Balance

It came as no surprise to him that I was traveling around the world, conducting research on poetry as a reflection of society. I just remember the look on his face when I told him; this calm happy look, almost proud, but not giving it away too quickly. It was the look of a teacher remembering that one quirky student (with her nose constantly in a book, slides obscure references to Thoreau and Whitman into every day conversations to see if anyone would notice).

"None of this surprises me."

And here I am, further down the line, a daunting 8 months later, having traversed the width of the world, I find myself in Dublin, Ireland, wandering through the campus of Trinity College. And I laugh at myself as I stand infront of the statue of Oscar Wilde; the image of my dear teacher's face flashes into my mind- again, with that not surprised expression on his fae. Of course I would end up here, on this campus on a rare beautiful blue skied day in April, rubbing shoulders with the ghostly likes of Mr. Wilde, Mr. Beckett, and Mr. Joyce. Of course, right? But it still hits me in these moments, how close I came to being a barista at some Starbucks in a small Pennsylvania town. And I feel immensely lucky and grateful.

When I received this fellowship, it came with a small biography about Mr. William Bristol, the man who made all this possible. And beneath his name and picture and the title "The Bristol Fellowship" was a mission statement in italics:

Discovery of the self and the world

In a conversation with my mother a few weeks ago, while sipping coffee in a Viennese cafe, I disclosed to her my doubts about half of that mission statement. It seemed to me that I had certainly discovered the world, but that in doing so, I had lost myself numerous times. At that time, I believed I had already found myself two years prior, while traversing the Iberian Peninsula (aka Spain and Portugal). I told her, in a slightly disappointed tone, that I didn't feel any different than the girl who began this journey 7 months ago.

Of course, that sentiment isn't even remotely true. I know that now, as I near the end of my journey.

The funny thing about searching for yourself is that its a mission always doomed to fail. What I mean is, while we're out there, looking for ways to define ourselves, filling in online social networking sites, joining clubs and fraternities or whatever, we're just adding more dust, mud and earth to bury our true selves. Underneath all those layers of labels, underneath religion and nationality and egotistical labels we like to slap on ourselves to make ourselves feel better, is our true self- already there, just being. You are not what you write in your facebook profile. You are not what your passport says, or your drivers license. No, sorry, you are not your Greek Society or your fifteen minutes of fame or your honors society or your glowing transcript. You are not that story you tell yourself. As soon as we spend some time and stop trying to become what we are and just be what we are, its like wiping dust off the mirror. No hidden treasure, just what was already there all along.

While wandering in an old monastery in Lower Austria, I stumbled across this sign on a wall. All around me were beautiful books, reaching from floor to fresco painted ceiling, but all I could do was stand there and read this sign. Maybe I'm slightly nuts, but I just think its beautiful.


I guess what I mean to say is, I've spent a lot of this year waiting for some incredible realization to take hold of me. I've been waiting to find a place in the world, or someone or something to make me feel at home. But as a dear friend in Melbourne once told me, "Home is in your head."

It really is. And it still surprises me every time.

Vienna Pictures

So it's been a bit since I've written, sorry for that. Much has happened! After arriving back in Dublin safe and sound from an amazing Moroccan adventure (See below posts), I received a beautiful email from my hosts back in Vienna, complete with pictures! So here they are, little memory snapshots from my time in Vienna.
Enjoy!

Fes

The medina of Fes is a bustling little world of color, sound and smell. As we stepped through the old wall which divides the old city from the new city, I was immediately swept away into a parallel universe, narrated only by my thoughts and syncopated by the sounds of a language, however beautiful, impossible for me to decipher. We walked briskly with the flow of people, through narrow streets lined with stalls selling identical silver jewelery, knock off designer clothing, bootleg dvds, drums, silk pieces of cloth, intricate dresses and tunics and the like. It all seemed so famililar, in fact. The whole city seemed something from a dream I had once; the way dreams take things from reality and spin them into alternate webs of beautiful fantasy. Its so easy to get lost here, and often I feel like I'm floating five inches behind myself enjoying what I can, even if in a dream like state.

