Story by Portia Choi
Photographs by Martin Chang and Joshua Burgos
Poets and musicians shared their words and songs throughout the summer at Dagny’s Coffee for the First Friday Open Open Mic.
Kevin Shah hosted the Open Mic on July 6th (2018.) He is a poet and had previously hosted poetry open mic at the local bookstores, Russo’s Books and Barnes & Noble. He also, with other community poets, organized several annual poetry events. In April every year, National Poetry Month is celebrated throughout the land (including, of course, the City of Bakersfield and all of Kern County!)
About hosting in July, Shah said, “Whenever I guest-host, I am impressed with the energy that artists of all types bring to Dagnys. I got a host again during the summer. I estimate that 20 or so musicians, storytellers, and poets performed.
“One of the poets who only speaks in rhyming couplets interpreted his serious health challenges in a way that was not just human but divine. A couple of friends and I were talked with him afterwards. His poems and his vulnerability were sobering reminders of my own mortality.
“Yes, at that nice, poetry is serious business, but it can also be fun and whimsical too. I love the fact that the performers have to compete with all of the noises of a busy coffee shop on the busiest night of Bakersfield’s Art Walk. As an artist, you are forced to refine your craft.
“When I host, I’m performing, too. After twelve years of this, It’s not unusual for people to tell me that I’m good at it. Yet, I’m always the weakest link. And that should tell you how eclectic and exciting each Open Mic is at Dagnys. If you want to know more about the artists or their poems, keep reading.”
Jay Squires, appeared at all the summer open mics. He recited a poem “I Am the Skimmer of Stones,” which he considers his best poem. Squires said about the poem, “It was kind of a travel up and down the abstraction ladder, beginning with the actually physical act of skimming stones. Then I looked at the skimming process from the standpoint of ‘depth’ and ‘surface’ with the obvious intention of skimming the stone all the way across the pond, but knowing that not all stones will follow that trajectory. Some will lose their momentum half-way across. I remember, at the time thinking … what would the stone be ‘thinking.’ Anthropomorphism took place in my mind to the point I felt quite uncomfortable with the thought of sinking to the bottom of the deepest part of Jacob’s pond. Finally, doing a little metaphor-jumping, I considered depth and superficiality in terms of knowledge and tied in the previous ‘fear of depths’ to knowledge as well, and ‘age’ with the decision to search the surface of things.”
Here are the excerpts from his poem:
I Am the Skimmer of Stones
by Jay Squires
I Am the Skimmer of Stones
and I fancy myself as well
the smooth stones skimmed
(imagination lets me, you see);
I, too, am the surface of Jacob’s Pond
they skim across
or not entirely across
or not across at all.
But if the stone falls short
I do not become the pond’s depth;
oh, most assuredly not the pond’s depth
(even imagination won’t take me there)
though years and years ago it would and did.
. . . . . . . .
They say at the center the pond’s immeasurably deep
that the depth of the pond’s mysteriously deep;
they say, and I say I must agree
that sometimes a mystery’s best left to mystify.
. . . . .
But once I thought my courage deeper
than Jacob’s Pond could ever be.
So I became one with the stone I skimmed
that hummed and skimmed and skimmed again
but not entirely across.
And where it sank, there too I plunged
down from the surface of Jacob’s Pond
down with immortal youth and a lungful of air
down into the heavy-black-deepness of Jacob’s Pond.
That Jacob’s Pond went deeper forever
was not mine to know that day
for fear soon squeezed life from courage
and a blur of my spider’s legs and arms
sent me scrabbling up the bubbled web
to light and air and breath
and the safety of surfaces.
. . . . .
For, it’s a blessing now
to be once—and only once—young
And once to test the depths
once to dare to fail
and once to Succeed in Failing
and in failing, yet survive
with a greater knowing
that there’s a near infinity of learning
oh, a precious, near infinity of learning
from lightly skimming
from blithely skimming
the safer, monocular surface of things.
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Ben LeJeune also performed at each of the summer open mic. He is a musician and accompanied his song on the guitar. The lyrics to his song:
“Someday You’ll Win”
by Ben Lejeune
I know why you said you couldn’t stay
I know why you had to turn and walk away
Your heart’s a broken record playing the same song over
Playing the same song over and over again
You’ve been down that path and you had a couple of laughs
Some days just start so they can end
But someday you’ll win
I’ve no doubt in my mind
It all works out in a matter of time
The smoke will clear and you will be just fine
Someday you’ll fight the odds with a worthy grin
And find the time while the world spins
To stop and dream about the time when we need you again
Someday you’ll win
I know why you still regret it all
I know why you let go and you let yourself fall
Your mind is simply checkered; sprinkled salt and pepper
You lie eye-to-eye and you play pretend
You’ve tested out those waters, drowning in your bothers
You can’t keep the tide below your chin
But someday you’ll win
I’ve no doubt in my mind
It all works out in a matter of time
The smoke will clear and you will be just fine
Someday you’ll fight the odds with a worthy grin
And find the time while the world spins
To stop and dream about the time when we need you again
Someday you’ll win.
