Night Rose

As black oil gushed into the deep blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, I had the privilege and pleasure of seeing the Pulitzer Prize-winning nature poet, Mary Oliver, read last week. For some reason, the experience brought on an unaccountable fit of despair and hair-pulling angst. I worried that great art, especially expressed so gently and beautifully, should have this effect on me. Instead of inspiration, I felt desperation. Good grief! How in the world, I kept asking myself, does the woman manage to block out two wars, oil pouring into the Gulf, and the systematic destruction of our planet long enough to write nature poems? Hundreds and hundreds of incredibly descriptive and soul-stirring nature poems? For the rest of the night I felt "slain in the spirit," as Southern evangelists like to say you must feel before you can experience salvation. They may be onto something.

This world, truly, is full of grief for the sensitive soul. It is all too easy to despair over the destruction of the natural beauty of Earth, the original creation. We weep at the poor quality of life the great majority of the human race suffers while the few wallow in wealth and greed. What can we do that is more constructive than beleaguering our loved ones with the burden of our quite real and even justifiable response? Being ashamed of our feelings doesn't help. Only action can ease our troubled minds.

Exactly how, you may ask, can we reshape this dark place of grieving and despair so that our sensitive souls are not frozen by bitterness at what is, in fact, reality? We must remember that reality occurs on different levels at the same time. The wild rose blooms even as another species goes extinct from human carelessness. Drawing attention to the rose doesn't mean we ignore the dying dolphins. We must find a way to shape the wet, raw clay of grief into some slight but recognizable form of beauty, then fire it with our imaginations–a discipline that requires us to sit down with our art, even when it feels most painful and impossible. How, how, how do we go from this hair-pulling angst to creating a poem or painting?

First, we must accept our sensitive selves and the feelings we experience as part of an artistic nature. This can be difficult if you don't have friends around who are happy to indulge your freak-out for a night or two. Allow yourself the space and time to experience what may feel (and look) like a form of temporary insanity . Then lock yourself in your room with pen, paper and a book or two of poetry or prose. Begin reading. Find a poem you love. Read it over and over again. Read it silently. Read it aloud until a sense of calm begins forming like a small cloud in the distance. Then copy it by hand, word for word, onto a clean sheet of paper as if it were new. As if it rose from your own imagination in the immediacy of your grief.

We don't have to start over from scratch. At times our pain may be too great to construct a creative piece from the scraps of our sorrow. This is a good time to let those who have gone before us, have suffered these feelings and prevailed, lead us though our healing and back to the balm of our own words. The Richard Wilbur poem, "Love Calls Us to the Things of This World" is just such a poem to me. It eases my heart and calms my wild, unruly spirit. It is, for me, poetic vailium, a diazepam for the soul, a simple cure for my existential anxiety with no hangover. Why don't you try it? Begin here, with this poem by Mary Oliver:

The Roses

One day in summer
when everything
has already been more than enough
the wild beds start
exploding open along the berm
of the sea; day after day
you sit near them; day after day
the honey keeps on coming
in the red cups and the bees
like amber drops roll
in the petals; there is no end,
believe me! to the inventions of summer,
to the happiness your body
is willing to bear.

Art and Heart Connections

One of the best benefits of putting your art out into the world are the connections that come about from your act of courage and trust. I've met so many interesting and beautiful people, artists and appreciators alike, since I've been writing, hosting poetry events, and reading my work to unsuspecting audiences! You never know when that six degrees of separation will shake your hand and say, "Hey I know you!"

When I lived in the Asheville area I applied for and received a NC Art Council Grant to spend a month at a fine arts center in South Africa. All I knew at the time was that it was in Zululand and was called Caversham Press. I flew from Asheville, NC to Durban on the Indian Ocean in South Africa via Atlanta, GA. You got to go through Atlanta to get anywhere if you live in the South.

At Caversham I met the owners, Malcolm and Ros Christian and worked with their apprentice Sean Strohle to create my first visual art poetry collaboration. What resulted was an amazing fold-out primitive art piece called "Passages Through Poetry" and friendships with these three fine people that will last forever. Not to mention that I have seen some of South Africa and fallen in love with the place, her people, and their artwork.

