kernpoetry.com

Year: 2017

October Open Mic Night 2017 features Catherine Abbey Hodges

First Friday Open Mic – October 6, 2017,  features Catherine Abbey Hodges

Story by Shanna O’Brien

Photos by Ezekiel Espanola

Kern Poetry First Friday open mic at Dagny’s was flowing with enthusiasm and creativity as always.  There was standing room only as poets and musicians anxiously awaited their turn to present a piece of their art, hoping to touch the hearts of everyone who listened.  And it was obvious that hearts were definitely touched as the packed room exploded with applause at the end of each presentation.

 

Our featured Bakersfield artist was Catherine Abbey Hodges who read several beautiful poems from her books, Instead of Sadness and Raft of Days.   As she captivated the crowd with pictures and emotions in her poetry, her husband, Rob Hodges, accompanied her with warm gentle tones played on his cello.  What a treat that was!  Rob also played an interlude piece that was improvised on the spot.  Together they were breathtaking.

Catherine’s generous answers to my questions below allow us to look into her world.

  • Please tell us a little about yourself, your poetry background, what got you started, your influences and inspiration.

I was that shy kid who was always off reading a book or writing something in a secret notebook. We had a lot of books, music, and visual art in our home when I was a child. Later I spent almost a decade in Indonesia with my husband and our children, and I filled journals with the experience of learning a new language and culture and way of being in the world, an experience that changed me in ways I’m still coming to understand and made language and people all the more mysterious and wonderful to me. I was a writer from the get-go, and my degrees are in English, but I didn’t formally turn to poetry until I was almost 40.

At this point in my life, I find I’m influenced and inspired by almost everything. There’s more to write about than there is time in this one life. My poems respond to images from the natural world, memories that surface from last week or somewhere in the 1960s, a phrase a student uses in an essay I’m grading. My new book has a poem inspired by a headline that ran something like “Scientists Discover Water Has Memory.”  Really, who doesn’t want to write a poem about that?

My go-to poets, to name a few, are Peter Everwine, Jane Hirshfield, Li-Young Lee, Marie Howe, Stanley Kunitz. I’m inspired by Ross Gay and Tony Hoagland. Annie Dillard is an early and continuing influence. Rebecca Solnit’s incisive and wise prose keeps me alert.

  • What are you trying to communicate with your poetry?

I guess if there’s something I want to communicate, it’s an experience, or an invitation to an experience, rather than a message. Reading and writing poems is the best way I know of holding myself still for long enough to really listen, to taste what it’s like to be alive in an unspeakably harrowing and still-beautiful world, to wrestle with my responsibilities in light of the obvious, to plumb all this and wonder at it and grieve and rejoice—those things, in other words, that save us from the spiritual devastation of surface-living. I hope that my poems may help some readers do the same.

  • Do you have any creative patterns, routines?

I teach full-time at Porterville College, and my life is brimful of rewarding work in that setting. This does mean, though, that I have to be very deliberate about making time for poems. My current pattern seems to be something like this: write obsessively in a notebook in order to process my life (this looks NOTHING like a poem except in rare instances), and in the course of those scribbles make notes in the margins on images, phrases, and memories that might be poem-fodder; do this for a few weeks; watch for the agitation/irritation/restlessness that means poem ideas are at critical mass; and then find time—2 hours to 2 weeks, depending on what I can manage—to devote solely to generating new poems and to walking. All along, no matter how busy I am, I’m reading the poems of others and feeding myself that way.

  • Please tell us about the publications you’ve created.

Instead of Sadness, my first full-length collection, was selected by Dan Gerber for the inaugural Barry Spacks Poetry Prize and was published by Gunpowder Press in 2015. That book contains 16 years’ worth of poems, some of which had been published in a chapbook in 2006 and many of which had appeared in journals and magazines. I was delighted that Gunpowder Press wanted to publish my second collection, Raft of Days, which came out earlier this year. It’s been an honor to see poems of mine featured on The Writer’s Almanac and Verse Daily.

  • Please share one of your poems with us.

Since I mentioned Peter Everwine in my influences, here’s a poem dedicated to him. It’s the last poem in Raft of Days and something of an ars poetica

 

ONE VIOLET IN FEBRUARY

—for Peter Everwine

by Catherine Abbey Hodges

Home from Fresno, I wrote this poem,

then took out everything but the violet.

Later, a little rain fell back in.

There’s no story here,

 

only the song of tires on the wet street

and me making my way toward

the unsayable, dowsing

my way with syllables,

 

silence, the goodness of friends.

I’m not there yet, not even sure

I’ll know when I get there.

I couldn’t be happier.

 

Catherine Abbey Hodges

From Raft of Days, Gunpowder Press, 2017

 

Thank you so much Catherine for your generosity, your dedication to your art and for your beautiful poetry.  You are an inspiration to us all!

 

***

 

Before the open mic portion of the night began, we recognized and welcomed the presence of Poet Laureate Don Thompson who came to support Catherine Abbey Hodges!  What a thrill!   Don mentioned that he has a new book of poetry coming out on December 1, 2017, “From Here On: Four Sunday Drives” and his profile is coming out on October 28th in the Bakersfield Californian insert.   Please check out his website:  www.don-e-thompson.com

 

As the night progressed, I was touched by all the poets and especially by the poetic lyrics of two songwriters, Jimmy Borja and David T8tz.

 

Jimmy Borja is a songwriter born and raised in the Philippines but now a citizen of the U.S.  He has written numerous hits and hundreds of songs for artists of Sony-BMG, Universal, Warner and EMI.  His songs have also been recorded by a winner and finalists of Star Search, Britain’s Got Talent, Canadian Idol, The Voice-Philippines and ABC’s Duets.  He also conducts songwriting workshops and most recently he was a speaker at the West Coast Songwriters Annual Music Conference in San Francisco.  Jimmy preferred not to include lyrics to the song he performed but you can hear some of his music at:  www.jimmyborjamusic.com.

Jimmy, we wish you continued success with your songwriting!

 

David T8tz is a newcomer to Bakersfield and has been writing and performing his songs since the age of twelve.  He said the songwriter’s road has been long and quite bumpy but luckily he has survived and has completed an album, “Pack Thy Secrets Deep” which

can be found on iTunes, CD Baby, Spotify, Amazon, Bandcamp and Soundcloud. (The band camp portal is his favorite. That link is- https://davidt8tzandhislovelyfriends.bandcamp.com )

His older work can also be found on iTunes and Spotify under- Winston and the Telescreen

Please check out his website:   www.PackThySecretsDeep.com

David has a show coming up at The Bakersfield Gay and Lesbian Center with Moon Spirits on Saturday, November 11, 2017 from 7:00 pm to 9:00 pm.  Let’s go support him!

Below are lyrics to the title track of David’s album, “Pack Thy Secrets Deep,” performed for us at Dagny’s:

 

“Pack Thy Secrets Deep”

by David T8tz

He sells all his daylight, he rents out his mind
In a three walled asylum that owns all his time
He had such plans once, dreams of freedom
A pen and a notebook and stories to feed them
He’s made a nightlife inside of a bottle
He prowls his phone apps in search of a song
Companions come easy but they never feed him
He’s starving to death in the midst of them all
Are we going to, Are we going to
Are we going to die this way?

