A Fes&val of Poetry Winter 2017 Poetry Jazz Slam Poets Recita&on Ask the Poet Art Wit Wisdom
This Love This love is a good as oil and honey to the throat, as linen to the body, as fine raiments to the gods, as incense to the worshippers as they enter in, as this lihle seal ring to my finger. It is like a ripe pear in a man s hand, it is like the dates we mix with wine, it is like the seeds the baker adds to bread. We will be together even when old age comes and all the days in between will be food set before us, dates and honey, bread and wine.
How This Works First Hour Recita&on A Poet, a work, a lihle background Recordings of the poet Poetry/Jazz Slam Second Hour Visi&ng Poet Reading and Discussion Q&A
Jan 9: Kim Addonizio is the author of six poetry collec&ons, two novels, two story collec&ons, and two books on wri&ng poetry. She has received fellowships from the NEA and Guggenheim Founda&on, two Pushcart Prizes, and was a Na&onal Book Award Finalist. Her latest books are Mortal Trash: Poems and a memoir-in-essays, Bukowski in a Sundress. Addonizio also has two word/music CDs: Swearing, Smoking, Drinking, & Kissing (with Susan Browne) and My Black Angel. Jan 23: Al Young Widely translated, Al Young is the author of 25 books. These include The Blues Don t Change, Heaven, and Something About the Blues, novels and essay collec&ons. Appointed by Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, Young served as California s poet laureate from 2005 through 2008. Other honors include NEA, Fulbright, Guggenheim Fellowships, and the 2011 Thomas Wolfe Award. He is Dis&nguished Professor in the MFA in Wri&ng Program at California College of the Arts. Jan 30: Ma6hew Zapruder is the author most recently of Sun Bear, Copper Canyon, 2014. Why Poetry, a book of prose about poetry, is forthcoming from Ecco/Harper Collins in 2017. An Associate Professor and Director of the MFA Program in Crea&ve Wri&ng at Saint Mary s College of California, he is also Editor at Large at Wave Books, and Editor of the Poetry Column for the New York Times Magazine. He lives in Oakland, CA. Feb 6: Joan Baranow is Professor of English at Dominican University and director of the low-residency MFA program in Crea&ve Wri&ng. She is a Fellow of the Virginia Center for the Crea&ve Arts and member of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers. Her poetry has appeared in The GeFysburg Review, The Paris Review, Poetry East, JAMA, among others. Her book, Living Apart, was published by Plain View Press. She produced the PBS documentary Healing Words: Poetry & Medicine. The Time We Have is in post-produc&on. She is the winner of the Robinson Jeffers award. Feb 13: Michael McClure, the youngest of the Beat Genera&on poets, first read his poetry on the night in 1957 that Ginsberg read Howl. He is equally poet and playwrite and has authored 25 books -- novels, plays, essays, biography. He wrote the first version of Mercedes Benz which was popularized by Janis Joplin. A Flower Garland Buddhist. Father of humanitarian, Dr. Jane McClure and twice a grandfather. He lives in Oakland with his wife -- ar&st and sculptor Amy Evans McClure. Feb 27: Dawn McGuire is a neurologist/neuroscien&st and the author of four poetry collec&ons, including The Aphasia Café, winner of the 2013 Indie Award for Poetry, and American Dream with Exit Wound, forthcoming in May, 2017. She grew up in Eastern Kentucky and was educated at Princeton University, Union Theological Seminary, and the Columbia College of Physicians and Surgeons. She lives in the Bay Area where she directs a free clinic for AIDS pa&ents and military veterans with neurological problems. Mar 6: Dean Rader Dean Rader s debut collec&on of poems, Works & Days, won the 2010 T. S. Eliot Poetry Prize. Landscape Portrait Figure Form (2014) was named a Barnes & Noble Review Best Book of Poetry. He is the editor of 99 Poems for the 99 Percent: An Anthology of Poetry. Forthcoming in 2017 are a book of collabora&ve sonnets wrihen with Simone Muench, en&tled Suture (Black Lawrence Press) and Self-Portrait as Wikipedia Entry (Copper Canyon).
The prin&ng press has made poetry so silent that we ve forgohen the power of Poetry as oral messages. The sound of the streetsinger and the Salva&on Army Speaker are not to be scorned...
