Posted on by — Leave a comment

Well, it’s been a minute…

The last time I posted was 10 months ago, to let readers know that I had a new book out: 5-7-5: a daily haiku journal. That book seems to have made many people quite happy and I love when someone who got a copy of it says, “I have been keeping up with writing a daily haiku!” I wasn’t sure people would take on that challenge, but I’m glad to know that a few folks have done so. It does warm my heart to know that people are observing the world and writing about it utilizing this brief, daily meditative practice.

Now, I have a new book to share: Sheboygan Occasions, something I had been dreaming about as my time as Sheboygan’s first poet laureate was coming to an end. The book contains all the poems that were requested by city officials, community groups, and arts organizations along with poems that reflect more personal occasions of my own, the shift in seasons, and various reflections on Sheboygan. It is a book about place, and one woman’s place in it. Please visit the the Shop to pre-order your copy. Books will ship in early November, in time for the holidays. Here is a sample poem from the collection:

If a City

If a city was a story,
it would begin long before
streets and structures.
It would begin with land
and proximity to water,
and people who lived there
before it was a city

If a city was a poem,
it would be spoken in slow,
meandering lines with a litany
of occurrences, triumphs,
missteps, and resolutions.
There would be growth,
and it would not always rhyme

If a city was a sentence,
it would be declarative.
It would have a noun, like neighbor
or friend and many verbs
igniting action: create,
discover, help, flourish,
dream, propose, remember

The adjectives in the city
would write themselves
and would be testimony
to all the good works
of the people who live there:
thriving, generous, just,
compassionate, and welcoming

There would be no period
at the end of the sentence, because
like a poem, the city is always
unfolding toward something better
and everyone who lives in that city
adds their voice to the story,
has a hand in its making

Requested by Contra Tiempo Dance Theater, artists-in-residence at the John Michael Kohler Arts Center for the film, What if a City… August, 2021

Posted on by — Leave a comment

New Book Launching

I’m excited to announce that starting today, I’m taking orders for my latest book, 5-7-5: a daily haiku journal. Over the course of one year, I developed a practice to write a 17-syllable haiku every day. The book is organized day-by-day with a haiku at the top of each page and below that, room for you to respond with your own haiku or any thoughts you have about your day. You can use the book like a classic 4-year journal or fill up the page however you like.

5-7-5: a daily haiku journal will make a great holiday gift for the people in your life who want to explore and document the world with fresh eyes. Maybe that is you! Please visit my online shop at lisavihos.com and order your copy (or copies) today!

Reviewers share:

Lisa Vihos has been an inspiration to me as I try my own hand at haiku; I liken it to giving voice to my eyes. I can capture and log brief glimpses of life while challenging myself a bit–all for fun! –Betsy Alles, retired director of Sheboygan Chamber of Commerce

In this haiku-a-day journal, trees become veins, leaves make a cathedral, and end-lines give pause. Vihos delivers a blessed invitation to look deeper into the world and ourselves; to salvage the goodness in each day. –Hannah Harder, author of A Woman in the Wilderness: A Foray in Poetry and A Lexicon of Love.

Posted on by — 15 Comments

The Birth of a Novel

I have gotten in the habit of writing on Georg’s birthday and also on his death day. However, this year, February 18 came and went and I did not manage to write. This is not because I was not thinking of him on this birthday, but I was busy preparing for a photo shoot of his large scale drawings. Let’s just say I was preoccupied with things other than blogging. I was with my sister that day—she came up from Chicago to help with the photo shoot—and we ate cannoli in his honor, but I did not write for him.

Honestly, blogging has really gotten away from me the last few years. This is due in part to the fact that I have been grappling with a novel, The Lone Snake: The Story of Sofonisba Anguissola. At long last, the book is done and will be released by Water’s Edge Press in April, 2022. It has been a long road.

I first learned of Sofonisba in 1995 when I wrote a short article about her for New Moon: The Magazine for Girls and Their Dreams. She was born in Cremona in 1532, and although her father was not an artist, he supported her artistic talent with education. She studied with Michelangelo and served at the Spanish court of Philip II, teaching the young Queen Isabel to draw and paint. She married twice but never had any children and lived to be ninety-three. The family name, “anguis sola” is Latin for “the lone snake,” and that metaphor for her life would not leave me.

