On Writing: Huh? What are all these?

On Writing: Huh?

In a bored-at-work trip down memory lane, I came across a score of blog entries that I deemed "usable." Upon re-reading, I decided I wanted these random reflections to live and breathe somewhere other than my daily blog, which a hand full of dedicated friends read, but really, the audience stops there. Un-publishable, un-poem-able and floating around, I decided to caption them all "On Writing" and throw them on myspace for those who care to read one young writer's blah-blah-blah's about being a young writer. Ok, I'm not making a very good case for the work. Some of it is quite poignant. Convinced yet?

Let the writings speak for themselves.

Enjoy,
Caitlin

P.S. These were all pulled from the following two places:

1) http://king-poetic.livejournal.com – the near-daily blog I keep

2) http://caitsinghana.blogspot.com – the strictly Ghana experience retelling

P.P.S. Please do not be afraid to comment if something strikes you!

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On Writing: Which One of You Bastards is Death?

On Writing: Which One of You Bastards is Death?
2008-07-07

*From the blog on the larger Ghana experience. Read more:
http://caitsinghana.blogspot.com

--

Oh. Momentary drama in Ghana. Let me just say that last night a kind faced rasta named Lion gave us some of what rastas have to give and the rest of the night was spent dodging the over-the-top compliments of one Kenyan young man who thinks he just might be in love with me. I'm not sure if this is cultural, but after one kiss there seems to be these grandiose expectations. "Come live with my family in Kenya... then I can come visit you in New York and face your family." Whoa, boy. Slow down. Lion's gift must have been awfully potent because this is all too much and I think I have mistakenly become some pillar of the exotic white woman. No thanks! I decide I am strictly here to write and hang out with my girls. The next morning, I do just that. Tonya, Chelsea and I browse the Kowala markets and share our secrets.

So let us talk about these workshops with Yusef, shall we? Getting good feedback in invaluable. Are you really surprised that Yusef is a brilliant editor? I didn't think so. Interestingly, there is a cultural dynamic in the class. Many of the African poets rhyme, while all of the American poets do not. I've never been a fan of rhyming poetry (and if so, it must be incredibly intentional and done near-perfectly), and apparently, neither is the rest of us. When it is repeatedly suggested that the given poet break out of the rhyme to allow room for a more interesting poem to emerge, the poet argues that she feels the poem is successful in that it accomplishes its message. At breakfast Tonya and I discuss this. What is the purpose of a poem? If it is just to relay a message, why not write a letter or a speech? Why a poem? What are poems supposed to accomplish or represent? I urge Tonya to bring this up in the workshop setting. She is a natural teacher and though worries about being too "teacherly" in class, everyone in the room clearly values her opinion and leadership. (Sticks out tongue at Tonya.)

The next day, the workshop comes alive. We move through each poem with ease, everyone settling into the idea of each other and our work. I am astounded at Yusef's ability to pull the treasure out of a poem I might have otherwise thought hopeless. Each teacher has their own special piece of advice that defines them. Yusef's is "the surprise." I love this expression. The poet must surprise the reader, surprise themselves. It is the most succinct and nail-on-the-head way to allude to the mystery and magic of a poem, that indescribable ring that makes it sing. I nod in time with all of Yusef's suggestions and find myself opening my mouth to contribute in ways I didn't realize I possessed. I am struck by my deep love of language. Getting to the heart of a poem invigorates, the closest I've ever come to meditation. My mind seldom wanders off task and I am fully present in the pursuit of extracting the greatest truth from the work. The time flies and by the end, belly's are rumbling.

Malaika and I skip the reading, eat the crappiest American food I've ever allowed into my body at the looming plastic "Churcheese" restaurant (I know, I know, the name alone!) Just promise me, if you are ever in Ghana, don't even bother. Digesting, we lay on the twin beds in my dorm and go in. Our thankfulness for this experience, excitement at our words and power. I tell her my crazy past love stories to rival her own. We finish off the gift from Lion and she sits wide eyed for the unraveling tales. I am amazed at how long ago it all seems in the retelling. As if these stories are not actually mine, but those of someone I once knew.