I always said there was no place like Andalucia. But walking through those narrow streets scented with spice, rainwater and humanity, I realized that I felt like I was walking through an old familiar neighborhood in my beloved city in andalucia. And of course, however much we talked about the arabic influence on cities in southern spain, it’s true resemblence cannot be fully understood until it is seen first hand. Al-Andaluz, the last stronghold of the arab empire in europe, and the Alhambra, the red fortress, which stood majestically on the hill behind the whitewashed labyrinth neighborhood where we would sit on rooftops and watch the sunset, singing in spanish and playing guitar....

It all seemed so familiar, walking though that old neighborhood in Fes, and yet contained elements so foreign, a simultaneous struggle between comfort and discomfort that I have felt so often during this trip around the world.

Poetry update

Ive been writing a lot lately. for some reason, i've been reminiscing of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poetry. Perhaps its because she was a strong woman from NYC and I'm about as far away from there as possible right now.

Morocco is beautiful, but so strange for someone like me. All around me is a completely new kind of culture, a culture where women are treated with highest respect, and I am left unsure whether or not it offends me. My travel partner is a boy (the other bristol fellow- oh world wide adventurers unite!), and I wear a ring on my finger (because we are seen so much together, it might be assumed we are married, and it would be in our best interest, i think, not to deny that notion). And as much as I enjoy embracing new cultures, certain things will always rub me the wrong way. Like if I pay for dinner, the waiter returns the change to the man at the table, even if he saw that it was coming out of my wallet. Its expected that Jesse orders my food, and as we walk down the street, some men shout "take care of her!" and we smile and I look down because I dont want to give anyone any death stares, nor do I want to take count of how many people are staring at me with my freckled skin and western clothes.

Everyone wants to know what I think of the head scarf "issue" that seems to be plaguing places like france and turkey, but I'll get into that in another entry when I have more time.

There's so much wonder about this country that I absolutely adore, despite my feminist grumblings. Like sipping the best mint tea on the planet while listening to the call to prayer every afternoon. And the way the women here smile at each other knowingly and everyone seems much more light hearted than people in New York or Europe. The way outdoor spice markets smell, and the colors of the head scarves match the long flowing robes. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me to be here.

Enough rambling. Here's some poetry.

Desert Sonnet

I fled to the desert, far from my love
To seek answers in solitary sands
To questions we were so unaware of
and to return warmth to my small cold hands.

His image lingers on my horizon
Like an unreachable sun-induced dream
So tempting to keep my lonely eyes on
And forget about fate’s bewitching scheme

I wish to return to my beloved soon
And long once more to gaze into his eyes
The song of him echoes over the dunes
And evokes from my breast a tearful cry

-Oh cruel fate, why should I even bother?
For that song he sings is for another!



Response to Edna St. Vincent Millay and Sor Joana Ines de la Cruz

They talk of the ways of a woman’s heart
As if it were a maze
That captures and tears a poor man apart
And leaves him in a foggy daze

But if she should feel for a man deeply
And get her heart broken
They’ll say she acted emotionally
For his love was never spoken

And so I am left hinking to myself
If I’m under a spell
Because what am I if not a woman
Who has loved both wisely and well?

Morocco

It truly is a shame I wasn't able to conduct more research in Arab countries. On the one hand, I'll be the first to admit that, as an American woman, I feel really out of place here. But on the other hand, as I've always said, great poetry comes out of discomfort, struggle and the unknown. And this country is a beautiful country. In every way- the buildings, the landscape, the food, the people. And there is poetry. Oh man, is there poetry.

"Kifa, nabki, min zikra habibin oua manzili, ala sikkat el'liqua" (My friends, let's stop here and weep, in remembrance of my beloved, on her traces, here at the edge of the dune).
- Prince Imru' al Qays-

I was just told recently about an epic love story that is famous in the Arab world. It sounds like the original Romeo and Juliet. It's the story of Majnun and Layla.

