There were a couple of reasons I took the poetry in the park workshop.  Every time I think I know what i’m doing, I realize I know nothing.  I wanted to know what the instructor had to say about writing, about poetry.  As a teacher, what kind of arsenal did she have?

But, admittedly, there was something else.  I wanted to know– to see– if I could do it.  Did I know enough, did I have enough in me, to lead my own?

Poets dislike admitting they need money.  We dislike having to do business and for our teacher, collecting her $50 tuition was a necessary annoyance.  She took the money then waved away the moment like shoo-ing a fly.

What did we do?  We all met at the corner of the park then slowly strolled to a well balanced area of trees and sun.  Our teacher noted that walking through the park is one thing, but walking through the park as a botonist is something totally different.  We see only the green leaves, the trees, the bushes.  A botonist sees the species, the fauna.  Walk to our location like a botanist, she said.  Pay attention.

Our first lesson had begun so quietly you could have missed it.  Then we gathered at the location, stood in a circle, introduced ourselves, did a little stretching…  She pointed out how all writing comes from the body.  How, maybe with poetry in particular, you need to put the sensations in the hands of the listener, reader.  Make them feel your writing.

It is impossible to make your audience feel anything, if you as a writer are not feeling something.

In the exercises, we strolled around a area of the park and looked for something tangible.  At one point I found a small piece of overripe fruit– no bigger than a tooth– that had fallen into the grass; a bright red ruby amongst the green grass, brown leaves.  This was already a breakthrough in that I hadn’t known there were fruit trees in the park.

I picked the fruit up, let it lay in my palm, and over the allotted time studied it. 

It made me realize, writing or not, that rarely do we take the time to really Look at what we’re seeing.  Meditation has helped me be present in a lot of things, but without it– so much detail in life would go right past me.

If I can say that in regards to me, and I’m trying– what does that say about you?  Yes: YOU.  How present are you in your day to day, moment to moment life.  How much of your own life are you paying attention to, versus just moving forward robotically?

Studying that piece of fruit, I began to actually see it and recognized how beautiful it was.  And yes–without this workshop, I never would have paused and bent over that bright red bauble in the grass.  Neither would you.  And you would have missed something exceptionally strange, alien and quite beautiful.

I stood looking into my own palm quite a while before attempting to make notes.

Earlier, when we were standing in the circle doing movement, I wondered what people might think as they strolled by.  A bunch of nuts!  Hippies!  And to some extent we were.  The nature of being ‘crazy’ or different in society is to pay attention to things, feelings, surroundings in a way most people ignore.  To pay attention is to be crazy, isn’t it?   To feel and to acknowledge feeling is to be hippie-like.  Don’t ‘normal’ people ignore the details of life, ignore the sensations that belong to them, ignore the environment that surrounds?  If we high schoolers, single moms, students, writers, wannabes, here in the park on a beautiful Saturday want to embrace creativity and writing, then we must embrace the crazy a little.

This relevation is particularly interesting to me because it makes me think of my cousin, John Edward.  Before he died he was an artist saddled with schizophrenia.  I remember him stopping me in the living room for a few minutes as he sketched my face.  I wanted to be with my friend; his sketch at the time was like posing for a slow picture.  Sometime later, maybe years, he’s in the garage showing me a drawing he’d done.. It was detailed, beautiful, smooth lines.  It was of angels and characters from the Bible.  What he talked about didn’t make sense, but everything I needed to know what on the canvas and was as vivid as a photograph.

I wonder sometimes if the people I pass on the street who society deems ‘crazy’ are merely artists who haven’t found their voices.

In order to clearly see, sometimes you have to be a little twisted.  Doesn’t make sense, though.  Does it?

This cafe was across from a dog park, at the corner of a street that rattles loudly with street cars every few minutes.  Those sounds would alternate with dogs barking.  The reading started unusually early –7? I got there at 6:30– and the features were mercifully short.  After the open mic was done, we were outta there at 8. 

All things considered, there’s no much to report.  I sat at the ‘bar’, treating myself to cake and tea, next to my mentor Steve — who nursed a bowl of soup and would lean over and whisper revelations that occurred to him while listening to the readers.

