Last Tuesday I had a reading in Brooklyn, Park Slope to be exact. It was at this cute little place called the Perch Cafe. I read with two other women writers Taha Ebrihimi and Hossannah Asucion. All women of color. Taha is Iranian and read from her memoir she wrote when she got a grant to go around the world and observe/write about the Sufis (which apparently they are a private group and do not normally allow outsiders), and Hossannah is Filipino and read some sultry prose poems about the city. I especially liked the line: "The city taught you to love in incomplete parts"
I was excited to read with two new women of color. Not that I don't like to read with familiar women of color, but I was excited, you see, because it was the first time that I read with other genres as well as with people whose work I was unfamiliar with. This meant, undoubtably that I would be reading to an almost all new audience (though, luckily several of my friends made the long trek from Harlem to Park Slope with me!).
So, I am learning now, too, that I have this book ("How God Ends Us") that will be coming out in the spring and will hopefully have a whole list of readings and places to go and people to read to. Before I had this book forthcoming, I used to like to use readings as opportunities to test out new material; I would always read new work every chance I got to get behind the microphone. At first, I was a bit devastated to think that I would have to confine myself to one collection, that I would not be able to read new stuff. But, despite the fact that I'm finding it fun - for now...I suppose this is the honeymoon phase? - to look at my manuscript from different angles and figure out what stories I can tell using which poems and having each reading be a new reading. Maybe it's because I believe every poem can be read aloud (I know some poets who would argue differently and then complain that they are tired of reading the same five poems from their book...and I say to them: you have a whole book of poems to choose from!) Maybe because I believe in taking risks.
Here we are: the risks part of this entry. This reading happened the Tuesday after we lost Bernie Mac, Isaac Hayes, and Mahmoud Darwish. I'm not going to lie, I am sad and feel for losing anyone, but I was mostly sad about Mahmoud Darwish (his collection "The Butterfly's Burden" will forever be one of my favorite books of poetry) and how important his voice was/is/will be to illuminating the Palestinian's history and current state.
So I mentioned this, at the reading, that we lost a lot of people over the weekend, but probably most important to me was Mahmoud Darwish. While planning what I was going to read, I was not planning on reading any of my Palestine poems (of which I have a whole second collection I'm working on...), but I felt I must. A bit of background: I have been working on and off on this collection of poetry based on my historical research in college about the history of the conflict and how Palestinians tell or portray their suffering/story. A way I thought I could get into the personal side of it was to spend time reading blogs and watching films - mostly feature films, I had articles and books for the hard facts. I go to places like the BBC or other less-biased world-news places to get updates on both sides of the story and events that happen, and found this interesting podcast "Crossing the line" that I tune into sometimes to hear accounts when my eyes beg reprieve.
My risk then, was reading these Palestinian-based poems (they are persona...in the voices of Palestinians) to an all new audience, with all new readers, when I should be gathering folks in support of my book coming out. I could lose readers/listeners with a wrong move. I could offend a host of folks with two poems. But that is the risk right? What fun is it to be safe always, to read the same poems all the time?
It was interesting. I was the last reader. I had to close out the evening. I started with the Palestine poems, because I figured I'd have time to redeem myself with other poems later. I started with a poem by Adonis, and said I wanted to read it to remember Darwish. Then I read two newer poems (which I admit, the older me has calmed down on the voices) - one which came out in the latest Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review -- a poem I wrote about this news story I read where two lovers were separated by the wall that severed East Jerusalem, and had to sneak around in order to be together. And then I read this ghazal about Gaza using facts and stories I've collected over time and places. So the refrain, if you're familiar with the ghazal form (composed of couplets, mostly mildly disassociated with the end of the second line containing the refrain), was "under siege" -- and I watched as I went through the 15-couplet ghazal the audience shift. It was heavy in the room for a minute. And I thought -- I am doing my work. I am making these people listen, whether they like it or not. I have taken my risk.
Immediately after (I had three poems I wanted to read about Palestine) I switched gears though. I figured I wasn't going to walk that line too far. I still wanted them to be with me, in some way, until the end. Even if I did shake them up and make them uncomfortable for about 5 minutes of their life.
So I read some poems from the book. I read two new poems. And said thank you. By the time I got to about the middle of the selection of poems from the book, tension shifted in my favor again, and people were smiling and nodding. I had a couple of people come up and thank me for my work, with smiles, saying they really liked it. People mentioned specific poems. No one mentioned Palestine. But that's okay, I did it.
My friend attended the reading and said he felt the energy shift as well. What is advocacy if not risk? What is writing for - if not to illumine?
