Poetry at the Clinic

The Invitation

Today, for National Caribbean American HIV/AIDS Awareness day, I took the train to Newark, NJ where I was to perform poems in the waiting room of a health clinic.

East Orange Primary Health Center, a one stop shop of all things health related, provide all realms of health care for impovershed, non-white, muchly Caribbean immigrant populations. Of the 3009 people diagnosed with HIV/AIDS in East Orange since December 31, 2007, 93% of them are Black Americans or from the Caribbean.

So in response to this statistical calamity, the clinic put on a health education fest, where they invite the community to come get free screenings for high blood pressure, diabetes, and HIV/AIDS. And while people wait, why not slip the arts in there to further educate and expand the mind? So this is where I come in.

The Funk

Thing is, this morning, I wake up in a solemn state, though I would not say it sad. Hey, even with my grinnin ass, some days smiles don't spill across the face so loosely, especially now at this point in the wrestling match with Seventeen Seasons, this monstrosity of a novel that wrenches me like no other love. To tell the truth, I woke up not wanting to be in front of people, not wanting to expose myself in the ways essential to the public poet I have grown to be.

Times like this it hits me: the insanity of what we as poets do, especially ones in the performance realm. Take sex workers for instance, I cannot concieve of sex being my occupation, but here it is, their livelihood. It reminds me of how most folk cannot concieve of being a poet, standing before the comprehending and uncomprehending masses, the empathetic and apathetic, naked inside your language.

But. This. Is. My. Livelihood.

So I spent the morning opening my energies to avoid entering into this poor clinic with a sense of dread because no audience deserves that. It's not their fault I woke up on the wrong side of things.

With Adam Mansbach's End of the Jews in my lap, I read all the way to Newark.

The Clinic

I walk into the clinic, and well, it's a waiting room all right, as they said. Aside from the balloons at the entrance to signify the specialness of the day, the mundanity of the situation is glaring. I scan the space, fingers in my brain flipping quickly through my rolodex of poems. I look around: young, old, men, women, everything in between. I don't have much time; I am to go on soon. What to do what to do.

Booths are set up all over the room with health educators on deck armed with pamphlets, mailing lists and varieties of condoms I never knew existed. Glow in the dark joints? Damn, where the hell have I been?

Youngings are on the prowl, coaxing candy from the young health educators (all women) manning the tables. A gentleman in his 70's palms a bunch of condoms and one falls. The young boy beside him, 7 ior 8, picks it up. Totally unseduced by its vibrant wrapping, he hands it to the man. It strikes me that I have never seen a kid that young hold a condom. I wonder if he knows what it's for.

I study the layout of the room.The chairs are set up in the middle, coming from two separate directions, with a big awkward gulf in between them--tricky to navigate when performing because you then have to divide your energies in two directions--not my strong suit. Oh well. Another day another challenge. Giddy up.

Elbows digging into my knees, I sit in a quiet room, contemplating poems. Contemplating my presence in this space, what it all means. From a performance standpoint, the situation wasn't ideal. But from a poetry standpoint it was beyond ideal, because how often is poetry asked to exist in such spaces? There are poetry venues, and then there is this. This too is necessary.

The Performance

Claire introduces me and the applause is lukewarm and genuine. With no plan, I step. Everything I have done in my short tenure on this earth help bring me to moments like this. I think back to my Tallahassee days, my Black on Black Rhyme days, when Keith Rodgers and I would roll to all the barber shops and hair salons on Friday afternoons (pay day), spit poems and hustle CD's. Oh, and at the Essence festival in New Orleans, 2002, spitting poems on sidewalks, selling my CD's to total strangers, happy to support.

Man, I hardly do shit like that anymore, which is kinda sorta an unsung tragedy in my life. And how fiery and brash I was back then! I wasn't afraid of anything . And if I was afraid, then the fear wasn't important enough to remember. And I find, that I am not afraid now. I wrote poems for 10 years and was too afraid to share them with strangers. Those days are long over. I believe in this gift I give and have been given, I believe in the functionality of poetry's elevated language in the mundane world. Time to spit!