Are we going to, are we going to
Are we going to die…Mama this way?
Cause I’d rather die than see you in such pain
We’re trapped in the flames
Pack Thy Secrets Deep where no one can see them
Pack Thy Secrets Deep and hold them close
She’s back on his doorstep, she’s tear stained and windswept
She’s only come home cause there’s nowhere left to go
Her black eyes match the shade of her track marks
The ones hidden between her fingers and toes
She says “I swear that I’ll stay clean, our daughters they need me
I just need a place I can stay for a while.”
One week later she’s crouched in the corner
She’s screaming, crying, bleeding, and the needle’s on the floor
Are you going to, are you going to
Are you going to die this way?
Are you going to, are you going to
Are you going to die…Mama this way?
Cause I’d rather die than see you in such pain
We’re trapped in the flames
But I’ll pack my secrets deep where no one can see them
I’ll pack my secrets deep and hold them close
Pack Thy Secrets Deep where no one can see them
Pack Thy Secrets Deep and hold them close
So I’ll drink, I’ll get fucked, I’ll press everyone’s luck
Oh on nothing but hatred I’ll feed
There’s an ocean of rage and it’s stuck in my veins
And I can’t seem to fight my way free
I’ve held it together for the sake of our daughters
But my strength is now failing me
So won’t you please hand me a drink?
Won’t you please hand me a drink?
Won’t you please hand me my drink?

David, we thank you for sharing such an honest and deep lyric with us and we look forward to hearing more of your songs and poetry.  Welcome to Bakersfield!

 

A highlight of the evening was when poet Thomas Brill was invited to the stage by our lovely hostess, Portia Chang. Thomas moved the hearts of everyone (and moved me to tears) with his important and truth filled poem, “Valley Fever.”  He graciously accepted my request to share some of his poetic journey with us as well as the inspiration behind his meaningful poem.

  • Please share your poetic journey, when you started writing and who may have inspired you.

I have been writing poetry since high school.  I’m not sure what originally inspired my interest in writing, but I have always needed an outlet for creative expression.  I love language and I have a short attention span, so I suppose poetry was a natural.  In college I had a very dada-istic or absurdist style, but as the years went by my work went through many metamorphoses.   I typically prefer more literal and simple poetry.  Probably William Carlos Williams and Pablo Neruda are two of my biggest influences.

At any rate, I wrote “valley fever” soon after I moved to Bakersfield.  I had moved here about thirteen years ago from northern California, where I was involved in a poetry group in Sonoma, California that had a monthly reading called the “Center of the Universe,” and

sometimes it felt like it was.  My writing developed enormously in that community, and when I first moved to Bakersfield, I was writing quite a bit.

  •   Tell us why you wrote “Valley Fever” and what you are trying to communicate.

“Valley Fever” was inspired by a real life case that I worked on as a lawyer.  A widow approached me about her farmworker husband’s death of valley fever.  He had been misdiagnosed, and eventually succumbed to the disease and died.  I changed his name, of course, and the actual details are of my own invention.  I have worked as a lawyer on behalf of many migrant workers and so this is a subject that has always been near to my heart.  As the public debate about immigrants rages on, I do my best to help a few of those in need in situations that have nothing to do with their status in this country.  In that work, I have come to know the immigrant community in a much more intimate way, so I simply try to see the human side of it without regard to their legal status.

I think the message of the poem is pretty obvious.  Immigrants come here looking for a better life and often end up finding themselves cut off from their families, struggling to get by in a strange land, and in desperate circumstances.  There are so many perils related to being undocumented in the United States, including threats from “coyotes,” the unscrupulous traffickers who help people cross and often have ties to drug families, when they cannot pay the exorbitant fees to come here illegally, being abused in their workplace, and even being afraid to report crimes since they think they may be deported.  I am obviously sympathetic to their plight, and the poem is simply intended to show a different side of the picture than we often see in the media, one that I have dealt with on a personal basis.

  • Please share your poem, “Valley Fever.”

Valley Fever

by Thomas Brill

Miguel Echavarria died illegally,

a fungus carried quietly on dust spores

filled his lungs, alone in a hospital bed,

736 miles from a hand to hold

 

He had gone to Madera where his primo

got him a job in the tomatoes,

the mayordomo was from Ixtapa too,

unlicensed uninsured undocumented

and unregulated, Miguel kept

driving the tomato truck even after

they deported his primo, leaving him

alone with the dusty dreams of a

campesino and truckloads of

semi-ripe tomatoes ready for the warehouse

where they would be gassed red and bug free,

Miguel and the other “aliens” loading

crates freshly picked onto the dusted flat bed,

dry dirt thick like smoke in the heat of

$25 a ton,

only the dust spores are free of charge.

 

Breath deep, young man, be strong,

your family’s burden placed on your

sturdy shoulders, you still have your

youth, your health, your work,

shares an apartment with four other men,

his girlfriend in Mexico didn’t have the heart

to invite him to her wedding with her

newfound sweetheart, though she did name her son

Miguel.

 

Miguel caught the fever and they sent him

to the clinic where the nameless go,

where the doctors ask few questions

and hand out generic solutions,

sent him home with a bottle of hopes

that he could return to work

and he did, working the rest of the week

a little overtime to send off a postal order,

$200.

 

Sinews strain and the eyes go blank,

the head is heavy, the dust hangs everywhere,

it seems, even in his dreams. dust borne

fingers running through his hair, his blood,

misdiagnosed, indifferent to antibiotics

that were not designed for valley fever,

a fungus slowly eating away

at his future, his family’s too.

until one day he couldn’t get up, the wet rags

no longer cooled his feverish mind, he was

alone in a cold bed on a hot Autumn afternoon,

the money orders suddenly stopped,

he rolled back and forth and his eyes

rolled up in his head and he died.

 

Just there, just like that,

the indentation still in his pillow

when the ambulance took him away,

John Doe 13, coccidiodes immitis,

the death certificate said, but no one read it

anyway.

Thank you so much Thomas Brill for coming to Dagny’s and sharing your poem, “Valley Fever.”  Such poetry raises consciousness and awareness which is a gift to all of us.  Much respect to you.

***

Well — that’s a recap of another enlightening, inspiring and creative evening.  Please come back to our website again and get to know more of our wonderful poets and musicians who participate in the Kern Poetry First Friday event at Dagny’s.  Everyone is different yet we’re all the same, wanting to express what’s in our hearts.

 

KEEP WRITING

 

 

MOON SPIRITS featured at Open Mic

 

First Friday Open Mic – September 1, 2017
Story by Shanna O’Brien
Photos by David Serrato

YIPPEE!! It was another wonderful evening at the Kern Poetry open mic night held at Dagny’s Coffee Shop.  The room was brimming with poets and musicians anxious and excited to share their revealing creations. All were shown appreciation with enthusiastic attention and applause.

The featured Bakersfield artist was a new musical group called “Moon Spirits,” who mesmerized us with their dreamy and captivating melodies and lyrics.  Watch out for their performances around town and you’ll agree they are HOT.  Below is a little insight into the band given by guitarist José M. Lopez:

Please name everyone in your band and tell us what instrument they play.

Aramy Scrimshire – guitar, vocals
John Lanier – piano, vocals
Felix Lopez Jr –  drums, guitar, beatbox, vocals
José M. Lopez – guitar, beatbox, vocals

How did you and band come up with the name “Moon Spirits?

After much trial and error of picking interesting words out of a bag we finally combined the words “Moon” and “Spirit.” It resonated with us due to our profound love of the Moon and our Vibrant Spirits.

What is the intent of your music and what type of audience do you hope to reach?

We all have different intents with our music but one we could all agree on is to truly express ourselves and the songs we compose to the best of our ability. Every song we create is like a Wave that hopefully ripples out and brings whatever the worlds people may need for further growth as human beings.

As leader of the band, when did you start playing the guitar and what inspired you to write songs?

