Don't Ask Don't Tell: A Villa Knell

Don’t Ask Don’t Tell; A Villa Knell

Since gays can now serve in the military, too, A1

And not concern themselves with what others tell; b

they shine, a rainbow, from behind red, white and blue. A2

As soldiers they can fight and die like warriors do. a

Heads high, they march through the gates of hell; b

Since gays can now serve in the military, too. A1

Now every word they tell commanders can be true. a

No more of that old rule, “don’t ask don’t tell.” b

They shine, a rainbow, from behind red, white and blue. A2

Gay troops can quickly grow to many from a few. a

Recruiters will not alter what they have to sell b

since gays can now serve in the military, too. A1

All medals, purple hearts and honors will accrue. a

While we no longer wonder at the tolling of the bell b

And shine, a rainbow, from behind red, white and blue. A2

Death becomes familiar, our privilege no longer new; a

An “army of lovers” who begins to think we may have failed. b

Our sisters and our brothers serve in the military, too, A1

And shine, a rainbow, from beneath red, white and blue. A2

by Mendy Knott

Originally, an old italian folk song, the villanelle became popular in English in the 1800s. This form is based on a pattern of repeated lines (refrains) and rhymes, and is usually about 18 lines long. The challenge to the poet is to compose lines that can be repeated throughout a poem and still carry the meaning forward. "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," composed by Dylan Thomas in 1951, is probably the most famous modern villanelle.

The first line which is often (though not in my case) the title of the poem is one of the refrains. In the villanelle there are six stanzas; the first five stanzas are three lines long (tercets) and the final stanza is four lines long (a quatrain). The first line and last line of the first stanza take turns repeating as the final line of the next four stanzas and then are rejoined as the last two lines of the poem. The poem has a rhyme scheme of a, b, a except in the last stanza where there is a slight variation.

Of course, as a poet, you are free (and encouraged by me) to take liberties with how strictly you want to follow the pattern. I find when I adhere to a pattern, and then make a slight deviation (as in the last line above changing "behind" to "beneath" thinking then of flag-draped coffins), the poem can become even more potent. However, it is in the rhythmical repetition that the form finds a lot of its power to nearly hypnotize the reader/listener. These are definitely poems that hold their potency both on and off the page.

Please, try this at home. Then find someone with whom to share it.

Nanci Ballew "Folk and Blues"

As a quick follow-up to my last post, allow me to review an artist I admire greatly. Some of you may be surprised to learn that local visual artist, Nanci Ballew, known for her paintings and drawings here in Fayetteville, is also a singer-songwriter. In fact, there doesn't seem to be much that Nanci Ballew doesn't do.

Despite physical setbacks which began back in her thirties with a near-fatal bicycle meets automobile crash, Nanci has never let us or her own creative nature down. Not one to give into the ogre of self-pity, or even the pain that accompanies the kind of accident from which she is still recovering, Nanci uses her creativity as therapy; physical, mental, and emotional. Last time she was in the hospital after kidney problems, the docs wanted Nanci to go to a facility for some extended physical therapy. She told them, in no uncertain terms, she needed to go HOME so she could continue her own therapy, thank you very much! Nanci went home, where she continued her healing.

She may seem fragile in appearance, but to underestimate her strength and endurance, her sheer commitment to the arts, would be a mistake. She would not allow you to live under this illusion long. Really, I never hear her complain. Ask carefully if you think she may need a hand with that guitar, or that portfolio, because she may give you "the look" which says frankly, "I don't need a hand. Go find someone who does."

Nanci Ballew is one of the most vibrant souls on planet Earth. This vibrancy is reflected in her new CD, "Folk and Blues," which will be featured at Nightbird Books on Sunday Sept. 18 at 6 pm. The third Sunday of the month is usually reserved for HOWL, an open mic celebrating women's voices. This Sunday we'll start early, with Nanci as our main feature and the release of her new CD. Nanci has long been a contributor at HOWL (her words out loud) and now, for the first time, we can take her songs home with us to play at our leisure.