I put Malaika in a cab to the Afia, and not quite ready to retire, join Parul, Chris and Chris Michael out front. The strange wonderfulness of the night continues. Chris Michael, a Nigerian writer and religious man of pure heart, squats to meet me eye level. I tell him, briefly, of the sadness waiting for me at home in New York. He looks me straight in the gaze and says, "I can see you have such a strong harmony surrounding you. I can see it so clearly." I am touched. He continues and the patio transforms into an unlikely church. An Indian-American, a Zimbabwean, a Kenyan and a New York girl sit captive while Chris Michael, the Nigerian preacher, comes to life. Pacing and gesturing against the purple sky lined with cassava trees, his passion fills the air like thick smoke and we cock our heads in silence. Chris Michael recounts stories from the bible. I believe every word that exits his mouth. He is the sort of man who is so pure of heart, that it is, in fact, quite disarming. He always wears an inviting, plastered on goofy grin and attends his workshops in business casual. Often, out of the blue, he will utter, "Oh, Cait-rin, Goh' bless you, Goh' bless you, Cait-rin!"

Though it is nearly impossible to interrupt the impromptu sermon, Parul manages to ask how such a God can account for the world's incredible suffering (she is Hindu, Buddhist and... skeptical.) He answers in metaphor. Mining gold: "a black dirty mound is pulled from 'de earth and put into 'de furnace, to transform into someting' shiny and golden, do you know?" If church was this patio everyday, I'd be a regular congregant. He goes on for a half an hour. I share my tired Yusef story and he nods as if he already knew. Chris asks where Chris Michael's poems arrive from. Is it God, then? "Yes!" Chris Michael exclaims. "And my heart. I feel it in my whole body, it passes by and I must grab it. Then, it is so strong I must vomit it out. Like I'm pregnant and it will not leave me until its born."

Chris jumps up, "There is an interview in this book about that!"

"Poetry is an attempt to put into words what is inside a person emotionally, intellectually, imaginatively. The poet's job is to find the equivalent, the verbal correlative of a particular feeling. This idea is from TS Eliot. The only difficulty is that there are no words for what you are feeling."

- Dambadzo Marechura (From an interview with Flora Veit-Wild, December 1984, "Dambadzo Marechura speaks about Poetry")

Chris Michael reads the passage aloud. "Yes," he says, "yes, this is how I feel." (Me too.)

Even though I am not even remotely Christian, I find immense beauty and comfort in Chris Michael's words. I ask him to wake me at 6am for prayer, though when the time comes, I decline, full of sleep and fuzzy brained. Just having the desire in my heart is what counts, he assures me. It must also be told that somewhere embedded in the sermon he orchestrated what was possibly the worst group sing a long in all histories of group sing a longs to Michael Jackson's "We Are the World." We all hesitantly and reluctantly mumbled the pieces of the verses we recalled from our 1980s memories while he waved his hands like a conductor, proclaiming what gospel the song truely was. I am so serious.

For fun, some of Dambadzo Marechura's amazing poem titles (He is a famous Zimbabwean poet):

- In the Hospital of the Angels
- Sunset's Bloodshot Eye
- They Are Boiling My Bones in the Kitchen
- The Future a Mad Poem
- There's a Dissident in the Election Soup!
- A Strong Case for Crap Artists By One Against Them
- Comrade Dracula Joins the Revolution: A Wedding of Minds?
- Even Poets Enjoy Incidents
- Writing This Means I'm Not Complaining
- In Jail the Only Telephone is the Washbasin Hole: Blow and We'll Hear It
- Which One of You Bastards is Death?

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On Writing: Embracing the Mystery

On Writing: Embracing the Mystery

2008-07-06

*From a larger blog on the Ghana experience. To read more:
http://caitsinghana.blogspot.com

How to Forget the Love of Your Life:

1. Go to Ghana
2. Take up a secret lover (if only for one night)
3. Study with your literary idol
4. Hug the women folk, love the women folk, laugh with the women folk
5. Swallow the lessons
6. Write it ALL down

-

I am almost done with my second round of "Eat, Pray, Love." I will be giving it to Tonya as a gift, even though I'm not quite finished. This is my message to her:

"Dear Tonya,

After my second reading, I am hoping to have absorbed most of this book's message. So here it is, passing hands and hearts, one crazy girl to another. True, its beat and dirty, a restless journey from New York to Ghana, but it came with me for a reason- to find you. It's lessons are one you already know and hold dear. Consider it a reminder on those mad nights when even the moon is your enemy. It was as timely sanctuary for me and I suspect it will hold some comfort for you, as well. A small gift for my new enormous spirited friend, Tonya. I feel honored that our paths have crossed.

Big love!
Caitlin

P.S. I know what you will say- stop! I can buy another one should I need it."

