Yesterday was madness, wonderful madness. Woke up at an ungodly hour, and hopped into a strangely colored PT Cruiser with none other than Ritallin (from Ottawa), stopped and picked up Oveous Maximus (from NYC) and we were... going to school. An absolutely beautiful high school that felt more like a fancy mall than a school, with benevolent administrators. Supposidley the school has a pretty bad reputation, full of "at risk" kids and whatnot. I hate that phrase: "at risk". At risk for what, exactly? By giving it a name, treating them differently, labeling the problem, couldn't it be a self-fulfilling prophecy? Or even worse, it's a known fact that when teachers are told that students are "exceptionally intellegent" they will (unknowingly) grade the students accordingly. Therefore, one could come to a similar conculsion regarding students labeled "at risk"- mainly that their behaviors will become interpreted to fulfill the label given to them....
Ritallin and Oveous were asked to perform/speak at this school as a part of a music class cirriculum. It surprised me a bit that a music teacher would ask poets to perform, and not an english teacher or a theater teacher. I always knew that spoken word was heavily influenced by hiphop, beats, and sound... of course. I just never really thought of it that way before, as a form of music. Poetry performed over beats is a marriage between the literary and the musical. Poetry performed with a beat you can feel but not necessarily hear- how could that be different? And it reminded me of something I always think about before I myself get on stage- how performance really is similar to singing. Paying attention to tone and timber of the voice are imperative to creating a pleasant and coherent performance- no one wants to hear someone screeching or mumbling for 3 minutes. And voice projection, as it is in theater, is also related to music. And the constant need to breath deeply in order to project with energy and resonance, not with the upper chest, but from low in the belly, like a singer.
At one point, the students were asked "Who likes poetry?" A few timid hands waved in the air in response. Then Ritallin explained how everything is poetry, how music is poetry because really it is poetry set to melody, how essays are poetry and even stereo instructions are poetry because somewhere, someone sat down and wrote out these words to get a message across, and that's all poetry really is.
I sat in the corner, almost feeling as a student, watching and recording the performance. At one point they even invited me up there (ahhh!) and I had the lovely opportunity to represent female poets (as a side note: every male poet I meet says that there are plenty of female poets, and that it's really not an issue. But from my experience in the field thus far, this is not the case. It is still definitely a male dominated field.) After talking to the music teacher and also the two poets, I came to understand the importance of such workshops. It gives the students something to relate to- to show them that poetry isn't an art for dead white men or stuffy academics with degrees in Post-Rennaisance Literature. That it certainly isn't all about Petrarchan sonnets but is most definitely influenced by them. That you need to know the rules before you can properly break them. And furthermore, you never know who you're going to inspire. Which is so completely true because it was because of a similar workshop more than 7 years ago that sparked my interest in spoken word. So really, I owe where I am now to that small collective of poets that inspired me so long ago. Strange how life works.
Later, after a loong ride home and a short nap, we gathered at the Savannah Room, where Ritallin was featuring. One thing I've noticed that I absolutely am starting to adore about spoken word is how it literally moves the speaker. How they get into this kind of super-focused trance that translates not only into sound, but into movement. The way the arms and hands and shifting weight in the legs and back dance along to both the theme and the rhythm of the piece. I know it sounds a bit strange, and if you've never seen a spoken word performance you probably think I'm nuts, but thank god I have my video camera with me, so I can show it when I get back.
I know I've said it before, but I truly feel so blessed to have met the people I've met so far. It's strange, perhaps it's due to the small poetry community, but it seems like everyone I meet either knows someone I know or knows someone I should know. And maybe it's the poet, or maybe it's canada but everyone has been incredibly friendly and helpful. It really makes you think twice about how we (perhaps we being americans) view the world as a generally cold and slightly hostile place, how we're taught not to trust others who we don't know well. Really, the kindness that people have shown me (people who are practically strangers) is unbelieveable. And it may seem silly, but it all falls into my theory of Road Karma- do good and good will be done. Pay it forward.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Wartime Poets
Here, Bullet
If a body is what you want,
then here is bone and gristle and flesh.
Here is the clavicle-snapped wish,
the aorta's opened valves, the leap
thought makes at the synaptic gap.