At the start of my set a man breaks into a public reverie about how fine Trinidadian women are. I gestured to myself and told him I know! Vanity is so fun sometimes, like the sun playing peekabo through clouds. There was a girl in the back of the room, whose hand drifted to her mouth halfway through the set and kept it there for the rest of the performance. She didn't even clap. Most just sat there silently, some gazing at me, others looking off somewhere--a distant land?

All now so, there is constant movement that characterizes a clinic waiting room. To my right clinic staff and their clients are talking and laughing at non-poetry friendly volumes. Balancing that out to my left are two women bobbing their heads to the invisible beat to each of my lines, urging me on, thanking me after each poem, a rarity, because I am usually the one thanking the audience kinda profusely just for listening. Because truth be told, whether its big, small, black, white, young, old, a listening audience is gold. Sometimes I wonder if applause is an unnatural response to art. Applause can be loud enough to echo in your ears for days to come, and still be empty. I have had many audiences clap like lunatics, ushering me off stage with an erect ego. That's the same audience that will not approach you afterwards to shake your hand or buy your stuff, ushering you to the next gig a city away, pockets in pain. Poets if you're out there, holler if you hear me!

The Aftermath

There was this one woman in her 50's, who sat in the front row, with her body curiously turned away from me the whole time, stone still, looking down at the floor, not making eye contact once. Though I genuinely don't care about this anymore, I was certain my words were sliding off her like egg yolk. It be that way sometimes!

Do you know this woman was the first to approach me to buy my book, her money already out?

Lessons such as this are so important they need to be relearned over and over again: to never, never assume what you think a person gets or doesn't get out of your work based on how they engage you externally. This is a deep thing we do as poets. It's a dark magic. The journey our beautifully crafted words make into a person is a sacred journey, a journey that has nothing to do with us or the person its happening to. Mysterious, the travels our words make once they leave our bodies thorugh our pens, our lips. Exhilerating thought, the idea of our words go places we cannot follow, more less imagine.

Afterwards I shared some meaningful talks with some of my listeners--and boy were they listening! Some were quoting lines and sharing with sincere detail how and why certain images and whole poems intersected with their insides. Much more useful to me than a pat on the back and "good job!" --which is cool too, if that's what you got. Sold some stuff, too.

I left there feeling uplifted and inspired--nothing like before. I thank Claire from East Orange's Primary Center for comissioning me to come out of my self imposed funk, providing this unique experience for her clients and for me, to learn lessons both explicable and not.

Mashin Down De Place with David Rudder

I woke the morning of June 19 with a joyous dread that had been building in me since the organizers of Celebrate Brooklyn invited me back in April to headline this day with David Rudder at the Prospect Park Bandshell, an 8,000 person venue.

When I accepted their invitation, my initial thoughts were:

Am I enough for this blessing? And will my people accept me as their own?

Ah, Trinis. Until now I hadn't the opportunity to perform my work for such a large Trini audience. I mean, I performed for small gatherings of people during my time there last year, including my Uncle's church in Caparo, but nothing near this large.

6,000+ people can be an intimidating audience for a poet, period. But 5,000+ Trinis is an especially intimidating audience in my eyes. Trinis eh easy, yes. Not at all at all.

For one, we pride ourselves on being difficult to impress. We have this air about us like we have seen it all, heard it all. Coupled with that, we have been known to heckle especially after some imbibing has gone on.

These aforementioned concerns are the silly insecurities I held in the beginning. Eventually, once I decided to change my mind about it, these insecurities turned into just the opposite: pure, unapologetic, confidence. Hell yeah, I am ready for that stage! It has been waiting for me and now it is mine to claim!

I always try to remember that audiences, with the exception of Apollo's ameteur night, want to see you as a performer, do well. Some Trinis may heckle yes, but as a majority Trinis are excellent participants of language. Calypso music, indicative of this, in turn dictates this of us. Also, Trinis reflect the beginnings of who I am, and therefore, stand to understand layers of my work with an intimacy unsurpassed by any other crowd in the world.