-

One of the Nigerian students asked me last night, "Caitlin, how are you coping alone in that room with no TV or radio?" Funny. I hadn't thought of that. My buzzing brain is so full of stories that at the end of the day all my heart longs for is to write. I can't imagine watching TV here. Even music, as desperately as I love it, has little place in this experience. My iPOD sits in my bag, unused. My songs, instead, are the lilting accents of the Nigerian students laughing in the common room, the barking dogs in heat, the bull frogs and their incredible feat of throats. My own heart beat and breath.

Today in the workshop we talk about the function of poetry as a group (finally!) Yusef shares his thoughts on what makes a good poem. Notes below:

- Each line is important, each word. The word that falls right or left of a given word changes the music.

- Take out the extraneous

- Entry into the poem very important

- "Art is that which endures"- spoken by a friend of Yusef's. This was a new way of thinking about poems for him. We write the poem for the moment, but we revise it with the intention of endurance (even if it doesn't end up enduring.) "Time is always at war with other Gods"- a quote from an article in an Italian publication he read

- Music of the poem in relation to the oral tradition- the ear is a great editor. Think of language as music.

Tyehimba shares that poetry, for him, is an opportunity to have his voice heard beyond his time of the planet. A way to share political ideals, though he is wary of preaching to the choir or creating a message without image. The image is extremely important, above all. Tonya shares that a writer must discover themselves in the creation of the work, create an alternative space. She is interested in how poets use language to draw in different audiences. Refers to George Orwell's essay, "Politics and the English Language."

Yusef calls on Plato. In his ideal republic, Plato banishes the poet. Why? Yusef thinks the poet forces us to pose questions. By posing a question, the reader is already active. Being told a message is passive. Language is political and silence is political. The image is subversive because it keeps reoccurring in our psyche, it haunts us. Yusef believes a short statement can be inserted into a poem successfully, but only depending on what happens around it. Often poets think too much about the meaning of the line and not the music. Sometimes we don't want to understand the poem entirely. We must be wary of poems as emotional advertisements, lacking depth and mystery. Embrace the mystery.

After the workshop, Tonya, Tyehimba, Masese, Mildred and I grab a bite before the evening reading. Masese tells us how he makes his Obokano, the traditional instrument he plays, specific to his village in Kenya. Amazingly, its all natural. A specific tree in the forest is used in its creation, a tree that is not used for firewood, except in the exception of elders and widows, since it is easy to access, close to the edge of the forest. If lightening strikes any given tree, this is the same tradition, it is left for elders and widows. The strings of the instrument are made of dried animal veins. The body, of hallowed gourds. Masese made his instrument himself in about a week long process.

The conversation turns to slam and hip hop. Earlier, in the workshop, Yusef grins, "I am not the person to have this conversation with." Its a tired topic, that is, sadly, still relevant. I find myself annoyed at the discussion, but still on the fence. I am drawn to literature and poetry, this is what most deeply moves me, but can I consciously deny an art form that was once so important and defining in my life? The feeling of not wanting to return to New York life rushes through me during this talk like a swarm of angry bees.

I am here, I am here, I am here, I am here.

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On Writing: Speaking to the Universe & the Great Beyond

On Writing: Speaking to the Universe & the Great Beyond

2008-06-27

There is an in between in this life to be cherished. It seems there are so many people I know in either major life upheavals and deep hurt, waiting for it to pass (or transform into something gorgeous) OR are stuck and wishing something of that gravity would hit them, just to shake 'em up and out of their daily existence. Perhaps this is always the pendulum we swing between, but it seems particularly polar these days. 

Yesterday evening was spent with my magic Sonia. Sitting outdoors on the insane New York street, we talk of this very polarity. What are our next steps? We've moved to (what has become) our city to pursue dreams, and on some level, have already conquered them. Now what? How afraid are we to break from our jobs, our comfortable homes, our daily existence to do what we really long for? A woman overhears me ranting my piece. From the corner of my eye I catch her nodding along. "See, she feels it too!" I exclaim. I invite the woman to join us, but she stays put, listening, smiling, nodding along, seeing herself reflected in each dip and turn of the conversation. Before she leaves, she approaches our table and plops down an AA brochure. "This is really helping me," she says. Though neither Sonia nor I could be considered alcoholics (I mean, I have but a drink a week, if that!), we appreciate the gesture. I tell her mediation is more my style. She applauds. Shares her own brief story of looking for peace in the moment. It seems the universe is placing the same message on my doorstep, even in the form of wayward strangers named Leslie wearing Martha Wainwright shirts. (P.S., as I told Leslie, if you're a Wainwright fan, please see the Leonard Cohen documentary "I'm Your Man," which features the whole fam, ok?) We tell her to read Eat, Pray, Love, promise her it is a book she needs (Sonia and I later laugh about how we feel the author could be sitting at this very table, she feels like a friend.) Signing off, Leslie gives us her blessings in a most New York fashion, "Namaste, bitches!!"