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
and i snuck out at the last minute
So. I was supposed to be on punishment. I told several people I was putting myself on punishment, that I wasn't going to leave the house b/c of my punishment. Then at the last minute, right after I ate dinner, I put on my shoes and left. And went.
And it was like that party you hear about all week and talk to all your friends about and you think how you're going to get there w/o your parents knowing because they've already said no because you're on punishment and you sneak out of the house anyways, knowing that if you get caught the consequences are going to be higher...but you want to go b/c you know it's going to be hot and you don't want to be the only person in the world not at this party
then you get there and you are the only person at this party.
and you're like. i should have stayed on punishment and not wasted the risk.
yeh.
And it was like that party you hear about all week and talk to all your friends about and you think how you're going to get there w/o your parents knowing because they've already said no because you're on punishment and you sneak out of the house anyways, knowing that if you get caught the consequences are going to be higher...but you want to go b/c you know it's going to be hot and you don't want to be the only person in the world not at this party
then you get there and you are the only person at this party.
and you're like. i should have stayed on punishment and not wasted the risk.
yeh.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Punishment
There's a reading tonight that I want to go to. But I'm punishing myself. My punishment should exist in the form of turning off my internet, but I'm not sure I'm that disciplined in self-punishment, but I can make myself stay in my apartment until I write something today. I am punishing myself because I've managed to find so many things to keep me from writing that it's almost annoying. This blog writing is also a form of procrastination.
I'm at a crossroads that I've faced before. A while ago, I read through over and over "The Purpose Driven Life" and worried, because it talks about utilizing your gifts and such to fulfill your purpose in life. Then I was like -- crap! I have too many gifts. And this wasn't me trying to gloat or show off, but I thought, at the time, I had: my music, my writing, my athletics, my crafts. I didn't add to that teaching then, because I didn't know that it, too, would be a gift that I received. But here I am. So anyways, the crossroads that existed then was to decide which was going to come to the forefront. Which was going to get the most focus and attention. Writing moved up. I had to make that decision, and it has been a bit easier trying to figure out how to work my purpose out of that one thing.
So now I'm faced with many many projects that I want to work on right now. I have short stories, plays, a novel, some poetry reviews and essays - all of which are started in some shape or form but need some more attention. Attention that gets diffused into starting a new project. I need to pick one to come to the forefront until it is finished.
I'm at a crossroads that I've faced before. A while ago, I read through over and over "The Purpose Driven Life" and worried, because it talks about utilizing your gifts and such to fulfill your purpose in life. Then I was like -- crap! I have too many gifts. And this wasn't me trying to gloat or show off, but I thought, at the time, I had: my music, my writing, my athletics, my crafts. I didn't add to that teaching then, because I didn't know that it, too, would be a gift that I received. But here I am. So anyways, the crossroads that existed then was to decide which was going to come to the forefront. Which was going to get the most focus and attention. Writing moved up. I had to make that decision, and it has been a bit easier trying to figure out how to work my purpose out of that one thing.
So now I'm faced with many many projects that I want to work on right now. I have short stories, plays, a novel, some poetry reviews and essays - all of which are started in some shape or form but need some more attention. Attention that gets diffused into starting a new project. I need to pick one to come to the forefront until it is finished.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Crossing the line
Something in me snapped and got me wanting to write about Palestine again. I don't know what happened. Maybe I realized that I was just sitting around and not doing anything but writing about myself, which is useless. Maybe I realized that I have a potential -- a real potential -- publisher for it, and I know about being handed a baton and knowing to run at full speed as soon as it lands safely in your hands. I consider the first publication to be the baton handed over to me, and I have some work to do.
I started listening to this podcast. I don't have a TV, don't judge me. Anyways, this podcast is called "Crossing the line" in which it seeks to give voice to the voiceless. You can find it here: http://ctl.libsyn.com/index.php?post_year=2008&post_month=07
Anyways, so something powerful happened to me about 2am while I was listening to this. I was interested in the interview that was going on about al Naksa (or the 6-day war or the war of 1967) and what happened..trying to write a poem about it, right. And at the end of the hour or so segment, they were reporting on the War in Iraq. And it made me think of Aracelis Girmay's brilliant poem, "Arroz Poetica" in which she speaks on the atrocities of war, and how the civilians in any country that is being attacked will never be called out, their names, I mean. And there's this turn that she makes where the poem starts to dig into your center, and she says:
....The radio will go on, shouting
the names &, I promise you,
they will not call your name, Hassna
Ali Sabah, age 30, killed by a missile in Al-Bassra, or you,
Ibrahim Al-Yussuf, or the sons of Sa'id Shahish
on a farm outside of Baghdad, or Ibrahim, age 12,
as if your blood were any less red, as if the skins
that melted were any less skin, and the bones
that broke were any less bone,
as if your eradication were any less absolute, any less
eradication from this earth where you were
not a president or a military soldier.