I Am Wai&ng hhps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6- FeqquMpPs Page 54, Capsule 2
Lawrence Ferlinghen Prominent voice in the wide-open poetry movement of the 1950 s. Has wrihen poetry, transla&on, fic&on, theatre, art cri&cism, film narra&on, and essays. Voice that went against the literary elite s defini&on of art and the ar&st s role. b. 1919, Yonkers, son of Carlo Ferlinghen from province of Breacia. U. of North Carolina, US Navy as ship s commander. Columbia masters degree, Sorbonne doctorate. San Francisco. Taught French. Wrote art cri&cism. Founded City Lights Bookstore, first all-paperback bookshop. City Lights Publishing. Pocket Poets Series dissident voices: Ginsberg, etc. Arrest on obscenity charges. Famous trial brought na&onal ahen&on to the San Francisco Renaissance and Beat Poetry. Established legal first amendment precedent for the publica&on of controversial work of redeeming value. Pain&ngs exhibited world-wide. George Krevesky Gallery. Coney Island of the Mind s&ll the most popular book of poetry in the U.S. Translated into 9 languages. 1,000,000 copies in print.
Ferlinghen Pain&ngs
9 See it was like this when we waltz into this place a couple of Papish cats is doing an Astec two-step And I says Dad let s cut but then this dame comes up behind me see and says You and me could really exist Wow I says Only next day she has bad teeth and really hates poetry
Apache Life Apache life in the Hill Country Texas State Historical Associa&on see, Apache Song p 66, Poems book 2
Na&ve American Poetry Joy Harjo, Muskogee Creek poet, says, The literature of the aboriginal people of North America defines America. It is not exo&c. The concerns are par&cular, yet oren universal. Poetry Founda&on: (Na&ve American poetry) bears historical witness, demonstrate the strength of the Na&ve American spirit, argue crucial poli&cal and social issues, while illumina&ng a vibrant cultural heritage. Indian Poetry embraces song-texts primarily, but also prayers, incanta&ons, and passages from myths, legends and chronicles.
The Power of Words The power of words: Words are magic, the user can seize control. Sharp coercive phrases like Listen, Be s&ll, Drink my blood, are typical of the style known as the formula. These words are designed to bring about the ac&on they describe. Animals and objects are imbued with dis&nc&ve personifying spirits. The Indian poet is not thought of as the originator but the conveyer of the poem. The origin is thought to come from spirits, dreams, ancestors, or to simply emerge from the underworld. Rothenberg points out that the other side of Indian spirituality is a sanc&oned irreverence: sacred clowns, tricksters, whose absurdity and black humor compliment the sense of harmony and order. What is at stake here is the survival of a sense of balance.
The Killer (Cherokee) Careful: my knife drills your soul listen, whatever-your-name-is One of the wolf people listen I ll grind your saliva into the earth listen I ll cover your bones with black flint listen I ll cover your bones with feathers listen I ll cover your bones with rocks.
Apache Blessing May the sun bring you energy by day, May the moon sorly restore you by night, May the rain wash away your worries, May the breeze blow new strength into your being. May you walk gently through the world and know its beauty all the days of your life.
Kim Addonizio
Firescribbling Transtrommer, p 5
Book 2 p, 76
Dream Song 4 Filling her compact & delicious body with chicken páprika, she glanced at me twice. Fain&ng with interest, I hungered back and only the fact of her husband & four other people kept me from springing on her or falling at her lihle feet and crying You are the hohest one for years of night Henry s dazed eyes have enjoyed, Brilliance.' I advanced upon (despairing) my spumoni. Sir Bones: is stuffed, de world, wif feeding girls.
Black hair, complexion La&n, jewelled eyes downcast... The slob beside her feasts... What wonders is she sinng on, over there? The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars. Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry. Mr. Bones: there is.
Dream Song 14 Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. Arer all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother told me as a boy (repea&ngly) Ever to confess you re bored means you have no Inner Resources. I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored. Peoples bore me, literature bores me, especially great literature, Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as Achilles, who loves people and valiant art, which bores me. And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag and somehow a dog has taken itself & its tail considerably away into mountains or sea or sky, leaving behind: me, wag.