Here is the adrenaline rush you crave,
that inexorable flight, that insane puncture
into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish
what you've started. Because here, Bullet,
here is where I complete the word you bring
hissing through the air, here is where I moan
the barrel's cold esophagus, triggering
my tongue's explosives for the rifling I have
inside of me, each twist of the round
spun deeper, because here, Bullet,
here is where the world ends, every time.
-Brian Turner
What is a poet doing fighting a war? How can a person balance both a pen and a gun? Questions I have asked myself multiple times over the past few years, and increasingly within the past few weeks. Many contemporary poets have the privilege of inhabiting a space between the often lofty and intangible rhetoric of academia and the harsh yet beautiful gritty reality of the world. And as hard as it is for me to believe, poets do go to war. No, not with pens, but with guns. This American poet, Brian Turner, is the second poet who's work I have read and appreciated who has fought in Iraq. The first was a poet in South Africa. As he told me in an email "seems life has chucked me about in all sorts of turbulent directions of late, but wherever we are there are experiences and that's all a poet needs."
Although the idea of a poet going to war saddens me, (quite frankly, however, the idea of anyone going to war saddens me)history has shown that poetry often bears witness to war. Members of the famous Lost Generation including poets John Peale Bishop, E.E. Cummings, Archibald MacLeish, Gertrude Stein, Edith Wharton, John Allan Wyeth were all heavily influenced by World War I. Countless poets fought in the Vietnam war (check out this page: http://www.vietnamexp.com/Vietnam%20Poetry.html)
Another Protest
Walking over land made void by napalm
And thousand-pound bombs,
My legs are covered with ashes,
A dusting of malignant snow.
We march in single file, dumbfounded
And gasp at five crispy critters.
Charcoal-ized lumps, they are only
Remnants of yellow men.
But the blackened scene is disrupted
By a small splash of crimson.
We pause at the absurdity of
A perfectly blooming rose
-Robert H. Dirr Jr.
And then, recalling not too long ago, when I was in Spain, my conservative host mother handed me a small warn book. Written in slightly faded typewriter font, it was a book of poetry recounting the horrors of the revolution in Cuba. I read the book carefully, cover to cover, absolutely unsure of what side this man was on until I realized that he had no side, he had no agenda. His writing was simply a mirror, a reflection of the time in which he lived. I would include one of his works here, however, his work is not published (how can one living in Cuba publish a book of poetry about the revolution?). My host mother had acquired such a book from her son, who, being a writer himself, visited Cuba and stayed with the poet. The poet had awarded her son the book when he disclosed his own identity as a writer. I don't even know his name.
Finally, how could I forget, the involvement of poetry and poets in the Spanish Civil War. As Stephen Spender wrote in his Introduction to Poems for Spain:
"Poets and poetry have played a considerable part in the Spanish War, because to many people the struggle of the Republicans has seemed a struggle for the conditions without which the writing and reading of poetry are almost impossible in modern society." Many poets became personally involved in the war when, in 1937, the great writer Federico Garcia Lorca was murdered by fascists at the beginning of the war. His tragic death turned him into an icon for poets and artists of the time:
Labrad, amigos,
de piedra y sueño en el Alhambra,
un túmulo al poeta,
sobre una fuente donde llore el agua,
y eternamente diga:
el crimen fue en Granada, ¡en su Granada!
(Translated:
Carve, friends, from stone and dream,
in the Alhambra, a barrow for the poet,
on the water of fountains that weep
and say, for eternity:
'the crime was in Granada,
in his Granada!')
- Antonio Machado
Perhaps it is because, when faced with death and destruction, it is easier to see the world through the eyes of a poet- cherishing every moment and every detail as potentially ironically beautiful. Perhaps it is demonstrative of the basic human need to be heard, to be remembered, and to be understood. Or perhaps it is a testament to poetry's uncanny and undeniable ability to not only shine a critical yet personally accurate reflection on the state of the world, but also to carry forth the internal message of an individual in a manner that will resonate within the hearts of others even long after the gunfire has stopped. Regardless, it seems that the pen is not only mightier than the sword, but is oftentimes inspired by it.
