 For Authors: October 08, 2008 Issue [#2646] |
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This week: Edited by: Fyn-elf  
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Poetry is ordinary language raised to the N th power.~~Paul Engle
The language beneath the language: This is poetry.~~Andrea Pacione
Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world,
and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.~~Percy Bysshe Shelley
Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is a speaking picture.~~Simonides
Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought
and the thought has found words. ~~Robert Frost
If a poem is written well, it was written with the poet's voice
and for a voice. Reading a poem silently instead of saying a
poem is like the difference between staring at sheet music
and actually humming or playing the music on an instrument.~~Robert Pinsky
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A couple of weeks ago, I was requested to take part in an evening of poetry reading in a small tea house in Lansing, Michigan. The headlining poet of the night was our own Kayla Sullivan  . I also met sugargirl as well. (nothing like an impromptu wdc get-together! ) They are both awesome poets. Ms Quela ruled the evening, having memorized some thirty poems for the event.
She was eloquent and emotive. For me, it was quite the education. There is such a difference between reading a poem and hearing/seeing it read or recited, especially by the author. It adds nuances a reader might well have missed. It adds layers and depth. Poetry of hers that I had read seemed to change in the hearing of it and thus what had been good became better.
Quela and I have vastly different styles of writing poetry. Subject matter, viewpoints, emotions and experiences have us on two different, although equal, planes. She stood there and poured out her heart in her poetry. It was beautiful, and brutal, stark and in-your-face.
Initially I was concerned that my material wouldn't appeal to the same audience as her work might. Audience has always been a factor when I write. That supposed audience of faceless souls to whom I address my words. Now they had faces. And one had purple-orange hair. And one was a transvestite named Susan. One was an elderly lady with bright blue hair. One was a pony-tailed yoga practicing philosopher. One was a good ole boy redneck. An eclectic crowd to say the least gathered at this vegan tea house with organic coffee, soy milk and honey for my coffee in a dimly lit tiffany lamped setting with comfy old leather couches, overlapping Persian rugs and sitar music playing in the background.
It was intimidating to follow her up on stage. (I think I changed the reading order ten times in ten minutes.) I grabbed a stool to sit on (not daring to drag one of the leather chairs up there), readjusted the mike, took a deep breath and invited them into my words. I was fine as soon as I read the first line. This was my world after all. And, given the applause, they enjoyed their visit.
Quite a few excellent poets shared their work that evening. Susan read some incredible work. The philosopher philosophized. Jen (or sugargirl) had us laughing and empathizing. What a wild ride the night was.
It is something I can honestly encourage any writer to do. It will be easy if you live near a large college campus or an active artistic community. Open mike night seems to be the thing these days, sort of like karaoke for poets.
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Some feedback from my newsletter on 9/11.
Griffin Linney wrote:I too was in Maine the day it happened. I was in the seventh grade at the time and I just remember the school being in panic. None of the students knew what was happening, but we saw in the faces of the teachers that something was very, very wrong. Finally we were told what happened and just talked about it for the rest of the day.
Later that day I got home and both my parents were home from work because all government employees were evacuated. I live a few miles from the Portland Jetport and I am very used to planes constantly flying over head. But that day it was so silent. The sky was clear. I walked out into my yard and looked around. It was a beautiful day with clear skies. Yet it was a ghost town. Nobody was out. The world just seemed so quiet.
It did, didn't it...as if everyone was holding their collective breath....
Pen Name wrote: Regarding your September 11th editorial about your personal experience in NYC and with one of the terrorists as your former cab driver, please excuse my French, but ARE YOU SH***ING ME????
I am stunned you actually had this level of physical closeness to all aspects of that horrible day: Cantor Fitzgerald, growing up and working near the towers, taking your daughter there, and informing the police about your grim realization.
I love NYC and it is my dream to live there. As a rule, I am jealous of you denizens, but now, I don't know . . .
NYC is and shall always be an incredible place! It has a pulse and a heartbeat unlike anywhere else. That being said, I just seem to make a habit of finding myself in the weirdest places at the most opportune (or inopportune as the case may be) times... |
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