Such all time favorites as "Medicaid Blues" are simply gaining in popularity as these "entitlements" are questioned more and more often. Seeing Nanci play and hearing her words will make you want to wipe the word "entitlement" right out of the political lexicon. She deserves everything she gets; dare I say she "earns" what little money she gets and all of her health care by continuing to create and to share her creativity with others. People like Nanci and many others are ignored as they go on contributing to a society who would easily overlook them. Well, not Nanci. She's not letting anyone forget about her. She is busy working her art and getting it out there.

You cat lovers will thrill to "Best Cat in the World." Not a cat lover myself, Nanci made me want to go and get one after I heard her love song to her furry friends. "The Spiral" has a wonderfully psychedelic sound that is certainly familiar to my age group. "Tree House" deals with the homeless, a group Nanci recognizes as people worse off than she is. And there is my favorite, the last song on the CD, "Listen to the Heart Beat."

Don't miss this opportunity to come and enjoy one of Fayetteville's truly unique and gifted personalities. She will give you hope. Her life lesson is one that is upbeat: strength and compassion for others in the face of your own adversity. Come, spend a little time with us this Sunday as we gather together at Nightbird and "listen to the heartbeat" of a little Ozark town filled with wonderful human beings like Nanci Ballew.

Writing When It's Hard

Today I promised I would post on my blog. I don't particularly want to because it is a beautiful day and I want to get out in the great outdoors and put the garden to bed; prepare it for winter. I want to chop wood--well, break up kindling which is something I am much more capable of these days. I want to go for a walk with my camera. Sit and scribble or draw pictures of Handsome the Rooster in my journal. Because I feel good in this cooler weather. I want to do anything, in fact, that takes me outdoors and keeps me active as opposed to writing a blog post!

Some days I don't want to post because I feel bad. I don't want to wait until I do feel bad to write about that because it is much less likely that I will. So, I'll try to write about it now, on a good day, which I don't want to do because I do feel good and who wants to write about feeling bad when you're feeling good? See how hard this is? It's important though, and I know I'm not alone, so I want to share this.

What keeps me writing when I don't feel like it? Here's a word we have darn near lost from our vocabulary--commitment. Some of us wish it would get lost along with dozens of other words like discipline, motivation, dedication. Sometimes I simply write because I said I would, and that is enough. It's a promise to myself and I believe heartily in keeping my promises--to myself and to others. Also, I have a Shero; a writer from a time when there was little help for illnesses like mine. Her name is Flannery O'Connor. She had lupus. She wrote until she couldn't. Really, physically could not. She was one of the best short story writers that ever lived. Google her if you aren't familiar.

I have a couple of inflammatory autoimmune diseases. This is no plea for pity, although I want you to know you aren't the only one if you have a couple, too. I have lupus and Sjogrens. These are illnesses that are hard on the joints in particular, the lubrication of the eyes and mouth, and some organs, especially the lining around the organs. They are not life-threatening for me, at least at this time. I have treatments that help and I'm lucky to have the VA as my insurance. At least I feel lucky about that most of the time.

I am telling you this because lots of artists have physical problems that make them want to quit creating. But we know that putting the brakes on our creativity would be one of the worst things we could do for ourselves. I believe my illness would worsen if I quite writing. If I decided my creativity did not take precedence over how I was feeling on any given day, then I may as well lay it down and give it up.

Writing is like eating healthy (Leigh argues that popcorn is not "healthy") food to me. Sometimes, I may not be hungry but I know I need to eat, so I do. Writing is like going for a walk when I wish I could stay in bed and feel sorry for myself. I get up, put on my sneakers and cap (I do NOT have to look good--let go of that), and put one foot in front of the other. I always feel better afterwards. Picking up my pen, going to my blog post page, writing a letter to a friend (even if I have to do these things in bed, which I find is the most comfortable place for me) all these things make my life worth living. Life has meaning. I have a purpose for being here. These are the two precepts on which I base my being; my raison d'etre, as it were. And oh yeah, love. But that's a post for another day.

