Split This Rock with Me - Part 3

I missed many excellent workshops on Saturday morning in favor of having some special time with my sister who lives in the DC area. I needed this time with her as I don’t see her nearly often enough, but I know I sacrificed some excellent learning opportunities with the DC Walking Tours which featured Walt Whitman’s Washington, “Harlem” Renaissance in Washington, and GLBT Writers of Washington. “Writing Isn’t Lonely” and “Poet as Oracle” were certainly enticing workshop titles led by poets such as Susan Tichy and Coleman Barks. I didn’t join up until later in the afternoon when I enjoyed “Word Warriors–Women Leaders in the Spoken Word Revolution.” Again, time felt too short when the high school open mic began just as soon as this crew of women warriors finished speaking.

(Photo: Mendy at Bus Boys & Poets)

The high school open mic was just what some of us older poets needed to remind us that, yes, there are young ones waiting and willing to carry on the torch of peace, freedom, and poetry. Every poem was so vivid and fresh, every verse a lifeline slung out from one generation to another. Here is another chapter in the book of Revelations that Split this Rock opened for me: We need a high school/ youth open mic in my town of Fayetteville, AR. I came back with a renewed dedication to seek out the young poets and get them to come to Omni’s Peace Open Mic and to HOWL, the open mic I host in celebration of women’s voices. I stood to read as the room’s OLDEST teen, getting a by from host Regie Cabico because the subject matter of my poem, “Education,” was autobiographical, having to do with coming of age in a newly integrated junior high school in Jackson, MS in 1968. I felt right at home in a room full of teens, but then I would. I wanted to say it over and over, “You, Young People, the world can’t change without you!” People, these kids are the Future!

(Photo: Path on the train)

Path and I took the train one stop to Bell Multicultural HS to watch a lineup of poets you had to see to believe. Swept away, I was, in their words and the movements that accompanied their words. Their hands were like well-formed birds shaping their verses before they flew from the stage. Often, their bodies did a little dance or swayed with the rhythms of their lines. Some couldn’t stand still long enough to photograph. These poets were on the move. This was a bus stop, a way station on the road to more activism, and they moved us right along with them. We sat at the feet of poets such as Coleman Barks, Belle Waring, Dennis Brutus, Kenneth Carroll, Mark Doty, Carolyn Forche, and Alica Ostriker.

(Photo: Poet Mark Doty)

They taught us with metaphor, yea, even with parables. Can I get a witness? We practiced the sermon on the mount, in their presence, in their words:
Blessed are the peacemakers.
Blessed are those who mourn.
Blessed are the meek and humble,
those who hunger and thirst after righteousness (feed them).
Blessed are the merciful (for everybody needs a little mercy now),
the pure in heart,
the peacemakers (persecuted for all the right reasons).
Blessed are the poets
who say the words, paint the pictures, report to the public
and tell the truth whenever, wherever they can;
who never, ever, ever, give up....

We left our cathedral feeling like we were the salt of the earth. We are the light of the world and we are being called to return to our homes as poets and prophets, place our cities on hills so they can see again, become like potato chip people, yes, that salty, which imbues others with a thirst for truth and justice. And we read our poems to one another at the open mic, on the sidewalks, in the subway stations, on the trains, and all the way back to our rooms.

(Photo: Poet and Organizer Sarah Browning)

We awoke on Easter Sunday with one mission, to get to Busboys and Poets in order to hear the panel made up of DC Poets Against the War and to learn how they were inspired and able to put this event together. We left our baggage at the State Plaza Hotel (which we loved for its old-fashioned charm, roominess, and incredibly helpful staff) and headed once again to our favorite home away from home. The DC Poets were terrific as we heard them read some of their poetry and talk about the fundamentals of organizing Split This Rock. They discussed the importance of putting together their book of poems against torture, “Cut Loose The Body.” What amazing people, good as their words; serving, organizing, inspiring.

(Photo: Poet Naomi Ayala)

Our last trip took us back the way we came to the Cafritz Conference Center on the George Washington University campus. Here we were blessed and fired by the words of Naomi Ayala and Galway Kinnell to begin our pilgrimage to the White House, our final stop. We gathered outside the center on the sidewalk. We picked up signs with quotes by various poets and peace activists. We hung them around our necks on string or waved them in the air as we walked, without a word, to Lafayette Park across the street from the White House.

(Photo: Poet Galway Kinnell)

(Photo: Easter Tree)

Here then a preacher’s kid turned poet and peace activist finds new meaning in an Old Story once again. I loved this silent march, this mishmash of someone else’s Easter ritual into my own. How quiet it must have been that early morning in the land where war never seems to cease, when the disciples went to the cemetery looking for what they could not know they’d find. There were bird singings and the sound of sandals (sneakers) flapping against stone. A white tree bloomed atop a tall building, and for the moment it caught the corner of my eye I imagined the resurrected Christ, a holy ghost, a dove. The wind tunneled the streets and alleyways as we walked to the big white sepulcher with its guards and gates. Sure enough, centurions rode up on horseback and brought their dogs to search for bombs. But we had come in peace and it seemed they would be disappointed not to be able to send us away. For they and we all knew that words are stronger than swords, and last longer, too.