Malcolm Christian is one of the truly great art mentors of the world. Sure, that's my opinion, but ask anyone who has ever listened to him more than 10 minutes and they will affirm the fact. He talks about creativity and you can't help but listen, can't help but get fired up and want to burn up the page with your own creative blaze. After Malcolm, you understand the importance of art in creating a better world, the connectedness of all the lines we write and all the lines we draw. Like the aboriginal songlines of Australia, our work connects us to our ancestors and to those we may never actually meet. In this world of you tube and blog posts, the world is much easier to traverse than it was, even in 2001 when I went to South Africa.

The picture above is a small proof, but you know for yourself what is possible if you are willing to send your art out into the world, free to make whatever mark it may. This is a picture of Nomkhubulwana, a Zulu word for Mother Earth, and a perfect symbol for Mother's Day I might add. She appeared at the Fayetteville Farmer's Market upon it's 2010 opening the first weekend in April. Nomkhubulwana is made entirely, no pun intended, from used TIRES! She is gorgeous and life-sized. I hung around her for a long time, snapping photos with the spring blossoms behind her, so different from the trees in South Africa from which she came. I thought about my time there, my friends there, Zululand, the people, the incredible world of elephants and giraffes roaming free. I sat and stared, suddenly homesick for Malcolm and Ros, the midlands near Howick, and the Leopard Lodge where I spent a week near the home of the Zulu king.

When I got home from the market, I sent a picture of the elephant to Malcolm at Caversham where fall is coming on even as our spring bursts all unbridled from the winter's bare trees. And this is what Malcolm wrote back to me:

"It is a sculpture made by a friend of ours, Andries Botha, and in fact I went to her naming ceremony in Durban prior to the beginning of her journeys. It was a very moving ceremony performed by an elderly African Game Ranger from Umfolozi Game Reserve, close to where you and Sean stayed at the Leopard Lodge. He ‘sung’ her into existence and named her Nomkhubulwana. She IS great!"

So you see, my friends, it is a small world after all. If you have never visited South Africa, you cannot imagine its vastness, and it is just one part of the giant continent that is Africa. Now imagine that an African artist wants to create an elephant as a message of peace to send around the world, and that artist just happens to hale from South Africa. Okay, then remember that a NC poet so wanted to see Africa in her lifetime that she applied for a grant, won it and ended up in South Africa at a lovely fine arts residency called Caversham with a mentor called Malcolm. And Malcolm just happened to be friends with artist, Andries Botha, who created the elephant. Now think how all these lines got tied together in the little town of Fayetteville, AR in the Ozark Mountains, and you just have to believe in the miracle we call Art, now don't you?

This is the official end of my post, but if you want to know the story of Nomkhubulwana, read on.

NOMKHUBULWANA

Nomkhubulwana is a heavenly deity who, being a virgin is closely associated with young marriageable girls. In addition, she is associated with the sky where she lives in the rainbow and the multi-coloured rainbow snake is to be found in the pool where the rainbow ends. It was Nomkhubulwana who taught people to build their homes following the hemispherical construction of the rainbow.

Nomkhubulwana appears in the morning mists and children and girls are the first to see her. She usually appears to girls in the maize fields and so is associated with good crops and good rains. As she does not age, she is always of the same age-group as maidens. Men must not look at her for fear of being struck by blindness or incurable diseases.

According to many women, Nomkhubulwana is naked except for a string of white beads around her waist. Nomkhubulwana may be appeased by the observance of nomdede, a festival prepared for her by girls and unmarried women. Days in advance they prepare beer and food for the festivity. On the morning of the feast the young women put on the clothes of their lovers or brothers and take some cattle to the grazing fields. They take turns in feasting and herding the cattle.

After the day’s work they leave the calabashes with drink and food, such as beans and pumpkin seeds, on an overhanging rock for Nomkhubulwana to enjoy. Thus her blessing is sought in their love life, for good harvests and cattle raising.