So anyways. This radio podcast...called out the names of the people fallen that week. Including Iraqis. And I thought, how powerful. How sad. How sad, even, to think of the American soldiers dying -- almost all of them that week (of June, 2007) were between 20-30...many of them from places I've been. And you find yourself listening for a name you recognize, though I know no one in the war. But you still listen. Then you realize some of these people fighting are younger than you are. And I'm not that old. And then you get enraged. And you want to stop listening, but you feel like to turn off would be to disrespect the dead, because they fell and all we got from other news stations was/were/are numbers, and no names. And you listen. And you hear the places they left from, the cities they lived and loved. And the families. And I wonder if the families know that this exists? That there is a place where their name is being called out, and remembered. And people will hear it.
I started listening to this podcast. I don't have a TV, don't judge me. Anyways, this podcast is called "Crossing the line" in which it seeks to give voice to the voiceless. You can find it here: http://ctl.libsyn.com/index.php?post_year=2008&post_month=07
Anyways, so something powerful happened to me about 2am while I was listening to this. I was interested in the interview that was going on about al Naksa (or the 6-day war or the war of 1967) and what happened..trying to write a poem about it, right. And at the end of the hour or so segment, they were reporting on the War in Iraq. And it made me think of Aracelis Girmay's brilliant poem, "Arroz Poetica" in which she speaks on the atrocities of war, and how the civilians in any country that is being attacked will never be called out, their names, I mean. And there's this turn that she makes where the poem starts to dig into your center, and she says:
....The radio will go on, shouting
the names &, I promise you,
they will not call your name, Hassna
Ali Sabah, age 30, killed by a missile in Al-Bassra, or you,
Ibrahim Al-Yussuf, or the sons of Sa'id Shahish
on a farm outside of Baghdad, or Ibrahim, age 12,
as if your blood were any less red, as if the skins
that melted were any less skin, and the bones
that broke were any less bone,
as if your eradication were any less absolute, any less
eradication from this earth where you were
not a president or a military soldier.
So anyways. This radio podcast...called out the names of the people fallen that week. Including Iraqis. And I thought, how powerful. How sad. How sad, even, to think of the American soldiers dying -- almost all of them that week (of June, 2007) were between 20-30...many of them from places I've been. And you find yourself listening for a name you recognize, though I know no one in the war. But you still listen. Then you realize some of these people fighting are younger than you are. And I'm not that old. And then you get enraged. And you want to stop listening, but you feel like to turn off would be to disrespect the dead, because they fell and all we got from other news stations was/were/are numbers, and no names. And you listen. And you hear the places they left from, the cities they lived and loved. And the families. And I wonder if the families know that this exists? That there is a place where their name is being called out, and remembered. And people will hear it.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Until the callouses form
My fingertips are sore. Only on the left side. My friend play guitar and came over, and played my guitar (whose name is Olive) and it got me to thinking: I've had this guitar in four years, and you know -- I still can't really play it. I need to fix that. I am blocking it for some reason, and I can't figure it out. I'm not sure what will or can be released once I play it, but I think that ambiguity makes me a little scared to unlock it. Crazy-sounding, I know.
I'm going to play my guitar every day for the rest of my time off. Who knows what will happen?
I'm going to play my guitar every day for the rest of my time off. Who knows what will happen?
Friday, July 25, 2008
clearing clutter with feng shui
The longer I have dreadlocks, the more I learn this idea of energy and placement of energy and how energy can get "stuck" places. I believe I have a lot of energy in these dreadlocks...
So anyways. I moved to Harlem a couple weeks ago, but I've been away on retreats and things that I never really unpacked. Today I woke up and tried to write for a little bit, then I thought: I should work on unpacking my things. I bought this book, _Clear your clutter with feng shui_, and i've had this other book, _Organizing for the Creative person_ and I'm putting these two books to use. It's crazy how many books I've accumulated. Really crazy when you begin to unpack them really (I always kept some shit in my car when I was in Jersey) and I've got essentially 3 smallish bookshelves of books. Yep. and this is just my "portable library" -- I still have books in columbia that I don't think will ever make it with me where ever I end up living.
So now I have a work desk in my room. Which is revolutionary. I haven't had one of these since....man. living in the dorm? I always professed that I can't do work in my room, and if work were to be brought back into my room I'd do it on my bed and that would last all of 5 minutes or so because I'd soon just go to sleep. But I think if it's one thing I took from Soul Mountain, it's my ability to do work in my living space...and I don't know if I'm thankful for this ability yet, but it's there, and I have a desk now, in my room and it's got poets and writers magazine and its got a little thing for bills and for writing supplies and some books on there, and a lamp, and my name tag (yes i kept it) from working at the bank. I inherited a wine rack from the girl who moved out of the room I moved into. I'm going to have to fill it. Is it bad to keep a wine rack in your room? Ha. Here it is.
