My sister Gloria ran a child care business in Perth, Australia, for over ten years. When my children were small she came back to San Francisco occasionally to visit. One time, instead of bringing them stuffed platypus and sheep skin slippers, she bought them a book of poetry.
“Poetry?” I asked, skeptical about her gift. No one in my house had ever read poetry.
“Yes, the kids in my center love it.”
It was Shel Silverstein’s The Missing Piece. I don’t remember my children’s reaction to the book, but I was completely drawn into the page-turning story and the simplicity of the illustrations. After taking the whole book in one gulp I paused to take a breath.
“I like the sound of my poems.” Owen Dunkle told me at Sacred Grounds. I think we all like the sound of our poems and the sound of our own voice, otherwise we won’t be signing up for open mikes. Beyond sharing what we have written, it is important to “sound them out”, as HD Moe likes to say. It’s a sure way to find out if a poem has rhythm and flow. Some poets even edit their poems while they are reading on stage.
The ability to read well, I think, is an important tool for a poet. One night at Sacred Grounds, Bill Mercer decided to recite Yeats’ The Song of Wandering Aengus. His recital brought the house down. At the break I saw Fiona, the owner of the cafe. She stopped me and asked what Bill was reading.
“I didn’t understand the words, but I felt his emotion rushed at me. So powerful that I had to listen.” Fiona put her hand over her heart. She is an immigrant from Hong Kong and speaks limited English. But I know she gets the poem.
There were few women poets at the Sacred Grounds when I started attending the readings in 2001. So whenever one of the women stopped going her absence would be felt by the group. For about three years I was only able to attend the readings sporadically due to my work and my children’s schedules. But each time I went back I felt the warm welcome, that my fellow poets had saved a space in their hearts for me.
Jehanah Wedgwood (the hostess) aside, Eleanor Watson-Gove (editor of the Sacred Grounds Anthology), Syreia Witt, Marsha Campbell, Gaya Jenkins, Selene Steese and me were the regulars at that time. Then, Eleanor moved to Portland. Syreia Witt died. Selene quit her job in San Francisco to become a full time poet. She began her own reading series, S.O.U.P. in Oakland. Gaya suffered all kinds of ailments and moved to the East Coast. Jehanah passed away last year. Marsha stopped coming because of heart surgery and various housing problems.
Barbara Bel Diamond, the spunky dark-haired Canadian with her signature beret came to Sacred not much later after me. She had been a steady presence on the Wednesday night circuit until recently, when she began her own reading series at Sacred on Saturday afternoons. Deirdre Trian, the beautiful witch-goddess has been our iconic figure in the past six years.
There are more women who grace the Grounds now and the balance between the genders are improving. A couple of weeks ago Marsha Campbell came back looking trim and ever graceful. I realized how much I had missed her stunning poetry, her tremulous voice resulted from throat surgery and her out of tune guitar. As she walked up to the mike she was greeted by thunderous applause—a fitting way to welcome back a great dame.
For half a year, Jannie Dresser appeared daily on my computer screen in the form of a prompt. Each night I scratched my head until I wrote a poem and posted it on her internet classroom.
We finally met in early July, when Jannie began a poetry appreciation workshop in North Berkeley. It was an informal gathering. We sat in a circle and read poems that have been published in journals and magazines, then discussed our likes and dislikes. Much of the time the advanced language and expressions made me feel like I was diving into a deep pool of water and struggling not to get drowned. I have a long way to go with comprehension.
One of my college professors once said he learned to read German by staring at it. I had a similar experience. I learned to read classical Chinese by staring at a novel until the sentences began to make sense. It’s all intention. If you stare at something long and hard enough it’ll have to come alive. I’ll keep staring at Jannie’s workshop.
As the last tone on the singing bowl fades away, we know we’re ready. Bill looks at me with a smile on his face and I smile back. Next Wednesday (July 27) will be the premier at the Sacred Grounds. Our new set of poetry, Two Tongues of Gaia, includes the usual instruments of Bill’s shakuhachi and my drum. But we have added some vocals and the Native American style flute.