The open mic somehow yielded more interesting work, stronger writing.  There was a musician dude who read two short poems, performed one short poem with his acoustic guitar (labled with an inspection sticker from Hawaii) then a song– all in under 5 minutes, I swear.  And he was good.

I read ‘For What Remains’ which I’m realizing is a poem I enjoy reading in spite of how god-awful sad it is.  Then I read Reflecting Mirrors of Hate which I don’t think I’ve read before.  That one is a description of a dream and I’m breaking myself of the habit of announcing that to the audience.  The poem works well, I think.  I was advised that long ago in a workshop; its way cool to write about your dreams, but don’t tell the audience its a dream.  The writing should tell them what it is  and that should be enough.

Steve and I chatted for a few minutes while I walked down to the street car stop.  We were passed by the musician dude who I can only describe as Very Californian, Very San Francisco.  He  complimented us both and Steve demanded he visit the open mic for musicians for which he said he would then pushed on leaving Steve and I to talk about Deadwood which he’s just starting to watch.   A good night.

Its been a while, weeks, since I’ve gone to my ‘office’ to write –my office being  a bench on a grassy slope with a tree.  But I returned sunday, & sat with an open notebook & a bunch of images in my head from Friday and Saturday night…

and I couldn’t do it.  I was anchored into stasis by depression.  I sketched a little, wrote a couple of lines, but like watching water drain out of a pail with hole in it, the words just stopped.  I forced myself, motivated by coffee, to do one more sentence, but I was done.   My last couple of night which were fun, cool: playing dominoes with my kid brother friday night– then us walking off and leaving my cell phone and his dominoes at the bar to hit up J— – — –x (he went back and got them after dropping me off and before the bar closed); my friend’s birthday party Saturday night, then late that same night hitting up a cool club downtown Oakland…  My friend and I drank and strolled through both floors of the club, looking, seeing.  I am 40 and shamefully admit to feeling 14, esp. when this one woman did a double take towards me.  Right then– I couldn’t; I hadn’t shaved, hadn’t dressed for the club; was a last minute… oh, I’ll stop the excuses and get to the point:

…

Not being able to write is one thing– but I still had to do Something.  I strolled for a minute, then sequestered myself by a waterless fountain, took out my poetry and began reading ‘aloud’.

When I first began learning about poetry and cafe readings many discussions came up about poets who don’t work on the page.  Poets who are engaging and funny and awesome to hear, but their chapbooks, as far as language use, are more dead than Latin.  My struggle as a writer has been finding a middle ground.  To have the poem work read aloud AND have it be successful without the benefit of voice.

Not all poems work that way, nor should they.  But for the most part– they need to lead two lives.  One in your mouth, the other in your imagination.

The reading Friday made me realize I must find out how to read these new poems aloud.  Poems are not finished until they’re read aloud.

I sat and read about a half dozen poems and began adding edits and new words and new line readings in the margins.  Poems I thought were done and cool suddenly weren’t.  A couple came to life anew in my throat.

This reminds me of two things. 

One was hearing Gwendolyn Brooks read her famous poem We Real Cool in person.  Its a piece I’ve known better than my own phone number for years, but one night I was blessed to hear her read at UC Berkeley and was fascinated to hear how she read it.  She read it like jazz, laid across the syllables differently than expected, inhaling at the line breaks.  In her mouth,  the poem became different and new.  I thought: I haven’t heard this at all.

Last week my mentor, a classically trained pianist, talked with another musician about Mozart.  He wondered how Mozart would sound playing his own music.  (he thought: it would be quieter, softer than we’d expect)  However familiar you are with classical music, none of us have actually HEARD it, because all we’ve ever heard was cover-versions by orchestras and soloists.  Imagine how those original composers would perform their work? 

Sitting there, it was nice to learn a couple of poems I was initially  uncertain about sounded much better read aloud.  I can’t wait to run them for audiences.  Others I initially adored when I wrote them, but aloud they sound so narrative and clinical they need to be totally rewritten and seem missing a Point.

Not writing is one thing; but there’s still valuable work that can be accomplished.

She reads pleading with us, her back straight, body narrow, leanding forward towards us, her head pivoting up and down as a bird frantically drinking water. Her hands together in prayer position, her printed poems fastened to her palm by her thumbs. Her storm cloud of mullet hair.