Ever since I read about her unique and inspiring life, I wanted to tell her story. I had many years of false starts as I looked for the best way to craft the tale and many years of no writing at all. Not until 2017 did I buckle down and begin to write in earnest. Even then, it took me a while. Writing a novel is not easy.

Well, here is it, a quarter of a century after my initial thought to write this book. Now it is real. I am proud of what I have done, proud that I stuck with it. Any nervousness I feel regarding what others will think about the book is kept at bay by the thought that Georg would be so proud. I did it for you, Dad. Happy belated birthday.

Posted on by — 2 Comments

After Ice Cream

Dear Dad,

It has been eight years since you left on September 26, 2013. Not a day goes by that I do not think of you. You are always looking over my shoulder when I chop a carrot, fry an onion, or stir a pot of soup. I see you in every soaring bird and every incandescent sunset. I am sure that feathery clouds placed against a bright blue sky were put there by your hand, not just for me, but for all of us to enjoy.

I know it seems strange to say, but your personality was so large, your love of life so contagious, I sometimes think you are not actually dead. You are just in another state, making art, planning a new adventure, or preparing a delicious meal for a large group of friends. I have finally gotten to the place where I no longer grieve your departure, but rather acknowledge you as ever-present. I do things all the time and imagine that you are weighing in, letting me know that you are proud of me.

For a long time now, I feel like I have hit a wall with my writing. The words don’t flow like they used to. I’m not sure what I am doing wrong. If you were here, you would tell me not to judge myself so harshly. You would tell me to stick with it through the challenges. And I would listen.

You would say don’t give up, Lisa. You can do whatever you set your mind to doing.
You would say let’s go for a bike ride and get some ice cream. Things are always better after ice cream!

Let’s go get some ice cream, Dad. I’ll see you again tomorrow.

Love always,
Lisa

Posted on by — 6 Comments

Radishes, Right Roads, and Butterflies

What a strange machine man is! You fill him with bread, wine, fish, and radishes, and out come sighs, laughter, and dreams. -Nikos Kazantzakis, poet and novelist (18 Feb 1883-1957)

It is my father’s birthday today, so of course, I was happy to see the quote from the writer, Nikos Kazantzakis pop up on my Facebook feed. This writer was very near and dear to Georg’s heart. He saw in Kazantzakis a spiritual brother. They are both Greek, born on the same day. Dad especially liked The Last Temptation of Christ (which he advised me to read when I was still a teenager, if I remember correctly) and also St. Francis. I have two copies of that book on my book self. One he gave me, one I inherited after he passed. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve ever read it, despite the duplicate copies. It is yet another book in the overwhelmingly long list of “books I plan to read.”

I opened it up this morning in honor of Georg. It is a treat to read books that belonged to him because he was such an avid underliner. He usually used a red pen and would sometimes encase an entire line in a rectangle or put stars or squiggles next to a noteworthy sentence. For really important lines, he would use not only a red pen to underline, but also a pink highlighter to make a whole paragraph glow.

In Georg’s copy of St. Francis, in the early chapters, he was using just a black, fine point Sharpie. The first thing that jumps out at me is “There are many roads. Which is my road?” Then, much deeper into the story, he got his other underlining tools in gear. Here, there is a long passage about a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. This section got a lot of red lines and pink highlighting and stars and rectangles. “Suffer some more, struggle some more, transform yourself into a butterfly.” In the margin, Georg wrote in capital letters TRANSFORMATION.

I really appreciate seeing what things jumped out at my dad and must have informed the things he was struggling with in his art and in his life. The things he pointed to for himself also have meaning for me. I continue to find my way and look for ways to make this world a better place. I believe that somehow, my dad, gone now for nearly 8 years, is inextricably intwined in everything I do.

Recently, there is some movement afoot in the realm of Georg’s art. Potential buyers are stepping up. It is exciting and a bit nerve-wracking at the same time. On one hand, I know Georg’s art speaks for itself. On the other hand, I hope to be a good agent, a good advocate for his name. In the end, everything will happen just the way it needs to. The message I am getting from Georg and Nikos today is that there will always be an abundance of radishes and I will know my right road when I see it. And in the end, we all become butterflies.

Happy Birthday, Georg!

I miss you, still.