Of Woman Born: An Open-Mic of Your Own

Of all the actions I've taken, all the roles I've fulfilled, all the jobs that seemed important at the time: soldier, cop, bookseller, poet, screenplay writer, editor–none has been more gratifying or more helpful to my community than starting open mics where women can celebrate their voices and tell their stories to an active listening audience.

I have hosted an open mic in every town in which I've lived for the past 15 years. I took over Cafe of Our Own from Laura Hope-Gill who started it in Asheville, NC sometime in the mid-90's. It became a huge success with a faithful following of 50-60 women attending and as many as 15 women reading on a Saturday night at Malaprop's Bookstore downtown.

Moving further out into the Black Mountains with my partner, I wondered where I would start my next open mic. To my surprise, just 20 minutes away was another independent bookstore called Blue Moon Books in Spruce Pine, NC– population 2000. There I began Eve's Night Out on the fourth Friday of every month. We had a great group of women who came from as far away as Johnson City, TN and from Asheville, NC. The readers set a high bar for fine poetry and wonderful stories, and they are still meeting today just down the road in Burnsville, NC.

Now, here I am in Fayetteville, AR hosting HOWL (Herwords Out Loud, or Her Out Words Loud, if you're picky about that sort of thing). We have anywhere from 20 to 40 regular attendees, both men and women, those who read and those who listen. We meet at Nightbird Books, Fayetteville's independent new bookstore owned by Lisa Sharp, the third Sunday of every month. I've had as many as 12 readers and singer-songwriters perform in one night. Our voices range from the practiced performance poet to the woman who shakily reads her poem for the very first time.

Our ages range from 16 to 76. We are lesbian and straight and somewhere in between. We are daughters and mothers and grandmothers, but most of all we are sisters in the word. We are giving birth to our stories, poems and songs and we are proud of our lives, even when what we have to share is hard. We are survivors and cheerleaders. We are learning to love and forgive and create and recreate together. We are making something bigger together than the sum of our parts. HOWL is the center of our community where we mourn our losses and celebrate our accomplishments with writing. This reading is a vital heartbeat in the community of women here in Fayetteville, just as it was in Asheville and in Spruce Pine.

You, too, can start a women's open mic reading – anywhere you live, no matter where you are. This post is about how to do just that. It's easy. The hardest ingredient to fill is your commitment. "If you build it, they will come." Here's the recipe for a "cafe" of your own:

1. One or two women who take on the host's position. That means someone who introduces the readers, keeps the flow going, reads her own work or that of other women poets in between readers or when there's a shortage. These must be women of commitment and passion, willing to send out a once-a-month email or flier and remind the community that the event will be happening.

2. Keep the same date every month. Do not change the time or place unless absolutely necessary. Have the reading no matter what, barring terrible weather. Changes confuse everyone and makes it difficult for new people to find you. Get on face book and on other calendars of events.

3. A space that is friendly to you and supports your event. I love independent bookstores best because they are the perfect place for readings. Being surrounded by books is comforting and it is the host's duty to encourage participants to shop at the bookstore who is generously giving their space so your event can happen. A good cafe is also a plus. Mutual benefit is always a good idea. You want them to want your event to happen in their store.

4. An audience who learns to listen actively. I have had the best audiences in the world, I think. No one talks when a reader is at the mic (even if there is no mic).They are listening with open minds, hearts, even their bodies lean forward into the words of their sister who has found the courage to stand before them and share something as personal as a poem or story about their life. Applause is optional. Usually a poet will ask not to be applauded if they don't want it. Otherwise we clap, or hoot and holler if the reading calls for that and we get excited.

5. Invite a special guest once in awhile; an author or published poet. These writers inspire us and raise the bar for our own writing. There's nothing like a monthly deadline and listening to the work of others to make our own writing better.

6. I make my readings women only. I have been challenged on this point. Men are invited to be part of the audience. And believe me, those men who come to listen to women read are admired and appreciated. Women need a space that feels safe in order to share what is intimate to them. There can be no competition, only acceptance. And so, I keep the space behind the mic for them and for them alone. They read their own work, or they can read work written by another woman. I maintain that this is essential to women's empowerment. Their ability to branch out and read to larger audiences begins here, at HOWL or Eve's Night Out; at a Cafe of Their Own.