What an enormous gift, this opportunity to hold poetic council with so many of my countrymen&women--who too, in varying degrees, have been geographically dislocated from our home we so love. Their paths led them to Brooklyn, as did mine.

Still, the joyous dread gathered throughout the day. Though the tension in me somewhat eased by the affable vibe of the production staff, as I was backstage, hearing my name called by the announcer, the crowd cheering, my peeps up front in VIP, screaming their faces off, every last memory of nervousness fell away as I journeyed to the mic, looking the audience squarely in the eye, making it clear my readiness.

I opened the set with "Signs" and continued on with "Ode to Twins","West Indian Woman Speaks from the Dead", "Ode to Gentrification", "Locksmith", "Why Won't Glenda Pray?" before ending with my 8 minute tribute to Odetta.

All in all, the challenge stretched me as a performer as well as deepened my bond with myself. While up there, even though the support was massive, never had I felt so alone, 5,000+ pairs of eyes on me. II felt strong,vulnerable, poised, risque, and most importantly, among friends--5,000 of them!

Once I returned backstage, David Rudder approached me with, "You have serious lyrics." His words meant multitudes to me, as Rudder is one of Trinidad's finest Calypsoians, and is loved across the world.

My favorite song of his is "Heaven," a lament on why some human beings find heaven in subjugating others.

The song opens:

Ever since time began man has searched for his heaven.
Sometimes seeking it in the reflection of his neighbor’s blood.

Rudder and the Brooklyn based Sunshine Band mash down the place; the crowd ate them up, singing Rudder's songs so loud that that Rudder did not have to, and dancing hard enough to make you wake up sore come morning. The 90 minute set was a great mix of ballads and jump and wave jams.

The evening felt such an authentically Trinidadian experience. As I wined my waist, surrounded by other jubilant bodies, it occured to me that this entire evening was the most Trinidadian I'd felt since I first arrived here 20 years ago. How healing. For even when I return to Trinidad I feel American, something I never feel until I color outside these dear borders.

I dropped asleep that night drunk off gratitude and woke up with the greatest of hangovers, not to mention soreness from dancing harder than I'd danced in recent days.

Kennth Makes News Yet Again!

Kenneth Foster Jr. my dear friend and pen pal of some years, was sentenced to death row at age 19 for driving the getaway car after an unplanned murder committed by his friend. Under the Texas Law of Parties, Kenneth was tried alongside the shooter in court and sentenced to death just like the shooter. He lived on death row 10 years and his case weathered 5 trials, 3 of which he won, two of which he lost. He lost the fifth trial, and had no more evidence to gain a 6th, so he was sentenced to death by lethal injection for August 30, 2007. Thanks to the enormous network Kenneth built behind bars, using only pen and paper and the lost art of letter writing, over 17,000 contacted the Governer's office in the weeks leading up to the trial, including President Jimmy Carter and South Africa's Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Five hours before lethal injection, Gov. Perry gave Kenneth a stay, which means his life was saved, making Texas history. Sweet victory, but the war is far from over. The below message comes from Scott Cobb, president of the Texas Moratorium Network.

Texas House Passes "The Kenneth Foster, Jr Act", Bill Moves to Senate


After almost two years of grassroots organizing, the Texas House of Representatives Friday passed the Law of Parties Bill (HB 2267) and even adopted an amendment renaming the bill "The Kenneth Foster Jr, Act".

The vote was 69-66, with 1 present not voting and several absent members. Three Republicans voted yes and only one Democrat voted no.

This was a collective achievement of many legislators, staffers, activists, family members of death row inmates and other people and groups working together, but we still have to work to get the Texas senate to also pass the bill. We need you to call senators today!

The session ends soon, so there is not much time for us to convince the senate to pass the bill too. See below for information to call state senators to urge them to pass the "The Kenneth Foster Jr Act"

The Texas House of Representatives Friday passed House Bill 2267, "The Kenneth Foster, Jr Act". Sponsored by Rep. Terri Hodge (D - Dallas), the bill would eliminate the death penalty as a sentencing option under the controversial Texas Law of Parties. It would also require separate trials of co-defendants in capital cases. The bill now goes to the Senate for consideration.