The story, according to our anonymous friends at wikipedia goes something like this:

Qays ibn al-Mulawwah ibn Muzahim, a Bedouin poet, was from the Bani Aamir tribe of Arabia. He fell in love with Layla bint Mahdi ibn Sa'd from the same tribe, better known as Layla Al-Aamiriya. He soon began creating poems about his love for her, mentioning her name often. When he asked for her hand in marriage her father refused as this would mean a scandal for Layla according to Arab traditions. Soon after, Layla married another man.

When Qays heard of her marriage, he fled the tribe camp and began wandering the surrounding desert. His family eventually gave up on his return and left food for him in the wilderness. He could sometimes be seen reciting poetry to himself or writing in the sand with a stick.

Layla moved to Iraq with her husband, where she became ill and eventually died. Qays was later found dead in the wilderness in 688 A.D. near an unknown woman's grave. He had carved three verses of poetry on a rock near the grave, which are the last three verses attributed to him.

Many other minor incidents happened between his madness and his death. Most of his recorded poetry was composed before his descent into madness.

Among the poems attributed to Qays ibn al-Mulawwah, regarding Layla:


"I pass by these walls, the walls of Layla
And I kiss this wall and that wall
It's not Love of the houses that has taken my heart
But of the One who dwells in those houses
--

Poetry was his refuge, the only way he could escape his love-stricken madness was to put it into words.

The name Majnun means "possessed by a jinn" or "love stricken". Leila means "sweetheart".

Then of course, there's the popular poet, Kahil Gibran, who is much loved all over the world. Originally hailing from Lebanon (I believe), he's most famous for his work, "The Prophet". Everyone I've met who has read this book has a favorite section or chapter. Mine is actually a tie between "Joy and Sorrow" and "Love" Here's the excerpt on Joy and Sorrow:

"Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow." And he answered: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater." But I say unto you, they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed. Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy. Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced. When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall."

And here is "Love":

"Then said Almitra, "Speak to us of Love." And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said: When love beckons to you follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden. For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart. But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor, Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, I am in the heart of God." And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; To return home at eventide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips."

First Impressions of Ireland

Cab drivers always want to know when I'm going home.
They're always surprised to hear my answer.

The cab driver who took me to DCU (where I was to stay) was an elderly man, with big light eyes and a silly smile. And when I told him I studied poetry, he gave me a short poem that he wrote a bit ago. It was only one stanza long, and simple in rhyme but so so strong with imagery of friends slowly fading away. He blushed slightly as he recited it, and then demanded I read him one of mine. I did, but only half of one of my sonnets. He looked in the mirror expectantly, waiting for me to finish. I'm not sure why I stopped.

But as I learned that day, wandering through Dublin's zoo-like streets, this country is full of poetry and poetics. The Gaelic language itself is poetic. See, I'm starting to think poetry and poetic-ness (word? hmm..) is more of a view on the world than something you can just study or appreciate (meaning look at from a distance). It just exists or it doesn't. But the thing is, I think it has the possiblity to exist for everyone, if they were willing to change the way they see the world. Things like struggle, poverty, civil war, religious oppression, religions fundamentalism, suffering, heartbreak, death; these are the things that make good poetry. They make a sad sad life, but beautiful art.

But why? During my Bristol interview, I was asked if it was true that the only good poetry out there has some image of death in it. Of course, I laughed because I sincerely hope not. But now that I think of it, it does involve death of some kind. Death of innocence, death of love, infatution, in a change there is always dying. It's a change of emotion, of world view. Caused by a cathartic tragedy of some kind. And what seems so great about the irish culture (from my very limited exposure to it thus far) is that they not only have a strong tradition of struggle, but they are proud of it, they define themselves by it. And out of that struggle for identity, independence and words is birthed a mastery of literary tradition.