I wouldn’t necessarily say I am the “Leader” of this band. Leaders are chosen and as far as I can tell they have never named me their leader. I began playing with the guitar when I was very little however, it was more of an off and on relationship so I’d say with regards to total hours played, it must be under a year’s worth of guitar practice.

The Beauty of the Universe inspired me to write songs. My first song was about a girl I met during a field trip. Although I was a freshman looking at college campuses and she was a tour guide, I could tell our connection was genuine. Her small entrance into my life was mirrored by her even more rapid departure and I couldn’t help but write my High-School single named “Sweet College Girl.” It was in Spanglish to further express how our bilingual conversation was the most beautiful I’ve ever had.

Are there any musical influences that inspired your band’s direction?

No. Well none that we are consciously aware of at least.

After “Moon Spirits” finished their performance, the evening opened up to poetry and one of the most interesting poets was Mandy Anderson whose pen name is Rainy Dawn. Below is Mandy’s fascinating poem followed by her insightful interview:

 Who Asked Your Fucking Opinion
by Mandy Anderson (Rainy Dawn)

Short shorts, miniskirts, short black dresses

You know what these have in common?
Slut
Because wearing any of these means baring skin

It means someone thinks you want to be sexual
It means you must be a girl, only girls wear these

It means put some damn clothes on, you are practically naked! 

Girls who bare skin are the easiest to get. 

Chokers wrap around her neck, space buns up her hair two tones of purple
She has a black belt in taking blows to the face
She must like it rough, BDSM is her thing
When did self-expression turn into an open door

Of others belittling those trying to find a place in this world

People who are trying to find themselves
NO.. I am not a slut because I love the way the sun kisses the uncovered parts of my body
NO.. I am not a slut because I love the way these shirts amplify the curves of my body
Chokers are just decorations I add to this empty canvas I have been given
My hair becomes my art project when i suddenly need change
Oh and last thing..
Who asked your fucking opinion anyway?

 

What are you trying to communicate with your poetry/art – and in particular the poem from first Friday?

Most of my poetry or writing in general has one theme; acceptance – whether that be acceptance of oneself, gaining acceptance or learning to accept all the differences in the world. I write a lot about the things no one wants to talk about. My poem “Who Asked Your Fucking Opinion” has to do with a trend I’ve seen as well as have been pulled into. Memes in the social media world are making it so much easier for bullies to attack. Girls are constantly being specialized. Boys can’t dress like girls and girls can’t dress like boys everything is based on this preconceived gender role we were given without a choice. If you wear a choker you must be a slut. Girls can’t enjoy their unique bodies they have been given. They are constantly being told to feel ashamed. Ashamed of their sexuality, their body, told to hide it away. Only guys are allowed to like pleasure and be open about it. Guys can bare skin and now (not)  feel ashamed. My poem is a girl reclaiming her self-image and being proud.

What does “being creative” mean to you? 

Creativity to me means seeing the world through many different lenses at a time and from many angles, taking those different images and putting them out for the world to view. It’s take rawness and bring it to the surface of life. Anything can become a story for a writer; painters can incorporate many different colors showing you details that they can see. Creativity is believing in a world we can’t see. It’s connected to our imaginations. We work with our surroundings and bring it to life in a dream world.

Do you have any creative patterns, routines or rituals?

Meditating is extremely important for me; it allows me to quiet myself and my surroundings. Doing so allows my thoughts to be less all over, allowing them to flow and it’s reflected through my writing. I also love going to things that inspire me. Watching slam poetry on Button Poetry has become a big part of my routine, along with reading R.M. Drakes work on line.

Is there a time when you first realized that creating was something you absolutely had to do?

I was a freshman in high school. Growing up I was taught to hide my emotions. I had a hard time learning how to express how I felt. Writing was my door to the outside world. While I couldn’t speak verbally about how I felt sometimes, writing always got me through it. I knew I had to have my voice heard and to be a voice for the voiceless. I also wanted to bring some happiness back into a mad world.

Do you have any advice to share about how to be more creative?

Listen to your mind, body, and spirit. Only you can truly learn from yourself when it comes to creativity anything else is just tools to help guide you.

Do you have a favorite thing you’ve ever created?

My daughter will always be my favorite creation if we are being technical, but in the art world I am currently putting together a book that I am extremely proud of.

Are there other creative mediums you would like to pursue?

I would love to spend more time painting! My girlfriend and daughter paint all the time!

 

 

Although all performing poets and musicians were captivating, another who caught my ear was poet Caleb Coley, a tall handsome young man, who recited his poem “Black and Lonely.”  Please enjoy his poem below followed by his thoughtful interview:

 Black​ ​&​ ​Lonely
by Caleb Coley

 I’m bad at makin’ friends,
My eye contact is unwavering,
Like a black hole somebody told me.
I either talk too much or not at all,
I go off on like 12 different tangents when I try to tell a story.
I’m very pretty, that’s no lie,
But girls don’t like me, and shit like that is probably why.
I’m quite tall, I guess that intimidates people,
When I can reach the top shelf, they get mad that vertically, we’re not equal.
I get afraid to open up to people,
I feel like that big ass book in the back of the library that no one wants to read.
I don’t know how to approach people,
So in my free time, I kinda just workout and eat.
This is a pretty sad story but I’m keepin’ it lighthearted,
If I feel myself about to cry, I’ll just point out that that girl farted.
That’s not nice, but see I do that, I’m mean cuz I’m scared,
I got these walls because I’d hate burden to bear.
So I ride solo, like Han with no Chewy,
I’ll never get my princess Leia,
I’m just a little too spooky.
Now I’m talking about Star Wars and I lost where I started,
Before I get choked up, don’t forget, she farted.

What are you trying to communicate with your poetry/art – and in particular the poem from first Friday?

My art is not only a reflection of the reality I live in, but also the different realities that I dream of. My poem on First Friday was, simply put, one of many cries for help.

What does “being creative” mean to you? 

Being “creative” gives you the power to build worlds out of thoughts. It’s a superpower to me.

Do you have any creative patterns, routines or rituals?

My entire being more or less revolves around my creativity, so there are no patterns or rituals. I just do.

Is there a time when you first realized that creating was something you absolutely had to do?

I’ve been drawing since I could pick up a crayon, writing ever since I learned my first word. I guess it’s in my blood.

Do you have any advice to share about how to be more creative?

My advice would be to not think about it while simultaneously thinking about it all the time subconsciously. You’ll know what that feels like once you start to master it. Everything you need to be creative/a creator is already within you.

Do you have a favorite thing you’ve ever created?

I’m forever in a constant battle to outdo myself, in every aspect of life. So I guess my favorite thing I’ve ever created is the person I am in the current day, because I always make sure that I’m a little bit better than I was yesterday

Are there other creative mediums you would like to pursue?

I want to do everything I can. I wanna act, write, sing, rap, learn instruments, paint, etc. My main goal in life though, the one I’m working towards as we speak, is that I want to write and star in my own film franchise. I wanna create a world for future generations to escape into.

 

Please come back again and get to know more of our wonderful poets and musicians who participate in the Kern Poetry First Friday event at Dagny’s.  Everyone is different yet we’re all the same, wanting to express what’s in our hearts.

 

KEEP WRITING!

 

Open Mic August 4, 2017

First Friday Open Mic – August 4, 2017

 Story by Shanna O’Brien

Photos by: Christina Noel

 

It was so much fun covering the hostess position for Portia at the August 4, 2017 Kern Poetry open mic night held at Dagny’s Coffee Shop.  The room was full to capacity with enthusiastic smiling folks ready to share their hearts and souls.  As each poet or musician expressed their art, the audience quietly listened and responded with appreciative applause. Everyone encouraged the “newbies” to continue writing and continue coming back to share.  Several people said they could feel the love and support in the room and that’s what it’s all about.  It takes courage to stand in front of people we don’t know and expose thoughts and feelings in poetry and song. At the end of the night we gave one last round of applause for everyone in the room, thanking each other for showing up and participating.