The Curious Work of John Berryman Dream Songs is a post-modernist epic. It is the dreams of a character named Henry, a vaguely disguised stand-in for the poet himself, and is a mosaic of the mental life of its creator. Henry claims to have suffered many losses in his life and is trying to cure himself through the psychotherapy of wri&ng down his dreams, releasing all his long suppressed energies. It is art used for healing. The different songs are different stages in a long journey Postmodern literature is a form of literature which is marked, both stylis&cally and ideologically, by a reliance on such literary conven&ons as fragmenta&on, paradox, unreliable narrators, oren unrealis&c and downright impossible plots, games, parody, paranoia, dark humor and authorial self-reference.
Berryman was tortured by alcoholism, manic/depression and the ghost of his father. He had nightmares for seven years before wri&ng the Dream Songs. He uses allegory, baby talk, parody, dream language, the blather of a neuro&c outpouring of consciousness. He wanted each poem to be a damned serious humor and a gravity of maher with the gaiety of manner. His poetry was an effort to break away from the overintellectualized poetry of the day. The form of the poem varies but it is always one persona taking over from another, as in Henry and Mr. Bones. The poem almost shahers in front of you. In this way he uses the architecture of his words to imitate the disjointed nature of his own life. The lyric has assumed an intense purpose. As in all epics, the hero must go through many severe difficul&es before ahaining reconcilia&on with the life. In this case, the rescue is an internal adjustment that saves him. In his last Dream Song he finds himself in a wooden house that is made well.
Some Thoughts on Berryman from Cri&cs A commanding figure in what had come to be known as confessional poetry, for its seemingly raw autobiographical excava&on of alcohol and drugs, adultery and divorce, madness and hospitaliza&on the generic life of a genera&on, as Berryman s friend Robert Lowell called it. Alcohol and adultery are oren thought to have been John Berryman s muses. But his real and abiding muse was American spoken English. I am a monoglot of English, he said. With The Dream Songs, published in 1969, the supposed con&nental divide between the Beats on the West Coast and the academic poets on the East closed in. Like Whitman in Song of Myself, the model that he always acknowledged for The Dream Songs, Berryman was engaged in an ongoing and intoxica&ng language experiment,
Confessional Poetry Confessional poetry is poetry of self-revela&on. Brought to light in the 1950s and 60s by poets like Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Robert Lowell, John Berryman, and W.D. Snodgrass, confessional poetry serves to reveal an author s repressed anguish or deepest emo&ons through verses about the most personal of subjects. Although feelings and emo&ons have long been considered a core thema&c element of poetry, the risqué content conveyed in confessional poetry sets it far apart from more tradi&onal genres. All the world like a woolen lover once did seem on Henry s side. Then came a departure. Therearer nothing fell out as it might or ought. I don t see how Henry, pried open for all the world to see, survived.
With the drir of years, many of the names of Berryman s celebrated friends, rahled off confidently in lines that recall the accusatory opening of Howl, have lapsed into obscurity: I m cross with god who has wrecked this genera&on. First he seized Ted, then Richard, Randall, and now Delmore. In between he gorged on Sylvia Plath. That was a first rate haul. He ler alive fools I could number like a kitchen knife but Lowell he did not touch. One might say about this group of confessional poets, as Berryman wrote in his gorgeous suite of poems for Delmore Schwartz, that he and his once lustrous contemporaries are s&ll wai&ng for fame to descend / with a scarlet mantle & tell us who we were. Berryman s phrasing here echoes Mallarmé s famous sonnet about Poe s tomb, with its predic&on that eternity would eventually change Poe back into Himself, separa&ng the greatness of the poet s achievement from the lurid legends that had come to surround him.
Berryman the life Born John Smith in McAllester, Oklahoma, 1914. When he was 12 his father shot himself outside John s window, an event that haunted him throughout his life and appears frequently in his poetry. Thought much I then on perforated daddy, daddy boxed in & let down with strong straps, when I my friends homes visited, with fathers universal & intact. Took stepfather s name, moved to MassachuseHs and New York. Graduated Columbia and then Cambridge. First of three marriages 1942. First book of poems, The Dispossessed, 1948. Taught at Harvard, Princeton, and U. Minnesota. Famous for Homage to Mistress Bradstreet and Dream Songs which won him the Pulitzer Prize. He was awarded the Na&onal Book Award for his 308 Dream Songs. He ended his life in 1972 by jumping off the Washington Avenue Bridge in Minneapolis in the dead of winter.
