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.

Start the New Year Write!

It's that time of year when writers and artists are dragging their limp, uninspired wrists through the dregs of the old year. They're either worrying about what they will begin in the upcoming decade, or excited to pen all those New Year's resolutions and commitments that can be so easily forgotten by the first of February. My writing group, the Hen's Teeth (because committed writers are "scarce as hen's teeth"), have a way of holding each other to our commitments and inspiring one another in the new year.

Each January, we do what I call the "all-night write." We get together for a grown-up slumber party, preferably at a cabin or lodge, some place where no one person feels responsible for anything like food or pets or beds, etc. Last year we took the 2-hour drive to White Rock up in the Ozark National Forest. We got lucky with the weather which remained in the mid-60's during one of those freak false springs we often get in this part of the country. We were able to write outside, on top of the mountain, with 360-degree views of the Ozarks spreading out at our feet.

We arrived with our food and small overnight bags about 1 pm and were busily scribbling by 2. Each of the five of us were assigned a food to bring to cover dinner that night and breakfast the next morning. Leftovers would be lunch the next day. The main event was writing. We each brought to the mountain top as many writing prompts and ideas as we could possibly dream up or find in some of our favorite writing books. We then took turns presenting our prompts and all of us wrote on that subject.

One of my favorite ideas was to walk out to the White Rock Mountain overlook on the balmiest January night I've enjoyed since living in Mississippi 37 years ago. We separated and stood in the quiet night for twenty minutes, the wind blowing our hair back as if we were standing on the prow of a ship and the Ozarks below us were dark waves heaving back to a starlit sky. Then we came inside and sat by the woodstove to write about what we had observed and felt in the wind swept silence.



I believe we did a total of 14 exercises in 24 hours. Some of the "writes" had several parts and we always shared them aloud with each other. Everyone came away with at least one piece they would polish to a finish and share with a larger audience. AND we had fun, remembering for that time at least, how very important art and creativity are to our spiritual well-being, and to our sense of the community of women writers. In that 24 hours we grew in our love for writing and for each other in a way that a two-hour session can't quite achieve. We met and built our fire. We wrote. We made great food. We wrote. We hiked around the top of the mountain. We wrote sitting on boulders that had been there since the mountains formed. We wrote into the wee hours of the morning. We slept (briefly) and wrote drinking our coffee before breakfast. We wrote after breakfast. We wrote for the last time just before a late lunch and then took our leave of one another and White Rock.

This wasn't the first all-night write I've done. We did two with our writing group, Herwords, in Asheville, NC. This year, economic constraints didn't allow for a trip away, so I'm hosting it at my place. I know it will be fine. Our expectations are fairly low as to where we spend the night, and I have a nice place. What we're really all about is the writing. We are either far off somewhere in our imaginations or so focused on what is right in front of us that we don't notice our surroundings. Our heads are bent over pen and paper. I'm already excited about the walk I'm planning for us on the 1/4 mile path around my yard as we observe the natural beauty of winter in NW Arkansas, then sit by a warm fire to write about it.

Why don't you try this with your writing group? It doesn't matter where you are, but you'll want those 24 hours of unbroken time together. You'll end up with tons of things to write about in the new year, pique your interest and desire to write, and bond with the writers who mean the most to you--your own writing group. And if you don't have a writing group, start one! There's still time to start your new year write!

(Photos by Susan R.)

Letter to Michelle

(photo from donkey dish .com)

