Inspiration for Many Generations

"It is the job of the artist to transcend–to think outside the boundaries of permissable thought and dare to say things that no one else will say." —Howard Zinn

Howard Zinn, historian, author, peace and civil rights activist, WWII bombardier for the USAF, and Veteran for Peace died of a heart attack while swimming in California on Wednesday Jan. 27. He was 87 years old, and personally, taking your leave of this earth while swimming sounds like a pretty good way to go. At least to a swimmer.

Howard Zinn was many things in his life and he made no apologies for the choices he made and the adventures and stories he had to tell. I read that when he came home from WWII, he took all his medals and honors, stuck them in a plain envelope, sealed it, and wrote across it "Never Again." From that time on, Mr. Zinn devoted himself to working for civil rights, securing justice for the poor and for indigenous peoples, and always, always striving toward an end to war. His most popular book, A People's History of the United States sold over one million copies. In this book, Zinn attempts to tell our history with all its violence, slavery and genocide intact. History is not a coloring book that we can paint in pretty colors so we don't recognize the truth. Howard Zinn wrote a history book where the winners don't get to tell the story.

My favorite book by Howard Zinn is a slim volume which you can read in a couple of hours. It's called artists in times of war and other essays published in 2003 in Canada. It is a book to be kept on your shelf and read again and again. He directs his words to the artist, the writer, the poet when he says, "The word transcendent comes to mind when I think of the role of the artist in dealing with the issues of the day. I use that word to suggest that the role of the artist is to transcend conventional wisdom, to transcend the word of the establishment, to transcend the orthodoxy, to go beyond and escape what is handed down by the government or what is said in the media."

I interpret this admonition seriously. We as artists have a duty, a responsibility that comes with our gifts. And that responsibility is to rise above mediocrity, to reject a herd mentality in favor of expressing what we perceive to be the truth, no matter how dangerous, outrageous, or unacceptable to the status quo it may be. I take that responsibility seriously and reading "Artists in Times of War" reminds me of my duty as an artist and activist.



If you take Howard Zinn's words to heart, you're not alone. It is easy to get tired, to give in or give up, to take the middle ground when wars seem to just go on and on, no matter what we do. But there are places where you can re-charge with poets and writers of like mind. Here in Fayetteville, you can join up with the OMNI Center for Peace, Justice and Ecology at http://www.omnicenter.org Location: 3274 N Lee Ave. Fayetteville, AR 72703/ 479-935-4422

World-renowned folk musicians Donna Stjerna and Kelly Mulholland, better known as "Still On the Hill," host a peace open mic for musicians and poets the first Sunday of every month from September through May at Omni on Lee Ave. It is a moving, inspiring, uplifting and hope- renewing event. I always walk away from the Omni open mic feeling surrounded by others who want peace in the world. Whether that is true or not, it's a feeling I need in order to keep writing and working for peace.

Every other year, Split This Rock Poetry Festival gathers writer-activists of peaceful intentions together to share their truths and advice, their poems and creative endeavors. The festival is in Washington DC and the dates for this year are March 10 - March 13, 2010. I went in 2008 and wrote a series of posts about my experience there. Your presence at an event like Split This Rock is evidence enough that you take your responsibility as an artist seriously. There are workshops and readings non-stop for 3 days. Busboys and Poets, THE DC independent bookstore and restaurant is a central meeting place. There are no "famous" untouchables at Split This Rock even though many of the poets you meet will be known the world over. There, everyone is treated the same--your art and your work are as valued as any poet's. Everyone has a chance to actively participate. I believe that Split This Rock is the kind of festival Howard Zinn would have loved to attend. To learn more about this one of a kind (very affordable) festival, go to www.splitthisrock.org. (Photo above is from their website.)

"It is the job of the artist to transcend–to think outside the boundaries of permissable thought and dare to say things that no one else will say." So says Howard Zinn, and so say I. So say on, Poet. The world is waiting for your words.

The Devil Made Me Do It

The journey of a creative piece often takes a twisting, turning, unexpected path to its final destination. You can't know when you begin, where that poem or song, that painting or pot will finally land. All we can do is be true to the calling of the Muse, who shows up most often when we arrive at our pen and paper, our easel, or pick up our instrument at a regular time in a designated space. She needs to know where and when to find us. Her faithfulness is entirely dependent on our own. Now this is a true story.

After one of my all-night writes up on White Rock Mountain last year, I came back down after two solid days of writing and one of complete solitude on the mountain top. Needless to say, I was immersed and had no desire, really, to return to the mundane chores of everyday life. I felt as if I could live that way up there forever. Truthfully, I only had a couple more days like that left in me. My creativity feeds off the fire and energy of life and love, so I know I'm not really the monkish poet, but it calls to me occasionally. It calls me, and I try to answer.

Anyway, when I got back down, I was grumpy and downright hard to live with, according to Leigh, who should know. Smart Leigh, creative Leigh...instead of reacting to my surliness, simply went to her room and penned a few lines about how she was feeling. They went something like this: "The devil stole my baby from the mountain top. She went up sweet as honey, now the sting is all I got. The sting is all I got." Then she sent it to me via email.