One of the poets who attended was Emily Andrews, who graciously agreed to an interview and below are her answers to my questions:

How did you come to express yourself through poetry? 

“I was looking for a way to express my heart’s language.  I wanted to speak the truth and just get everything out on paper.  Once I wrote my first poem I was hooked.   It was so thrilling —  the feeling you get when you finish your very own masterpiece.”

Do you have any influences?

“My first influence was my Mom. She sparked my interest in English and writing at a very young age.  She taught English.  She is a very captivating and educated woman.  I am also influenced by Reyna Biddy.  She speaks from the heart and is all about spoken word.  I also admire the R. H. Sin’s “Whiskey, Words, and a Shovel” series.  It gets me writing every time I put the book down.”

What inspires you to write?  “What mainly inspires me is an emotion bubbling up inside and when I spill the ink on paper it represents how I’m feeling in that moment in time.  And when I write, I try to come up with a message of truth and go from there.”

Can you describe the time when you first realized that writing was something you absolutely had to do?

“I felt very empty inside and writing filled my soul and I realized, when other people could relate to my words, it was something that I had to do.”

Do you have a favorite poem you’ve written?

“My favorite is a simple poem called “Life’s a Beach” – it was a simple time in my life that sparked that emotion but it was the first poem I was ever proud of.”

 

Below is one of the two poems Emily shared with us on Friday, Aug. 4.

“Revolving”

by Emily Andrews

Boom! I’m Back

Thrown against the ground tossed under the depths of ocean blue emotion I feel for you

I might drown

I’m like a boomerang you see

I always come back around

I come up for air before I hit the ground

Why do I feel things so deeply you ask? My answer is simple, love doesn’t hurt me, the love I have for you doesn’t hurt me, what you choose to do with that love hurts me. I’m a boomerang but I’m not coming back around this time

Lies I tell myself as I prepare to deny your late night messages of lust

Throwing me away but expecting me to come back

As if you didn’t confine me enough

I’m a boomerang and I keep coming back

I always come back

It is the way I am wired

To love without getting tired

To give without anything in return required

One thing must change

I’m a boomerang

You just need to want me when I come back around.

 

 

Also attending was actor/writer/landscape architect/artist, Edward Charles Waters, who shared his spoken word describing what his father meant to him. Edward’s emotional presentation came from deep in his heart and his tears moved everyone in the room.  Edward agreed to answer a few questions for our readers.

What moved you to present spoken words about your Father?

The piece I presented titled “Dad” is one of two dominant works of mine.  Both are about my father and me during the period of time when I was between the ages of three and eight.  I wanted to support my friend Shanna O’Brien who was hosting the Open Mic at Dagny’s on August 4.  I wanted to perform this most personal piece for her and for a live audience.  As an actor / performer, it is important that I take advantage of opportunities to flay the skin off my vulnerabilities.

What are you trying to communicate with your art?

Who I am and what I came from I suppose.  I like “slice of life” works.  Ones that take me somewhere vividly and introduce me to people and thoughts I otherwise would not have known – works that inform me and teach me.  I am informed and taught in the writing of the work and am informed and taught in the reading or observation of what others produce.  This kind of work brings us closer together.

What does being creative mean to you?

It means everything.  I am so fortunate to be gifted with Creativity.  To be able to express what I see and feel artistically!  Art, which is the expression of Creativity, is the language of God.  By utilizing my gift, I align myself with God and all the Power and Knowledge of the Universe!

What kind of creative patterns, routines or rituals do you have?

I always get still.  I listen.  After a while, I see.  After another while, I understand.  The answer comes.  The answer comes as to what to say, how to play the part, how to solve the design problem.  I have learned that in all forms of Art, I cannot force the process.  I merely have to get out of my own way.

What’s the favorite thing you’ve ever created?

My life and I create and recreate it daily!

 

Below is Edward Charles Waters spoken word titled “Dad.”

“DAD”

by Edwards Charles Waters

In the early fifties, I was just a little guy and Dad was a single parent who had custody of me on weekends.  He was a striking figure of a man with matinee idol good looks.  But instead of opting for a social life with adult friends on weekends, he chose to spend that time with me.

He was a guide and a teacher and the world of Chicago was our classroom.  His style was somewhere between Socrates’ and Mickey Spillane’s.

He introduced me to so many people, places and things that I had a head start on other kids my age and never lost ground.

He took me to every nook and cranny in the City of Chicago.  To Lincoln Park and the Zoo.  To see Bushman, the gorilla.  To the Lion House at feeding time.  He sat me on his shoulders so I had a good view.

We walked and talked on dark streets late at night.  A “Mutt and Jeff” pair.  He took me to past crime scene locations, to all-night diners and to corner taverns.  He took me to all the museums and to the planetarium.  To Lake Michigan and the “Rocks”.  To Notre Dame and to mass.

He introduced me to Shakespeare, Homer, Cicero and Caesar.  To navy bean soup, cotton candy and street vendor hot dogs.  To “Dick the Bruiser”, the “Cisco Kid” and his sidekick “Pancho”, and to Jack Brickhouse.

He let me sit on his lap and drive his car and ride the roller-coaster at Riverview Park.

He taught me how to swim and how to dive, how to tread water and how to float on my back.

He taught me to “try it”, to fear nothing and no one, to be proud to be a Waters, and to walk right up and “stick your hand out.”

He taught me to help a blind person cross a street, that where there is right there is might, and that everyone deserves their “shot.”

He bragged some, but usually about others…like Uncle Charles, or me.

He loved his country.  He loved the Navy…they had good “chow.”

He loved to lie in the sun.  He loved the water…any water.

He liked a beer every now and then, and to “stop in” on friends.

He loved me and I loved Him.

Bye Dad. I’ll see you soon.

Eddie

 

In closing I would like to say, “What a wonderful evening!”  Everyone is different yet we’re all the same, wanting to express what’s in our hearts.  So let’s

KEEP WRITING!

Open Mic July 7, 2017 at Dagny’s

First Friday Open Mic

Story by Alex Victoria

Photos by Ezekiel Espanola

Like too many other Bakersfield summer days, the heat had not abated going into the afternoon, but perhaps thankfully our tiny room within Dagny’s Coffee Shop offered a chilled refuge for attendees of the July 2017 First Friday event.

However, a different kind of heat pervaded the open mic night as soon as the performances began.

On top of the usual poetry performances, there were a number of standout musical performances, beginning with the impressive strums of Kyle’s powerful performance about daily life and contemplation of the plight of others.

Notable as well was the memorized (and mesmerizing) spoken word performance by Sunny, a new arrival to our local community by way of Michigan. He painted a scene in the life of a damaged but determined woman with his first piece, and delivered an enthusiastic and at times biting social and political commentary with his second piece.

Notable among the more traditional poetry performances were the grim (by his own admission) but poignant pieces of Terry, the impromptu, crowd involving craft of Julie Jordan Scott, and a performance by the always wonderful Liz Greynolds. You can find the piece she delivered presented in full below.