The Death of John Berryman by William Dickey Henry went over the bridge first; he always did. Then Mr. Interlocutor and Mr. Bonds, then the blackface minstrels with their tambourines. You have to empty out all of the contents before the person himself dies. The beard went over the edge, and Stephen Crane, and the never-competed scholarly work on Shakespeare, and faculty wives, and a sheaf of recovery wards white-&led in the blue shadow of the lihle hours.
He loosened his neck&e and the recurrent dream of walking out under water to the des&ned island. His mother went over in pearls; his father went over. His real father went over, whoever his father was. He thought to go over with someone, hand in hand with perhaps Mistress Bradstreet, but someone always preceded him. The news of his death preceded him. It hit the water with a flat splash and the target twanged. When there was nothing to see or hear with, the silent traffic of bystanders wrapped in snow, his only body let itself loose, turned and waved before it went over to what it never could understand as being the human shore.
He Resigns Age, and the deaths, and the ghosts. Her having gone away in spirit from me. Hosts of regrets come & find me empty. I don t feel this will change. I don t want any thing or person, familiar or strange. I don t think I will sing any more just now; or ever. I must start to sit with a blind brow above an empty heart.
Book 2 p.67
Song For A Lady On the day of breasts and small hips the window pocked with bad rain, rain coming on like a minister, we coupled, so sane and insane. We lay like spoons while the sinister rain dropped like flies on our lips and our glad eyes and our small hips. "The room is so cold with rain," you said and you, feminine you, with your flower said novenas to my ankles and elbows. You are a na&onal product and power. Oh my swan, my drudge, my dear wooly rose, even a notary would notarize our bed as you knead me and I rise like bread.
Sexton, her life Anne Sexton was born in Newton, MassachuseHs and raised in Weston. The daughter of a successful businessman, Sexton s childhood was materially comfortable but not happy. Her rela&onships with her parents were difficult, perhaps even abusive. Sexton s closest confidante was her maiden greataunt. She ahended boarding school and arer gradua&on enrolled in Garland Junior College for one year. Sexton later described Garland as a finishing school. At age 19, she married Alfred Kayo Sexton II. While Kayo was serving in Korea, Anne became a fashion model. In 1953, she gave birth to her first child and in 1955, her second. Sexton suffered from post-partum depression, and arer the birth of her first daughter she suffered her first breakdown and was admihed to a neuropsychiatric hospital. Other ins&tu&onaliza&ons followed. Sexton struggled with depression for the remainder of her life. She commihed suicide at age 46. Pulitzer Prize 1967 for her book Live or Die.
Anne Sexton In treatment, her therapist encouraged her to write and in 1957 Sexton joined wri&ng groups in Boston that eventually led her to friendships and rela&onships with the poets Maxine Kumin, Robert Lowell, George Starbuck, and Sylvia Plath. As Sexton told Beatrice Berg, her wri&ng began, in fact, as therapy: My analyst told me to write between our sessions about what I was feeling and thinking and dreaming. During sessions with Anne Sexton he used hypnosis and sodium pentothal to recover supposedly repressed memories. During this process, he allegedly used sugges&on to uncover memories of having been abused by her father. If anything influenced me it was W. D. Snodgrass Heart s Needle... It so changed me, and undoubtedly it must have influenced my poetry. At the same &me everyone said, You can t write this way. It s too personal; it s confessional; you can t write this, Anne, and everyone was discouraging me. But then I saw Snodgrass doing what I was doing, and it kind of gave me permission. Heart s Needle explores a father s struggle to remain a father to his daughter who is separated from him by her parents divorce. His daughter s presence during visita&on as well as her absence is like a needle in the heart because both intensify his sense of loss.