(Photo: DC Street Poet)

People, we wanted that stone to roll away--far, far away and not come back. We wanted that rock to roll, to set free the spirit of compassion, of love and truth and wisdom. But it wouldn’t budge and so with the hammers of our voices and twelve strikes each, we began to split that rock ourselves. Each of the 300 or so poets there pronounced a line of twelve words into the microphone directed at the White House, and we created a Cento with quotes that would ring in the air long after our departure. We split the rock and we are splitting it still. Peacework is all about splitting rocks instead of hairs. And the work, my friends, is never done. Won’t you come and split this rock with me?

(Photo: Naomi, Path, Joe and Jeff)

Instrument of Peace

Take two oaks and a cotton cord
then wrap the rope around the trunks
back and forth let the rope unwind
tie it tight and what do you find?
A earth-friendly, wind-catching
homemade clothesline.
Ah, the world is full of images
and instruments of peace–
what we take for granted is
that wonders never cease.

Looking out the window, hands in the kitchen sink
washing up the dishes gives a person time to think.
I see our colorful clothing fly, 
this old Arkansas home’s prayer flags;
from t-shirts stitched with slogans to denims and dust rags.
The blessed sun shines down.
The breeze it blows and fills.
They sail and pull at pins
as if the billowing clothes
could keep this old world spinnin’
spinnin’ spinnin’ spinnin’ spinnin’
spinnin’ round.

My clothesline is a work of art–
I hang those damp clothes out,
arrange each piece to suit my mood
then watch them blow about. 
I ponder how this ties me to Palestinians and Jews,
Chinese, Pennsylvanians, Iraquis, Zulus, too.
And for a moment all the world
is gathered here beneath my trees
hanging clothes of many colors
on lines in a merry breeze.
Here we are together
dependent on each other
holding hands we shake out wrinkles,
share a perfect crease–
feeling for a moment we’re all instruments of peace.

Oh, the world is full of images
and instruments of peace.
And what we take for granted is
that wonders never cease.
‘Cause the blessed sun shines down.
The breeze it blows and fills.
The clothes pull at their pins.
as if their billowing sails
could keep this old world spinnin’
spinnin’ spinnin’
keep her spinnin’ round.

Mendy Knott Sept. 2006-2007

Leading Women

I suppose my title could be "miss leading" or "misleading" depending on how you interpret it. I'm willing to bet that a lot of readers' first image was one of an actress, star of stage or screen, because these are venues where we've learned to associate the female sex as "leading women." Hollywood couldn't be farther from my mind today.

I rarely use this blog as a forum for women's rights or for any other kind of outright political activism. However, the issue at stake here is a women's issue and one that potentially affects us all. I am talking about leading women; that is, women who choose to lead. Women who dare to stand against a veritable tide of criticism, negativity, and derision. Women who refuse to be seated, driven out or defeated. Women who will attempt again and again to stand before their boardrooms, their classrooms, their communities and their nations and say, "I believe in my intelligence, in my intuition, in my ideas. I believe I can help change this situation for the better and I am willing to take the inherent risks to carry my ideals forward."

I'm not just talking about the presidential candidate. I'm talking about women everywhere. And I'm not just talking about the men who would rather not see a woman in power, for there are plenty of them; those hypocrites who elect a man because he bowed his head for a picture on Time magazine or managed to squeeze out a tear for one dead soldier while killing thousands of others. These are the very same voters calling Hillary a crybaby for showing emotion in public. That's hard to take, all right, and it's hard to imagine having to deal with that same kind of bullshit for 4-8 years, but I am willing to stand in defense of "Madame President." What is harder, really so much harder, is having to defend her from the onslaught of vindictiveness we hear from our own--the multitudes of women standing by to join in the name-calling. Already I've heard Hillary Clinton called a power-monger, over-aggressive, too assertive, pretentious, self-righteous. And these are just the names I'm willing to print here. I asked several women my mother's age why they wouldn't vote for Hillary, and their answer was, "I just don't like her."

Women, we have a problem. For I find this phenomena of putting a woman in a position to lead and then playing firing squad against her when she does, applies in more than just the case of a major election. We do this sort of thing all the time. We ask someone to speak for our community, to host an educational event, to lead a discussion on the library system. We elect women to smaller public positions and they just "never seem to live up to our expectations." Men often don't have to say a word. Women are more than happy to do the dirty work, especially if it will win them the approval of others; men, women or both. Are we really that insecure? Heaven forbid if a woman has any kind of past at all. We like our "leading ladies" to have sprung fully formed from their father's brains. Can you imagine Hillary Clinton with a DUI or a record of snorting cocaine? Puh...leeze!