Dear Michelle,

While everybody is busy writing to your husband,
I thought I'd send this letter to you.
I was sitting in church Sunday
trying to pay attention but my mind kept wandering
to the Peace Open Mic later that night, and I'm thinking,
"really, what's left to say?" We're all so disappointed
with the way things are going
you know, war-wise particularly. I'm not one to place blame;
after all, there I was in church
supposed to be focused on the body and the blood
but it was all the bodies and all the blood
I kept seeing behind my closed eyes.
Don't ask me if this was inspired
by the Christ–I don't know for sure.
It's all a mystery to me. But I started
writing this letter then
from the stark middle of those images and I thought
maybe it was time to appeal to you,
you know, a little woman-to-woman, hoping you might listen
if I could get the words right, make my plea clear,
take us both somewhere we haven't been before.
I was so taken with this idea, this letter to you,
that I didn't make it home
but pulled into the first coffee shop I came to, dug around my bag
until I came up with a pen and a teensy pad of paper
that wouldn't hold a paragraph of mine, even on a good day.
I ordered coffee and sat down to get started but happened to sit
right in front of a little Christmas tree which preoccupied me
a moment and that's when I saw the photo hanging on the wall.
As a veteran, it caught my eye and held my attention.
It was a field full of American flags,
big ones, full-sized, billowing in an unpredictable breeze
and I knew then this letter just had to be.
The photo is titled "Valor, Innocence, and Justice"
and was taken by Ellen Gregory of Farmington, Arkansas.
It's hanging in the Perk Coffee Shop in Fayetteville,
a great buy at $50, just in case you're interested.
Hanging there with those red, white and blue words,
"Valor" and "Justice"but it was the "Innocence"
that got to me. Please know,
I write this in all innocence; a patriot,
a flag billowing in your direction.
It seems I digress, but I believe in synchronicity and all the signs
(and photos) were right for this letter to you.
I should probably start over after this lengthy prologue.
The letter itself is really not that long.

Dear Michelle,

The next time you lay down with your husband and for a moment
he is just a man, your man, the man you love more than anything,
put your arm around him, pull him close,
your breasts against his chest
and think...peace.
Wordless, let your hands and body say
with all the love you feel inside
that thousands are counting on him to save their lives.
Remind him he is a mother's son,
your husband and your lover,
father to your daughters. No words now–
stroke his head, his hair short and graying
with the pressure of too much power,
and remind him that other mothers, wives and daughters
love their men
the way that you love him.
Place the palm of your hand over his beating heart
and try to imagine life without him–
gone to war, to kill the "enemy," some other mother's son.
Imagine him coming home estranged or crazy or in a flag draped box.
Remind him this is Christmas and there will be
such flag wrapped packages
delivered to mothers, wives, and daughters
when the doorbell rings
and they were expecting UPS or FedEx,
but it's a captain and a chaplain.
Woman to woman, I'm asking on behalf of all women here,
in Afghanistan, in Iraq, everywhere--to let him know by loving him
that we don't want this anymore.
Show him you'll do anything,
anything--one long romantic, rose-filled, red wine, candle-lit, well...
you know the rest...anything for him,
if every mother's son or daughter
could just come home for Christmas dinner.
Michelle, my last good hope,
clasp his hand, embrace his body, entwine your legs with his,
and hold him tight, tight.
Let your heart drum out this simple word;
for you, for him, for all of us..."peace."
Whisper to him in his sleep,
"Peace, my beloved. Let there be peace."
You know hearts speak louder than words.
Let peace be in your every breath,
in your laughter and your love until he hears it,
until he gets it loud and clear
and wakes up with a changed heart,
thinking he has had a great idea, "Why not? Peace!"
I'm writing you because I need this hope;
the belief that things can change, wars can end
and women are the arbiters of change.
Thanks for reading this, Michelle. I know you must be busy.
I meant no disrespect.
Poets go where their minds lead them,
even beneath the comforter
with the President and First Lady. We can't help ourselves.
We still believe in dreams and visions, foolhardily following
the wanderings of our imaginations.
Please consider what I've asked you here.
I have every faith in you.

Peace,
Mendy

As promised in my previous tips and cures post, here is the poem/letter that came to me while sitting in a little country church gazing out the window at the headstones in an old cemetery. It is a peace poem, which I keep saying I'm going to quit writing, but they keep coming to me and I simply can't ignore them. Let me know if you think I should send this on to the First Lady. If I get enough affirmations, then off it goes!