Concord Hymn
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
- R. W. Emerson
If a body is what you want,
then here is bone and gristle and flesh.
Here is the clavicle-snapped wish,
the aorta's opened valves, the leap
thought makes at the synaptic gap.
Here is the adrenaline rush you crave,
that inexorable flight, that insane puncture
into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish
what you've started. Because here, Bullet,
here is where I complete the word you bring
hissing through the air, here is where I moan
the barrel's cold esophagus, triggering
my tongue's explosives for the rifling I have
inside of me, each twist of the round
spun deeper, because here, Bullet,
here is where the world ends, every time.
-Brian Turner
What is a poet doing fighting a war? How can a person balance both a pen and a gun? Questions I have asked myself multiple times over the past few years, and increasingly within the past few weeks. Many contemporary poets have the privilege of inhabiting a space between the often lofty and intangible rhetoric of academia and the harsh yet beautiful gritty reality of the world. And as hard as it is for me to believe, poets do go to war. No, not with pens, but with guns. This American poet, Brian Turner, is the second poet who's work I have read and appreciated who has fought in Iraq. The first was a poet in South Africa. As he told me in an email "seems life has chucked me about in all sorts of turbulent directions of late, but wherever we are there are experiences and that's all a poet needs."
Although the idea of a poet going to war saddens me, (quite frankly, however, the idea of anyone going to war saddens me)history has shown that poetry often bears witness to war. Members of the famous Lost Generation including poets John Peale Bishop, E.E. Cummings, Archibald MacLeish, Gertrude Stein, Edith Wharton, John Allan Wyeth were all heavily influenced by World War I. Countless poets fought in the Vietnam war (check out this page: http://www.vietnamexp.com/Vietnam%20Poetry.html)
Another Protest
Walking over land made void by napalm
And thousand-pound bombs,
My legs are covered with ashes,
A dusting of malignant snow.
We march in single file, dumbfounded
And gasp at five crispy critters.
Charcoal-ized lumps, they are only
Remnants of yellow men.
But the blackened scene is disrupted
By a small splash of crimson.
We pause at the absurdity of
A perfectly blooming rose
-Robert H. Dirr Jr.
And then, recalling not too long ago, when I was in Spain, my conservative host mother handed me a small warn book. Written in slightly faded typewriter font, it was a book of poetry recounting the horrors of the revolution in Cuba. I read the book carefully, cover to cover, absolutely unsure of what side this man was on until I realized that he had no side, he had no agenda. His writing was simply a mirror, a reflection of the time in which he lived. I would include one of his works here, however, his work is not published (how can one living in Cuba publish a book of poetry about the revolution?). My host mother had acquired such a book from her son, who, being a writer himself, visited Cuba and stayed with the poet. The poet had awarded her son the book when he disclosed his own identity as a writer. I don't even know his name.
Finally, how could I forget, the involvement of poetry and poets in the Spanish Civil War. As Stephen Spender wrote in his Introduction to Poems for Spain:
"Poets and poetry have played a considerable part in the Spanish War, because to many people the struggle of the Republicans has seemed a struggle for the conditions without which the writing and reading of poetry are almost impossible in modern society." Many poets became personally involved in the war when, in 1937, the great writer Federico Garcia Lorca was murdered by fascists at the beginning of the war. His tragic death turned him into an icon for poets and artists of the time:
Labrad, amigos,
de piedra y sueño en el Alhambra,
un túmulo al poeta,
sobre una fuente donde llore el agua,
y eternamente diga:
el crimen fue en Granada, ¡en su Granada!
(Translated:
Carve, friends, from stone and dream,
in the Alhambra, a barrow for the poet,
on the water of fountains that weep
and say, for eternity:
'the crime was in Granada,
in his Granada!')
- Antonio Machado
Perhaps it is because, when faced with death and destruction, it is easier to see the world through the eyes of a poet- cherishing every moment and every detail as potentially ironically beautiful. Perhaps it is demonstrative of the basic human need to be heard, to be remembered, and to be understood. Or perhaps it is a testament to poetry's uncanny and undeniable ability to not only shine a critical yet personally accurate reflection on the state of the world, but also to carry forth the internal message of an individual in a manner that will resonate within the hearts of others even long after the gunfire has stopped. Regardless, it seems that the pen is not only mightier than the sword, but is oftentimes inspired by it.