 

I’ll Tuck n Roll

by Liz Greynolds

 

I’ll tuck n roll

me to my death baby

ooo I like it raw no skin

skraight scraped bones

in the holes where my teeth go

from gnawing on ropes and chains

and headphone strings and that sorta thing

 

I’m going to drive a car

I’ll make my mark and wake

not to find a place or a bottomless pit

but a sweet sweet vomitorium with a scent

nothing short of intoxicating

 

but if you’re ever feeling

something maybe more milder

I’ll take you where I loiter be my experiment

incomplete my garden overflows with lillies in the

sometimes

 

Foundation for Second Chances

Story by Portia Choi

Photographs by Martin Chang and Portia Choi

A new charter school in Bakersfield, Foundation For Second Chances, had poetry as part of their developing leadership component.  The school focuses on at-risk young adults to obtain a high school diploma and to learn a skill in construction.

The Office Manager of the school, Alison Williams, wanted a poetry workshop.  “We want our students to see what is out there; help the students to expand and learn how to express themselves,” said Williams.

The poetry workshops were on June 2 and June 9.

On the first day, Don Thompson, the poet laureate of Kern County, recited from his poems.   Thompson encouraged the students to keep trying.  A line from one of his poems was “Now anything is possible.” (From “Sightings” in the book, Turning Sixty.)

The workshops were facilitated by Portia Choi, of Kern Poetry, who focused on experiencing various senses to enhance creativity.  Choi had mint and gardenias to enhance sense of touch and smell.  She struck a gong to help students focus on hearing.  She provided blueberries and granola bars for tasting.

One of the students, Aaron Cardenas, used seeing, feeling and smelling gardenias to write the following poem:

Gardenias

by Aaron Cardenas

The gardenias are soft, gentle and light, as if they were made of silk.

The smooth and soothing smell.  Plays a relaxing, relieving sound in my head.

Gentle and soft, as my grandma as she is sitting in the church, showing me a good,

spiritual example.

 

Another student was Bayley Brooks who has been writing since 13.  He said, “When I was younger, I was angry.  I wrote rhyming poetry and short stories.  I got feedback, thought I had talent.  I like putting smile on their faces.  It keeps me happy, inspired.  They tell me their story.”  Brooks is involved with poetry.  He has a social media site, riddlemepoetry.tumblr.com.  

After Brooks scratched and smelled a lemon, at the workshop, he wrote:

If life gives you lemon,

Squeeze it back into the eyes of life.

 

At the ribbon cutting for the Foundation For Second Chances school, Karen Goh, the mayor of Bakersfield met the students and attendees.

At the event, Bayley Brooks read an essay he wrote for the English class.

Brooks wrote “It’s crazy how I almost quit the Program, when I came back it was like a slam to the face.  Now things are easier that I’m keeping my own pace.  I’m doing this for me, nobody else and thank you Foundation for Second Chances for all your help. . . I had a lot of things on my mind.  It’s hard to live when you’re in a bind trying to find yourself and find a purpose and share my love ad knowledge, yeah, in surplus.”  

Cindy Rivas was a student who liked roses.  She said, “I like roses because of their fruity scent, looks beautiful, nice.”  She remembered, “When grandma passed away, I picked a rose, made a stick figure and prayed.  Soft, nice texture, when touched it gives it a smell.”

The students wrote a poem together, “Exquisite Corpse,” by taking turns writing a line seeing only the immediately preceding line.  The students who wrote were Bayley Brooks, Cindy Rivas, Chris Gredler and Jazell Vela.  The poem is:

 

Exquisite Corpse  

by Foundation For Second Chances students

The bloody person jumped fast

I’m a wonderful mom

Who lives happily in a tree

My self playground dog

Yay Life is,

Terrible

The most wonderful thing

I think about it as I sing

I’m High off Life!

 

Kelsy Watson, a case manager with the school, wrote a poem at the workshop as she was looking at marigolds.  Watson started writing poetry when 10.  Writing poems came naturally to her.  “Poetry comes from the soul, it’s soul deep,” she said.

Watson wrote:

Marigold

by Kelsy Watson

Early summer afternoon, 1992:  my sister, brother and myself all gather in the front yard in a circle, holding hands, spinning around (giggling amongsts) singing, “Ring around the rosies, pockets full of posies.  ashes, Ashes. . . . . .”

Daddy came outside with a subtle tone “Okay kids come on in a’ wash y’all hands and get ready for dinner.”

Our faces lit up with glee.  Oh, how we loved daddy.

The smell of daddy’s Love.  His gentle touch (so caring, so protective.)

I place these flowers on your grave site.  They have blossomed.  Just like you Always told me and sissy we would bloom into women.  (Queens.)  The stems are strong (holding up the flowers) just the way you always taught brother to be a strong man and to Always look out for his sisters.  

Oh how I love my daddy. . .

Nancy McCallion and Danny Krieger at Sheridan House

By Martin Chang

Photos provided by Nancy McCallion

Nancy McCallion and Danny Krieger will be performing at Sheridan House on July 14. Call 661-371-6118 for information. Suggested donation is 10 to 20 dollars.  They perform a mix of traditional folk music and McCallion’s originals.  Both musicians have toured nationally and internationally. Danny Krieger plays slide guitar and sings harmonies with McCallion.  Krieger has played with musicians like Andy Gibb and Eric Burden.

McCallion was first exposed to traditional music through her upbringing. She said, “I grew up with Irish folk music, my father was from Scotland and his parents were Irish.  When I was young, he was in the air force and we were stationed in England.  So, I got to visit my Irish family members.  That was a big reason I got into Irish Folk music.” She first learned music on the piano. At first, she wrote poetry.  Then she began playing professionally at 19.  She didn’t start touring as a musician until her late 20’s.

Nancy McCallion

When McCallion was asked why she liked traditional folk music, she said that she enjoyed the honesty of the emotions in first person ballad songs. She said, “There’s an old Irish folk song called ‘Blackwater Side.’ It’s a very real, human kind of story.  It’s not romanticized. It tells the story without telling you how to feel about the story, which is one of the things I like about the narrative songs.”

One of McCallion’s favorite original songs is “I’m Not as Willing.”  It is a waltz. McCallion feels there is an emotional punch added by the rhythm of the style. “There is something mournful about the waltz time signature.”

McCallion enjoys performing “I’m Not as Willing” because of the moment the song captured. “I wrote the song when I was feeling down.  I was on the road and homesick. I had a long-term relationship that wasn’t going well. It was very real as far as what I was feeling at the time,” she said.

Below are the first few lines of the song.

I’m Not as Willing

Nancy McCallion

I saw you dancing with your sister in law

A black-eyed cajun in a Texas dance hall

Sure of your feet and sure of your smile

Good for a dance, and a kiss and a while

Oh but I’m not pretending you weren’t looking at me

But I’m not as willing as I used to be

 

McCallion was asked for a piece of poetry she would like to share. She chose this Sonnet to share with us.

The Kaibab Squirrel

By Nancy McCallion

The Kaibab squirrel, lacking in all shame

poses for pictures, grasps for commissions,

French fries, sugar cones, other concessions.

A squirrel, yes, perhaps, only in name

He would peel your pocket to find spare change.

No blinks at click or flash, his impression

posture perfect, in high definition

foregrounded in a rectangle, and framed.

What brings you here, for surely you are lost?

Sciurus, scurrying salesman confined

to posing for self-same selfies. It pays,

He says, now conversational. The cost

is minimal, the memories divine

da Vinci didn’t work for free. No way

Open Mic June 2, 2017

 

Story by Portia Choi

Photos by Martin Chang

At the June 2 open mic, Norma Camorlinga performed her poems before moving to the East Coast.

She has been performing regularly at the First Friday poetry event since October 3, 2014.  She first attended open mic to be supportive of another poet, Mateo Lara.  Later, she started to recite her own poems.