The room was more packed than i expected for a friday night. I sat in the back of the café at one of the few tables left. The host warned me that I might not be able to hear; there was an archway dividing the main dining area from this smaller cubicle, framed by a four foot high fern. One of my friends pointed to a chair next to him but it was well at the front of the already crowded room.

I remained in the back, marvelling at the crowd, admiring the waitress as she worked the room in whispers, filling wine glasses, silently negotiating plates of tuna salad and removing glistening plates debris’d with just two forkfulls of spinach too many, & bread stacked like stones of basalt off the shoreline.

gradually I realized most of the people here were invited by one person; the second woman to feature. She seemed as comfortable as if this café were her kitchen and we were her evenings entertainment. Glasses of wine; salad leaves mopping her plate of oil. She’d see someone on the street then shoot her hand up with the answer. She’d rise and kiss people who entered. Then later, during the open mic, she’d take photos of her friends with her iphone. No, she’d whisper. Get closer together.

In contrast with the other woman, the woman who read about her divorce and who, inspite of being so still, was engaging and passionate. This woman—who filled the room with friends and students—was a bore, read into her chest, and seemed much more comfortable chatting and living off stage.

****
I’m now developing a vocal relationship with the new poems from Dirty Thirty series. How to read them aloud. What do they sound like? How are people hearing them? Do my edits work? Are they funny? How do they sound projected from my chest? Would they sound better recited more softly on a mic?

For the open, I read three poems.

The first was “I Have Promised Not To Know You” which I royally fucked up; I stumbled over words; Was no longer sure if the reference to Janet Jackson worked or was needed. Maybe to say she was pretty was enough—and I shouldn’t compare her beauty to anyone specific. Though I strongly adore the subtext about how someone looked: “before Nasty, after Good Times.”
I hadn’t read the poem until that moment. What I choose to read on a open mic depends on how I feel in the room and I only began thinking about it moments before. Not only did I stumble a bit, I also realized I hated the ending—it had no ending.

I read ‘Rebirth Beneath Your Fingertips’, which fared better—I’ve read it before—but I stomped on the ending when I think the audience wanted to applaud or respond. But instead I quickly jumped into Hasten With The Medication, which was the only poem people after responded to. It does work, it does sound cool. But I’m not sure how to read it yet—the tempo.

Poetry didn’t mean much to me in high school– I knew it existed, but beyond The Names; Hughes, Dickenson… Ummm… I didn’t know anything about it.

Poetry was on the job training for me. I went to open mics at night to clear my head from a lot of stress and a major depression I couldn’t escape from. The first cafe poets in I heard (namedrop notice! This Includes Eldridge Cleaver!!) really surprised me because they were talking about themselves, their lives– not beavers & trees & butterflies like I thought poets were supposed to do.

One night I’m watching tv and see this old white dude sitting on stage among instruments & performing poems for an audience. It was Robert Bly. He called his poem a Concerto in the key of Er.

Ferns

It was among ferns I learned about eternity.
Below your belly there is a curly place.
Through you I learned to love the ferns on that bank,
and the curve the deer’s hoof leaves in sand.

somehow it really moved me. i saw it & felt it as much as heard it. I memorized it and practically used it as a prayer– even now as a model and motivator, even though my voice is so far away from it. I remember reciting it to one woman I worked with and another eavesdropping turned to face us and said, “I’m sorry– but I gotta say, that is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

the first mic was at a large cafe downtown san francisco and started subtle, quiet but ended strong.  A line of five people stared into computers on one side of the room.  Tall lounge chairs, small tables.  The host was this older dude with a Droll sense of humor but who was cool, respectful and funny.  I sat at a table in the middle of the room after stressing over what to order.  I happened to know the couple who were sharing featuring duties and they both came in and joined me at my table where I nursed a bran muffin and some nicely spiced apple cider.  I hadn’t seen Louis for Years, and he was there and joined my table too, though admittedly I didn’t ask him to.  But there’s love.  The Droll host came over to our table and told the features the mic doesn’t work and wanted them to Prepare to Project, which they did.   She read first and while an espresso was being made, stopped reading midway through her poem and danced to the vacuum sound of the machine.  Her husband followed her and ended his set with a thunderous poem that was more a sermon.