Concord Hymn
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
- R. W. Emerson
Monday, September 17, 2007
Sometimes I like to forget important things
Because I'm so absent minded, (ok fine, because I waited to pack until the night before I left) I forgot a few key items. Including my digital camera. I've been taping a lot of great footage with my video camera but I (siiiiigh) also don't have my firewire to connect the computer to the camera. Will be receiving such items soon. When I do, I'll post some eye candy on this blog! Thanks for being patient!
-J
-J
Thursday, September 13, 2007
(up)rooting
There's something about packing everything you need into a small suitcase that gets me every time. The slight bubbling excitement of arriving in a new place, of becoming completely anonymous and unknown to everyone; the chance to crumble up and start all over, an opportunity to rename and be renamed without previous conception or judgement. A feeling incredibly unnerving yet addictive, already I can feel myself growing accustomed to it- every few weeks, an itching in my legs, a pull that jolts me awake too early in the morning or keeps me from sleeping too late at night. This constant awareness of time passing and a need to follow along with it, and yet a different need also pulling in an opposite direction- the question I can only imagine comes from some Darwinian impulse to find home, to stay, to root and settle: Could I live here? Or rather, could I ever return to live here? It's a question that always arises, not towards the end of my stay, but rather at the beginning of the end. Just when I have become comfortable, but not too comfortable- Could I live here? The equal but opposite pulling is something I will get used to, I'm sure, as I make friends and acquaintences in each place I stay and then reduce them to an email, an occasional visit, a phone call, a myspace message. One friend who embarked on a similar fellowship told me that the return to a state of stationary living is one of the most difficult adjustments. I know my life after this fellowship will be changed, and I can imagine that change in particular will be a struggle for me. Because I've always loved starting over, I've always craved the clean slate. I know I've only just begun, but curiosity has me peering into the future- what will life be like, a year from now, when I try to root myself somewhere? Where will I be? And the excitement of knowing that I am currently on the path that will lead me to my future self, perhaps in an apartment somewhere, or a house, or a dorm room; perhaps still traveling. I've never been able to answer succinctly the question "Where do you see yourself in 5 years?" It would be more appropriately put "Where *don't* I see myself?" because the opportunities I will stumble upon (because the best ones present themselves unexpectedly) could be endless, varying, wildly obscure.
There are so many great things about this fellowship- the people I get to meet, the places I get to see, and the poetry, of course, the poetry. But one unexpected and delightful aspect, an aspect that no one told me about, is the opportunity to literally "try out" living in different cultures and climates. The opportunity to attempt to immurse myself in a country so much so that I would know what it's like to live there, not as a rich tourist or a priviledged student, but as a normal person. And then, after a few weeks or months, I get to throw it all back into my suitcase, get on a bus, train or airplane and start again somewhere else. Notebook full of notes, phone numbers, email addresses and the quiet promise of maybe someday returning. Of maybe someday I'll come back and stay for real.
There are so many great things about this fellowship- the people I get to meet, the places I get to see, and the poetry, of course, the poetry. But one unexpected and delightful aspect, an aspect that no one told me about, is the opportunity to literally "try out" living in different cultures and climates. The opportunity to attempt to immurse myself in a country so much so that I would know what it's like to live there, not as a rich tourist or a priviledged student, but as a normal person. And then, after a few weeks or months, I get to throw it all back into my suitcase, get on a bus, train or airplane and start again somewhere else. Notebook full of notes, phone numbers, email addresses and the quiet promise of maybe someday returning. Of maybe someday I'll come back and stay for real.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
9/11 Reflection: You knew this was coming....