Begin here. Begin now. Show up and keep going even if it's 5 people at first. Sit in a circle until it grows large enough to have an audience and a mic. Every person counts. Just keep showing up and let people know you are doing it. If your host has the passion and commitment to creativity, women will come. And if they come once, they will return. Good luck! If you have questions, leave a comment and I will get back to you. Or go to the HOWL Women's Open Mic page on Face Book.

Power to the women--write on!

A Little Women's History During March Madness

If we don't know...

that the first person to go over Niagra Falls was a woman who couldn’t swim, one Annie Taylor, an elementary schoolteacher in a wooden barrel

or that Mozart’s fame depended on his wife Constanze’s inventiveness and good business sense

or Mehitable Ellis “Auntie” Woods stole a commissary wagon in order to make regular supply runs to Union soldiers on the front lines

If we are unaware...

that Aivia Lubetkin was a commander of the Jewish resistance movement in the Warsaw ghetto who made her escape through the sewer systems of that city

that African American dancer Janet Collins turned down the opportunity of a lifetime with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo because they would have required her to wear white make-up
but
she eventually became the prima ballerina for the NY Metropolitan Opera anyway

If we’ve forgotten...

That it was Mary Leakey and not Louis who discovered the “missing link” in Tanzania, demonstrating that humans originated in Africa, not Asia

or that cartoonist Dalia Messick had to change her name to the more androgynous “Dale” in order to get her comic strip “Brenda Starr” published in 1940

If we don’t know...

that Mary Read and Anne Bonny were pirates in the 1700’s
and
that Mary (alias Mark) Read was a cross-dresser
and
that the two women were lovers aboard a pirate ship

If we’ve somehow failed to remind our schoolchildren...

that Queen Liluokalani fought against the annexation of Hawaii by the US in favor of a government by her people and that she spent 9 months in jail for her efforts

that the world’s first self-made female millionaire was Madame C.J. Walker (born Sarah Breedlove), an unschooled black orphan who earned her fortune through the development of a hair preparation process for African American women

or that Rear Admiral Grace Hopper helped design the first large-scale digital computer, the Mark One

If the facts have been misplaced...

that Conchita Clintron mastered over 1200 bulls in her career as a bullfighter and was arrested at her farewell appearance int 1949 for refusing to kill the bull

and that Cosmonaut Valentina Tereshkova was the first woman space traveler, orbiting the globe 48 times in 1963

If we haven’t been reminded...

that Mary Lyon, founder of the Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, the first school of higher education for women in this country, had to weave two blankets to exchange for her admission into boarding school

that Julia Ward Howe wrote the text to the Battle Hymn of the Republic for a mere $4

If we haven’t thanked...

Gertrude Muller for the child car seat
Margaret Knight for the square-bottomed paper bag
Hannah Slater for cotton thread
Mary Engle Pennington for refrigerated railroad cars
sisters Patty, Mildred, and Jessica Hill for composing “Happy Birthday to You” in
1893

If we forgot or never knew...

that legal secretary Iris Rivera was fired in 1977 for refusing to make coffee for her boss

that Alice Stebbins Wells was the first female cop in the US, sworn into the LAPD in 1910 and was forced to wear a badge that read “Police Woman’s Badge #1” because she was constantly being accused of wearing her husband’s badge, thereby imper-sonating a police officer

that Assistant Attorney General from 1921-1929, Mabel Willebrandt, brought 49,000 bootleggers to justice and achieved 39,000 convictions

If a single schoolgirl hasn’t heard...

that on the night of April 26, 1777, 16-year-old Sybil Luddington rode from town to town in New York and Connecticutt to warn the colonists that the Redcoats were raiding Danbury, covering double the distance of Paul Revere and saving the day for the Patriots

then they don’t know enough
and we don’t know enough
and nobody knows enough
to make basketball more important than women each March,
to tell his-tory but not hers,
to omit a women’s study program from a college curriculum.
We can’t allow ourselves to continue to forget
how far we’ve come, how much we’ve gained
how hard the struggle’s been
or that even in 2010
we haven’t reached equality yet.