We laughed and rolled our eyes simultaneously at this special moment of New York-ness. Even when we hate this destructive city, there is always something that says, "And this is why you've stayed with me for so long." I shared the submission for the residency I'm currently working on. I encourage Sonia to pursue her memoir (I can't wait to read it.) She tells me the words come so easy when she takes the time for it. I urge her, again, to really take the time for it. We just have to be clear about what we want, keep working toward it, and the forces that be help to scoot us along. To prove my point, I share this story with her:

Months ago, when I was stuck in the middle of daily existence and the deep depression it placed on my heart, I wasn't writing. I was supposedly living this amazing life: a gorgeous, kind boyfriend, a home of my own that we shared (complete with a cat), a job that seemed (from the outside) creative and fulfilling. But while my achievement-based life was propelling forward, I was absolutely spiritually stagnant. My biggest love has always been reading and writing and I was doing neither. One night I took Marbre to see Yusef Komunyakaa read at the New School. I was indescribably moved, as always. On some level, that night he woke me up to what I knew I needed, deep down. On the train home I wrote the poem, "Questions for Yusef," asking Mr. K where his gift of writing derives from, and calling out for the experience of pain in order to write like him. I mean, I literally say, "what great suffer should I take, what beating must my organs endure."  Yeah. (Read the poem here:http://king-poetic.livejournal.com/97329.html)

As I was telling Sonia, I could have written this poem easily from a different perspective. Light, transcendence, god, ultimate love. But no. I wrote about the devil, dark forces, the demons that lie sleeping in us and come hurling out in our art.  Not only did I write this poem, but I read it aloud. Spoke it out to audiences, recited it to the point of tears. Everything in my body shouted, "LET ME FEEL SOMETHING." I guess I needed this purging to start me off on what was to be exactly what I asked for, a painfully neccesary journey. A few months later and my life is turned upside down. I experience the deepest hurt that has ever been put into this mortal body. And then I get a letter. I'm going to Africa. For free. To study under Yusef Komunyakaa.

Before we leave for the night, Sonia tells me about seeing one of her favorite Bengali poets who Yusef translated (magically) at the Bowery while I was (unfortunately) out of town. The translation was so perfect, she was mesmerized. I ask Sonia to speak to me in Bengali. "What do you want me to say?" she asks, and I don't have to think long. "Say: We are amazing, beautiful women and our next steps will be gorgeous and incredible." And then came her lilting language of Calcutta, blessing me right in the middle of this crazy city we call home. 

A brief interlude for Sonia: There are residencies and novels and books and poems awaiting us. There are foreign lands and lovers and deep friendships and mountain tops to dance on. There are so many blessed things heading our way. You are already talking to flowers, writing your own personal scripture. I can't wait to see what comes!

So today. My parents are on their way to Ireland. My mother worries incessantly about getting on a plane to Africa without being able to speak to her before hand. My father sends me a birthday email today, as there will be no birthday wishes from my family on the actual day. July 2nd. I know this birthday is all about stepping on that plane. No cake, no presents, no singing, just me and a big metal bird setting off to a new dream. I think of my birthday last year, which was a wonderful, quiet day with a person I loved, but I don't remember feeling much more grounded than I do now, about to take an 11 hour flight to Ghana. Although, truth be told, I am starting to feel grounded. Not in the traditional sense, but in the way that everyone has been telling me will come from this bottomless pit: internally. Self as foundation. Finally. I laugh and smile for no reason today. No reason!

And then there is something of a past lover admitting that way back when he was falling in love with you. Perhaps he is even falling for you right now, as he holds you in that familiar way and you know this will not happen again, but his eyes beg you to say otherwise. You see him so clearly for the first time ever. You shrug at all of his slimy-ness, feel the power of your healed heart that will never again allow that pain, enjoy the laughs you have always shared. Tell him about your wanderlust. Ask how he manages to be so on the move, all the time. Like everyone else, this man says, "but you are so Brooklyn." (New York, how did you crown me this? I didn't even grow up on your streets!) At heart I believe I am mountains and country and peace, but everyone seems to think otherwise. He suggests Denver. I shrug.