Maybe it's true we don't want all that power concentrated in the hands of a single woman. Need I point out that we've been content to allow men that kind of power for years and years? A truly good leader, male or female, delegates power. A true leader doesn't want to be crippled by too many responsibilities, but knows her expertise and where to concentrate her strengths. A good leader knows that "It takes a village" to run a village. What a leader has done is to show she is willing to make the necessary sacrifices in order to lead. I don't think the respect and support of her women's community should have to be one of those sacrifices.

To put our faith in a leading woman doesn't mean giving up our own personal power. Instead, allowing a woman to lead us should increase and bolster our power, both individually and collectively as the leader accomplishes the task of empowering her community. Let us ask ourselves, what are we really afraid of here? Has that old message that a woman's hormones and emotions will make her incompetent really sunk into our subconscious? Will she somehow make us seem less feminine? Will she set a new high standard for being beautiful or butch in such a way that we won't be able to compare? Do we prefer male domination as opposed to the threat of a woman who would have the chutzpa to lead us? And if we think we can do better and if we want to do the leading, why don't we? Maybe we can't handle a standard of comparison clothed in our own sex that points up all that we could be doing and aren't.

When I was a little girl, I was led to believe that I could do anything, be anything I wanted. Then it seemed that the world set out to prove that statement was a lie. And the ones who worked the hardest at belittling or offsetting the "masculine" things I wanted to do or be were the very ones who would have benefitted most from my accomplishments--other women. Men barely pay any attention to a woman until she has achieved a certain stature--in business, politics or money. Up until that point, they know they can leave their henchmen, other women, to do the work for them. We are way too comfortable putting powerful, self-empowered women "in their places" and undermining their confidence long before they reach the first public platform.

When we, as women, learn to support our own, believe in our own, nurture our own... When finally we quit practicing the envy and jealousy which is so often our downfall... When finally we refuse to resist our own success, then and only then will a woman lead the way.

Snapshot: Saving for a Rainy Day

My partner Leigh shared a bit of writerly wisdom with me not long ago which she took directly from her cell phone. At first, I was hesitant. Although they seem to have a valid purpose, I find cell phones mostly annoying. I have one, but I don’t like having one, if you know what I mean. I don’t play with it or try to figure out what all it can do. I’m lucky to remember to take it off the charger and put it in my Baggalini. Whoever calls me is lucky if I have it on, am near enough to answer, or recognize that’s “my song” playing.

Yet, they have come in handy for hundreds of people in emergency situations. And think of the moments that have been captured and preserved since cell phones had cameras added to their repertoire of handy little capabilities. Once again, we can see the good, the bad, and the ugly that can occur as a result of trigger happy cell phone users. Simply check out My Face or You Tube and there you have it--cell phone abuse at its finest.

Metaphorically, however, there is something for the artist to learn from the inimitable cell phone’s ability to catch the moment. Leigh told me that all she has to do is select “Camera” on the phone and the word “Capture” appears which she chooses if she wants to snap a photo. She came to me while I was writing in my journal the other day and explained the concept, “image-capture,” to me.

She asked, “You know how when you want to photograph something with your cell phone you select image capture and then you’re able to snap the picture?”

I said, “No.”

“Well, you can,” she continued unperturbed. “And I’m using that idea metaphorically in my writing. You know how boring writing in your journal can be when you start every day with ‘Well, I did this and that and this and blah, blah, blah...?”

“Absolutely!” Now we’re talking my language, I thought.

“So every day now when I write in my journal, I include an ‘image-capture’ kind of like my cell phone. I take a moment from memory--it can be the past 24 hours or it can be from 24 years ago--but I just paint the image in words as vividly as I can and then I have a snapshot which may inspire a poem or an essay on any given day. I (*) star the image-capture entry so I can find it when I go back through my journal trolling for ideas.”

“Beautiful!” I answer, not nearly so surprised by another bright idea issuing from my most brilliant muse as by the fishing metaphor implied by the word ‘trolling’. “I’ll try it.”