The Texas Law of Parties gained national prominence in 2007 during the high profile case of Kenneth Foster, Jr., whose death sentence was commuted by Governor Rick Perry following a national grassroots movement to halt his execution.

"It is my hope that in the future no other families have to deal with the emotional, psychological and financial hell associated with having a loved one on death row for a murder they factually did not commit, like my family has had to deal with for the last 13 years," said Terri Been, sister of Texas death row inmate Jeff Wood. Wood was sentenced to death under the Law of Parties.

"This bill, when passed, will make me even prouder to be a resident of Texas," said Kenneth Foster, Sr., father of Kenneth Foster, Jr. "Our family knows first hand the injustices of the Law of Parties, and Rep. Hodge's bill is a step in the right direction."

Although Hodge's bill is not retroactive, and therefore would not affect any current cases like Jeff Wood's, several families of death row inmates convicted under the Law of Parties have lobbied in favor of the legislation.

"This is a major victory for the families impacted by this unfair law," said Bryan McCann of the Campaign to End the Death Penalty. "We are told the death penalty is reserved for the worst of the worst, but its application under the Law of Parties affords prosecutors far too much discretion in pursuing the most severe form of punishment."

Executions under the Law of Parties are very rare. Three people have been executed in Texas under the Law of Parties, which amounts to 0.6 percent of the 437 total executions in Texas. The last such execution in Texas was in 1993.

"The Kenneth Foster, Jr Act is a much-needed reform. The current law allowing accomplices who have not killed anyone to pay the ultimate penalty for a murder committed by another person is fundamentally unjust", said Scott Cobb, president of Texas Moratorium Network.

Thank you to all the people who participated in the Lobby Day on March 24 and the many, many people who called their state representative urging them to vote for HB 2267. The groups who worked hard for this historic victory include Texas Moratorium Network, Texas Death Penalty Abolition Movement, Campaign to End the Death Penalty, Texas Students Against the Death Penalty, and many family members of people convicted under the Law of Parties who all made visits and phone calls to members of the Texas Legislature.

Weekend in Louisville

Immediately I am charmed by the elegance of my hotel room. The moment I walk in. In an oblique way it makes me remember the old days, minus the nostalgia. You know the stories. Selling just enough CDs in one city to get me to the next destination. Sleeping on the side of the road, fetus curled in my backseat. Sleeping on airport floors and pull outs, their springs with serious appetites for my flesh.

That is not to say those days are entirely over. Hell, just last weekend in Richmond I slept on a pullout so I'm not five starring it all the way. So I just take a moment to stop and take in the days blessing. I hope I never get used to this. Because then I would stop enjoying it the way I do now, with this almost childlike wonder. I am coming to find that gratitude is the best medicine for my life right now, hence the odes I can't seem to stop writing. Though my wallet says Holiday Inn, the fact that I am here, in this five star situation means I am a five star gal, doing five star thangs. I like being cognizant of the spaces and situations that honor my writing. I felt this intensely at Hedgebrook Retreat when I walked into my own cottage. It charmed my tears from their hiding place. This wasn't nearly that emotional, just a small smile to the universe.


Professor Thornhill

Check out your girl, giving an academic lecture at Spalding University in Louisville, Kentucky. Their MFA program in children's writing invited me to come down and discuss the research methodologies I used in order to create my poem about folk singer Odetta, which is being published by Scholastic next spring in the form of a picture book.

All in all, I enjoyed myself immensely and really appreciate Spalding, more specifically Kathleen Driskell, for having me come down. It felt like talking for 45 minutes with friends about stuff that so naturally jazz me to the bone.





Sister Chairs

Here we are in the lobby of the Brown hotel, situated in the heart of downtown Louisville. The seating area is expansive with antique furniture that I would not buy for my house yet would admire in the homes of others.