There’s a topic I’d like to discuss here that is really important yet a bit hard for me to explain, so try to bear with me. There’s a subtle yet noticeable difference between Canadian poets commenting on US politics, and US poets commenting on US politics. It’s a difference that I approach uneasily, mainly because said difference is so subtle, and at the same time to be expected. I suppose the uneasiness surrounding my commentary is spawned from the many similarities between Canadian people and American people. Who am I to comment? But when they get on stage, even to no one else, the difference becomes apparent to me, resulting in my skepticism and slight distaste. It’s not that I don’t think they should be able to comment on my country’s politics; on the contrary- US politics involve almost everyone. It’s just that, occasionally, it feels as if the Canadian poets are commenting on Bush politics as if he were their president. And sometimes, they end up coming off slightly ill-informed and impersonal- like the angry liberal who was too angry to even study the facts and vote for herself.
And that’s when you realize- they sound like non-voters because they in fact are non-voters. They can certainly imagine what it’s like to be an American under the current administration, but the truth is, they are not, nor can they truly understand the quiet tension that is building between the two sides of our country. As one poet explained to me, often Canadian poets feel like they can comment because they are the close neighbor and little brother of the US. But is it enough?
I don't think it is enough to be a neighbor or a little brother. The American condition is very specific indeed, and in a way I find myself quitely frustrated and unable to explain my frustration. “You need to live it to understand it.” I want to tell them. It’s so easy to be a third party critic, everything is always black and white when you’re not personally involved. Everything is so simple, so easy. Yes, the majority now believe that our president is an idiot. Yes, the majority are agaisnt the war. But those are perriferal issues. The true questions which are ripping apart the american psyche are much deeper than that: What do we do now? Do we cut and run- looking like big defeated bullies with our tail between our legs like in Vietnam? Do we keep sending more troops, hoping the Iraqi people will step up? Who do we blame? Shouldn’t the troops protest if they don’t want to be there? What about my cousin/brother/sister/neighbor/son/daughter who chose the military to pay for education? What choices do we have? Why is it that a million people can march down Pennsylvania Avenue shouting at the top of their lungs and not be heard? What can we do?
Because it’s not enough anymore to simply be against the war, to think it’s wrong, to think our president is an immoral oil-hungry business man. Those criticisms can be gathered by any 5th grader off of the Daily show. You don’t know what it’s like to feel simultaneous shame and pride of your country. Sure, I hate the politics, but it’s my home, and for the most part, it’s been good to me. Mention the war on terror and half of us will spit, and half of us will stand tall, but mention 9/11 and we will all cringe. Things aren’t so clean cut, but the cut runs deep. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like you have to hide your nationality when traveling abroad. To have to deny your very homeland because of an offensive and absurd misconception that all americans are rich/lazy/stupid/republican/pro-war/christian etc. You can imagine, sure, but you have never experienced it on your own.
Furthermore, I’m tired of the whole “I’m not a typical American” charade because I don’t believe it at all. I don’t believe that I’m an atypical American college student. At Hamilton people might’ve not been actively political, but if you ever gave them the chance, if you ever just sat them down and asked, almost everyone had something to say, some informed piece of information, conservative or liberal. Because it’s gotten to the point where you cannot live a normal life apathetically. Some would like to write off my generation as apathetic because we are not active like the hippies of our parents’. But we are not our parents. We are living in a different world, a world where information flys off the internet and tvs and radios and cell phones and blackberries and smacks us on the face.
I guess the idea of personally commenting on another country's politics just seems strange to me. Sure, the US intervenes with everyone else's politics, but that's our government. I'm talking about people. You don't hear many American poets get up on stage and criticize the politics of President Calderon (the Mexican president). Oh but his politics don't effect everyone, you may say. Fine. When Tony Blair was in office, American poets hardly wrote about him either. Writing about American politics is kind of like picking on the weakling kid in class- it's a cheap shot. What would be more interesting to hear, I think, would be an opinion on Calderon, or (gasp), maybe on one's own government.
I want to say this to the Canadians who look at me for a reaction every time American politics is discussed on stage. I want to get up on stage and explain, make excuses, anything. I'm unimpressed, and to be honest a bit freaked out about putting all this up here on my blog. I truly respect the opinions of others, and so this frustration I often feel leaves me uneasy and worried. I know it's important for me to explain myself, to explain my quiet distaste so that I may perhaps fix some of the misconceptions, but at the same time, I find myself wondering whether or not it is my place to step in and criticize or comment. But when it comes down to it, after all the rambling, here's my honest opinion: I think it's fine to slam about how awful American politics are. But it should be done from one's own perspective- with an understanding of third-party foriegn perspective.