Posted on by — 1 Comment

Watching the Bird Feeder

From my writing desk in the third bedroom, I look out upon my front lawn and the tatty old lamppost that was defunct when I bought this house three years ago. The post has a rung that sticks out of its side, and what this perch is intended for, I have no idea. But, after some pondering, I determined that the rung would provide an excellent place to hang a bird feeder. Other people feed the birds, I thought. Why can’t I?

One blazing autumn day, I bought a bird feeder at the local Meijer and filled it with a hearty mix of seeds, nuts, and dried fruit. Then, I sat back to wait for flocks of hungry birds to arrive, but none came. After reading the back of the seed bag, I realized that my location was totally wrong. The sidewalk and street are too close. There are no protective bushes in which to take refuge should predators arrive. All fall and into the winter, the feeder hung there, lonely and untouched.

But, one day in early January, I looked out to see that five or six birds were dancing around the feeder, landing on its pegs in quick succession. They would land, peck, jump, then shoot up into nearby trees. When they flew off, I was sure they were alerting their friends to the fact that they’d found a motherload of winter munchies. I felt the glow of success.

The bird feeder that hangs from my dead lamppost has become an avian gathering place. The only ones I can identify are the chickadees. For me, it is not so important to track what kinds of birds are coming to dine. I’m content just to know that my winged friends are finding sustenance here. I’m content just to know that my offering to these dear, fragile creatures has been received.

[Featured photo is not mine].

Posted on by — 9 Comments

Seven Years

How can it be seven years since Georg left? But here it is. I remember that week of his death like it was yesterday. He died very late in the evening of September 26, 2013 at Memorial Hospital in Shebogyan. He had been disintegrating physically for about a week or so prior. He could no longer swallow water without choking, his bones were crumbling and coming unhinged inside his body. Pain was everywhere.

I remember that my friend Brenda suggested to me that instead of saying to him, “Hang on, Dad, we’ll get through this,” I might consider telling him, “It’s okay, Dad, you can let go.” So I did. Later that night, he died. I hate the thought that mom and I had left him in his hospital bed, looking a little bit more cheerful since the doctor had come in at 8:30 and asked us all if Georg wanted to sign a “do not resuscitate order,” just in case. He smiled and nodded yes. So, he signed. Now he had double permission. Mine and the medical profession’s. He was free to go. Mom and I were happy to see him smile, so we went and got root beer floats in his honor. A few hours later, the nurse called me. Root beer floats have never been the same.

I’ve been thinking about Georg a lot lately, especially while I’m driving. It’s as though he often joins me in the car. I wonder why that is. He is suddenly there with me and I just start crying because I miss him. I want him to really be there with me. And he always says, I am really here. In fact, he is saying it right now as I type.

I was down at the lake at sunrise the other morning, and I wrote a poem in his honor. On the occasion of the seventh anniversary of his death, I will share it here.

Memory of My Father at the Lake

We were nearing the end of you
You knew it, I knew it
but it was not something
we talked about.

We came down to this very shore
with sandwiches and a couple beers.
Looking out at the lake,
you said, Let’s make one more road trip.

Knowing this would never happen,
I said, Yes! Let’s do it!

Now it is sunrise and you,
seven years gone.
The lake calls me to remember,
gently undulates on and on.

An immense liquid mirror of the sky,
delivering a bridge to the sun,
reflecting you and me
and all of creation
in the wave of its hand.

No words can even begin to sum up all that Georg was to me, all the doors that he opened through his art. I introduced Dad to my therapist, Dan, that summer when Death was lurking. Dad was languishing at Morningside Rehab Center and we met in the drab little common room with the couches and the big color TV. Months and months later, after Georg was long gone, Dan told me that it had seemed to him that summer that Georg’s spirit was already gone. That was in May of 2013. Dan also said that Georg had a strong connection to other realms and you could see them peeking through his art. His paintings were glimpses into other dimensions of light, sound, and vibration. Yup. I believe it.

When he left this plane of existence, Georg knew full well where he was going.

