (From the Tower of the Chrysler Building)" to write a rave and a rant. Not hard for me, I seem to be ranking all the time now, ha!

Lorca" Poet in NY is a powerful one, written in the year he spent in NYC at the beginning of the crash.

The Panel was good again
1-2:30pm Panel: Ethos of Culture in Prose
Laird Hunt (chair), Stephen Graham Jones, Jaime Manrique, Thalia Field, Bhanu Kapil

some real give and take around the issue of culture, race, poverty, I felt my teacher ws excellent when talking about his journey as a gay South American writer.

3-4pm Lecture by Joanne Kyger was good. She walked through the history of Buddhism and ended with its influence and presence in Poetry, at least in America. The gift of this event was it was given by one of the people who lived through pre Beat, Beat and up to today. She gave a powerful reading last night as well.

4:15-5:15pm Prose Chat with Jaime Manrique
This was fun to hear how he writes, thinks about writing and his life and activism. These are the sessions that leave many gifts in your bag and heart. Disciple, five years on a novel, writing everyday, and a freedom in writing poetry. When asked when he was the most relaxed, he answered "writing poetry". I look forward to his reading later this week. I hope to read for five minutes on Friday.

More today (Wed), not as heavy a schedule. Peace ko shin

Monday, Naropa Summer Writing Program, week one

Began with the picking up of our student card, a wonderful Meditation time and then our first workshop. I have mentioned it before: Dreams, "Voices," Visions, Riffs, Meditations, Rants lead by Jaime Manrique. He made a few opening remarks and gave us 40 minutes to write something about death ours or someone you know. He had us read a poem from the recent New Yorker, "THE BOOK OF THE DEAD MAN (VERTIGO)", PAGE 108, THE NEW YORKER, JUNE 14 & 21, 2010.

Needless to say the ten of us in the circle were wondering were this was gong to lead. We will come out of the four sessions this week with two creations, the second draft of our first is due tomorrow morning and I share it with you below. Jaime, is kind and helpful as we read our first tries, many unfinished in 40 minutes. This should be fun. So hold your nose, plug your ears, my offering....

How does it go? By ko shin, Bob Hanson, June 15, 2010, Naropa Summer Writing Program

How does it go?

It's not over until it’s over, right?

I remember Grandma Olson, when taken to their grave yard where she and grandpa were to be buried she said, "I don't know anyone here" my mom replied, "There is no coffee and cookies at 10 each morning here mom"

Is that true?  I hope not.

Not easy assignment, write about someone's death or mine, but it happens, death that is.

I have been with folks when they cross over, held my mom's hand and never believed this was it, Or Jim, blown away by a drug deal gone bad, his head spread with his body on the lawn in front of his mom's house, a bright summer morning. Is that all there is?

How many life times do we have?

Being buried in the cold, cold, ground - Hm, sounds good to me,

Just this morning I was thinking about being buried, although I want to be burned ashes thrown in Japan, WI and elsewhere,

I was thinking as I discovered my cell died, only works when plugged in, I would want my cell buried with me and I am going to call my wife and friends,

Won't they be surprised…?

The cold, cold ground, the worms, the roots from the trees, the floods that could send me swimming, at least I do not have to worry about drowning. I feel that sense of what it would be like to be eaten when you’re not there…

You have seen the sand on a beautiful shore; it is almost like each grain of sand is rolling up to your feet. So, as they spread my ashes, and the small bones that do not burn around the forest near my house, somewhere at Mt. Aso in Japan, the Island of Kyushu where I spend so many years, and where ever they like, each grain of me will meet the earth and be absorbed into the universe.

As you cannot even count the grains of sand on a clean beach, not in the Gulf right now, so, your grains of ash and mine only join the earth again.

The silence, like the woods around my home, no sound, then a bird, a cricket, a sand hill but silence.  The time to rehearse or to forget, I wonder.

Given the ash, no form, no content what about the next life?

Not the bull shit about heaven or eternal life or eternal heat & pain, but the next showed-upness, I often thought about being a sheep dog, but now I am not sure, just my ash and I...

Have you thought about showing up again, not in a new you, but in a new form, new being,

What will it be?

You know that old phrase, death where is your sting?

There ain't no pain buddy, I am not afraid of my dead time, however long it is, there is nothing to worry about, nothing to solve, just lay there or ash there and be silent

It is not over until it is over. Then it begins all over again, ash to ash, to ash, to ash...

[Neshkoro Pops in the tradition of American Pops- thanks Jack!]

Cold ground,

A stone with a name

That's it?

Hell no

I invited the worms

Yes, those fishing worms

To feast a bit,

For the body will disappear

The coffins float down the Mississippi

Where do they go? Heaven?

Yes, New Orleans!

Talk to the dead?

Why not

They finally hear you

Death, endings

Ground welcomes you

Wait, am I dead?

Can't you tell?

Reminds me of a mulch pile

Lots of worms

Funny you should ask

Strange you should care

I'm gone, bye!