LeJeune said, about the song, “I wrote this song for a friend on April 9, 2011. It was the first song I had written for someone. She was in the hospital after an attempt to take her own life. The lyrics came to me rather quickly. I felt like I knew exactly what I had to say to her. She had made an attempt to reach out to me, but I felt I was too busy to be bothered. Had I known the gravity of the situation, I like to think I would have acted differently. I felt guilty about my carelessness and felt almost like I owed her this song. To this day, she is one of my dearest friends and she’s happy and healthy.”
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Thomas Brill was another poet who performed at all the summer open mics. When asked about how he felt about reciting at the events; he said, “When I read at open mic, I have to admit I’m a bit of a ham. I love to perform, so reading my own work gives me a chance to both do a little performance and also to reveal little bits of myself, sometimes things I am not so proud of, oftentimes just random thoughts or ideas. It’s nice to hear other people reading too, though, and the whole experience is interactive in a very community based way.”
A poem that Brill recited was “in between.” Brill said, “This poem was inspired by the idea that we are always looking for that bright flash of brilliance, by the seductive and glimmering surface of the waters that reflects the sunlight back and always catches our eye. Or for something more solid like the bottom of the creek which has a foundation and feels like it is real and not just an elusive dream.”
“But real life is more ambiguous and mysterious, the way the waters in the middle of the river are, the things you can’t see and can’t capture are the ones that really count. It’s a call to celebrate that ambiguity and uncertainty and change that surrounds and can drown us of we do not accept it. Live there without regard for how your life might look to others. Real living is something you can only do for yourself.”
in between
by Thomas Brill
on the surface
there is much to say,
the water reflects sunlight, moonlight,
looks pretty to the passerby
draws in and gives back
the beauty of whatever body it’s in,
a river, the ocean,
it is open, obvious, honest,
the first filter, interface between two worlds,
because it is so easily observed
it represents its country well,
there is much to say about the surface
and at the bottom
critical source of life
for all that enjoy its security
where everything lands and settles
it is dark, mysterious, even profound,
it is basic, elemental,
though not prone to violence,
it is the song that touches the soul
though few chords are played,
it can deceive and frighten the timid,
provide shelter for the mad and weary,
firm foundation for the solid soul
but
it is in the middle currents
where I run
do not think about me
you cannot see me
nor can you find me,
always rolling, moving stirring,
never keeping anything long,
no real mystery
no real beauty
nothing profound,
at least not to the average observer—
but step into my waters
and feel my cool current
swim round your naked flesh
I will not hurt you
do not fear me
I will surround you with
a thousand fingers, then be gone
yet still with you
I am the lingering doubt
you can’t loosen from your mind
the obscure hope that invisibly
drives your passion,
the tender touch
that gently guides you
to your destiny,
though you never knew it was there
I am the seething anger
exploding without permission
then tumbling into warm embrace
and fading again into something else new—
but here I am again!
no, you cannot quite grasp me—
do not even try,
just let me flow past,
I am the moment,
the movement
swirling, confused and
alive—
Reach not, then, for the stars
nor stay planted at the base—
the living is in between
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Ruth Handy recited a poem, “Spring from the Backroads.” It is a compilation of haiku which was combine into one poem. She said, “My poetry has come in spurts. I first began writing poetry around 1975 when I was in a highly stressful hospital job. These poems were rather angry.
In the 1990’s, I became interested in Japanese culture and read the Haiku poems of Basho. I wrote a number of Haiku poems at that time, and my interest in Haiku and nature continues to the present. This current poem came after I retired from social work in March, 2018.”
SPRING FROM THE ROAD
by Ruth Handy
In golden spikey hillside mounds,
Blooming flannel bushes in season.
Red wing blackbirds appear
On every other Corc’ran wheat field fence post.
Lime green Jeffrey Pine pollen
Smothers all surfaces in the mountains.
Red Indian Paintbrush sprigs
Stand erect right by the side of the road.
The quail family crosses in front of me,
Tiny ones fly over.
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Tanya Dixon, performed a rhythmic poem “I choose me.” She said that the poem “was birthed out of an experience where I had to make a decision. As I wrote, the rhythm came suddenly providing a nice experience for me. The rhythm aided me in moving forward to make a decision to be in a better place.”