Yesterday was my Hen's Teeth writing group. I dreaded getting out of bed (which I could barely do), taking a shower (which I had to do to make my muscles and joints move) and driving the distance to the library where we meet. And first I had to revise my Villanelle, which was our assignment for this week. I did it. I did it all and I made it, nearly on time, too. I wasn't the happiest person there. And everyone seemed to do a better job than me at their work. But I was THERE, and to me that was what counted. I honored my commitment. I learned from my friends. I was surrounded by my loving and compassionate writing community, whether they knew how I was feeling or not. That didn't matter. We all have problems at one time or another, and yet we show up. We keep showing up.

And so this week, I implore you to show up, too. If you feel really bad, write about it. Circle yourself with words of compassion. Write a chant of healing. Read it to yourself and encircle your creative friends with those words of goodness written during a bad time. You'll find it's darn near magical. There is tremendous power behind these words: commitment, dedication, motivation, discipline. Let them be your guiding principles on the days you feel you just can't do it. Then do it anyway. However you can; from whatever position you can, keep working. The payoff is the feeling that you are fulfilling your purpose. Once again, you are winning!

Story-Swapping

One of the best way to gather material for memoir is story-swapping. A good memoir is not just one's own story, but a combination and juxtaposition of those who are key to the writer's life. This means we are presented with the challenge of gathering stories from friends and families. Even if you have no intention of writing a memoir, swapping stories is exhilarating and fun for everyone involved. It enables the memoir writer to practice a key element in good writing; being a good listener. I will write more on listening in another post, but today let me simply show rather than tell.

Leigh and I are blessed with great neighbors who have tons of stories to tell about growing up and growing older in Arkansas and Missouri. We also have a great resource for story-swapping in my parents. They are living members of the "Greatest Generation," those who survived WWII and the Great Depression, who loved and lived through some of the hardest and the best times this country has known. In their 80's, there is no time to waste in gathering their memories to keep for my own.

We have a wonderful tradition we keep now that we live in Arkansas. In September, when it is time to celebrate both my dad's and Leigh's birthdays, my parents come to visit from Little Rock to our house in Fayetteville for a few days. On the day we choose to celebrate, we invite our neighbors, Emailee and Hershel down from their house at the front of our long drive, to have cake and coffee with us. Having these four together never fails to turn into a fine story-swapping time for all. (Hint: If it's hard to get your folks to tell their stories, invite another couple close to them in age for coffee or drinks. Then sit back and listen to the tales unfold.)

This year was the year for romance. Mom and Dad talked about their first date. Mom was lured on a blind date by a mutual friend to a park up on Petit Jean mountain. She wore her best pair of new blue jeans, which she reminded us, were not faded and torn for fashion as they are today, but truly blue. The two couples went for a walk and came to a creek. Mom did not want to get her feet wet, so Dad volunteered to carry her across. He lifted her easily, but when he got to the middle, he dropped her in the water. I know my dad thought this was hilarious, but if you knew my mom, you would know that she would not find this funny. Later her legs were dyed blue from the deep, dark dye of new denim. How he ever got her to go on another date is beyond me (although he was certainly a handsome devil). No wonder it took them two years to get married.

Emily met Hershel at church. She was not shy, she said, and pursued him outright, asking his cousin to tell her everything he could about the handsome young man. The next time she saw him in church, she approached him and basically told him, "you're the one for me." They were married in 3 months. Emailee was 16 years old while Hershel had already reached the ripe old age of 21. He seemed quite proud that he had "robbed the cradle."

They told of other dates as well; how Mom tricked Dad and stayed in town to catch him at a dance with another girl. She said "she drove him crazy dancing with other guys" that night. How Mom went to New Orleans right after they got engaged and danced all night with several good-looking fellas. It was a well-known fact that she could really "cut a rug." She couldn't quite remember what she did with her new engagement ring while she was partying the whole night long.

As always, it was a delightful evening. Their stories were full of love and romance from a different time. These men still open the car doors for their wives. They are protective and loving without condescension towards their beloveds. Yet, we all know who cooks the great food that keeps those smiles on their faces, who nurses them back to health when they're ill, who brings out the best in them. The poor times weren't felt so harshly when people were happy--something we all would do well to remember when going through our own hard times. These beautiful people from an older generation remind us that love has always made the world go 'round.