Or so I thought. I found myself infatuated with this chair from the beginning. Shaped like an S, it seemed the chair had tried to say my name, but could only get out the first letter. I would have this chair in my house, and build a whole room around it in order to justify its existence. Suddenly I understand those folk that scour auctions for specific objects, once they hit it rich. Well, since I won't be taking home such a chair anytime soon, I wanted nothing more than to have a damn good conversation in it before I left Kentucky.

I got my wish. After my lecture and the banging Indian buffet dinner that followed, my homegirl Bianca Spriggs drove over from Lexington, an hour away. Initially we had made plans to go somewhere and beverage. Surprise surprise we gravitated over to the sister chairs, sat down, and fell face first into conversation. In it, we went to Africa and back.

Feature at Lyric Ave.

5/15/09
Richmond, VA


The Big Byrd Theatre

Lorna dropped me off at the Byrd Theatre and said good luck. The Byrd is an old fashioned theatre with a box office and a marquee reading Lyric Ave, the variety show in which I was a special guest feature. The instant I walked into the lobby, the smell of popcorn assaulted my taste buds and I tried not to look at the Milkduds staring at me from their glass prison—my movie theatre weakness.

It’s been at least 6 years since I’d been back down this way—VA, my old stomping ground. Years ago, when I still lived here, I featured for Lyric Ave; at that time, they were in a restaurant. I remembered the restaurant being long; I dislike long rooms from a performance standpoint. I looked around now at the majestic theatre, at the ushers at each door in their black attire; the winding stairs leading to the mezzanine. Lyric Ave. has certainly moved up—a testament not only to the crew’s dedication to what they bring to their community but also the community’s desire for what they do.

Consisting of comedy, drama, song, dance, and poetry, I had heard Lyric Ave was the largest variety show in the nation but I didn’t believe it until I walked through the doors to the actual theatre, which was huge and packed. It is the size of the Apollo Theatre in Harlem, with a band in the pit. I was stone cold impressed. I welcomed the challenge of holding down a large space filled with people who did not necessarily come for poetry. I was also grateful for the opportunity to expose such a mainstream audience to my craft. After I checked in with the organizer Craig, dressed as a woman for a skit he was about to do, his lip gloss popping harder than mine, I explored the theatre to get a sense of the space, something I always try to do before I perform. After sitting up front for a moment, I walked all the way to the back, then ventured up to the mezzanine, reciting poems in my brain.

The Idea of Intimacy

I have been exploring this idea of intimacy. What is it, exactly? I’ve been talking this through with my friend Kenneth, through our letters. We’ve come to define intimacy as that special place where people meet. People often equate intimacy with sex which is erroneous because there is plenty of sex far from intimate. Same with poetry venues. People assume that just because a venue is small, it is intimate. But how intimate is a small venue really when people are carrying on conversation while poets pour themselves on stage? I have come to find that intimacy is not necessarily about the size of the room, but about the vibe an event creates, dictates. Despite the theatre’s size, I found a curious intimacy in it. The sound was crisp and the audience was receptive, transfixed by what was happening in front of them—whether it be a poem or a skit.

All in all, I had fun on the Lyric Ave stage, its light so blinding the audience could only be felt and heard, not seen. I revisited some oldies but goodies and mixed it in with a couple of newer poems. The 600 person audience listened attentively with pin dropping silence and they responded to me so warmly. Even though the stage was as wide as an avenue, I felt I was in a room amongst friends. Now that’s intimate.

The Response

Later on, I was told I got a standing ovation after I finished my set with good old “Locksmith.” I was backstage so couldn’t witness it for myself. Afterwards, I sold a decent amount of CD’s and chapbooks, which will all contribute to my summer fund. I enjoy connecting with folks after because as a poet, I often feel alone in my craft and it’s good to hear how my work resonates/intersects with people. It’s helpful to hear from other people’s mouths how your work communicates with them. The more specific their comments the more helpful it is. In response to my Glenda poem a few people revealed to me that they have incarcerated loved ones so it strummed a special cord in them, as that poem does in me. Based on some of my lines, one woman suspected me a Buddhist, which I had never gotten before. I guess that’s a step up from years back, in Connecticut, when a woman thought I was into witchcraft based on my lines. Well in that case, I think it said more about her than it did about me!