I did. And it works! The pages of my journal now contain not only the necessary mental health rants, but are filled with ideas and images I can use in my creative writing as well. Today is a good example of what I’m talking about. From what will one day be a book of poems called “Remembering How to Breathe:”

Nine hours of pool-watching with a silver whistle around my neck, white lanyard bright against brown skin. Hours of wary guarding from shallow end to deep, babies in water wings to high school diving team. This early September day, the rain, the lifeguard’s friend, drove them all away. Thunder, lightning, thrashing trees closed the pool early and left me here alone. But now the clouds thin to spots of blue, and the air, cooler, harbors a touch of fall, even this far South in Mississippi. I am 19, alone, bare-skinned, a healthy young female animal. Thirty-five meters of blue pool stretches out at my feet, not a wave or a splash to mar that perfect surface. The knowledge that water, which looks so solid, can be entered and enjoyed from within as well as from without, is intrinsic to my way of seeing things this summer. There is nothing obscure about water, I think. I climb the steps to the high board, feeling the ridged steel beneath my concrete-torn toes. I take the requisite three long steps into a deep bounce, experience flight, jackknife and plunge. I pull the long blue length, green trees blurring the edges of my upward vision. The water is warm compared to the air, a dive from a brisk day into a pair of sweats, fit to my body like one big glove. Underwater, I flashback to childhood dreams I had of breathing without surfacing, oxygen entering through hidden gills. Remembering, I swim the entire length, emerging not breathless, but elated. Bursting from the warm waters, womb of my youth; baptized, full immersion, born again.

Putting It Out Without Paranoia

(part 2 on this particular issue)

There was a time, shortly after I had become known as a writer and performer (in a small town sort of way), when I demanded payment for every performance and every poem. Money was a mark of acceptance, the affirmation that I was indeed what I claimed to be; a poet, a performing artist, a real writer. Although I wasn’t paid much on the grand scale of the material world, I would not work without monetary compensation. Even the New Age philosophy and psychology advised people to define their self-worth in dollar signs. “Ask for what you are worth and you will receive it” was a popular phrase. But I’ve always found that difficult to do. How does one set a monetary value on self-worth? It’s invaluable.

News flash folks: Poems are seldom reading material found on the desks or bedside tables of the rich, politically powerful, or the famous. In fact, as a bookseller I can tell you, books of poetry are most often purchased by other poets. Really, we would probably do just as well to trade books. In fact, trade may be the answer to our monetary woes. The bards of old were cared for by their tribes. I’m still open to folks bringing me green beans, potatoes or a chicken in return for a well-done reading.

As I grew in my philosophy of poetry, I grew less paranoid, more generous, and easier with my words. I quit worrying that somebody might “steal” my stuff. Although I wouldn’t be thrilled if I saw one of my poems tagged with someone else’s name, I figured this would be a rare occurrence. Not that it doesn’t happen. I know it does. I’ve seen it in my college poetry writing classes–students who stole the words of the Masters, rearranging them to suit their purposes and make that “A” they felt they deserved. The really surprising part was how the teachers didn’t recognize the work of Frost, Stevens, Plath. The key word here is “Masters.” I mean, somebody might steal a metaphor or phrase or a made-up word and claim it for their own, I guess. But who is going to want your WHOLE poem? Such is the world of letters--we put them out there for others to read, be inspired by, steal if they want. You aren’t going to need that copy write lawyer anytime soon. And don’t worry, there’s more where that came from. Creativity is a generous Mother.

I know from whence I speak. I wrote my first novel 15 some odd years ago. I sent it to a new publishing house that was actually soliciting new material. This is a rare and beautiful discovery for new writers. I sent the finished work to the publisher and hoped for the best. In a month or two, I was astonished to receive a phone call from said publisher who said they loved my manuscript and would begin writing up a contract. They told me to “Go Celebrate!” I did. I told everyone. I borrowed money against the advance they promised. This is a typical new writer response. I had no agent and no advisor other than artist friends who assured me that “I shouldn’t quit my day job.”

Anyway, to make this horror story short, they kept my manuscript for a couple of months and never contacted me again. I tried to be patient, but eventually they sent the manuscript back saying they had reconsidered. Just about a year later, a new book hit the bookstores (I know because I was working in one) which was acclaimed in California newspapers (the location of said Press) and was obviously being well-received in fantasy circles. My friends, who read the book and who had also read mine, said that this new book bore an awful lot of resemblance to my book. They said it seemed more than coincidental and I should look into it.

I didn’t. I never read the book, published by this same press, one year after they had received, accepted, then rejected my manuscript. I couldn’t bring myself to do it and I was not ready for a legal battle which as a new author I probably couldn’t have won. It worked a number on me. I became bitter and selfish and played my words close to my chest. I never wrote another novel either, but I will.

To my credit, I did continue to write--everything but novels. And I continued to submit, to enter contests, to let my words out into the living, breathing air of our world. And the older I got and the more experienced I became, the less important the thought of plagiarism or “monetary compensation” became. I don’t want someone else to take my words for their own. I don’t like copycats or thieves. But I won’t keep my words bound in a closet for fear of these things. The reason we write is to get the work out there. We write because we need to put the words down. The control comes from what we do with them on the page, not what happens to them afterwards.