Sexton s Work Themes of her poetry include her long bahle against depression and mania, suicidal tendencies, and various in&mate details from her private life, including her rela&onships with her husband and children. Sexton is seen as the modern model of the confessional poet. Maxine Kumin described Sexton's work: "She wrote openly about menstrua&on, abor&on, masturba&on, incest, adultery, and drug addic&on at a &me when the proprie&es embraced none of these as proper topics for poetry. "Star&ng as a rela&vely conven&onal writer, she learned to roughen up her line.... to use it as an instrument against the 'politesse' of language, poli&cs, religion, and sex." The Awful Rowing Toward God. The &tle came from her mee&ng with a Roman Catholic priest who, although unwilling to administer last rites, told her "God is in your typewriter." This gave the poet the desire and willpower to con&nue living and wri&ng. Some&mes she made ahempts to reach outside the realm of her own life for poe&c themes. TransformaWons (1971) is a revisionary re-telling of Grimm's Fairy Tales. Gave rise to the term Revisioning.
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs No maher what life you lead the virgin is a lovely number: cheeks as fragile as cigarehe paper, arms and legs made of Limoges, lips like Vin Du Rhône, rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut. Open to say, Good Day Mama, and shut for the thrust of the unicorn. She is unsoiled. She is as white as a bonefish. Once there was a lovely virgin called Snow White. Say she was thirteen. Her stepmother, a beauty in her own right, though eaten, of course, by age, would hear of no beauty surpassing her own. Beauty is a simple passion, but, oh my friends, in the end you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes. The stepmother had a mirror to which she referred-- something like the weather forecast-- a mirror that proclaimed the one beauty of the land. She would ask, Looking glass upon the wall, who is fairest of us all? And the mirror would reply, You are the fairest of us all. Pride pumped in her like poison.
Suddenly one day the mirror replied, Queen, you are full fair, &s true, but Snow White is fairer than you. Un&l that moment Snow White had been no more important than a dust mouse under the bed. But now the queen saw brown spots on her hand and four whiskers over her lip so she condemned Snow White to be hacked to death. Bring me her heart, she said to the hunter, and I will salt it and eat it. The hunter, however, let his prisoner go and brought a boar s heart back to the castle. The queen chewed it up like a cube steak. Now I am fairest, she said, lapping her slim white fingers. Snow White walked in the wildwood for weeks and weeks. At each turn there were twenty doorways and at each stood a hungry wolf, his tongue lolling out like a worm. The birds called out lewdly, talking like pink parrots, and the snakes hung down in loops, each a noose for her sweet white neck. On the seventh week she came to the seventh mountain and there she found the dwarf house. It was as droll as a honeymoon cohage and completely equipped with seven beds, seven chairs, seven forks and seven chamber pots. Snow White ate seven chicken livers and lay down, at last, to sleep.
The dwarfs, those lihle hot dogs, walked three &mes around Snow White, the sleeping virgin. They were wise and wahled like small czars. Yes. It s a good omen, they said, and will bring us luck. They stood on &ptoes to watch Snow White wake up. She told them about the mirror and the killer-queen and they asked her to stay and keep house. Beware of your stepmother, they said. Soon she will know you are here. While we are away in the mines during the day, you must not open the door. Looking glass upon the wall... The mirror told and so the queen dressed herself in rags and went out like a peddler to trap Snow White. She went across seven mountains. She came to the dwarf house and Snow White opened the door and bought a bit of lacing. The queen fastened it &ghtly around her bodice, as &ght as an Ace bandage, so &ght that Snow White swooned. She lay on the floor, a plucked daisy. When the dwarfs came home they undid the lace and she revived miraculously. She was as full of life as soda pop. Beware of your stepmother, they said. She will try once more.
Looking glass upon the wall... Once more the mirror told and once more the queen dressed in rags and once more Snow White opened the door. This &me she bought a poison comb, a curved eight-inch scorpion, and put it in her hair and swooned again. The dwarfs returned and took out the comb and she revived miraculously. She opened her eyes as wide as Orphan Annie. Beware, beware, they said, but the mirror told, the queen came, Snow White, the dumb bunny, opened the door and she bit into a poison apple and fell down for the final &me. When the dwarfs returned they undid her bodice, they looked for a comb, but it did no good. Though they washed her with wine and rubbed her with buher it was to no avail. She lay as s&ll as a gold piece. The seven dwarfs could not bring themselves to bury her in the black ground so they made a glass coffin and set it upon the seventh mountain so that all who passed by could peek in upon her beauty. A prince came one June day and would not budge. He stayed so long his hair turned green and s&ll he would not leave. The dwarfs took pity upon him and gave him the glass Snow White-- its doll s eyes shut forever-- to keep in his far-off castle. As the prince s men carried the coffin they stumbled and dropped it and the chunk of apple flew out of her throat and she woke up miraculously.