Norma had her beginnings in performance in the theater.  For her, performing poetry was different from the theater.  “At open mic, it was different because in theater you perform someone else’s work.  In poetry, you perform your own,” said Norma, “it is more intimidating.  But it felt good, to get out and there is energy to share.”

Norma especially felt good to write a poem, “Altars,” about her Dad with allusion to “Day of the Dead.”  The poem starts with:

Like time

I think distance is relative.

The three dance a number

Take turns twirling in and out of fragile realities.

 

The entire poem, “Altars” and the poem that Norma read on June 2, “Chaotic Particles,” is provided at the end of this story.

Of her beginnings in writing poetry, “I started writing in the 7th grade; my teacher had me enter a contest,” said Norma.  “It was a poem about my family, how everyone felt about my grandmother.  She was the root of the family.”

Another poet who performed at the open mic was Matthew Mendoza.  He memorized his poems in the spoken word style.  An excerpt from the poem that he recited at the open mic is:

“. . .with the borrowed voices of the leaves/ your laughter fills my chest.”

A poet who recited at the open mic, wanted to share this poem anonymously: “I’m a person.  I am a human being.  I am disabled.  I will be a success story.”

Another poet, Walter Stormont, performed with a red cap to enhance his recitation of his poem “On, What is Love?”

 

 Oh, What is Love?

(A Redneck Rime)

By Walter Stormont   © 2017 Walter Stormont

 

Oh, what is love?  Oh, what is life?

An empty ice box full of strife.

A flying fist you have to duck,

A rusty, worn out pickup truck.

 

The distant dreams and bouncing checks,

The prices at the multiplex.

 

A barking dog, an aching back,

Another pert-near heart attack.

 

A leaky roof, a storm above,

Oh, what is next?  Oh, what is love?

 

A long-time friend, a caring spouse,

A kid who draws me Mickey Mouse.

 

A blooming, fruitful family tree.

A universe of unity.

 

I best slow down, like pop the clutch.

I never thought I’d think so much.

 

 

 

The two poems by Norma Camorlinga mentioned in the story are:

 

Altars

By Norma Camorlinga

 

Like time

I think distance is relative.

The three dance a number

Take turns twirling in and out of fragile realities.

The hours here nor there are real,

All a figment of the imagination.

You may think I am mad for stating such a ludicrous idea,

But when I sit next to you

Your heart is no longer where mine lives.

The fire that tethered it here has extinguished,

The dreams we pieced together have shattered,

And this happiness is long gone.

Time has swept away such precious moments,

They no longer have meaning to you.

I sit on your bed,

Bring you flowers

Patiently wait for you to speak,

Move,

Return to me,

Yet you remain still… Breathless,

Always six feet under.

I want this circle to break

For you to tear at the earth,

At the prison that surrounds you.

I want to erupt from this mundane pattern of birthing, losing, mourning, and complacency,

This colonized notion that it could be worse.

Even if I have to offer myself up to higher beings to have you back

I’d do it time and time again.

But… this is reality.

You left your mark on me,

On this world and

Now all we have to remember you is a monument that arrived too late.

Your is face slowly fading from my mind

Echoes of your voice faintly sing a tune

Your smile is slowly decaying

Your bones rattling a steady beat

Regenerating heat into this cold world.

You aren’t a zombie coming back to life,

So I sit by the altar Latinos leave for their dead

Placing silly ideas into boxes and rearranging them in my mind.

Sitting breathless,

Hopeful,

With a marigold flower in one hand

And my heart in the other to greet you when you return

 

“Chaotic Particles”

By Norma Camorlinga

They say that matter isn’t created nor destroyed

That the molecules we see today are remnants of a burning universe
Reorganized matter fused together, torn apart with time
Chaotic and unpredictable 

Serendipitous and timely.
Perhaps, this is why your eyes burn a familiar fire,

A familiar fire, within my chest

Parts of an ancient past, a self once, once floating beside those dark brown pools on your face, 

Like a pair of stars burning their way into my soul
And now, like those cosmos, you lay naked before me on sheets as white as cosmic ivory,

This dust is dreams,
So, You sleep
Filled with desire.
I connect the spots on your back
Constellations of black and blue fading red into soft skin

My mouth: their creator
Their celestial architect
Building an empire, stardust,
Let these cold hearts melt with lust.

Let the particles around our bodies become one
If only for a night or two,
Let us carve out unity,

Just this moment, be a lingering flame,
For Tomorrow we’ll rearrange this greatness,

We may become static,
But who is to say that the effects will not impact what we have created.
Like the Big Bang,
Catapult me into unforeseen futures,

Unforeseen sorrows

Inspire and caress my mind,

Be blind, but burst
Brighten my memories with clouds of stardust resting in your eyes
Idly waiting to fuse once again,
From the particles they once belonged.

We cannot create nor destroy,

but I’m suffering in this formation,

My eye sight begins to deteriorate with all the sadness in this world

Withering away into nothing

So let me build in the darkness of our space,

Where light cannot invade fast enough,

Let me cover your body in fading stars like braille

Small yet profound stars showing me the way

I’ll memorize them like some holy scripture

And learn to walk through the darkness

We can swallow these particles, though we won’t call it love,

We’ll only agree like the planets aligning with gravity,

To settle in this chaos.

 

Brendan Constantine Teaches Everyday Poetry

By Martin Chang and Portia Choi

Photos by Portia Choi and Martin Chang

When Brendan Constantine shopped at big box stores, he saw the same word over and over.  “I was shopping at a place like Smart and Final and they would have industrial versions of different products, and they were all about how to get the most out of them,” he said.

This inspired Constantine to think about teaching poetry differently.  “If I address poetry in that way, as a thing that is practical, something that is not just a hobby, or because something that you do because it’s pretty, but a day to day means to clarity. That could be the way to teach poetry.”

This is how Constantine came up with the workshop titled Industrial Poetry. He taught the workshop at on June 1, 2017 at Walter W. Stiern Library of California State University, Bakersfield (CSUB.)  The workshop was so popular that it had to be moved to a larger room in the library.

Constantine performed for the students at the 5-hour workshop like a comedian giving high energy examples of techniques and methods of inspiration.  These methods include writing exercises and prompts with titles like A Change of Season, Poverty, Divorce, I was so Drunk, and After the Wedding.  Or to write about “We were never to talk about . . .” and “What are the stars waiting for?”

He spoke of the “openness of possibilities.”  That there are two directions of most poetry.  One is the lyrical that moves by association and the other being the narrative that moves with time.

From vocabulary to job hunting, Constantine believes that the teaching of poetry can help people communicate. He believes that this communication can bring people together. “It’s not enough to tell you I’m sad. I haven’t told you very much. If I can get you to feel it with me, maybe I get you closer to what I am talking about. People with skills with things like simile and metaphor and image will just write a better letter, even a letter for a job,” he said.

This can extend to the current climate of division. “People are being separated by beliefs.  These divisions are becoming greater through semantics, people not being to articulate how they feel.  I feel that right now, with a country that everybody is saying is divided, that anything that we can do to stimulate communication is great.”

On a deeper level, teaching poetic expression can help people become more complete.  This is what Constantine believes he can give to students. “When it comes to poetry, metaphor is a gateway to compassion.  If I can fill a room full of people, who on a daily basis, is tasked to empathize with everything from nature to a chair, that is someone is also concerned with how others feel, that to me is a healthier world.”