All in all, big ups to the Lyric Ave crew for putting on a well organized show that seeks to expose people to all different genres of performance art. I commend them for the creativity and love they put into what they do. I left feeling warm inside, and that can only mean it was a good night.

Heading to Richmond

Hello after some silence. My bags are stacked, my fridge is full, thirst insatiable, plane ticket printed, chapbooks packed, just finished teaching, on my way out, my stomach is growling, feeling full.

Busy little bee these days. The weather is fickle while I remain steadfast. Steadfast revising the hell out of this mug. Fiction has been a slow grind--sweet and satisfying. Poems pour out of me instead of sweat but I still wipe my brow out of habit. Feeling like a groundhog, creeping out the cave. Website in the process of getting seriously revamped. Sweet gig at Prospect Park Bandshell coming up. My fashion sense is evolving. I'm starting to like photoshoots finally. As my friend Moon would say, I carry myself like a loved woman. I feel loved by the people I love. And the hair is just growing.

I'm excited to be touring the US this summer with old and new poems. It's been years since I've hit the road the way I'm about to. My work has transformed beneath my fingertips and after I stopped saying what the fuck I have fallen back in love with my writing. This has been huge benefit to my spirit. For years I criticized myself so much with voices unlike my own. I've swept that many headed voice from my head with the wind itself. All of that pain has enhanced me so lovely. Feels good to be at this place where I feel comfortable sharing what I'm writing with peeps old and new. I know what I am doing now, and that understanding was all I needed. So on the road I go. It had to start in a place i can actually order sweet tea at a resteraunt. So I head to Richmond tonight to hang with sister Lorna and feature at a couple spots.

Friday May 15: Richmond, VA

Samantha features at Lyric Ave

Byrd Theatre

2908 W. Cary St

Richmond, VA

show starts 8:30

Saturday May 16: Richmond, VA

Samantha features at Richmond SlamArtspace

Zero E. 4th Street

Richmond, VA 23224

workshop starts at 5pm

show starts at 8pmhttp://www.slamrichmond.com/

This summer my desire is to travel to these cities. Any leads to poetry venues in these areas, or anywhere in general, would be very helpful to me.

San Francisco/Bay Area

Chicago/Milwaukee

Atlanta

New Orleans/Baton Rouge

DC/Baltimore

Seattle

Much Love and I will let you know how Richmond goes.

Currently reading:The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time IndianBy Sherman Alexie

Regretful Poems

My time at Hedgebrook Retreat for Women Writers was as blessed as blessed can be. The moment I arrived I had this deep feeling that I was on sacred ground. I had heard about the place from my friend Tonya who encouraged to apply and so I did, not knowing at all what to expect, or what I was getting into. And then I got in.

I had flown across an ocean to get there. Wind blown and bleary eyed, skin still humming from the beautifully traumatizing experience that was South Africa, I suddenly found myself on an island I had never heard of, in the sticks I would soon come to know.

When the resident director Vito showed me around the necessary parts of the 48 acre property and then led me into my quaint cottage in the woods--called Willow-- where i was to reside for the next 5 weeks, I burst into tears. Unbelievable how charming this place was and mostly, I was so so touched. Like the retreat as a whole, the cottage itself was so lovingly imagined and thoughtfully structured. At that moment I understood that I walked into a profound situation. Just the mere fact that I was allowed to be in this space is a testament to my work as a writer. I felt so damn honored. Yes, I think that's the word. I felt like my writing was being honored--not exploited, as getting published can often make you feel, but just plain old honored. And so I had no choice but to honor my writing in return.

