About mickeypamo

I danced with the Harkness Ballet of New York from 70 to 73. I continued to dance till I was 50 when I was waylaid by 4 hip surgeries from 2007 to 2011, leaving me chronically ill, but content. After getting a bachelor's and master's in English (1989 and 1992 respectively), I started, in my last few years of dance, to use my writing with solo choreography, ie., performance art stuff. I've worked at University of Cincinnati' College-Conservatory of Music as Director of Publications, completely revamping their alumni magazine; at UC's Center for Women's Studies as Publications Coordinator; and at Morehead State University as Director of Publications and Printing Services. My current home-publishing service (for book design, editing, promotional work, etc., since 1997) is http://TheKarmaPress.com. I concentrated on poetry in university. I read Karma Tarot cards from a Tibetan Buddhist perspective in Cincinnati, OH. I continue to dance in my heart and my hands and anything else still moving after 4 hip replacements . . . like most aging dancers. I continue to seek compassion and wisdom, and will do so till I transform out of this lifetime . . . and beyond

An adaptation of Jean Genet from his “The Thief’s Journal”

#4 red in the water–by Gertrude Abramson

Creating is not a somewhat frivolous game. The creator has committed herself to the fearful adventure of taking upon herself, to the very end, the perils risked by her creatures (creations). We cannot suppose a creation that does not spring from love. How can a woman place before herself something as strong as herself which she will have to scorn or hate? But the creator will then charge herself with the weight of her characters’ (creations’) sins. Jesus became woman. She expiated. Later, like God, after creating women, She delivered them from their sins: She was whipped, spat upon, mocked, nailed. That is the meaning of the expression “She suffers in her flesh.” Let us ignore the theologians. “Taking upon Herself the sins of the world” means exactly this: experiencing potentially and in their effects all sins; it means having subscribed to evil.

Every creator must thus shoulder–the expression seems feeble–must make her own, to the point of knowing it to be her substance, circulating in her arteries, the evil given by her, which her heroes (creations) choose freely. We (the many men and women in Genet) wish to regard this as one of the many uses of the generous myth of Creation and Redemption. Though the creator grants her characters (creations) free will, self determination, she hopes, deep down in her heart, that they will choose Good. Every lover does likewise, hoping to be loved for her own sake. . . .

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Happy Inter-dependence

Happy Interdependence Day! Love each other!
–photo by CMR

Happy Independence from America! 

Today I celebrate my independence from the ugliness

of America’s past

declare my disconnection from its rigid spirit,

my independence from its caustic politics,

and claim my ancestry among those who reveled in the woods,

the mountains,

the lakes,

the stones,

the trees

of this magnificent continent.

OK.

I am an American.

Among the Chippewa, the Sioux, the Lakota . . . the Micks

from Ireland.

We are of them.

We honor what they honor,

and so,

we are Americans.

Silent Expressions: Cincinnati Ballet, c.1990

–photos by mickey [Michele] morgan

I did my best, and I know I’ve made errors here, so help me out, Cincinnati Ballet Veterans! (many thanks to Rene Micheo)

Trinidad Vives and the late Antonio Souza in “Swan Lake”
Ben Stevenson’s “Cinderella”
Daniella Buson and Marcello Angelini in Ben Stevenson’s “Three Preludes”
Marcello Angelini and Daniella Buson in Ben Stevenson’s “Cinderella”
Mauricio Wainrot’s “Anne Frank”

Tuesday

Piet Mondrian, 1909

The birds are beautiful today. I remember no other day have they sung such an integrated symphony. Then I hear why:

“Who’s responsible for cleaning up this dead thing?” “Uh. I dunno . . . yeh, ‘t’s a dead bird, I guess.”

The winged beauties circled wide and high above their lost child . . . and sang and cried to each other all morning.

The Act of Witnessing

girl-with-green-shawl-moise-kisling-1919

“Girl with Green Shawl”–Moise Kisling, 1919

The Act of Witnessing

 

She faces the settled form;

densely bound beneath an auburn down,

olive skin like mama’s belly

curves and cups bulb

eyes that seem so ready

to roll out wetly,

not competently contained

by fences of thick thorn lashes;

filament fingers flutter above

the hollow curve of loss.

Words form by compression—

the bend of the torso,

down and in, then out,

suspended for a moment—

mauve lips are fragile vines.

Words spill, scattering

as does she as she

gathers

chestnut crystals.

To Villa Pamphili

woman in red dress standing on gray road

Photo by Oliver Sjöström on Pexels.com

To Villa Pamphili

 

Start running

from the door

up the steps

urine smell

of cats

to the corner.

Garbage

spills to gutters

and the sidewalks

stain with grease.

Run past the curb

to the other,

up the pavement

to the station

where the boxer

growing old,

and now retired

pumps his gas,

flatters men

he doesn’t like 

yet bows a formal

“Ciao!”

to a woman

running forward

wanting back

all the body

 she once had.

 

Rhythm though

monotonous,

she knows she

must stay with it,

jog to find

an equili-

brium and make it

past the stores

with their trinkets,

and the cars

buzz like gnats,

shrill her ears,

fill her lungs

with veils of fumes.

Buses

packed with bodies,

bunched up stems,

bouquets 

of stinking weeds.

 

And run

past the church

that is empty

always empty

save for hefty

black-shawled

rosaried women,

stub hair back,

short.

Stockings

slide in shoes

worn from shopping,

cooking, cleaning,

stooping, taking

care to serve.

Hurry 

to the villa

up ahead.

 

Walls

shot with holes

of cannonballs

from the time of Garibaldi.

Outside.

That’s the outside.

And the ramp

will take her inside

Enter

through the portal.

Jog

to the open, to the garden

that has been here while she was running.

Feel the pulse receding as she leaves what’s

outside, slowing breathing, walking over bones sedate

in their rest, birds, squirrels, chipmunks.

Water flows over rocks, obedient to no

force but their own. She lies down with them.

Cincinnati Millenials Die-in and Protest in 1991 . . . and the beat goes on

photos by mickey morgan

1991 protest A
1991 protest B
1991 protest C
1991 protest D
1991 protest E

A Die-In,

sponsored by students of the Univ. of Cincinnati’s Center for Women’s Studies

1991 protest F
1991 protest G
1991 protest H
1991 protest I
1991 protest J
1991 protest K
1991 protest M
1991 protest N

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