Now, I give my work away. After a reading, if someone requests a copy of a poem or essay, I lead them to the copier myself, run it off, sign it and hand it to them, often with a hug of recognition or appreciation. If we are writing in order to make the world a better place, a more thoughtful and compassionate place, then I say “Here, take mine. Trade me yours. I could use an apple, a cup of coffee, some inspiration.” And I bet you could, too.

Doin' It For Free

As a novelist, journalist, poet, or singer-songwriter you may demand payment everytime you read, write or perform your work. Maybe you get what you ask for and maybe you don’t, but it’s hard to earn what you think the work is worth. If you made a lot, you think, “Gosh, I could have gotten more.” And if you you made a little, well, you KNOW you could have gotten more.

One cure for this dissatisfaction is to occasionally do the work for free. It is absolutely amazing how doing it for free can free the artist inside you to do exactly what s/he pleases. If you aren’t getting paid, you might as well risk that crazy phrase you thought about omitting. Go ahead and play that song you’re sure is too goofy to be a hit. You can try something on an unsuspecting audience and see how it lays--what are their instant reactions? Doin’ it for free can be rewarding on both the giving and receiving ends. It is, after all, freeing!

As a poet, doing it for free is part of the job description. A person doesn’t become a poet in order to make a lot of money–girlfriends maybe, but not money. Generally poets don’t become anything so much as discover who they already are–rebellious, sensitive, outspoken wordsmiths who respond to practically everything from their hearts. Passing the hat for a poet is as familiar as passing the collection plate for the preacher. The real rewards are more often found in a touched heart, a tear, a smile of recognition, an audience who groans, sighs, laughs with you. Not even applause is a true measure of appreciation, since there are poems that inspire silence instead. But applause helps. Yeah, it definitely helps.

Now for you non-poets, don’t let this entry be your excuse for not paying your local poets and performers. Hire them when you can. Buy their books and CD’s. In fact, it is a responsible community who supports their local artists and artisans the same way they support their local businesses. If somebody doesn’t pay them for their work, artists, writers, poets, crafts people can’t continue to make the world a better, more beautiful and meaningful place to live. They’ll have to get jobs painting houses, landscaping, housecleaning--anything and everything that pays their rent and puts food on the table. And at the end of the day, there will be little energy left for the work they were meant to do---entertaining and enlightening you.

Recently, I was asked to read for 3 classes of sixth-greaders at lunchtime. The teacher asked me primarily because she was having a difficult time finding a poet to help her and her kids celebrate National Poetry Month (April). Nobody on her list of local writers would come to the school and read for free. I said, Of course I will.” I am invested in teaching young people to read, write, appreciate poetry. It’s part of my job, with or without pay. They are my future, too.

The kids loved it, for awhile transported into a world both similar and different from their own. They were a wonderful audience; responsive, inquisitive, enthusiastic. My payment: 60 hand-made thank you notes and a handful of their very first poems which were inspired by a hand-out I’d given their teachers. Their words: “You rock, Ms. Knott!” “Your poetry is awesome!” “When I grow up, I want to be a poet like you.” and “Your true fan..” are payment enough to get me through the next creative dry spell or the housepainting I’ll do to support my writing habit. These words, their poems are a balm in this world where violence pays better than peace...or love...or poetry. Their words lifted me up at least a half-step towards true enlightenment.

Joseph Campbell said, “Follow your bliss, your passion.” Not the money. And so I do. I make my money doing half a dozen other jobs. Occasionally, I even make a little money with my poems, but not a lot. Never a lot. But then I’m not making a living writing poetry, I’m making a life.

Wild Women Won't Lose Their Minds

Wild women won’t lose their minds because
we told them to get lost!
It’s a conscious decision.
We know our minds for the tricky devils they are
and blow them off when they start whispering ill winds like:
“You can’t write (or draw or paint or pot or dance).”
“You’re no artist.”
“Get a job.”
“Put a period here, a comma there, and don’t forget to Capitalize.”
“This piece is lousy.”
“You can’t do anything right.”
“It’s not good enough.”
“You’re never gonna be Dorothy Allison, Margaret Atwood,
Georgia O’Keefe, Aretha Franklin, Meryl Streep.”

Wild women won’t lose their minds because
we tell our minds to shut up and go away.
We’re busy dancing to our own drums,
going to workshops,
listening to tree leaves talk,
watching melodies unfurl,
sniffing colors (sunset orange, lime green, cherry red),
shaping clay,
smearing paint on smooth surfaces,
touching the textures of everything.
We are behind closed doors making
love to our imaginations.

We don’t have time to lose our minds.
People may say,
because we slept all day
or read all night;
were caught writing love poems on the back of the boss’s last memo
or sketching faces on the teacher’s handout;
or we left work early because the sky was blue
or hold part-time jobs and live on less,
dress in Goodwill clothes and hand-me-downs
or take a day off because the Muse
came humming through an open window;
the rain made us want to write, paint, putter–
because we refuse invitations to parties,
don’t go on dates
and obviously enjoy our own crazy company...
Yes, people will say that we have already lost our minds.