I don't think I got to tell you about the Russian baths and their amazing steam rooms or the massage or Maya's singing that stole my heart or Jme and how amazing his visit was, or the Chinese palm reader who gave me an abbreviated reading for the last $3 in my wallet and said I was going to die in another country (at an old age, thank good.) But those stories are stories for other days. I've gone on long enough.

In the words of our momentary friend Leslie, Namaste, Bitches!!

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On Writing: Letter to Anthony

On Writing: Letter to Anthony

2008-06-19

--

Dear one (letter to Anthony), 

This body can tell a lot about struggle. The responsibility of simply waking up each day bears down on the lungs like two anvils. Or perhaps they are smooth coin money bags double locked, no key. Who knows. You stay breathing out smog words you never believe anyway, arriving out your urgent mouth like a ghost train. And the days go and go.

The bill collector makes a nightly appearance in your dreams, that tall drink a' water swimming  in his gross white leisure suit, pimp hat, one limp leg giving comic-like character to his strut. He's the sort to make a disability taste like sex, isn't he? Slimy blowfish chest, he's a spiky motha'fucka singing like the devil, jingling change in his right pocket with a hand you realize later, you never once saw in the flesh. 

Monday night it's the bodega lady with masking tape over her lips. Clicking the calculator next to the register over and over, receipt tape piling around her feet, her knees, her neck, rising paper quick sand. You're a proud man, but still, you begin to cry. All you want to do is buy bananas and toilet paper, but she won't even look at you, transfixed. The place is filled with the smell of rotting fruit, sticky, the flies beginning to gather. 

Tuesday it's an oil mechanic. He wipes his greasy hands over your best pair of jeans, black ink Rorschach on the crotch, rainbow spill on concrete. He laughs broadly, his belly morphing into your childhood dog, "don't lick the oil!" But it's too late and suddenly it's Wednesday and your cell phone grows legs, runs away, hops a plane to Bermuda. You feel abandoned, walk in circles around your grandmother's bedroom, no one to call, nowhere to go. Thursday is only sun tan lotion, the smell lingers until it becomes nauseating. All you can remember is sun tan lotion, nothing else. You've always had a weak stomach. Friday you flip burgers on an endless assembly line, vanishing point hidden beyond millions and millions of your mirror image in an apron, rotating the wrist, wielding the iron spatula like an instrument. Your once best friend looks through the window, his round body possessing eight crook'd legs like a spider, glasses propped on his nose, an undeserving professor. A fire of resentment burns up your spine, toes to tongue. He is out there and you are in. Saturday and Sunday are your night to dance, if you are able. If you are lucky.

And it goes like this. But even still, you wake knowing new stories about the sun. She is your confidant and shares her secrets, too. You don't know the revelations to come, but some where deep inside, you believe. That is your secret. You still believe. Like a child first learning that a plant is, in fact, alive, that there is an unknown world under the sea, you are waking up to each story unfurling on your taste buds from the great beyond. It is not mystic, just fact. There are things out there we cannot know. That rush into our bodies and shake around for awhile until they erupt like miracle. Your miracle is coming, and it's coming big, coming big like song. The days will still go and go, but you will have your song. And the world will dance, as it always has been, but this time, for you. 

Love,
Caitlin 

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On Writing: Wanderlust

On Writing: Wanderlust

2008-06-18

--

Sitting in a french cafe in Brooklyn, glass on wine in hand, after an incredible studio session with Tomas. The small poem sits perfectly over the talking drum interlude, and even I, with my answering machine voice sydrome, have to admit the result was buttery, smoky and dare I say it, even sexy. "Thats me?!" Delighted. Tomas tells me he wants to work on an entire album of music based on my poems and the heart sings again.