Runda Osman took the workshop with her daughter Rawiah Mohamed Osman.   Runda enjoyed experiencing the workshop with her daughter. She said, “In my culture, we do not communicate by talking but by spending time doing something together. So taking this workshop was doing something with my daughter.  I am Middle Eastern, Sudanese.  It is the first time for me to be in a writing workshop.” Rawiah wrote when she was younger and is planning on writing poetry again.

Jorge Lopez took the workshop to “improve writing poetry. I write short stories and plays at CSUB.”  Lopez said, “The workshop was fun, liked it a lot.  Creative way to write poetry.”

Priti Devaprakash of East Indian heritage, also took the workshop. She found Constantine “animated, enthusiastic and creative.” She enjoyed one writing activity called Why and Because. In this activity, one side of the class wrote five sentences starting with “Why.”  The other side wrote five sentences of “Because.”  In random order, a participant said a “why” and then a person on the other side responded with one of their “because.”

Devaprakash enjoyed the freedom of the activity. She said, “In school classes there are rules on what you can’t do.  The workshop showed how randomness goes into creativity.”

During the workshop, Constantine did not read any of his poems even though he has several published books of poetry. His first collection, Letters to Guns, was released in February 2009.   The book is used extensively in schools.  His website is Brendanconstatine.com.

Here are poems from two of the participants of the workshop.

 

Jorge Lopez wrote the following poem during the workshop, in the activity he was asked to write a his choice.

My dream will be found

by someone who talks to loud.

They will lose their voice

and utter no sound.

Being forced to listen

to the noise of the crowd.

They have talked over so much.

 

 

Rawiah Mohamed Osman provided the following poem that she had written previously for the Kern Poetry website.

American Superheroes

by Rawiah Mohamed Osman in 2015

There are heroes who are fighting for our freedom and voice

They are courageous, brave, mentally and physically tough

Will always be waiting for the day they return so we can rejoice

God, please bring them home safely and keep them strong which is enough

 

While we worry about what we will wear today, they worry if they will see their families once again

Those are our troops who without we wouldn’t be who we are today

Unlike the immortal heroes we grew up with like Superman and Wonder Women, they are real women and men

They are mortal, they fight and die, while others get captured and never able to get away.

 

Even though you might not know them and they don’t know you

They are the reason you are here to stay and will protect you

While you’re complaining your life is hell, they are going through it for you

But they won’t quit or accept defeat because they always push through center of gravity

 

Because what’s starts with an S and protects as all

 

Soldiers, thank you to all the women and men who serve

Surprise Guest Poet at Open Mic May 2017

Story by Portia Choi

Photographs by Ezekiel Espanola

The councilman, Andrae Gonzalez, came to the open mic on May 5, 2017.  He represents the Bakersfield downtown area that includes Dagny’s Coffee where the open mics are held.  Gonzalez recited his poem, “Echo,” about his father.

At the open mic, the featured performers were Katie Collins and Frances Eghre-Bello, the top contestants in the Poetry Out Loud contest in Bakersfield.  Their English teacher, Andrew Chilton, at Stockdale High School made the contest possible.  It was the first time that the contest was held in Bakersfield.

The contest is a national contest.  “Poetry Out Loud encourages students to learn about great poetry through memorization and recitation,” states the Poetry Out Loud website.

Collins said she memorized poems through “Repetition and reading out loud to her friend, pronunciation of some of the words.”  Eghre-Bello said she memorized by “reading the poem a lot; and writing it out.”

For the students, the experience at the open mic to a live audience was different than at a contest.  Eghre-Bello said, “it was a lot of fun.  I was more relaxed.  I liked the environment here, people passionate about poetry.”  Collins said, “it was the most comfortable performance, not being judged.  I enjoyed it.”

One of the poets at the open mic was Christopher Robert Craddock. He has been writing poetry since he was four.  His first poem was:

“The tree looked at me

Up jumped the tree

Up jumped me!”

He read “Yertle the Turtle” by Dr. Seuss as a child.  Craddock said, “I searched for inspiration.  I was inspired by W.B. Yeats, Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot, Delmore Schwartz, Gerard Manley Hopkins and, of course, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.”

At the open mic, Craddock recited a poem, “Hummingbird.”  He said, “My sister has a garden with aloe vera,” where he saw the hummingbirds.  In the poem he contrasts the hummingbird and the poet in the last stanza of the poem

“. . .Hummingbirds

Never know the words

Because they’re in too big a hurry

To ever learn the lyrics–

Discuss philosophy with clerics

In the middle of a circus.

No, they’ll leave that to the poets.

Words are all they have to work with.”

 

The complete poem by Craddock is presented.

 

Hummingbirds Never Know the Words

By Christopher Robert Craddock

Hummingbirds

Never know the words

Because they’re in too big a hurry

To ever stop and worry.

They move on to the next flower and

If the nectar isn’t sour

Then they will take a sip . . . .

 

“Hmmmmmmm,” hummed the hummingbird. “Tra la la,

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm?

 

One flower down, only nine-hundred and ninety-nine to go–

Not that I’m counting, but scientists, ornithologists,

I am told–with their slide-rules and microscopes,

And their probes, have clocked us at a rate of a

Thousand flowers per diem, which is the fancy-pants

Scientists’ way of saying per day. In Latin, no less,

Only used now in surgical, or situations liturgical,

Or when naming the flora and fauna, by genus and species,

Like calling me Calliphlox Amethystina ‘stead of plain old

Amethyst Woodstar, or Metallura Phoebe for Black Metaltail.

Heliothryx Aurita for Black-eared Fairy;

Lesbia Victoriae for Black-tailed Trainbearer;

Trochilus Scitulus for Black-billed Streamertail!

 

One thousand per day! ‘Hmmmmm,’ the scientists say.

‘That’s a lot of nectar.’

 

A heck of a lot of nectar. Hmmmmmmmmmmm, and tra la la la.

But it takes a heck of a lot of nectar to fuel this plane.

I never stop to count the flowers. Hmmmmmm?

I guess you could say, ‘I wing it.’

 

While wending my way through the warp and woof of time,

Weaving my way through the warp and the weft,

Why worry about words and whether they rhyme?

Why wonder what word best describes my emotion?

When what really matters is: my wings are in motion.

 

The tortoise, porcupine, or possibly opossum,

Move at a pace where such notions may blossom.

Maybe a mirror in a palace of perfection

Could afford the luxury to support such idle reflection?

 

I have not the time, as I hover in space.

Look how fast I have to flap my wings

To remain in the air,

Suspended in one place?”

 

Hummingbirds

Never know the words

Because they’re in too big a hurry

To ever learn the lyrics–

Discuss philosophy with clerics

In the middle of a circus.

No, they’ll leave that to the poets.

Words are all they have to work with.

 

© Christopher Robert Craddock 2017

Visions of Words: Art and Poetry

Licet Romero stands behind her painting she created for the Visions of Words poetry event.

Licet Romero stands behind her painting she created for the Visions of Words poetry event.

Story by Portia Choi

Photographs by Ezekiel Espanola

It was a celebration of the arts in the sculpture garden of The Arts Council of Kern on April 21, 2017.  There was art inspired by poems, and a poem inspired by art.  There were two poets who displayed their art work.

Danny Martinez wrote a poem about feeling deserted.  The artist Licet Romero said she was inspired by the words to paint a large fetus.  Towards the end of the poem, Martinez writes of wars and how we are connected at the human level.

The lines from the poem reads,

“Same heart,

Same blood,

And all from an egg.”