Wild women won’t worry.
We know our minds are perfectly safe somewhere
among the socks in the bottom drawer
or on a back shelf in the kitchen where we hide the candy
only reaching back there occasionally when we really need it,
grabbing the wrong thing and putting the chocolate
where our minds should be
which makes us incredibly sweet, if a little spacey.
Some of us leave our minds in the pockets of suit coats
or skirts only to re-discover them much later
crumpled in a wad of kleenex and gum wrappers
or jangling in a pile of change and keys on the dresser in the morning.
I like to leave mine sealed tight in tupperware
so it stays fresh and won’t mingle
with the other fruits and vegetables.
In other words, it can be found in case of emergencies.
It may take a minute to locate...
but wild women won’t lose their minds
because what’s not lost can always be found
and we know minds are much too self-important
to stay where you put them
even if you say,
“Get lost you wretched thing!
You look like a brain,
all gray matter and logistics,
chock full of boring rules and barb-wire fences.”

Wild women won’t lose their minds because
we’ve learned to say, “Go Away! I’m busy
listening to the hot, hard beating
of my blood-red heart
pounding out secrets only wild women
can hear.”

Mendy Knott

Getting Ready to Read

Here are some tips for reading your work, particularly poetry, aloud. To me, the process of writing is not complete until the work is shared. If you aren't currently publishing, reading to an appreciative audience can be very satisfying and encouraging. It's also a good way to get some feedback on your work. So don't let your fears dictate what you do, or don't do! Be prepared. Stand and deliver.


1. I call it the practice of reading poetry because, like anything else you intend to do effectively, you must practice. Always practice what you plan to read, both silently and aloud. Read your piece aloud in front of a mirror until you become comfortable with seeing yourself as a reader/performer. Find the hidden rhythms, the pulse of the piece and let your voice bring it to life. This is not a sing-song rhythm usually, but a sound and tempo as subtle as your heartbeat. Familiarize yourself with the words of the poem and take time to ponder what the poem means to you. Practice may not make perfect, but it will make a difference!



2. I find it helps to warm up the voice by telling a little about yourself or why the poem or selection you chose to read is important to you. Get used to the sound of your voice through a mic (or in front of an audience) before you begin. Say each word clearly and be careful not to read too fast. How fast you read a piece depends on the poem's rhythm and the difficulty of both the imagery and diction.



3. Don't forget to breathe. Breath is the life force—without it we can't live more than a couple of minutes and, believe me, spoken word won't last more than a couple of seconds if you don't breathe. Wear comfortable clothing with plenty of breathing room. Stand up straight. Feel your feet and legs connecting you to the ground. Pause briefly before you begin and take a deep breath. If you stumble or lose your place, breathe and continue. Remember, this is only a few minutes of your entire life. Put fear in a proper perspective.



4. Pull your power from the abdomen, just above the navel. Let the voice gain power as it travels upward through your chest and heart and project the words outward into the world, not just at the audience. Recall the experience of reading the piece for the first time, the effect it had on you, and recapture those feelings for your audience. Men, be careful of the bass register and of reading so low and "masculine" that you can't be heard. Women, be careful of the higher register so that the voice doesn't grate. It's perfectly acceptable to alter the voice for reading, while maintaining the integrity of your own individuality.



5. Allow the audience to both see and hear your power. Your face is a vital part of reading well. Look up and let your eyes speak as well as your voice. Be careful not to hang your head or let your hair fall in your face. Don't hide. The best readings are done by people who are completely open and willing to risk being vulnerable.



6. Believe in the work and understand that it's not your job to convince the audience to believe what's written, but it is important that they know you believe it. What you are giving your listeners is a piece of your own personal truth and because of that, it is valuable and worth hearing. Consider that what you read aloud may prod someone's sense of humor, save their sanity, redeem their sense of the sacredness of life, encourage or enliven them. It has happened to me—on both the giving and receiving ends.



7. Indulge your superstition a little. Perform a small ritual with yourself. Wear an article of your favorite clothing or jewelry. Repeat a prayer or mantra or make one up. But above all, breathe.



8. Speak with intention. Read through your nerves, Don't let the words become a bunch of black marks on the page. Imagine how the poet felt when s/he penned these words (whether the poet is you or not). If you find yourself mumbling or rushing the work, don't be afraid to begin again. Every word counts in poetry. Stand and deliver—don't just repeat. There's a little actor (dare I say ham) in each of us. Let a little of that Romeo or Juliet out to play. Shine!



9. Be proud of a good read. What you accomplish is an act of courage. Believe me when I say our voices have the power to change lives, particularly our own.

What Am I Writing For?

By now, you must be asking, “What business does this ‘writer’ have with a blog if she’s not going to write in it more often?