Join me?

The rest of the day was formed by a panel lead by Anna Waldman on Personal Ethos: Coteries, Infrastructure, and Gossip.  What was fun abut this one is the history of the Beat movement and pre-Beat movement, Joanne Kyger was part of the birth in the SF area. David Trinidad is a researcher and added some very funny things about Gossip and the role it played with the Beats and their followers, showing up in their poems as well.

The 3pm Lecture for MFA students was by a Professor from Denver U, Brian Kiteley on "Narrative Spaces between Sentences" Even used Kierkegaard as an example a few times. Very technical but helpful. 

They give you old bikes for free to use while here, so I did some exploring on a bike that fits Anika and William better then me, but it's free and it gets me around. A Lot better than walking. 

I am tired, excited and wish I had come for the month, next year! I suppose you might say that most of the stuff here is over my head or not tools I will use in the last 40, but the the place, the spirits of 37 years and more of great and crazy writers is worth the price many times over. The energy here, the young people, the excitement about our world, caring for it, and being artists blows your mind. Anna invited us many times as we began, "If there is something you want to do, organize, create, do it, that is what Naropa is about." Dam, no one ever said that at St.Olaf, or Luther Seminary, not in that spirit. But those places and my journey as strange and wonderful as  it has been brings me right to this MOMENT! I thank the Gods!

Oh we saw the sun and the mountains today, their hope for more tomorrow, and 90 degree weather by the end of the week.  Sleep well my friends...please comment if you visit the blog, we might even have a conversation.

37 years, opening ceremony at Naropa

Ann Waldman, one of the co-founders of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics opened this 37th year of the summer writing program at Naropa with a wonderful statement about flying out here with Allen and others to start this creative tradition 37 summers ago. The hall was filled with students of all ages, form many places. We each introduced ourselves and were asked to say something about how the oil spill touched us, very moving words, wow!

Ann's book on "The Beats at Naropa" took on new meaning for me, getting to meet and talk to her a bit. She will be at Woodland Pattern in Milwaukee in the fall to celebrate their 30th year of serving the poetry community not only in WI but here as well.

I am excited. This is going to be fun and more. The energy of people from 17-90 is something. Yes, there are a group of 4-6 in the 70-90 club. Of course no one listens to us here either, well that is not true of course. I will get a chance to read some of my stuff and publish one poem....fun!

More tomorrow as we meet our teacher, mine at least, Jamie Manrique, as we look at "Dreams, Voices, Visions, Riffs, Meditations Rants" in Literature and poetry. Good night!

thank you sister Juana - god of the seeds, why not,

Well, this play would do well somewhere as we reflect on how badly Christianity  has done working with the  other. You know this missionary stuff. I have just finished a collection of work by a 17th century lady, born in 1848 or 1851 depending on who you want to believe. A scholar and an intellect and of some means. She entered a convent to focus on her writing and thought. She chose to invest in her scholarship and the Bishop came down n her. The collection I have read is Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz Poems, Protest, and a Dream.   This is a Penguin Classic ( for Roger- ISBN 978-0-14-044703). The section that blew me away was a short play she wrote, depicting the invasion of Spanish Catholic Missionaries to dam the rituals of the god of Seeds, which point to the gods of the Aztec. Huitzilopochtli was the most powerful of the gods of Tenochitlan. Central Mexico City we know today was where the altars was built in honor of the gods.

Here is "zeal" speaking to the representatives of the Mexican people ""I am Zeal. Whence your surprise? For when Religion you would scorn with practices of vile excess, the Zeal must enter the scene (representative of the TRUE GOD) to castigate your wickedness, I am a Minister from God"  Reminds me of some of my clergy colleagues, "the suits" who tried to move us back to the 19th century at our synod gathering, asking the EL CA to undo  their liberating actions of last August.  The characters of the Mexican people do not back down, but lay out the sham that the Spanish church forces on her people. Now you know why she is under attack from the Bishops of being too smart, "your a lady you know" is his word.

the conversation on the Eucharist is interesting, the body and blood of the Christ vs. human sacrifice. The loving God of the Spanish that allowed  so many of her people, Mexicans to die in the quest...

This drama would be great for our present Pope and others who do not have a clue how to operate in the 21st century in this wonderful diverse spiritual universe we are part of these days. The name of the play is: Loa for the auto sacremental The Divine Narcissus - through allegories, pages 195-239, in Spanish and English.


Rain, rain stop for awhile, have a good day and watch out for the Zeal's around you.  Peace ko shin

I'm Here! Where is here?

Who hears the tree fall in the forest?

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

Where's Jack, Allen and all those folks? Dead some say,

Their spirit is here, Dharma bums they are, aren't we all...

Oops, I am in Boulder at last, cold, windy, fog and some rain, snow in the mountains

Dorm room, plain, two roomies in the next room,

more fun to come, join me on the blog from the dharma bum from Neshkoro

Good night all      ko shin