Does that mean that I wrote like the madwoman in the attic, hardly coming up for air? No. In fact, I didn't spend more than two hours on any given day physically writing though I hold on to the belief that we are always writing. I couldn't sit down and write for more than that; I simply had too many other things to do. I was busy making collages with Suheir and Danai and Nikki. Taking origami lessons from Mary. Mastering my fires in the stove inside my cottage and for hours babysitting and nurturing flame. Which means constantly restocking my wood from the wood shed. I took long walks and longer baths. I laid down in the green meadow for my daily dose of vitamin e-- sun on my body. I ventured into the woods for hours and picked blackberriee and ate them right off the branches. I examined the slugs on the ground and poked them with sticks. I visited the flowers in the impressive Hedgebrook garden. I climbed up on the ladder and picked figs off the trees. I rode a bike down to Double Bluff Beach.

And I wrote poems.

It had been years since I wrote poems for the sheer joy of it. Something happens when you become a poet for a living, when your art becomes your livelihood, becomes your business. There's also something that happens when you subject your work to hours of scrutiny from people who do not care about your work. After I graduated from my MFA program years ago, I realized sadly that my relationship to writing poetry had altered in a way that broke my heart many times over. For never before had I written with so many other people's voices in my head. I mean shit, my own voices of self doubt were quite enough, thank you. When did writing poetry stop being this hard kind of fun? I criticsized lines before I even had a chance to write them, truncating my creativity. It was as brutal as ripping a tree out of the soil before it even got a chance to sprout.

But writing is such a major chunk of my identity, writing is like breathing, I must write, I must write something. And if poetry was starting to act the fool inside my brain then I had to venture into a genre I knew nothing about, where the voices would not, could not follow. And so my journey began with fiction. And soon after, the book deals came...in threes like tragedies often do. And aside from a long children's poem I wrote for Scholastic along with a few forced efforts that will not see the light of day, I have been writing fiction for the past 4 years.

During this time I often wondered if I would ever write poems again just for the fun of it because oh how I missed those days when I would just approach the blank page with that special fervor and lie down inside my ardent verses. I've missed the poem, I truly have. As much as I have grown to love fiction writing, there's something about the poetic craft that sets me ablaze.

Hedgebrook is a magical place that will always rest in the fondest corners of my memory. It summoned the poet in me to gush forth. I was there exactly a week when I wrote my first poem. During my exploration in the woods, i came across a wild blackberry bush, much to my merriment. It was my first time seeing blackberries growing from their actual branches...you know, not in cartons at Whole Foods. And as i began to gorge on the tangy berries, i wipped out my waterproof notepad given to me by Carolyn Forche and scrawled lines as I ate. And that was a divine day. Later on i returned to my cottage and crafted those findings into my first poem, "Picking Blackberries." The magical feeling I missed so much had returned to me.

And I knew then that this was what I had come to Hedgebrook to do. To stretch out, and write poems, dammit, poems about whatever strikes. To resume my deep love affair with truth and beauty. To conform to no one's expectations or aesthetics. To write what I like like Steve Biko. Not for a program, not for publisher, but for myself first and foremost. And whoever wishes to come along for the ride, cool. Whoever doesn't--cool.

And so I will share some of these poems in the days and blogs to come. I call this series "Regretful Poems" for many of them examine the concept of regret in some small, particularized way. But more importantly than that, they are poems entirely about being in the present.

I have written poems about the past. I have written poems from the points of view of others. I have excavated poems purely from the depths of my wild horse imagination. I have written poems to save the world. But in the great tradition of Rumi, Mary Oliver, and Pablo Neruda these poems are purely about Being in the present moment, in this place, at this time, with these people, and just allowing myself to be astonished by life again and its simple gifts.

And whereas so many of my poems in the past made me feel so much older after writing them, these poems served me in the opposite sense, turning back the hands of time and making me feel younger than I had in years, for I was surrounded by the intelligence of nature, and was breathing fresh air again. I managed to retrieve the curiosity I had somewhere along the way lost, the curiosity that children have and lose at our hands-- that precious way of viewing life with this inexorable wonder, awe, and surprise--

ooohing and aaaahing like Smurfs at the darndest things, approaching that blank highway of a page, and driving that pen on a full tank of unleaded magic.