Whether we rehearse at my house or Bill’s studio, the ritual always begin with a cup of tea. Conversation ensues on the state of the world, friends and community, with Bill warming up his shakuhachi in between. We like to run the set through, pausing in between to discuss the issues that come up—the rhythms on the drum, the tempo in the recitation, the balance between voice and instrument, etc. Sometimes things work out smoothly. Other times we struggle through, tolerating each other’s point of view, but ultimately a decision is made.
We sit back, feeling good about what we’ve done, and drink some more tea. The gestation part has been rewarding. We look forward to bringing the child into the world.
I missed the #44 bus last night, watching it passed as I stood across the street on Fulton and 8th. I could have waved. It might have stopped. But it was crowded and I decided to let it go. At the bus shelter it said 18 minutes before the next one. I took a walk in the ripping wind. Glad to be bundled up in my winter coat.
The bus looked empty when it arrived. After I boarded someone in the front said hello. It was Zach T sitting on an electric scooter. Hello, I said, I just met a friend of yours yesterday and you were on our mind. I sat down across from him. New bike, I observed. Yeah. He nodded. It’s fantastic.
Zach is probably in his early twenties. When we fist met at the Sacred Grounds he walked with a limp with the aid of a walking stick. But when he read his poetry was fiery and punctuated, fabulously hip-hop without a trace of debilitation. Sometimes he just came to listen. Huddled in a corner, left as quietly as he came.
He told me he missed two buses. I told him I missed one. That was all that it took to meet up. It was late at night. Few people got on the bus as we chatted. He invited me to draw and paint with him and his friends. I said yes I’d like that. He got off at Mission and Silver. I got off a little further down and trudged uphill.
Coming into writing late in life with no background makes it difficult for me to appreciate different poetic expressions. Surrealistic poetry is especially daunting. Friends suggest visualizing the imagery, but my mind can’t react quickly enough and I sink under the deluge of words. Ask the surrealists and they’ll say their poems are whatever you want them to be. I walk away feeling a little silly. Questioning artists for meaning of their work is like asking about the ingredients and nutrition facts in a cookie. It doesn’t help me in appreciating the nuance of the product.
For one thing, the mind—that stubborn, controlling, egotistical blob—does not want to let go of preconditioned bias. But recently I found a way to trick it. Instead of listening to the words, I listen to the rhythm and sound of the poem. The music in these poetry is the catalyst that allows me to immerse in them with awe and wonder. I am held afloat by their juxtaposition. I ride their waves until they bring me ashore. It’s all in the performance, and they often leave me breathless.
Risheng Wang was a research scientist living in Germany. On one of his trips to China he happened to listen to a cassette of pipa music. The playing literally touched his soul and he knew he had to find the artist, whose name was Liu Fang. He wrote to her, as a fan, but deep inside he knew he had fallen in love. The two met during Risheng’s subsequent visits to China. They married and moved to Canada. Risheng gave up his research and devoted his time in promoting Liu Fang’s music. I met the couple in 2001 at WOMEX, a world music conference in Rotterdam. Risheng told me this story. We are now friends on facebook. Have I told your story correctly, Risheng?
I was a closet poet when I first began writing. Eager to find a community, I happened upon an internet site where I could read other people’s work, post my own (be anonymous) and receive comments. After a lot of lurking I began to post and “befriended” a variety of characters. One in particular, judging by his poems, was a half-crazed Chinese poet called “Rain”. I had just finished a poem about a devastating experience in China and wanted to share it with him privately. We began corresponding one Sunday morning. He answered immediately, happy that someone valued his opinion. We emailed back and forth, finding concordance in each other’s point of view. The keyboard heated up. He proposed marriage. I told him he was too rash. Then we started arguing and everything went sour. By evening we had a divorce. Do I remember this correctly, Rain?