If I closed my eyes last night, I could almost imagine I was actually in Paris, not Clinton Hill Brooklyn, eating a smoked salmon crepe. The book is helping. For the second time I am reading the (now out of print) novel, "Black Girl in Paris." Mahogany lent it to me a few years back and I remember vividly how its simple language and story telling set my mind a'dreamin. I've been thinking about re-reading it for the past few weeks and finally bought a used copy on amazon.com. I see so much of myself in this character. Her escaping to the no-arms of France to pursue big dreams, chasing the tail of James Baldwin. The wanderlust, the pain, the deep lonliness but, above all, the prevailing need to write, push beyond, discover. But isn't this all of us? The mark of a good character: universally relatable. The only downside is that its one of those sad, quick books that end far too soon and you're left feeling a bit abandoned. You know, the kind where upon nearing the end you begin rationing the pages in order to extend the experience. I suddenly am rushed with the memory of moving to New York to pursue my dreams. Its funny to feel you've outgrown the city you once so desired, and to have no idea what could possibly be bold enough to hold you next.

Last night I spoke to a past lover for some time. One who was not always so kind and where it would probably be justified on some level to still hold a bitter anger. Despite, I laughed a lot and felt genuine affection towards him. It reminded me how the heart heals itself. This morning my current shape-shifting love came over and I folded my bones into his like a baby bird for the first time in weeks. We lay on the futon for a long time, just breathing. I find my speaking words become less and less important these days. Often what rushes out of my mouth is brash and untrue. My mouth is more of a wound than my heart, even. These meditations in writing reveal what lives underneath. And sometimes it is just the breathing that tells the story.

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On Writing: Music (All Is Right When Alec Plays Piano)

On Writing: Music (All Is Right When Alec Plays Piano)
2008-06-13

What makes you feel great?

I am seriously asking. What in your life makes you feel, even momentarily, like all is right in the world? I really want to know.

In my life, its a very clear answer. Well, there are more than a few things I could cite, but for the sake of this journal entry, I'm only going to tell you about one: my cousin's piano playing. 

Alec and I grew up together, just three months apart and have always been close as two peas in a pod. We moved to Brooklyn together, we day dreamed our lives away in Albany and now, here we are, grown up and hardly making time to spend together. Last night I finally went to his home, an apartment he shares with our third partner-in-crime cousin Jamie, whom I love just as much. To have all three of us in this city at the same time is incredible! After a pasta dinner on the fire escape we moved into Alec's room to listen to his new songs. And then some old songs. Even the ones he hates that I still desperately love. When he plays his brilliant songs, his voice getting stronger and lyrics lovely, everything in the world feels just right. Nothing can touch me. Jamie and I layed on the bed, looking up in at the ceiling, song after song washing over us. "Just make an EP already, man," Jamie urges and I nod vehemently in agreeance. I asked Alec to play the song he wrote for me a few years ago. The one that brings tears everytime he plays it. This is the chorus, the full song lyrics below:

She shows him the way
to go home
She makes waves out wherever she goes
Why go it alone?
You, a pair, over sea, over land, over foam

Can you imagine?

And of course, the night continued onwards, bringing the iPOD out full force! When I think of songs that are inherently apart of me, the list is ages long. But when I think about the songs I first heard as a child (and loved), that still carry weight and resonance now, the list gets significantly shorter. From, literally, the time I was a very small being to now, these are some of the songs that still move me deeply. If there was a soundtrack to my life, this would definitely be half of disc 1:

Neil Young: Old Man
Carol King: So Far Away
Cat Stevens: Father & Son
Paul Simon: Graceland
The Traveling Wilburys: Handle With Care
Crosby Stills & Nash: Suite: Judy Blue Eyes
The Beach Boys: God Only Knows

We listened to these songs (and more), all of us singing along, full bodied and discussing their phenom: the song writing, what music does to a body (physically), who are the people that aren't moved by music and clearly they've never heard these songs, tid bits of trivia ("Paul McCartney thinks "God Only Knows" is the best song ever written- did you know it isn't in a key, which is a mark of brilliance?")

And all was really right in the world. You know, we tend to forget from time to time, but it still is. And my family is way enviable. I am so lucky to have my comrades. To us!

(PS I am reading Zadie Smith's White Teeth finally, and she is a master! She is also painfully beautiful and I kind of want to be her in all ways.)