The cafe closed at 9 on the nose and I headed out to cross town and get to the other open mic where I promised to meet Steve, my poetry mentor.  I walked down Van Ness, passed an auto dealerships– one full of Packards from the 1930’s.  Another showing off a white lamborghini with its doors opened up like wings of a dragonfly.  Walked all the way down past a silent city hall to Muni, then jumped on the train to the second mic.

As I’m walknig up the street towards the place, I see Steve hugging away these two women who were getting into a mini suv.  I thought to stop behind him and stay, ‘oh, I want next’ but I didnt’ know the women and here I was a black dude in a hoodie on a dark street in the industrial part of town getting in line to hug white women I didnt’ know.

I let it go.

So I stood at the corner and waited for steve to return to the bar.  He said, I want to stay just a little longer and then I’ll drop you home.  I wanted to talk with you a while. 

Fine. 

It was a open mic for musicians and I was surprised the place was packed to standing room only– from the performance space back thru the bar.  Steve though had a table and pushed his way through the crowd and we sat down behind a line of standing people watching the performers on stage– during the time I was there it was mostly bearded dudes rocking out with acoustic guitars. 

while sitting there, a woman came up.  Turns out she was from Berlin and had been in SF all of four days.  Said she was a social scientist and we talked about that, with Steve leaning in and offering– stuff.   My mind went so quiet, I wanted to engage her more and think i did ok.  She brought out a notebook and asked for suggestions of things to do in town.  Steve wrote something about Burning man.  I mentioned the sequoia national forest where even I hadn’t been.  Neither California academy of sciences which also went on the list.   She then looked at my suggestions and asked, What about live music.  More mind silence.  I thought to try to include my email address at least, but she waved it away: don’t bother.  She rolled herself a cigaret and went outside.  Before she came back Steve returned.  You ready, he asked.  I nodded.  By then I was sitting on the railing of the wood bench where we had been sitting.  She came back just as we were pushing ourway through the crowd, I offered a friendly hug and went outside.

Steve talked a few minutes with a young pianist standing in a circle of dudes on the corner holding a bowl and a lighter.  The two talked about classical music and posed What would Mozart sound like playing his own music?  The answer was: much quieter than we’re used to.

That Steve’s car still runs is a miracle.  He loaded the busted radiator with water and was chugged along towards the bridge (stopping a couple of minutes before the on ramp for the motor to warm up.)  For much of the trip it he had the car in neutral.  He said: you’re good luck.  I think we got up to 35 miles an hour a couple of times.

He wasn’t sure if he had enough gas to get me to my place.  He asked I hold one flashlight to the fuel gauge while he used a second to check that the motor wasn’t overheating.

We eventually made it back to my place and while still in his car I used one of the flashlights to read him the poems I did at the first open mic that night.  They were all poems that came out during Dirty Thirty.  He liked them and we talked a good while afterwards, even though he was sleepy and it was about midnight and we both had to get up early.

He’s 65.  As he was driving away I watched him leave and realized he is as close to a active father figure, as close to an uncle I’ve had since… Since.  Its strange not having any family, I thought.  But he is certainly it, crazy warts and all.

Its hard to do poetry at a poetry slam.  Nobody is trying to hear you be all pretty and shit.

As much as I appreciate the workshops I’ve attended and as much as I’ve felt myself learning something of value as I write, I also feel myself drifting farther away from audiences who attend poetry slams.  I’m not sure what they’re looking for when they wander into a cafe or club, but poetry ain’t it.

Its always affirming to read something that clearly articulates something you’ve thought or felt but were never able to speak aloud.  The article at the poetry blog about Slam being ‘dead’ caused me serious pause.   When I saw the headline, I thought– oh, it’ll never die.  Then I read the article and was surprised I wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

I brought my best friend to his first slam a couple of months back.  Afterwards he brought up how everybody on stage sounded the same.  They were all playing the same notes.  

I started doing performance poetry a couple of years before the poetry slam virus began spreading.  It seemed viral because each person was doing a variation of what just happened– somehow one poem was written and every person after re-wrote the same piece. 

If slam poetry isn’t ‘dead’, what is dead is the language so many writers lean on.

sometimes

silence is

too

beautiful

to live.