 

Untitled

By Danny Martinez

Welcome to this special presentation,
Locked within a cell without prison inhalation,
Deception facing black curtain drop mind erasing,
To the zombie apocalypse of which mankind is pleased to choose,
Phones, IPads and TVs to form our views,
Thoughts outside the box are shot down and resisted,
Every soul in four corners are expert politicians and gifted,
Only shown what they want,
Not from the puppet we see,
The man behind the curtain let loose and deceive,
Never stand down!
Load up the REVOLUTION!!
To see the real clear depth of the sky,
And wipe out the pollution,
Institutionalized without bars in our face,
Back and forth on wars on depictions of race,
Same heart,
Same blood,
And all from an egg,
United as one is correct spawn as a pledge,
Our thoughts must be found and not pulled from the clown,
Resuscitate the brain and don’t let it be drowned,
Brenda’s baby is where we can never be found…
DESERTED!

 

Shanna O’Brien, who has entertained internationally, performed her songs at the event.  She is also an artist.  She is pictured standing between two of her paintings.  One of the songs she sang was “We are One.”

Musician and poet Shanna O’Brien stands between two of her pieces at the Vision of Words poetry event.

We Are One

Lyrics by Shanna O’Brien ©2015

We are one light, one heart, one love.

We are one.

Everybody’s different

Everyone’s unique

Some considered normal

Some considered freak

One thing we have in common

I think you will agree

We’re each a drop of water in a never-ending sea

We are one light, one heart, one love.

We are one.

Even though we’re different

The truth is we’re the same

Cause deep inside each beating heart burns a little flame

A flame that’s been ignited by a spark from something higher

We’re all just little flames in this great ball of fire

We are one light, one heart, one love.

We are one.

Every day’s a journey to the limitless unknown

We’re on this road together, no one is alone

Some of us are running some are walking slow

But in the end we all get there and then we know

We are one light, one heart one love

We Are One.

 

 Greg Stanley is a poet and an artist.  He said, “I began writing poetry, limericks, in high school.”  He began painting after receiving a paint set from his mother who also painted.   Here are two examples of his poems and art.  More of his poems can be found on PoetrySoup.com.

 Green Eyes and Pigments

Greg Stanley created a poem and painting inspired by the green color of his cat's eyes. He read the poem and showed the painting at the Visions of Words event.

Greg Stanley created a poem and painting inspired by the green color of his cat’s eyes. He read the poem and showed the painting at the Visions of Words event.

By Greg Stanley

Look in my green eyes, what do you see?

Is it something before or after me?

If only you could understand what I have to say.

All of you are the same… acting in the same play.

Not so different from one another.

But simply blends of the same color.

You are sienna, whether from Africa

China, Russia, North and South America.

Borders are division created through arrogance,

Thus, so many not given the chance.

All have the same goals… the same dreams,

But using the same damn machines.

How I know this, you ponder why?

Does it really matter, must I clarify?

Evolution has built you over millions of years,

Over that time, independent thought disappears.

No one is better… no one is worse

Every one of you is on the same course.

So please understand to make it safely to the end

A mix of Love and Kindness is the perfect blend.

 

Greg Stanley performs at the Visions of Words event.

Mother Earth (Re-Birth)

By Greg Stanley

While standing in a field gazing the sky above

I pondered all the things we are made of.

Then a bright light flashed through the sky

How did we begin, what is the reason why?

Four and a half billion years objects fall to earth

Some believe seeded life or created its birth.

By placing amino acids in the primordial ooze

The building blocks of life… but who’s?

We find these black stones… hold in our hands

Put on our shelves and display on our stands,

Mother Earth (Rebirth) by Greg Stanley

Mother Earth (Re-birth) by Greg Stanley

Each has an attraction one cannot explain

To desire and study the minerals they contain.

Do you ever wonder if we’re here for a purpose?

Or is someone watching us performing in a circus?

And did they shower us with all this matter?

Letting it dissipate in such random scatter.

Perhaps it was planned or just an… “oops”

As he never meant to send in the troops.

If that is so perhaps more will fall

Beginning a re-birth and destroying us all

I see another flash and many more still

Then a blinding glow just behind the hill

I remember nothing, nothing at all after that

As I lay in the grass still on my back

Then a bright light flashed through the sky

How did we begin, what is the reason why?

 

 

Mateo Lara performs.

Mateo Lara performs at the Visions of Words event.

Mateo Lara’s poem “Neon Candles” inspired Jesse Lemus’ to paint “A Whispered Summoning.”  Lara is author of two books of poetry, Keta-Miha and La Futura Tuga.  Lara said, “Tuga is sadness in Croatian.”

Neon Candle

By Mateo Lara
you’re staining the room with your electric blue sadness,
and last night around 4 in the morning,
You rustled around with maroon stained hands,
and told me to turn on the lights,
so I could see the silver tips you wore.
you kissed the angel of bitterness,
and I sat in the darkness for weeks.
I guess this was the last of it,
these candles, these bleeding memories,
on my shoulders and the burning of this bed,
the one where you laid out all your secrets,
on the white sheets that glistened in violet lust filled ink stains,
of the past, of yesteryear, you tell me not to come here or else there will be agony,
you took me in with your golden fingertips,
and told me to pretend the universe was way bigger than any of this,
so don’t dwell,
but I do dwell,
and we’re just as big as the splitting of the stars,
and the death and crash and burn of something,
being sucked into the black hole.
I am oblivion from every piece of me you stole and were unaware of,
I am chaos on your fury tongue, every dripping name,
has stretched before me like a carpet of rage,
and I stain you with tundra blue and midnight red,
I see the orange nova of the end and the pink sweet gin,
I am in place for you, when you leave,
You show me all the blazing glory of the neon soul,
before you go and I am without you now.
I lit the match of aftermath and shed my skin to sleep,
I whispered your name once or twice for a summoning,
and lit candles as the yellow embers led you out of my dying light.
When you blew me up into crackling purple smoke.

 

Diana Ramirez performs at the Visions of Words event.

Diana Ramirez is the co-planner for the “Visions of Words” event.  She also imagined then produced “Words Come to Life,” an event where art inspired by poetry was displayed at The Metro Galleries in Bakersfield.  Poets recited their work at the event.  Ramirez’s poem, “I Am Frowned Upon,” inspired Cuca Montoya to create a photographic collage.

I Am Frowned Upon

By Diana Ramirez

(an excerpt from poem)

I am frowned upon,
My choices are frowned upon,
My actions are frowned upon,
All because I have a vagina,
A birth canal to which life is born,
And a moist admission to which you moan,
Entrance accessed,
Perhaps entranced
by my rapture,
Yet I am the one captured
By the whispers,
By the faces that stare with disdain,

. . .

Frown upon me you might,
But I have been created to create,
And you were born to see the light,
In me,
In her,
Strong,
Stronger,
Strongest,
And our story
Is the longest
Ever told,
And I refuse to be a mold,
Molded in the image that man has sold.

 

Thomas Lucero painted this painting of Budda for the Visions of Words event.

Thomas Lucero painted this painting of Budda.

A painting by Thomas Lucero was displayed at the event.  Portia Choi, one of the planners of the event, was inspired to write a poem.  Choi had asked Lucero if he had a painting of the Buddha.  This inspired Lucero to do the painting.   An earlier version of the following poem was recited at the event.

Siddhartha Transformed

            By Portia Choi

Siddhartha in lotus repose,

palms touching in mind and heart,

soles raised in gratitude.

He was grooving with his brother, the Bodhi tree.

 

The past was a mist-the castle, wife, feasts.

He lived the rock years of self-denial and hunger.

 

Now sitting and breathing,

no thinking, no eating.

 

An orange cloth loosely covering a being of light.

The energy oozing from all pores.

Effulgence flowing, the cosmic Om.

 

Buddha sat in silence, in nonattachment,

of oneness to serve all beings.