--

The Duo of '84 (Alec) 2005

The second of July
St. Peter's
up New Scotland, two months 'til the day
he'll be there
The conversation begins
Praying for the snow to fall now
Stranding two for one more day
Drunk off tales of Alex and Elise
So let them stay

Twelve years old
in the Adirondack house
with peeling paint
the nightlight glowed
Whispered words of kissing
boys on buses orange as we'd go
to the strip mall, laugh about the
18+ room in the back
of the movie store where we would pour
through all the discount racks

St. Peter's
up New Scotland, two months 'til the day
he'll be there
The conversation begins
Praying for the snow to fall now
Stranding two for one more day
Drunk off tales of Alex and Elise
So let them stay

She shows him the way
to go home
She makes waves out wherever she goes
Why go it alone?
You, a pair, over sea, over land, over foam

Christmas calls and
Stores in living rooms where parents shop for their own things
Two sisters warn us, children:
"pay attention, watch what life can bring"
Apparently, our grandma fell asleep and set the house aflame
So father, son and holy ghost on overalls
all past the graves                                    

She shows him the way
to go home
She makes waves out wherever she goes
Why go it alone?
You, a pair, over sea, over land, over foam

Brooklyn nighttime skies
Sun will set
Over houses, apartments and cornerstores
Our side of the block
On the steps in night
whatcha got in store?
time flies,
Sun will set
Over houses, apartments and cornerstores
Our side of the block
On the steps, the duo of '84 

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On Writing: Another Magical Poem Weekend

On Writing: Another Magical Poem Weekend
2008-06-02

On the cramped Fung Wah bus coming home from Boston. Another magical night with Jme, just as I'd imagined it would be, sitting on his porch, sharing poem after (gorgeous) poem in a back and forth richocette of words, giving each other carefully picked writing assignments. "Here is one for you," he says, "write what you'd like to say to Dominic in a year." Yeah. Ouch.

And the beauty and mystery of it all is that somewhere beyond your brain, while you are listening to all the beautiful words clinking together, your spirit starts spinning new poems. Ones you know will be lost, for they are rapid-fire, the tiny synapes snapping information through your belly, ears and groin. Each line proprelling new brilliant stanzas that you will inevitably lose because to capture them fully would mean a break from the moment to enter the solitude of writing, and well, then you'd miss the whole experience of the poem given to you, wouldn't you? The only hope is that the poems reincarnate later. At 2am, after five hours of sharing, we crashed, promising ourselves to save the writing for days to come. How the mind can feel so alive and the body so depeleted will forever be my plight. I slept feeling deeply thankful for such good friends. 

I am reading (simultaneously with "Blink," a fascinating account of our snap reactions), "How to Save Your Own Life" by Erica Jong. Somewhat disappointly, the novel has proven a 1970s version of the shallow books one might buy at Amtrak for a train ride (perfect for a bus, therefore), stuck smack in the middle of the women's lib movement. The upside is that the subject of the book is a woman writer and her failing marriage, which, of course, no one (in my mind) can relate to that more than I. Despite all, there are some fabulous characters who pop up in the narrative, one being a woman who gives everything away, famous for her generosity. "Don't mention you love a piece of her jewlery or you will be walking away with it!" Remembering her generosity, I leave behind my beloved David Bowie shirt, the soft vintage one with the cut off sleeves. Jme will look way hotter in it than I ever could. And true to form, he tells me last night all the compliments recieved. Told you. 

Here is a quote from the Jong book that I particularly related to. Writers, take heed.

"... Dividing your life between the writing desk and the telephone table and the analyst's couch. Is this the woman everybody envies? Is this the woman who's supposed to have the answer? Ask Kathryn Kuhlman. Or Clara Boothe Luce. Or Helen Gurley Brown. Start your own religion. Become a faith healer. Start a magazine. Those people have answeres. But not writers. We are paid for our pain. And our nightmares. We are paid to drift foggily from the typewriter to the kitchen stove (where we make still another pot of coffee and remark to ourserlves irresolutely that one of these days we really ought to mop the kitchen floor.) Then we drift back. We get paranoid from too much solitude and believe our publishers are ripping us off or our readers pestering us. We get a dozen raving mash notes and one unsigned, illiterate hate letter and remember only the hate letter. We spend so much time alone, brooding, that we become obsessed with sex, with fame, with chimerical business deals. We hunger for love, ache for sex- and yet, when we get it, dispose of it so quickly as to not let it interfere with our writing. Unhappiness is our element. We come to believe we can't function without it." 

Except I am trying very hard not to subscribe to this belief system any longer. Side note, please do not go see the new Sex & the City movie unless you are in a good place. It had me weeping in a cab on the way home with Malaika, thankful for her understanding and dreading walking up into the apartment that is now mine, not ours. Yes, folks, its sad. And no, it is not as good as the TV show.