Well, instead of getting mad that she seemed to think the devil got hold of me instead of my creative need, I just happened to be in the space (from all that writing) to recognize a really good bluegrass refrain when I saw one. And since I just happen to know a bluegrass band, I wrote Leigh back and said, "Send me all you got. This is great!" So she did. She had a couple of phrases she thought should be in it, like "all she ever makes me is a blackbird pie" and "they sent me old Scratch" which is a great old-fashioned term for the devil, for you younger readers.

Anyway, I took what she sent and turned it into song lyrics, being as true to her words as I could be. Then I sent the song to my musician friend, Lenny Lasater, who plays for a Blue/Newgrass band in Atlanta, GA called Roxie Watson. Lenny listened to some of the old, darker bluegrass tunes and came up with some incredible music along with her band members. And just the other night, I made the long drive to Atlanta with a friend to hear the debut of their new CD "True Stories." And what's the best song, the most original and intense song, on this album of really terrific songs? Why, "Devil Stole My Baby," of course. No, I'm not prejudiced. I co-wrote some of the other songs on that album as well, but this is the one that really knocks my socks off.


Who knew that Leigh, when she wrote her words (called a "hook" in the biz) to avoid a conflict, deciding to do something constructive instead, then sent them to me to let me know how she was feeling, would make a hit song on a bluegrass CD in less than a year? Because the band could choose "Devil" to enter into a local band contest to perform for Lilith Fair in Atlanta. Whichever song they choose, we believe they'll get there. You can hear a snippet of "Devil" and even buy the CD (or download your favorite songs) here. Or just look for Roxie Watson at cdbaby.com and then the "Devil," who is always easier to find than you think.

I know I say this all the time, but follow your instincts. Use your natural abilities to create a song or poem or a painting rather than a conflict. Bring it home and make it healing. I swear, you never know what will happen next. Trust your Muse to do the rest.

Fishing for Poems

This year's all-night write was another success. Different from last year's in every way, we stayed inside by the fire to keep warm in 20 degree weather. But we got a lot of writing done, and "different" is good when it comes to creativity.

One of my favorite exercises this year was the word-grouping exercise. Make a list of the names for the individuals of any group of things. For instance, under the heading flowers you might list daffodils, roses, sunflowers, bluebonnets, dahlias, peonies, etc. You want to be specific, but you don't have to know the Latin names. That would be a different poem. Birds would be another group, or automobiles; any group that has individuals with particular names. Take 5 minutes and name as many as you can. I started my list several times (ingredients for a recipe, spiders, buildings) before finally settling on something I felt I knew and understood pretty well: fish. A partial list included bass, bream, rainbow trout, Dolly Varden (a beautiful gold trout), crappie, minnows, goldfish, sharks, flounder, cod, and so forth. I named a lot of fish. I was glad there was something out there in the world for which I knew that many names.

Once you've made your list, then write a poem using the names from your chosen group. Leigh Wilkerson wrote a beautiful poem called, "As Names Become a Part of Us" about trees. Her poem inspired me to want to create this exercise because naming encourages us to experience a kinship with life we may miss by throwing everything into a group under a single heading. The exercise of naming also helps us to be specific in our writing. The lovers didn't just sit under a tree, they sat under a blackjack oak.

Following, you will find the rough drafts of my work on this exercise. Because I had so many fish, I had to break the poem into 4 parts.

Backyard Pond

Flash of goldfish
silver shad
minnows spin like quarters
tossed in a wishing fountain.



Lake Wedington

Grass waved underwater like wheat in a windfield.
Springfed and dug by mules, Lake Wedington's grasses
thrived in sunlight through clear water.
Catfish, bass and bream swam through forests of weeds.
Crappie and largemouths loved what they found there–
so much food and safety in their undulating lengths.
Fishermen cursed the tendrils caught in trolling motors,
calling for oars instead of engines.
Someone smart killed the grass, disintegrated
it into a minutiae of green swirl,
destroying homes and clouding what once was clear.
Now the fishing's no good.

Trout Streams

In search of the illusive trout, we stumble
over stones bigger than our feet; toes grown numb
as we hunt rainbows and browns. Under overhangs
beneath the green drip of hemlock,
deep in pools riffling off shallows,
we snap flies. Lengthening the line
we curl it behind then lay it perfectly,
praying for the rise.
The crisp air breathes trout,
our lungs become gills, our tongues
trip along syllables, Dolly Varden.

Deep Sea

Fishing off the far end of a pier
one night in my thirties,
I caught one sting ray,
a single clam shell,
an entire nest of sea snakes,
and an eel.
What started out as night fishing
turned nightmare fishing.
For awhile I was afraid to drop a line in saltwater;
wanting snapper, grouper, flounder, redfish
but coming up with crabs.
For awhile I fished only in daylight
bright enough to blind, but lately
I've returned to the dark,
thinking something down there feels me,
so I feed it.