I remember exactly where I was on this day, not so long ago. I remember the phones at my boarding school cutting out because so many people had family who worked in the government. I remember worrying about my own family in New York City. I remember the memorial service and lowering the flag to half mast. I remember driving to Manhattan a mere 3 months later, where the cars on the highway were at a standstill, where people were crying and taking pictures of the skyline, gaping open like a mouth missing two front teeth. I remember the exact moment when I realized life would never ever be the same for Americans, that we had entered a new stage of fear and distrust, and that the end is no where to be seen. And when I remember these things, my body tenses, my mind reels, and I realize that we are writing history as we remember it. As we speak it. And words are words no matter what country a person is from- we are in danger of oversimplifying history. Our words are powerful, we need to be careful of what we say.
And that’s when you realize- they sound like non-voters because they in fact are non-voters. They can certainly imagine what it’s like to be an American under the current administration, but the truth is, they are not, nor can they truly understand the quiet tension that is building between the two sides of our country. As one poet explained to me, often Canadian poets feel like they can comment because they are the close neighbor and little brother of the US. But is it enough?
I don't think it is enough to be a neighbor or a little brother. The American condition is very specific indeed, and in a way I find myself quitely frustrated and unable to explain my frustration. “You need to live it to understand it.” I want to tell them. It’s so easy to be a third party critic, everything is always black and white when you’re not personally involved. Everything is so simple, so easy. Yes, the majority now believe that our president is an idiot. Yes, the majority are agaisnt the war. But those are perriferal issues. The true questions which are ripping apart the american psyche are much deeper than that: What do we do now? Do we cut and run- looking like big defeated bullies with our tail between our legs like in Vietnam? Do we keep sending more troops, hoping the Iraqi people will step up? Who do we blame? Shouldn’t the troops protest if they don’t want to be there? What about my cousin/brother/sister/neighbor/son/daughter who chose the military to pay for education? What choices do we have? Why is it that a million people can march down Pennsylvania Avenue shouting at the top of their lungs and not be heard? What can we do?
Because it’s not enough anymore to simply be against the war, to think it’s wrong, to think our president is an immoral oil-hungry business man. Those criticisms can be gathered by any 5th grader off of the Daily show. You don’t know what it’s like to feel simultaneous shame and pride of your country. Sure, I hate the politics, but it’s my home, and for the most part, it’s been good to me. Mention the war on terror and half of us will spit, and half of us will stand tall, but mention 9/11 and we will all cringe. Things aren’t so clean cut, but the cut runs deep. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like you have to hide your nationality when traveling abroad. To have to deny your very homeland because of an offensive and absurd misconception that all americans are rich/lazy/stupid/republican/pro-war/christian etc. You can imagine, sure, but you have never experienced it on your own.
Furthermore, I’m tired of the whole “I’m not a typical American” charade because I don’t believe it at all. I don’t believe that I’m an atypical American college student. At Hamilton people might’ve not been actively political, but if you ever gave them the chance, if you ever just sat them down and asked, almost everyone had something to say, some informed piece of information, conservative or liberal. Because it’s gotten to the point where you cannot live a normal life apathetically. Some would like to write off my generation as apathetic because we are not active like the hippies of our parents’. But we are not our parents. We are living in a different world, a world where information flys off the internet and tvs and radios and cell phones and blackberries and smacks us on the face.
I guess the idea of personally commenting on another country's politics just seems strange to me. Sure, the US intervenes with everyone else's politics, but that's our government. I'm talking about people. You don't hear many American poets get up on stage and criticize the politics of President Calderon (the Mexican president). Oh but his politics don't effect everyone, you may say. Fine. When Tony Blair was in office, American poets hardly wrote about him either. Writing about American politics is kind of like picking on the weakling kid in class- it's a cheap shot. What would be more interesting to hear, I think, would be an opinion on Calderon, or (gasp), maybe on one's own government.