What else? Oh -- I've hung up some pictures I printed last summer. I have to go print out more pictures...and hang them up. I think the pictures and the books make my room feel most like home. Here is my home. My clothes are finally up in a closet again and not in a bag, although on Wednesday they'll be taken back down again, and taken home for about 10 days.
Anyways, come uptown and visit.
Tonight I want to work some on an essay. Maybe a poem. I've done a lot of work today.
So anyways. I moved to Harlem a couple weeks ago, but I've been away on retreats and things that I never really unpacked. Today I woke up and tried to write for a little bit, then I thought: I should work on unpacking my things. I bought this book, _Clear your clutter with feng shui_, and i've had this other book, _Organizing for the Creative person_ and I'm putting these two books to use. It's crazy how many books I've accumulated. Really crazy when you begin to unpack them really (I always kept some shit in my car when I was in Jersey) and I've got essentially 3 smallish bookshelves of books. Yep. and this is just my "portable library" -- I still have books in columbia that I don't think will ever make it with me where ever I end up living.
So now I have a work desk in my room. Which is revolutionary. I haven't had one of these since....man. living in the dorm? I always professed that I can't do work in my room, and if work were to be brought back into my room I'd do it on my bed and that would last all of 5 minutes or so because I'd soon just go to sleep. But I think if it's one thing I took from Soul Mountain, it's my ability to do work in my living space...and I don't know if I'm thankful for this ability yet, but it's there, and I have a desk now, in my room and it's got poets and writers magazine and its got a little thing for bills and for writing supplies and some books on there, and a lamp, and my name tag (yes i kept it) from working at the bank. I inherited a wine rack from the girl who moved out of the room I moved into. I'm going to have to fill it. Is it bad to keep a wine rack in your room? Ha. Here it is.
What else? Oh -- I've hung up some pictures I printed last summer. I have to go print out more pictures...and hang them up. I think the pictures and the books make my room feel most like home. Here is my home. My clothes are finally up in a closet again and not in a bag, although on Wednesday they'll be taken back down again, and taken home for about 10 days.
Anyways, come uptown and visit.
Tonight I want to work some on an essay. Maybe a poem. I've done a lot of work today.
school daze
i am finally unpacking and cleaning/organizing my room by way of "clear your clutter with feng shui". upon unpacking, i found this booklet that my ap english teacher my senior year of high school put together. he also wrote on the back which has gone through some water damage. what is most important is this last sentence: "I expect to be teaching your published work in future AP classes." I remember reading that, and thinking *gasp!* what an expectation he wishes to see filled. And now, just think. Next year, it's quite possible!
My teacher wrote:
DeLana,
Thanks for your poetic musings and conversations ...(water mark)
I've enjoyed getting to know you. Thanks too for your athletic contributions and achievements! You are a talented young lady. May your college years be just as ....(water mark). I expect to be teaching your published work in future AP classes.
Analytically yours,
and then my poem.
Lessons
We were strug'ling through these years of schooling,
building, molding a new identity.
Hours drift away while in the school building,
searching for strength from insecurity.
We went through twelve years of conditioning.
Parents stressed college as soon as we leave,
hear, "College! don't negotiate!" wond'ring
when we will leave the shadows of their tree.
Now we find we are ent'ring a new tier
of society, on our own, we tread
using each lesson we've learned through the years
mem'ries in our minds we now embed.
We find: we live, we die, through trials, we learn
through school to reach the dreams for which we yearn.
(c) dd 2002.
My teacher wrote:
DeLana,
Thanks for your poetic musings and conversations ...(water mark)
I've enjoyed getting to know you. Thanks too for your athletic contributions and achievements! You are a talented young lady. May your college years be just as ....(water mark). I expect to be teaching your published work in future AP classes.
Analytically yours,
and then my poem.
Lessons
We were strug'ling through these years of schooling,
building, molding a new identity.
Hours drift away while in the school building,
searching for strength from insecurity.
We went through twelve years of conditioning.
Parents stressed college as soon as we leave,
hear, "College! don't negotiate!" wond'ring
when we will leave the shadows of their tree.
Now we find we are ent'ring a new tier
of society, on our own, we tread
using each lesson we've learned through the years
mem'ries in our minds we now embed.
We find: we live, we die, through trials, we learn
through school to reach the dreams for which we yearn.
(c) dd 2002.
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