The Defiant Gardener - Part II

Defiant Gardens: Making Gardens in Wartime by Kenneth Helphand

Yesterday I was inspired by something as simple as the title of my spouse's library book. It's called "Defiant Gardens: Making Gardens in Wartime" by Kenneth Helphand. The book is a fascinating account of gardens planted in internment camps, in Warsaw ghettos, even on the front lines during times of war. Anyone who believes gardens inspire and promote peace should read this book. I love the book and the concept, but it was the title that inspired me to write the following poem. I'm quite sure that Mr. Helphand (don't you just love that name?) did not intend his title to inspire this particular poem. However, the poet must go with whatever comes crashing into the mind, shattering the original observation into bits and pieces to be reformed into a poem.



The Defiant Gardener

I am a defiant gardener,
attacking the soil with pick, shovel, rake
until the patch surrenders up her stones.
I hack and yank at weeds like enemies.
The burgeoning garden is a battlefront
and I, the conquering warrior.
This, of course, is not the right approach.
I watch Leigh and try to learn.
She observes and weighs where each bed will lay.
The consummate garden hostess knows
every plant must feel at home.
But I was born to dig.
In a no-till garden this is not an attribute.
So I dig trenches and post holes,
start new garden spots, bury my dog
and hope Leigh lets me help her plant a tree.
I'm also quite good at bonfires,
burning sticks which we have aplenty.
I'm sure my Astrological signs
influence my defiant gardener status.
Mostly fire, I have not one single sign in Earth.
Therefore, I'm flailing away to contact it.
I'm an alien on foreign soil.
I unearth rocks and toss them into Al's cow pasture
or throw them at the guinea
when he beats up on my rooster, Handsome.
A defiant gardener has little interest in the pretty parts.
I leave the planning and the planting to Leigh.
I harvest with the same intensity
of purpose with which I dig--
"git 'er done."
Only when I water do I find connection
watering slowly I soak deeply
at rest finally in the garden
I relish the various greens
of spinach and collards
spiky onions near the broad-leafed squash
the purple of a late evening sky
cooling eyes and the smell of wet earth
fills my nostrils while
warm hands pat the seed within
and the defiant gardener discovers
peas at last.

The Defiant Poet-Part I

Spring is upon us, faithful readers. Time to try your hand at writing some poetry. "Ah, but I'm no poet," you groan. "I wish she would get over the poetry thing and talk about writing stories." Writing a poem is simply telling a story in verse. I believe everyone has a little poet inside them. A poem cries out to be born every time something special, something emotional, something which fires our passion occurs in front of us.

Poetry requires paying attention. We have to notice the two bluebirds considering the wooden birdhouse shaped like a church as their potential summer home; a place they can raise a family. Then we have to allow the feelings that arise to bloom and take up space inside us--so much space in fact, they demand an outlet. Finally, we must take pen in hand as soon as possible and capture the details. This is telling a story. And writing a poem.

Using the craft of poetry: line breaks, vivid imagery, maybe an occasional rhyme but mostly rhythm, is simple enough for a child to do. In fact children all over the world do it. They write poems in classrooms, sprawled belly down on porches, or sitting cross-legged high in back yard tree houses. Nothing stops them. They aren't afraid to write bad poems along with the good. The quality of the poem is not at issue. Cupping the moment and the feeling in their hands and heads is the point. They are defiant poets. They let nothing stop them, and neither should you.

Here are a couple of my first poems written at age 7, when I was in the first grade. The first poem, entitled simply "Spring" was written as I sprawled across the small back stoop of my house in Houston, TX in 1961. Already you can see the Realism in the budding poet.



Spring

Spring is here.
The birds are saying tweet, tweet, tweet.
The trees have leaves on them.
Butterflies are playing on flowers.
Fruits are growing on trees, too,
and grass is turning green.
The flowers are turning all colors,
and the flyes are eating our food.

My second attempt, after we had covered poetry in school, came out a little more formed; not quite so freestyle. It did have the honor of being the first poem in my class's poetry book! You can see the Emily Dickinson, no?

The Rain

I love to see the drops
of rain,
Falling on the window
Pane.
They splash and splash,
on the ground;
and make the little puddles round.