Would you believe that I’ve been too busy writing?! It’s true...first in two college poetry classes and then for peace and justice because this bloody war wages on and I feel compelled to do what I can to help end it. Meanwhile it appears as if the current administration will do everything in its power to keep me writing peace and justice poetry and essays and attending marches and writing letters and calling senators while they prepare to send troops abroad in search of still more bloodshed and destruction.

The Bush Administration has kept me busy since 9/11/2001 and frankly, I’m about to be worn out with it. I want to write about something as “poetic” as Spring’s arrival, as down to earth as how good a hot shower feels after busting your butt turning soil, hauling leaves, preparing the garden for planting. So I’m alleviating my own guilt for a bit, taking a spring break, a sabbatical from all the gritty work of peacemaking. There are a million ways to make peace, and poetry is one of them. Quiet, peaceful poetry. So that’s what I’m about at the moment.

To help me get started stretching and loosening up my writing (right-ing) brain, I inadvertently enlisted the aid of a book I found in the 30% discounted section of Nightbird Books in Fayetteville, AR. I work there part-time as one of the world’s truly dedicated booksellers. That’s not a brag. It’s a fact. I believe in bookselling the way some people believe in religion or America or the Adkins diet. That is only part of this story, though, so I won’t dwell on the power of books in abstraction, but tell you about this one in particular that is working wonders in my writing life.

This little trade paper kept attracting my attention but it looked kind of dense, a little too left-brained for my taste. There were too many words on the cover for one thing, and they were big words, exercise words for crying out loud. The complete title is "The Journey from the Center to the Page: Yoga Philosophies and Practices as Muse for Authentic Writing" by Jeff Davis. I wondered how his name could be so short underneath such a long title. But I love writing and writing books (good ones). I love yoga or I did when I used to practice it and remembered how well I felt when I stretched and “sana-ed” regularly. And I believe in Muses. Curious, I kept picking up the book until finally, swayed by the words I liked in the title and, of course, by the discount, I bought it. I’ve never gotten a better deal on a book in my life.

Chapter One, “Putting on the Robe: Exploring Your Intentions for Writing” was worth more to me than the full price of several writing books I’ve bought in the past. Davis approaches writing with the respect a Zen Buddhist is expected to show all sentient and non-sentient beings. He awakens early, bows to his study, his computer, the blank page, takes a couple of yogic breaths from deep in the center of his body, and asks himself the simple yet profound question, “What am I writing for?” He does this every day and advises his readers to do the same.

I tried it. Getting up early is no problem for me. That part was easy. I went to my study and bowed to my desk. This small act which I thought might feel a little silly, moved me to respect anew this work I’ve been doing for 15 years. I stood in “mountain pose” which is basically standing, arms to the side, head up, feet balanced, body relaxed. I took 2 deep breaths then asked myself, “What am I writing for?” Davis suggests we ask ourselves this question on two levels. The first is existential. What am I writing for in the big picture of Life? What in the World am I writing for? The second level is more personal, a more focused intention. What am I writing for--today? What am I working on? What do I want to work on? How will I bring to bear this larger intention on this smaller, more personal one?

The answer varies for me, perhaps not as much for the larger intention as for the lesser one. As a poet, my individual writing focus shifts a good deal. If I were a novelist (which I hope to be one day) my intention might not vary as much, but it would change as I moved along from scene to scene, chapter to chapter and character to character. Inevitably, some days my answer to both levels of the question is simply to keep me sane and sober and writing. That’s it. And that’s enough, done with a clear intention to do even this small act respectfully and well.

I won’t go on any longer. I just want to give you a taste of what the mix of yoga and writing can do for you. I want you to ask yourself this question, “What am I writing for?” Write it on a sticky note and put it over your desk, your computer. I want you to have this book, but it’s out of print. Far be it from me, an independent bookseller, to send you to some online megastore, but I’m a writer first and think you should have it wherever you can get it. And check out Jeff Davis’ website, Center to the Page. Google it, get on his mailing list, bookmark it. Don’t lose sight of this wonderful book and its author, whatever you do. He may be bringing a workshop somewhere near you soon. I wouldn’t miss it if I were you. I’m waiting for one I can make. Meanwhile, I’ll be reading and rereading this lovely little book with the long title as I stretch my skills, my body, my awareness.

Labors of Love

It has been a mighty long time since I made an entry here, but the time for procrastination is over. Truly I had no idea school would be so time-consuming (what was I thinking??) and I have been focused on swimming competitively for the past 6 months. I did some serious training as I prepared for the gay games in Chicago. It, too, was a labor of love but I’ll write about that some other time.

Today, while it’s fresh in my mind, I want to draw a portrait of an artist for you. The young have so much to teach us older artists. And certainly we have experiences to share with them. I feel privileged to have recently been a part of just such a lesson, on both the giving and receiving end.