I choose me
By Tanya Dixon
© 2018 Tanya Dixon
Awake at 3 am
Soul in derision
For I made a decision
To allow you in
And again
As usual you proved who you were
Not worthy of my space
But I gave you grace
And chance
I took a final glance today
I come to this conclusion
I choose me
I choose my sanity
Your plots and plans are crazy
Are you not in love with you
For if you were, what you say and do
Would be pure through your words
And so I heard your dismay at my success
I felt your toxins
contaminating my world with your mess
So I Detox
I detox my engaging conversation
Making a conversion in my
Thought process
Dropping all distress
That doesn’t belong to me
So happily I say, “I choose me”
I choose my beauty
I choose my style
I choose my being
I choose my destiny
I choose to listen to Sarah Vaughn
Belt out her sagacious melodies in the morning
I choose to step out on the horizons of my life,
For my new day is dawning
I choose me
So I say farewell
To the unnecessary
To the bothersome
To the old script
And I grip today anew
Catching the beautiful view of what is to be
I now exhale, I now breathe
I choose me
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Carla Martin recites her poems, often, at the open mic. During the summer, she performed her poem “Ode to Music and My Piano.”
In response to my question, “When did you start to play piano?” Martin said, “I can still remember when I first longed to play the piano. As a second grader, I heard a kid play Beethoven’s “Fur Elise” during a school assembly. It knocked my socks off! It was so beautiful, the way it rippled over the keys. It was mournful, yet hopeful. . . . . I realized at that moment that music could express feelings that words couldn’t capture. It could conjure up pictures in your mind, rouse you out of a funk, transport you to a blissful state.”
“And that is what music still does for me today. And poetry.”
“When I read a poem, a really good poem, it does for me what music does. It presents an emotion, a situation, a distilled essence of life, that I can take in and, in doing so, somehow gain a better sense of the world. Emily Dickinson gives me glimpses of God and Nature. Walt Whitman gives me sweeping vistas of America. Edgar Allen Poe presents murky mysteries of melancholy and madness. Nikki Giovanni and Maya Angelo capture the cadences of proud, self-realized African American women. Dylan Thomas liltingly expresses angst and passion. Pablo Neruda melodically elevates ordinary objects of life. . . . .”
Ode to Music and My Piano
by Carla Martin
I slip my fingers onto
the ivory and ebony keys.
They are cool and smooth
to the touch.
When pressed,
a sonorous sound
lifts into the sultry summer night
as fireflies flicker
under twilight trees
My eyes follow black patterns
dancing across the page.
My brain interprets
these hieroglyphs
into lilting melodies
and strident chords.
Music!
Mysterious essence
that describes
the abandoned companion’s pain
the conquering hero’s joy
the new mother’s love.
You waft into our ears
spiral up to our minds
pulling out memories
of Christmas Eves,
ocean waves,
and first kisses.
Under your sway
the lonely night
is filled,
the hardened heart
is softened,
wrong
is made right.
In your spell
the universe spins
and stars twinkle.
My feet press the pedals
that release vibrating strings.
Sound reverberates
through the dusk.
Fingers ache,
neck strains,
yet my soul is soothed
after playing music
on my piano.
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Chloe Joseph recited her poem, “Backless Dress.” She said, “An older version of this poem was published in The Chrysalis Reader after winning the Bailey Prize for Poetry in 2011.”
BACKLESS DRESS
by Chloe Joseph
I was seven when my mom told me,
as she cleaned collard greens in the kitchen sink,
that every time a woman sinned
a seed was planted in her ribs, right under her heart,
a mustard yellow thing, jutting angel-hair-thin vines
through blood and bone,
splintering tissue, right through that pillow-thick-membrane,
the aorta, four chambers, the heart.
I asked her, “What happens when the seed grows?”
She dropped the greens into the water,
snatched my little hand within her own and forced it
on her chest between the white straps,
the soft creases of her summer dress.
She was all brown skin and sweat
when she said, “That seed stays and it aches and it tangles you up.”
I felt the thump and rush of her heart through the palm of my hand,
but something in her eyes changed, clicked, then something in her chest,
like that seed was growing up and up,
drumming each of her ribs on its way.
Another click, the doorknob as my daddy walked
into the living room, click-click, the kitchen,
click-click, the thick heels of his shoes
working the tile that mom worked
hard to clean.
I saw his movements from the corner of my eye,
he was watching us as if nothing was wrong, my hand still on her damp skin.
I took a breath and pulled away from her meekly,
Ran my bare toes over cracks on the aged linoleum floor.
She turned her back on me then,
finished cleaning the collards for dinner.
My dad placed his hands on my mother’s waist, kissed her neck,
and she craned for his caress.
I watched the movement of her slick shoulder blades,
traced the canals of green and blue veins,
watched them intersect without warning,
with the subtlety of vines, vines, vines
running all over and under that skin,
her backless dress failing to hide all the hush-hush.
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