After a weekend of visiting with our neighbors, celebrating two birthdays, fishing with my folks and swapping stories with all of them, I feel lucky to have been born to these beautiful people from Arkansas and to have spent some of the truly great days of my childhood right here in these hills. Then to have moved here right down the dirt road from such great neighbors who love to talk about what it was like "back in the day," well, I know this time was meant to be. May I continue to swap stories with these fine neighbors and my parents, making the most of the moment, as my dad would say, "as long as the Lord allows."

Doing the Write Thing (for You)

Meet my friend, Katey Schultz. Katey is on the road (like Jack Kerouac) driving in her old dependable "Claw," a 1989 Volvo station wagon with over 200,000 miles on it. In this picture, she has made a stop at my parents' house in Benton, AR on her way to Houston, TX. Besides needing one of my mom's home-cooked meals, we needed a catch-up session after not seeing each other for several years.

The last time I saw Katey, we were both living outside of Burnsville, NC in the mountains near Celo. Katey was teaching at the Arthur Morgan School and I was selling books and teaching a class using The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron as reference material. Katey attended that class as well as my open mic, Eve's Night Out (now hosted by Britt Kaufmann), at Blue Moon Bookstore in Spruce Pine.

I could tell even 7 years ago, as Katey was just beginning to get serious about her work, that she would indeed be a published writer one day. Her dedication, commitment and willingness to work at what she wanted were beyond compare. She did her homework. She came to class prepared. She could face rejection (one of the hardest requirements for artists of all kinds) with stoicism. She had a natural talent for writing. All she needed was some joy to go along with all these tremendous gifts.

In our twenties we, of the artistic persuasion, can be mighty angst-ridden. We tend to take ourselves very seriously and have put ourselves on a mostly impossible time line for fame and fortune. We can become nervous wrecks before our time. We can turn to drink and drugs to dull the sharp edges of reality and rejection. Worse, we can give up entirely, and give into a world that demands something totally different as it defines success for us.

But Katey did none of these. She put on her thinking cap instead and thought long and hard about how she, as an individual different from all other individuals, should go about this practice of writing. She obtained her MFA through a low-residency program. She researched artists' retreats and residencies, then sent out applications everywhere. She found a type of writing that appealed to her in the form of flash fiction (extremely short, short stories). She worked enough to buy "The Claw," figured out what she needed to pack to keep her comfortable on the road, and took off for her first residency at the same time she began a book, a blog, and a literary journal. Yo! That's what I call youthful energy mixed with a mature dedication to one's art.

Now I can tell you that Katey has written umpteen short stories since she has been on her writing adventure. She has attended many writing residencies, taught classes for both young students and adults, kept up with her incredibly well-written blog, and is sending out her first book to publishers. She has met writers and artists, famous and not-so-famous, who have both taught and learned from her. Her journey, by anyone's standards, is a huge success.

However, the greatest gift her writing adventure has given Katey is the beautiful smile on her face. Joy and excitement radiate from her body and into those who approach her. She shines. I basked in that radiance at my mom's house outside Little Rock. Katey herself might not yet fully grasp what she has found out there in the great American "wilderness." She has acquired two of the most elusive of all attributes: happiness and fulfillment.

Despite the frustration of trying to publish her first book... despite the rigors of the road and a few physical setbacks (like a broken foot)...Katey Schultz is flying. She is soaring above society's strictures and structures. She is successfully ignoring the American definition of success. She is finding her own way through the writing maze and discovering a whole new grace in young adulthood; even in America, a place in which I so often lose faith. Seeing Katey has renewed my hope in humankind. Americans are looking after this young woman who would be Writer...who WILL be Writer...who IS Writer.

So write on, Katey. And ride on. See it all. Make discoveries. Write about it. Talk about it. Don't be afraid. Thrill at the incredible gift and wonder of life. You are one of my sheros. If I had it to do over again (that old lament of mid-life), I would do exactly as you are doing. So enjoy every moment and keep submitting your work. The pay-off is every single day you wake up smiling.

You can ride along with Katey at www.kateyschultz.com.