Maybe I'm just saying this because I have an infatuation with James Joyce (I read Ulysses way back in High School, and will proudly admit that I didn't understand much of it.... it reminds me of that introductory bit in Kerouac's "Lonesome Traveler" (I believe) where he says that his Aunt wanted him to define what a writer was, and he said that it was someone who talked a lot about things like James Joyce's Ulysses, but when asked to further expound on the details of the work, quickly changed the subject.) But there's got to be a reason why whenever I traveled through all the other countries of the world, whenever I mentioned Ireland people quickly added "of course."

My cab driver recited poetry to me in the first 5 minutes of landing in this place.
I think I'm going to like it here very much.

Slowly but with meaning

A year ago, I was afraid to eat alone. Just a silly phobia that haunted me. I told my mother that I don't think I could ever travel alone, for business or otherwise, because I was afraid to eat alone. How awkward, sad and lonely those business men look when they enter cafes with their newspaper, and sip their coffee while watching wistfully the display of people walking by on street sidewalks outside. I didn't want to be one of them.
Now, 8 months in, it's a rarity that I don't eat alone. Silence has become my strange travel buddy, often leaving me to my thoughts and memories. Quite a dangerous partner for a poet. And she's caused me lots of trouble, for sure, but more than anything she's forced me to cope with my true fear, a fear that has always followed me throughout my life; exposed just for a moment when I was 10 and my uncle said to me -You entered this world with another. You've never liked being alone, not even in the womb.

A few weeks ago I was at sitting at a bar in Prague, watching this girl socialize with everyone. She was a friend of mine, and the life of the bar, mingling around starting random conversation with whoever was willing to talk. I remember sitting there and wishing I could do that, that I could be that character. A student of Public Relations, this girl could spin anything. And it never occured to me that perhaps wishing to be like her was silly because I already was like her. It never occured to me until one night in a basement dive bar in Vienna (the walls streaked with black sharpie marker graffiti and flyers painted with brilliant colors duck taped to the walls with writing in half german and half english). I was talking to a girl about her dreadlocks, and the various ways one can acquire such cranial decoration. I was with an acquaintence from Hamilton (how I love to meet with study abroad students! So new to life outside the states, outside the strict confines of college society, where no one gives a care whether you were a part of what fraternity because no one knows what a fraternity is). And as we walked away from our dreadlocked conversation, he turned to me and said

-Well, that's where we differ
And I, completely clueless said
-Oh no, I don't want dreadlocks either. They're too much work.
And he said
-No, I mean, you started a conversation with a complete stranger about her hair. That's where we differ.
And I immediately thought of the girl in Prague, and smiled to myself. Surprised and somewhat embarassed by my ignorance to my own social tendencies, I realized that I, despite how awkward and strange I often felt, had the capability to cause random conversation.

So we sat in that bar, and listened to bands play. A sweet singer songwriter from Scotland played love songs on the guitar and I thought about everywhere I've been, and everyone I've met. But then, oh then tricky little miss silence moved in. Apparently the next band was running late, and they needed a time filler.
-Anyone know how to play guitar?
the MC shouted.
-Any stand up comedians?
Nothing.
-Hey! She's a poet!
Crap. I had been outed. Maybe if I held real still, and acted like I was in an intense but enjoyable conversation, he'd leave me along.
-No wait, you! The one in the green sweater!
I turned slowly to the stage
-I don't know you're name. But you're a poet. Come up here!

So I got up on the stage. Because let's face it, I love it. And I poured my poor little poet heart out to a mob of strangers, as usual. And when I paused between poems, I noticed the bar had gone silent. Completely silent. As I stepped off the stage, awkwardly after my five minutes of talking to bright lights and blurry silohuettes, I thought about how life really is about making connections. Whether through music or conversation or poetry. It's all about breaking down those walls we put up between each other, to protect ourselves from "getting hurt". Because things are temporary, and attachment is natural so why even get involved with all that? But to me, I just love that connection too much. The feeling of looking out into the bright lighted, blurry abyss and *feel* something looking back at you. And it hurts because after making that connection, Loneliness and Silence seem to win. But really, all it does is motivate me to make more connections. Maybe I'm just masochistic. But, as trite and silly and emo as it all sounds, getting your heart broken is the best way of knowing it still works. And I'd rather have a broken heart than a lonely one.