A defiant poet lives in all of us waiting for someone to hand her a pencil. Give her one. Set her free.

Women Who Gave Back

blessing the boats

may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

Lucille Clifton (1936-2010)



from Blue Lake of My Dreams

Blue lake of my dreams,
I don't know what you mean.
Your waves say
hello and goodbye.
Someone's always leaving,
someone's always coming home.
And some things you feel
you've always known

Coyote shows us where to go:
up past the rocks,
up past the snow,
where the wildflowers bloom,
delicate, yet strong,
they have room.

Blue lake of my dreams,
I'll be there in the spring.
Snow melts like a heart
that will survive.
Over rocks and crevices
we climb up from the plain.
The air is clear
and we are free again.

Nancy Maier (1955-2010)


Women Who Gave Back

What do these two women have in common besides their love of the lyrical and the close proximity of the dates of their deaths? Look closely at the words to the above poem and song. There is a glimpse into something much deeper than a blue lake or even an ocean implied in both; something that sings of freedom and eternity if we will only summon the courage to read them with clarity and vision. Seeing deeply, writing about what they saw, and then sharing it with the larger community were attributes both poet and songwriter shared.

Lucille Clifton, poet laureate of Maryland, winner of the National Book Award as well as many other prestigious awards, didn't do it for the money. No poet does. Ever. Not in a million years. Neither prestige nor recognition impressed her. What made an impression on Lucille Clifton was seeing a book of her poetry in a classroom, being read and loved by kids, black and white alike.

What really made her day was seeing women, particularly African American women, rise up with a new courage inspired by her poetry, determined to climb from the pit of discrimination and make room for their differences and their lives in this world. Best of all, she loved listening to new poets crowding the stage behind her, reading and writing to impress their mentor, their muse, while creating a whole new world of poetry and words atop her foundation.

Lucille Clifton wrote of the pride she had in her race; on the confidence she desired for women to have in themselves, including love for their own bodies; from the beauty, solace and lessons she found in Nature. Most of us just got lucky. We were lucky to live in a "brave new world that has such creatures in it" as the likes of Lucille Clifton. We can best thank her for the work she did by sharing her words, her books, and quoting her aloud whenever we get the chance. Share her dream and she lives on in us.

The same can be said for Fayetteville, Arkansas singer/songwriter Nancy Maier. She taught both children and adults that creating with words, music, and song was the true blessing of being born into this world. She began her creative career writing poems from the time she was sixteen and ended her career in the midst of creating a new CD with original songs with her gifted friend, John Two Hawks.

In between singing and writing her own songs, she taught voice and music lessons to kids and adults alike. She gardened and was always a part of the Omni Peace Gardens Tour (see Larrapin Garden). One of the most important things she did in her community--perhaps the one I appreciated most--was she directed the "Everyone Can Sing Chorus." Really, it's self-explanatory. Nancy believed beyond a shadow of a doubt, that not only could everyone sing, but that everyone should sing. And if your weren't singing, no matter how your family complained every time you lifted your voice in the morning shower, you were missing out on one of the truly great joys in life. Nancy believed wholeheartedly in making a "joyful noise." And sometimes that noise would turn into beautiful music. I know. I was there. I heard it happen.

Nancy shone a light on everything she did. She was one of those people beloved by an entire community, one at least the size of Fayetteville, AR. Her inclusiveness in the world of spirit and creativity was unmatched by anyone I ever knew personally. She was adored. At her memorial service, she was recognized by Episcopal priests and acolytes (all women), her minister first cousin, two Buddhist monks, Native American John Two Hawks, and of course us, the Everyone Can Sing Chorus, including everyone who EVER sang in the chorus. We did it for Nancy, although we could barely sing or even see through the tears that spilled down our faces and choked our voices.

I told Leigh, sometimes there needs to be a public grieving. Celebrating a life is a good thing, an important event. But when that person gave so much; gave as much as Lucille Clifton and Nancy Maier, then it seems only right that we recognize that loss for what it is as well. They, of course, have flown on the wings of poetry and song they spent a lifetime creating. But for the moment, we are left bereft, standing alone without them, looking up.

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.