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On Writing: Dedication to Teaching

On Writing: Dedication to Teaching
2008-06-01

My first dedication for a student-produced poetry book:

One of the most nerve wracking things about teaching young people is the very first step through the doorway. You never know who is there by choice, and who has been dragged along by a well-meaning teacher, when, in fact, it has just turned spring and they would rather be outdoors playing ball. As a writer, we love to invent stories, recalling past tales of less-than-ideal classes, the horrific escapades of fellow teaching artists, the mythic proportions of unruly students and their stone-cold attitudes. These thoughts rushed through me as I opened the doors to the Ottendorfer Library, where a group of 11 and 12 year old boys talked among themselves, sizing me up out of the corner of their eyes. All boys. Uh oh.  Ready for the worst, we began. Over the course of the next six weeks, I experienced something absolutely unfathomable. Each student actually loved to write! They came to each session, sharing their words and ready to put pen to paper, challenged by each exercise and rising to it, in fact, soaring above and beyond my wildest expectations. And what poems came out! Week after week, Linda (the wonderful librarian whom I had the pleasure of sharing the class with) and I exchanged amazed glances. These kids could really write! Out poured their uncensored and brilliant imaginations, using words and historical references that I, as the older and "wiser" teacher, had long put to rest after my own schooling days. They drew from their brains, hearts and guts equally, aching, joying, laughing, dancing all over the paper. And they were proud. In turn, I was proud. And deeply inspired. The second hardest thing about teaching is being careful not to borrow your students work. Yes, it was that good. I went home and penned my own new poems, challenging myself, remembering the earnestness of each young man. I know between these pages you will feel the passion and excitement that pumped through our sessions together. Though we were each sad to part ways when the workshops came to a close, here are our words, captured for the world. This book is dedicated to all the young poets at Ottendorfer Library, and to Linda and Gabriel Caycedo, who's facilitation, participation and dedication to putting out this anthology propelled us all to create the best work possible. And, lastly, to all the young poets who don't know they are poets yet. Guess what? We all are. Thanks, boys, for reminding me the power that lives in each of our fingertips, ready to explode.

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On Writing: Letter to the Boy on the 2 Train

On Writing: Letter to the Boy on the 2 Train
2008-05-29

I'm sorry I was peering into your notebook... but, really I'm not. I'm a writer, too. I'm sorry, but its what we do- we are nosy, we look into the laps of strangers for our next story. Hoping their bad habits, failed loves, wrinkled clothing and bruises will fuel our poetry into something more brilliant and blue than what lives in our own broken hearts. We borrow. So when I snuck a glance at your plain white notebook, wide open, keeper of your barely-intelligible scribbles, you'll understand that I couldn't stop myself. Besides, our pens matched. I would have interrupted you to point that out, but the ferocity with which you were writing made me realize to stop the flow would be a worse intrusion than the reading itself. So. You're breaking up with Karen and learning Portuguese, huh? A friend had inspired you with his love of languages. Mmmm. A familiar tale. My "Karen," so to speak, is in love with Brazil. He desperately wants to learn the language and already knows the music, so perhaps my Karen and you should have tea and make your plan to buy conversational tapes and a weekly date to practice and exchange Gilberto Gil records and the like. Your Karen and me can have tea and talk about how we hate Brazilian music and how stupid Portuguese is. I mean, not that any of that is true, but you know what I'm saying. Or maybe you and I can meet up to talk about how exciting life is and how breaking up opens new worlds of possibility. Except you will have to stop taking my Karen's side and want to learn Spanish or come to Ghana with me, or something more along my tastes. If you are interested, we could plan a trip to Barcelona, Germany, wherever you want really, and we could take up new hobbies. We could also just find a beach to sit by the water and write in our journals together, just the way we met. Well, sort of met. Ok, the way I read your journal when you weren't looking, but I swear, if you weren't so absorbed you might have seen the vast amount we have in common, like new adventures and pens. Or how we both use big exclamation points and the parts you are telling yourself, you know, the self-reminders like "life is amazing!" are in big, big letters splashed across the page. Perhaps we wouldn't need to write it down at all, but just shout, with big exclamation points, out into the sea, "life is amazing!" And then we could high-five and double over with laughter, because it would be true, life would really be amazing. I know what you are thinking. If life was that amazing, what would we have to write about? We'd have to start finding other people on the train with journals and fight for the seats next to them. So what do you say? If you still want to learn Portuguese its actually ok with me. I'm over it. My Karen can go learn with someone else. Let's go to Brazil.

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