I want to say this to the Canadians who look at me for a reaction every time American politics is discussed on stage. I want to get up on stage and explain, make excuses, anything. I'm unimpressed, and to be honest a bit freaked out about putting all this up here on my blog. I truly respect the opinions of others, and so this frustration I often feel leaves me uneasy and worried. I know it's important for me to explain myself, to explain my quiet distaste so that I may perhaps fix some of the misconceptions, but at the same time, I find myself wondering whether or not it is my place to step in and criticize or comment. But when it comes down to it, after all the rambling, here's my honest opinion: I think it's fine to slam about how awful American politics are. But it should be done from one's own perspective- with an understanding of third-party foriegn perspective.
I remember exactly where I was on this day, not so long ago. I remember the phones at my boarding school cutting out because so many people had family who worked in the government. I remember worrying about my own family in New York City. I remember the memorial service and lowering the flag to half mast. I remember driving to Manhattan a mere 3 months later, where the cars on the highway were at a standstill, where people were crying and taking pictures of the skyline, gaping open like a mouth missing two front teeth. I remember the exact moment when I realized life would never ever be the same for Americans, that we had entered a new stage of fear and distrust, and that the end is no where to be seen. And when I remember these things, my body tenses, my mind reels, and I realize that we are writing history as we remember it. As we speak it. And words are words no matter what country a person is from- we are in danger of oversimplifying history. Our words are powerful, we need to be careful of what we say.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Issue poetry?
I have to say the past few weeks have been thouroughly impressive and busy. Last night I went to the Toronto Poetry Slam. The slam had landed in the start of Toronto International Film festival, and traffic on the way to the slam was ridiculous. I was told the turnout was unusually low, although it seemedto me to be just fine. The usual crowd of offbeat poets gathered, the energy was lighthearted and fun, with a few newcomers thrown in to mix it up.
What I would like to see at slams is more of an emphasis on their own country’s politics and issues. Perhaps it is simply because of the proximity between Canada and the US that they feel so deeply affected by the same issues which plague american society, but I would like to hear about these issues from a Canadian perspective, rather than a “this is what’s wrong with the united states”perspective. Just a thought.
It’s slightly true what they say about poetry slams: that the best poets hardly win. Not that I don’t think the winner of tonight’s slam was talented. She was very talented, of course, but talented in a way typical of winning a poetry slam. Issue poetry always seems to gain the hearts of the judges, and for some reason, the more stereotypical the issue poetry, the better. My favorites? The scrawny emo poet writing about how that girl broke his heart, or the quasi-feminist poem that involves a female speaker claiming to be a queen. Perhaps I too, will write a queen poem. Maybe I’ll win a slam with it.
What I would like to see at slams is more of an emphasis on their own country’s politics and issues. Perhaps it is simply because of the proximity between Canada and the US that they feel so deeply affected by the same issues which plague american society, but I would like to hear about these issues from a Canadian perspective, rather than a “this is what’s wrong with the united states”perspective. Just a thought.
It’s slightly true what they say about poetry slams: that the best poets hardly win. Not that I don’t think the winner of tonight’s slam was talented. She was very talented, of course, but talented in a way typical of winning a poetry slam. Issue poetry always seems to gain the hearts of the judges, and for some reason, the more stereotypical the issue poetry, the better. My favorites? The scrawny emo poet writing about how that girl broke his heart, or the quasi-feminist poem that involves a female speaker claiming to be a queen. Perhaps I too, will write a queen poem. Maybe I’ll win a slam with it.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
And briefly: Toronto International Poetry Slam
We all gathered in a stage space typically used for punk rock shows. Arriving outside the venue, it was already quite apparent that the scene we were about to participate in was different than the one I had been surrounded with in my previous two weeks in Toronto. But there we were, the Toronto International Poetry Slam. Participants from various cities across Canada and New York gathered, gave their 3 minutes and were rated. Cheers, boos, standing ovations. Names I recognized, others I didn’t, equally impressed.
I had the privelage of meeting a few people from other cities in Canada as well. I am throuroughly excited to travel to see them perform in their own scene, on their turf.
Sorry for the brevity. I'm exhausted.
I had the privelage of meeting a few people from other cities in Canada as well. I am throuroughly excited to travel to see them perform in their own scene, on their turf.