I was in Dallas, TX this past weekend visiting my sister and her family and saying goodbye to my 18-year-old niece as she prepares to leave for her freshman year in college. The adults all suffered from a sense of sadness as she graduates from this final stage of girlhood, while she herself can hardly wait to be off on the greatest adventure of her life. The house was astir with excitement occasionally dampened by a few wistful tears, but always as active as a beehive during honey-making season.

Now the soon-to-be-departing niece is, quite naturally, the center of a lot of attention. These are the farewell days and there are so many goodbyes to say, not to mention the endless preparations for living in a dorm room and away from home for the first time. Her younger sister, at 16, feels overlooked a lot of the time. She is fairly good-natured about the imbalance of attention, but it can and does get on her nerves. She keeps herself occupied with her music, which serves the dual purpose of increasing her aptitude while drawing attention to her many talents at the same time. She performed a little concert for us the first day of my visit.

Now, Sally has only been playing guitar for 6 months and she is entirely self-taught. Not only that, but she insists on playing songs performed and written by artists she admires, some of which are quite difficult to learn. I hear Patty Griffin, Nancy Griffith, and Iris DeMent performed darn near to perfection. Can this possibly be the same niece who patiently plucked and picked her way through her first songbook at Christmas time?

I also notice that she is singing in a rather nasal voice, using a lot of twang, much the way her favorite singers do. In other words, she is imitating them. It is, after all, the way we learn. We imitate our favorite poets, painters, dancers, musicians. That is, at first, the way we learn to play, paint, write, perform. However, I happen to know that my young niece is naturally gifted vocally. She has a beautiful voice all her own. And that voice, excuse my prejudice here, has it all over any of the singers she is presently imitating.

After I’ve been around awhile and the strangeness has worn off a bit, Sally and I find time to talk about her music and her singing. I tell her how astounded I am at how well she has learned to play in just six short months. We talked about music as an art form and about creativity and the possibility of her writing a few songs of her own. This is hard for her to imagine, what with listening to all those great singer-songwriters on her IPOD. So I told her how I put off writing anything of my own for 25 years because I “could never be as great” as the authors I was reading--Dickens, Dickinson, Frost, Steinbeck. Good Lord, the list goes on and on. What I hadn’t realized until much later is that what is artistically crucial for all artists is authentic work written in their own voice telling the story they most wanted to tell.

Soon we got around to discussing her singing. I told her she wasn’t using her talent to its full potential simply because she thought someone else’s voice might sound better. I mean, after all, they were big stars--they had to have something going for them, right? And I explained that the sound of those voices were authentic and original to those artists. They might not have thought much of them when they first heard themselves sing. Maybe they wanted to sound like Joni Mitchell or Joan Baez, but it put a strain on them to try and be like someone else. I suggested she try one of her songs singing with her “regular” voice, the one she used for chorus and choir.

It was difficult at first because she had learned the songs a certain way and practiced them over and over. I suggested a few new songs she might learn later, a few by men and some by women I thought she’d like. I named a few songs I thought might be more difficult to imitate. To her credit, Sally dealt well with what could have been perceived as criticism. She GOT IT.

Now you know it ain’t all that easy to receive advice when your 50, so imagine hearing this after you’ve worked your tail off learning something a certain way and you’re only sixteen! Plus your whole world is changing around you as your sister leaves home, leaving you alone with the parents and no ally. But Sally proved herself a true artist, a dedicated musician. We listened to several songs from a handful of CD’s. She picked out a few she liked. And then she got to work. She put her head down and picked and plucked and strummed and hummed and sang those songs over and over. Right there in the middle of chaos, with relatives running all over the place, with the last couple of weeks in summer left to hang out with friends, swim in the pool, sleep late--Sally worked like a rock star who had two days to cut an entire album.

In a single day, she learned three new songs, among them Neil Young’s “Old Man” and Gillian Welch’s version of “Tear My Stillhouse Down.” And she had to transpose Young’s song completely in order for it to suit her voice. No formal training. No one holding her hand or making her do her homework. She was in love with the music and this was not labor, but passionate play. Best of all, she was using her own voice and style in a way that made my heart break. These songs I had heard hundreds of times became new to me. I couldn’t believe what that young woman was able to do in such a short amount of time.

If only all of us were willing to work at what we love with such grit and determination. If only each of us could accept suggestions, even criticism with such open-mindedness. Sally reminded me what a labor of love looks like, feels like. She showed me again how much we can accomplish when we set our mind to the task and set everything else aside even for a few short hours. Devotion--that seems like a word you use for relationships or religion. But that’s what I saw in Sally this past weekend...a trait that can go missing if we don’t practice it often enough. Devotion---that’s what a labor of love looks like. Devotion.

Thanks for the lesson, Sally.