The Winter Writing Blues—A Few Cures

What does a writer do when you just don't feel like writing? You know, you've had this sinus thing for a couple of weeks, a foreign object flew in your eye, you're arguing with all your best pals and your gal, and it's cold and dark by 5pm. These kinds of things can really stymie your creative urge. You just want to lie down and let it pass, but the problem is that it will pass much more slowly if you don't do something about it. Here are a few suggestions for dealing with the winter writer's blues:

1) Write anyway. I know you don't want to hear that, but it's true. There's only one way out and it's through. Now, what I do is allow myself to write anything. This includes lists, letters to friends, letters to the editor (even if I never send them), holiday greetings, journal entries (highly recommended for mental health), post-it note quotes, blog entries, even a long email to a friend or family member. They all count. Let them count. At the end of even the shortest day, you can say "I wrote today."

2) Let inspiration lead you. In my next post I will include a poem that came to me while sitting in church. It has absolutely nothing to do with the sermon, which I vaguely remember had to do with John the Baptist, who is in himself an inspiration with his wild locust and honey eating ways, but the poem turned out to be a letter to the First Lady, Michelle Obama. I tuned out the sermon and tuned into my own creative mind. I had to get past the Southern church upbringing of "pay attention to the preacher," but then I had a lot of practice imagining other scenarios than the one I happened to be in at the time, being a preacher's kid and all.

3) Do not wait to get the inspiration onto paper. If I had had a pen in the pew (what happened to those stubby pencils and information sheets that used to be stuck in the rack by the hymnals? They were so perfect for writing notes and drawing pictures) and if the bulletin had any space left at all after a dozen announcements and the church wasn't so small that the entire congregation was visible from the pulpit (I do believe in being discrete both with poets and preachers), I would have begun the piece right then and there. I prayed my thought wasn't that fleeting, shook the pastor's hand and was the second one out the door. I headed to the first coffee shop I could find, which was darn close, praise the Lord.

3) Always carry the tools of the trade around with you, in some form or another. I had to dig before I could find my pen and a 2" square notepad, but I never hesitated to use it, although the writing filled half the tiny notebook by the time I finished. And I admonished myself for not having a little more paper and at least a couple of pens in that crazy bagalleni I carry around for just that reason--so I can put a bunch of crap in there, like paper and pens! Now some poets swear by napkins, but I am too heavy-handed and end up with inky smears on raggedy paper. It's better to be prepared.

4) Allow yourself to be creative in other ways. Cook a hearty, wholesome meal or just comfort food. Make a pie or cake and then give some away. I find fresh pumpkin pie to be particularly inspirational. It's the best and really nothing like the kind you make from a can, even if it's organic canned pumpkin. Canning takes the light out, and my god, you don't want that, particularly at this time of year. Do some drawing or painting. Get out of your head. Let your fingers do the talking. I made an entire illustrated book of my anniversary trip with Leigh in the mountains of WNC using stick figures. It was a big hit.

5) Go some place different. Try church or synagogue or George's Majestic Lounge for a little live music. Nothing, I mean nothing, inspires the creator in me like live music. Take in an open mic somewhere and listen to someone else's writing. Even if all you take away is "I can do better than that" well, go home and prove it! Watching crafts people at work, sitting alone on a hilltop, going to hear Handel's "Messiah," strolling through an art museum, studying seed catalogues for spring...try something different. You must allow yourself to be inspired. Give yourself permission, then go!

6) And last, but not least, although it may be your least favorite suggestion, get some exercise. It's tough I know, especially in winter, but a simple walk opens the mind and heart in the most surprising ways. I find I need to walk from 2-3 miles for the best effect, but even one will help. If you're lucky enough to have access to a pool, swimming is great, but don't overdo it or you'll just eat and fall asleep. "Chop wood, carry water." Do this for an hour. Stretch into some yoga. Do not clean house or wash dishes or do anything that resembles regular chores. They are endless and you will keep doing them and never write. Save them until after you've written your first draft and are editing in your mind.

I could go on and on as usual. But here are a few tips for now and I will post my next entry with the poem I wrote following my own instructions. Oh, yeah, and don't go all heavy-handed criticizing your work while you're in the "don't feel like writing stage." Accept it for work well done at a time when you really didn't feel like it. That makes you a writer.