Sorry for the brevity. I'm exhausted.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
D[i]mentia 5: multimedia adventure
How do I describe what went down thursday night?
Picture this: you walk into a restaurant. Everything seems normal. People are drinking beers, eating late dinners. There's even a swing band setting up. You walk towards the back of the restaurant into a small dark room. You can hear the sound of old friends introducing themselves to new friends, laughter, glasses clinking on tables. Ambient music plays in the background. Abstract independent films flash up on the wall infront of you, as you sit at a table full of friendly faces. A small stage stares back at you, blank with 3 microphones, a speaker and a drum set. Suddenly, a man with a hat and a girl, both with heavy dark sunglasses, get on stage and perform the coolest intro piece, backed up by a drummer wearing some kind of monster mask. Time speeds up. An indie film about a rubrick's cube. A poet speaking softly beautifully about a music box, her father, a chess board. More music, laughter. Another poet about pacifism, another haiku. More music. An open mic. Poets reading, poets performing. You get up and perform. You're introduced as an American. Audience talking back to you mid-poem. Laughter. Shouting. Clapping. More poets, more poetry, more shouting and clapping. Laughter and more laughter.
Who says poetry isn't interactive?
I've met so many interesting poets so far. Poets- People. So many interesting people. Journalists, writers, waitresses, actors, bartenders, teachers, musicians, professors, DJs, editors, businessmen, students by day, poets by night. It gives me hope- perhaps one can do what one loves without starving to death. To be a poet, first and foremost, and then something more. Everyone with their interesting stories about why spoken word, why performance poetry. Everyone talking about how it came to them, who they idolize, what they do to prepare. It's only been a week, and I feel like i've dove into a great big pool of like-minded individuals. individual because they're all so different, but connected by this really strange love of poetry and performance.
Last night I took the night off from poetry and got some really great sushi with David Silverberg (my main contact here). Afterwards we went to a ska show in a college-y neighborhood. Sometimes, you need to see things other than poetry. :)
So after a week of living here, I'd say I could probably see myself living here permanently. Although I have the distinct feeling I'm going to be saying that a lot this year!
Sunday is the Toronto International Poetry Slam. Oh I can't wait!
Picture this: you walk into a restaurant. Everything seems normal. People are drinking beers, eating late dinners. There's even a swing band setting up. You walk towards the back of the restaurant into a small dark room. You can hear the sound of old friends introducing themselves to new friends, laughter, glasses clinking on tables. Ambient music plays in the background. Abstract independent films flash up on the wall infront of you, as you sit at a table full of friendly faces. A small stage stares back at you, blank with 3 microphones, a speaker and a drum set. Suddenly, a man with a hat and a girl, both with heavy dark sunglasses, get on stage and perform the coolest intro piece, backed up by a drummer wearing some kind of monster mask. Time speeds up. An indie film about a rubrick's cube. A poet speaking softly beautifully about a music box, her father, a chess board. More music, laughter. Another poet about pacifism, another haiku. More music. An open mic. Poets reading, poets performing. You get up and perform. You're introduced as an American. Audience talking back to you mid-poem. Laughter. Shouting. Clapping. More poets, more poetry, more shouting and clapping. Laughter and more laughter.
Who says poetry isn't interactive?
I've met so many interesting poets so far. Poets- People. So many interesting people. Journalists, writers, waitresses, actors, bartenders, teachers, musicians, professors, DJs, editors, businessmen, students by day, poets by night. It gives me hope- perhaps one can do what one loves without starving to death. To be a poet, first and foremost, and then something more. Everyone with their interesting stories about why spoken word, why performance poetry. Everyone talking about how it came to them, who they idolize, what they do to prepare. It's only been a week, and I feel like i've dove into a great big pool of like-minded individuals. individual because they're all so different, but connected by this really strange love of poetry and performance.
Last night I took the night off from poetry and got some really great sushi with David Silverberg (my main contact here). Afterwards we went to a ska show in a college-y neighborhood. Sometimes, you need to see things other than poetry. :)
So after a week of living here, I'd say I could probably see myself living here permanently. Although I have the distinct feeling I'm going to be saying that a lot this year!
Sunday is the Toronto International Poetry Slam. Oh I can't wait!
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