And thus Snow White became the prince s bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet. First your toes will smoke and then your heels will turn black and you will fry upward like a frog, she was told. And so she danced un&l she was dead, a subterranean figure, her tongue flicking in and out like a gas jet. Meanwhile Snow White held court, rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut and some&mes referring to her mirror as women do.
Texts for the Jazz/Poetry Performance
Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll Twas brilig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe. Beware the Jabberwock, my son the jaws that bite, the claws that catch Beware the jubjub bird and shun the frumious Bandersnatch He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long &me the manxome foe he sought So rested he by the tumtum tree and stood awhile in thought And as in uffish thought he stood, the Jabberwock with eyes of flame Came whiffling through the tulgey wood and burbled as it came.
One two one two and through and through the vorpal blade went snicker snack. He ler it dead and with its head he went galumphing back And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms my beamish boy O frabjous day! Callooh Callay He chortled in his joy Twas brilig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe.
The End of Dreams by Floyd Skloot He wakens knowing this to be the day his hopeless singing voice at last will sound exactly like the young Robert Goulet. It is the day for him to touch the ground as only noble Fred Astaire has done before, and only once, and with someone perfect in his arms. He will be able to accompany himself on the grand piano by sight, bass hand and treble hand like swallows in flight, each magic hand nimble and light as the air that trembles with the music he will make at the end of all his dreams.
It feels simple and right to draw in all the air he can, to grow s&ll then soar. Now they all stand around his bed, in tears, and he sees the pure light that means the &me has come for him to sound the first note, take the first step, and let go.
Morning Poem by David Wa6s (harvey ellis) now you remember what the sun looked like - sor, no glare a peek of cloud to drir by just at the right &me. now you remember rain, its cold éclair for your morning breakfast. what will you do with this knowledge in its gela&n capsule? what of sleep and the biher alarm? when does the world turn slowly enough? when the chance to get enough rest
Not Here by Lorna Dee Cervantes Not here, she says, and diverts the stream. Not here, she whispers and converts the lunar waves. Not here, she sings and prevents the clots of summer from sehling on her skin. Not here, she murmurs, and currents desire into &de pools. Not here, she startles in the thicket and looks away. Not here, she confronts my gaze like a deer in the bristling meadow, and returns to feed.
Counterman by Paul Violi Whatll it be? Roast beef on rye, with tomato and mayo Whaddaya want on it? A swipe of mayo. Pepper but no salt. You got it. You want lefuce on that? No. Just tomato and mayo. Tomato and mayo. You got it. Salt and pepper? No salt, just a lihle pepper. You got it. No salt. You want tomato.? Yes. Tomato. No lehuce. No lefuce. You got it. No salt, right? Right. No salt. You got it. Pickle? No, no pickle. Just tomato and mayo. And pepper. Yes, a lihle pepper Right. A lifle pepper. No pickle. Right. No pickle. You got it. Next!
Roast beef on whole wheat, please, with lehuce, mayonnaise and a center slice of beefsteak tomato. The lehuce splayed, if you will, in a Beaux Arts deriva&ve of classical acanthus, and the roast beef, thinly sliced, folded In a mul&-foil arrangement that eschews Bragdonian pretensions or any idea of divine geometric projec&on For that maher, but simply provides a senng for the tomato to form a medallion with a dab of mayonnaise as a fleuron. And as eclec&c as this may sound if the mayonnaise can also be applied along the crust in a Vitruvian scroll and as a festoon below the medallion, That would be swell You mean like in the Cathedral St. Pierre in Geneva? Yes, but the swag more like the one below the rosehe] at the Royal Palace in Amsterdam. You got it. Next!