Chicken Bones and Beer: Introducing the Poetry of Beverly Frydman and the Artwork of Kenton Nelson
A British poet. An American…moreso a Californian artist. What could they possibly have in common? But the quirky details in Frydman’s poems match so well the hyper-colorful, beautifully lit paintings of Nelson. That suburban dream. Its the same throughout the Western world. The dream our families had when they survived a burning Europe and settled in the United States, the UK, Israel and elsewhere. We are still dreaming. A walk with a dog down the street, a pair of mary-janes, a golden light from behind an apple tree. This dream of peace. This dream.
Seed
I started as a seed from a Polish apple orchard grandpa carried me across the sea in his pocket so that I could live in a New York suburb surrounded by trees with roots that speak English in my core I know Grandpa’s life in Zamosc without him ever having to say a word he peels me an apple skin falls golden a complete spiral I unwind on the floor a crisp wave of peel under bare feet feel his memories float just below the surface
Mr Marsh
Old Mr Marsh looks like the dolls hanging from the farm shop ceiling faces made of dried apple sits on the porch mends aluminium screens for windows and doors to keep out bugs in summer bent over checking for holes and imperfections never looks up to see me or my mother when Grandma gets out of our Oldsmobile wagon in a grass green dress her hair gala red Mr Marsh stands up dressed all in brown work boots rooted to stained heart-pine floor boards he’s a Macintosh type more tart than sweet unfamiliar to Grandma who is not of here we are not home grown like old Mr Marsh living and dying in the place he was born
Suburban Childhood
My house is a box of cornflakes in the cereal aisle of the Shop Rite we are a square family short and stout every morning a rooster wakes us up and makes breakfast I have toast and raspberry jam my brothers inhale Count Chocula and Coco Pops Dad drinks Sanka and smokes Lucky Strikes Mom wears sparkling Ricycle rings and packs lunch boxes with Alpha Bites to help our spelling we pour out the front door to wait for the school bus it’s almost summer and fruit loops grow on trees we’re the first stop then we pick up Naomi the milkman’s daughter she has long white hair and brings mini milk cartons for snack in a wire crate she eats fluffernutter sandwiches and lives in house made of Pixie Stix she is sugar sweet her next door neighbour is Andrea who’s house is a Quaker Oats package she wears itchy wool sweaters and never stops crying last stop is my best friend Kara’s she lives in a pink Pop Tart apartment and has a strawberry birthmark her father walks her and her sister to the bus and says I’m surrounded by women Kara and I sit in the back of the bus throwing pink jelly beans in the air catching them in our mouths as we pull into the school
Black & White Photo
No red in her hair eyes do not turn from green to grey like angry stones his hair is black slicked back youth pepper no salt that came later she doesn’t wear glasses thick as coke bottles a look he prefers she likes him blurry she has no wrinkles he isn’t stupid a perfect match in their beginning it did not matter she was from old town not lowly new town that always defined him they smile a little stare straight ahead never look back nothing is there
Guru
The guru floats down Holland Park Avenue he stops in front of me he wears white robes and sandals I wear yoga pants but I’m not going to yoga the pavement smells of chicken bones and beer the guru catches my eye I want my eye back he says not until you pay attention to your digestion I eat only dairy lunches in summer I belch cottage cheese the guru takes my tongue and puts it in his pocket in my head I say my grandparents ate sour cream with cucumber and scallions for cool they ate peaches and cream for sweet the guru hears my thoughts he pats his stomach he says stop eating nostalgia is making you dyspeptic my belly is a screaming helium balloon the guru hands me a marigold along with my tongue and eye the marigold smells like cat pee but tastes of spicy orange he says this will cleanse your gut but not your memory he puts his hands in prayer I offer him my hand he says he already has two and waves goodbye
Bittersweet in St John’s Wood
Panzer’s delicatessen has the best smoked salmon a crossroad for Jewish Americans everyone looks like me I’m no regular I dabble in chopped liver and herring come to find memories to feed my family on holy days honey cake for a sweet new year matzoh meal with a recipe on the box for fluffy matzoh balls: add seltzer a pickle jar becomes a snow globe see me and Grandma Ann eating sour green tomatoes straight from the barrel on Jerome Avenue we tell no one because they will say feh in the produce section a man with a dirty apron says can I help you missus everyone’s buying the kale I know who I am I ask for cabbage and a large bunch of dill fennel smell flies me back to the Bronx Grandma Clara’s in her kitchen seafoam coloured cabinets emptied of the good china she wears her emerald splattered brooch for Yom Tov she skims fat off chicken soup takes off steamed up glasses her sage eyes gone emerald the whole world smells like dill I don’t tell the man all this I say give me some horseradish root I’ve learned to love the bitter 
Beverly Frydman walks her dog every morning in West London. She often brings home poems. She has an MA in Creative Writing and Personal Development from the University of Sussex. She has published a pamphlet with Rochelle Robshaw called Time Cracks (Moormaid Press) and is a proud member of the Popogrou Collective.
Kenton Nelson grew up during the 1950s and ’60s. He started his career as an illustrator and graphic designer before launching a painting career at age 40. He works a ten-hour day, every day, in his studio in Pasadena, California. Nelson describes his style as “narrative idealism.” Nelson’s influences include the work of the WPA artists of the 1930s, American Scene painting, and Regionalism. His work often depicts an idealized version of his personal memories, of a time “when men wore hats, women baked their own pies, and the radio played big band music.” Nelson’s work is based on memories of the cinema and the advertising of that era, which were “all about hope and the promise of the future.” Nelson paints figures, landscape, and architecture “bathed in light.”
The people in Kenton Nelson’s paintings wear clothing from that earlier time, which overlaps with the heyday of Ivy League clothing. That is one reason to believe that his work will be of interest to Ivy Style readers. A more subtle point of contact is the ethos which comes through in Nelson’s work. As he puts it, he “chooses to run contrary to expectations, resurrecting and reinvigorating a style of painting that has fallen out of favor in certain circles.” Defying expectations, resurrecting and reinvigorating images and objects from the past, preserving beautiful and tasteful things, Ivy Style aficionados have these common with the artist as well.
I am running out of superlatives to describe your pairings of poetry and arts. This post is delightful! The poems are slices of life, each a fully formed shortest-of-short-story. I love Kenton Nelson's work, which I recall from some New Yorker covers. They are so much fun to look at and can make for some great ekphrastic poems. I'm sure I can't afford his work but what I'd give to have a painting of his on my walls!