Posted on by — 1 Comment

Poet Laureate 101

Sheboygan, WI is a city of 49,288 people, and while I wasn’t born and raised here, it has grown on me. It is something about the proximity to the lake, to farmland, to beautiful city parks and state parks, to great restaurants, to bike paths, to an amazing Arts Center, and to the ever-more diverse, creative, kind-hearted, wonderful people who live and work here. I moved here with my family in 2002 and so I have lived here longer than I have lived anywhere else in my life. Can I say I am a Sheboyganite yet? I think so. And now, I have been appointed as the bard for this fair city. What an honor! What a task! And what does a poet laureate do, anyway?According to Wikipedia, a poet laureate is a poet who is officially appointed by a government or conferring institution, typically expected to compose poems for special events and occasions. I could do that. During her or his term, a poet laureate seeks to raise the national (or in my case, municipal) consciousness to a greater appreciation of the reading and writing of poetry. That task is also right up my alley, in my wheelhouse, and a primary feature of my natural habitat.

Well this is exciting, to be the first poet laureate of my lovely Midwestern city, Sheboygan, WI. I may have been born in Chicago, grown up in the suburbs of Detroit, attended college in Poughkeepsie, NY, lived for fifteen years in Los Angeles as an adult, but Sheboygan is where I have settled. I am not sure if I will ever live any place else.

I have long been a poet who organizes happenings and spaces in which people can find their own voice, or at least their own personal connection to poetry. Through events like Poetic Pairings: How Poetry Speaks, the world-wide movement known as 100 Thousand Poets for Change, and my 10-year dedication to Stoneboat Literary Journal, much has been accomplished. People have learned new things about themselves and others. I have learned new things about myself and others. And the best part about all this is that there is still more to learn!

I am only on day three of my new tenure, but I am chomping at the bit to start doing SOMETHING. I have a multitude of ideas, and all of them involve working with the community. But let me not forget that along with organizing, it is very important to keep writing. As my friend and mentor, poet Karl Elder of Lakeland University said to me, “I know I don’t need to urge you to keep writing, which is the most important thing a laureate ought to do.”

Agreed. But while I am writing poetry and sharing it, I want everyone to start thinking more like a poet. What does that mean? I think I will address that in my next blog post. So please come back. I will meet you here. There is so much to do in this world at this time. We must speak up in every way we can to end racism in America and also make sure we change the administration of our country. Oh, and protect the planet from global warming, ensure health care for all, make sure no one in America goes hungry…wow. The list of things that needs changing is long. I know it would be naive to say that poetry can do any of this alone, but I will continue to contend that poetry can help. Then, there is COVID-19. That needs a vaccine, not a poem. But, again, poetry can help us process all the anguish, grief, and uncertainty. Together, we’ll make a plan for how poetry can change the world, one poem at a time.

As the poet Jane Yolen wrote:
it’s not what we stand against,
but what we stand for
‘cause the arc of justice
doesn’t just bend itself, you know.

Posted on by — Leave a comment

The End of the World as We Know It

Here I am, there you are. Each and every one of us is in hibernation mode with different challenges to face. On this day, I am in relatively good shape. My fridge, pantry, and freezer are full. I have never had so many boxes of pasta on my shelf all at once. And yes, I did buy one more 12-pack of toilet paper this morning. I don’t know what’s coming. None of us does.

I have a job I can do from remote. Not all of us do. This worries me. I am worried for everyone on the planet, the food service workers, the bar owners and bar tenders, restaurant owners, small business owners, the farm workers, the tourist industry workers, the airline workers, the uninsured, the undocumented, the homeless, anyone who was already on the edge of any given precipice now being pushed over into the void. Will there be help? Yes, I think so. Will it come fast enough? Hopefully. How long will help last? My worried voice says, we have no idea. My faith-in-humanity voice says as long as we need it to.

I don’t have young children who need to be home-schooled and are soon-to-be bouncing off the walls, if they aren’t already. I do however have a son at UW-Oshkosh. I trust he will be all right, working on his music degree from remote for the rest of his junior year. All the percussion majors at his school were told to go back to campus briefly and pick up a couple assigned instruments to work with. Owen got steelpan (the metallic drum played in Trinidad and Tobago) and a glockenspiel. Will there be pleasant sounds of music coming from the basement of his dad’s house? Yes, there will. Still, I worry. When will this end? When will he be able to continue with his schooling?

The other day, I said to him, “I can’t stand all the uncertainty.” He said, “Nothing has ever been certain. mom. You have never been in control. Give it up.” Wow.

With that in mind, I am doing the things I can do. I spent the day yesterday cleaning and disinfecting my house. I mean, I never imagined my house to be infected before. I just wanted to make sure every surface was wiped clean. The scent of lemony Lysol is in the air. Somehow, that is bringing me comfort. I organized my spice cabinet. I need to know where my spices are for all the cooking I will be doing. I want to believe that we will get through this and we will do a major reset on priorities and how the world operates. I keep thinking of the R.E.M. song “It’s the End of the World as We Know It.” That song was released in 1987. I had just moved to Los Angeles to start my first job. Owen would not be born for 11 more years. It was another world. The lyrics continue, “and I feel fine.” Do I?

No, not yet. Not until we get to the other side of all this and I can see that we really have made a leap, that we really have evolved away from focusing on differences to focusing instead on connectedness. Mother Earth could see we would not make the leap without a major, immediate threat. The dire predictions of global warming just weren’t getting through our thick heads. It hurts to think we needed a fast-spreading virus that is going to kill a lot of the most vulnerable people. I have to stay on track with, but the helpers will help. Good will be victorious in the end. I pray this is true.

Yesterday I made a donation to Project Hope Foundation. It’s the least I can do. If you feel so inclined, please do that too. Usually, the crisis is somewhere else. We can help and send thoughts and prayers and then get on with our lives. With Covid-19, this is not the case. The crisis is everywhere. I don’t need to tell you that, do I?

I guess I am reminding myself. For the first time ever, the notion that “we are all one” is really being driven home. We are connected. To each other, to the plants, to the animals, to the oceans. Let’s work together to do it right going forward. It’s the end of the world as we know it. Let’s work on how we can make it not just fine, but much, much better. What else can we possibly do?

Posted on by — 2 Comments

Woman Rambles Through Time

For my 59th birthday last September, I traveled to Italy to do research for the historical novel I am writing about a woman artist of the Renaissance, Sofonisba Anguissola. My journey began in Amsterdam because I had planned to see a show there called Van Gogh Dreams. This title matched the name of a poetry anthology I had put together in 2018 with one of my father’s collages on the cover. But silly me! I had mistaken the closing date of the show and missed seeing it by four days. Thankfully, the Van Gogh Museum had plenty of  other delights to offer. And, it was the show that put the idea in my head in the first place to get myself across the ocean. I think that Vincent and my father were in cahoots to get me to Italy to focus on this novel. In the end, it all turned out well.

IMG_6293

I began in Sofi’s birthplace, Cremona, a picturesque town in northern Italy that felt to me like a medieval version of the place I live now, Sheboygan, WI. I sped through all the Italian cities in which Sofonisba worked including Milan, Rome, (where she studied with Michelangelo for a year and a half in her early twenties. Can you imagine?) Genoa, and Palermo. That last stop, on the island of Sicily, is where Sofonisba died at age 93. I found her tomb in the Church of San Giorgio dei Genovesi and I just sat there in the stifling September heat and cried. I couldn’t believe I had brought myself all the way to her resting place. And Palermo blew my mind. I had no idea there was a strong Arab influence there, incredible puppet artistry, and cactus. Did you know there is cactus in Italy?

The one place Sofi had lived that I did not visit was Madrid, where she spent nearly 20 years in the middle of her life, painting at the Spanish court and befriending the young queen, Isabel (born Elisabeth de Valois). That will require another trip entirely, perhaps at some future time. I was in Madrid once about 30 years ago, (30 years? That is insane to think that I have lived long enough to have memories that are so old) on my way to Portugal. I spent two days wandering around the Prado, in a jet-lagged daze. I remember Las Meninas by Velazquez. I remember the Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch. Like large parts of my life, the rest is a blur.

But I digress. I need to complete this book without a return trip to Spain. I have more than enough material spanning 93 years of her life. Sofonisba was a woman ahead of her time, a woman outside of time. And in Latin, her family name, Anguissola means, “the lone snake.” I think that is what she was. Someone who was moving about on her own, who occasionally shed her skin (metaphorically speaking), and who slipped in and out of many situations over time. I have been thinking about her life for over twenty years and now I am coming to the end of this first journey. Soon the book will be done and then we’ll see what happens next.

You know, today is Georg’s birthday. He would have been 83 today. Sofonisba outlived him by seventeen years, 400 years ago. Wow. That is a long time no matter how you measure it. I guess I just had to ramble a bit through time today and write. Happy birthday, Dad. I have other images from the trip I want to share. Other stories  I want to tell. Stay tuned, for more rambles are coming.