Poetry in Schools (pictures on their way)

- Ok so who here likes poetry?

My question was reflected right back at me through the quizzical looks on their faces. Typical response, really, the one I was actually going for. A few shy hands in the back row made their way through the air, but half heartedly, and they suddenly fell as quickly as they rose.

-Hm. Ok. How about Eminem?

I'll stop there for a moment. I know it might seem like I just did something a little nuts (calling Eminem a poet). But hey, I had to get their attention and I had a point to make. The class erupted

-Kanye West? Taleb Kwali?

Even louder yays.

-Cool, well the type of poetry I do is called Spoken Word or Performance Poetry. Its a miz between the poetry you read in books for school and the music you listen to on the radio.

They looked at me expectantly, growing silent. Like I had three heads. The strange notion that there could be some demonic love child mixture between The Roots and Shakespeare was a little strange to them.

People have a really short attention span these days. Particularly people between the ages of 11 and 16. Even more so when those people are learning English as a second or third language, like these kids were. It wasn't the time for one of my longer, awk shucks, hands in pockets, girl next door poems. It was time for a fast, punchy poem. One that sounds good.

So I broke into my Drop Beats Not Bombs poem. Vaguely political, an explanation of the uses of modern poetry with simple words and a strong beat to keep them awake. It lasts about 30 seconds.

First I did it quickly, then again, a bit slower. They picked out words and phrases they recognized and then tried to analyze the poem. I was really shocked to see how quickly they picked up on themes and symbolism.

They wanted to hear another poem. A slower one, called out the boy from the back. So I did that same old love poem I do everywhere. And at first the kids giggled a bit when I finished, until one girl in the front row with big melted chocolate eyes asked if it was a true story. And when I said yes, she turned around to the rest of the class and said in fast german what I can only imagine resembled "shut up! it's true!" and caused all the girls looked at me sadly and let out a big unison "aw"

After class, a girl who had stayed quite most of the lesson approached me. She told me she wanted to be a singer and wanted to know if I could tell her where she could start. I gave her information about a few open mics that I knew about. I told her to look in the newspaper and in cafes that had advertisements for open mics, and that once she started performing there she would meet people who know more about the music scene than I do.

I went down to the teacher's lounge (oh how cool! so long during my academic career I had dreamt of hanging out in the teachers lounge with cool teachers, sipping on strong coffee and talking about the lessons). The teachers from the two classes I had just visited seemed really pleased with the students' reaction. The idea of spoken word poetry itself, let alone using it as a tool in the classroom was new for them. They were enthusiastic about attempting to integrate spoken word into their English as a foreign language classes. I was excited for them.

Back in Canada, someone once told me that he enjoyed performing for lots of different crowds, particularly for younger people because you never know who you will inspire. I remember I was inspired when I was 14 and just happened to catch a spoken word performance at summer camp. But unfortunately, most kids don't get the opportunity to be exposed to such alternative art, especially when dealing with public schools that aren't funded well, or when they come from limited financial backgrounds. But those are the kids with the most amazing stories. Those are the ones that need to hear it the most. Why deny them the opportunity to create an escape for themselves?

And that's how I felt about these kids. The "rough" kids. The ones whose parents are too busy integrating into Austrian society. The ones who didn't have the opportunity to learn English until now. These kids came from all over central and eastern Europe. Who knows what they've seen, or what they've experienced.

At the end of the second lesson, one of the teachers asked her students if they felt like they could write a poem now, after meeting a "real poet" (a title which still causes me to giggle, even after this whole year). The entire class raised their hands.

Oh, satisfaction

Inside the enemy bunker

--Wait, youre not seriously going down there, are you?
He looked at me with a childish grin and began to lower himself down a hole, no wider than the width of his body
-- But, but WHY?
He paused, rolled his eyes and gestured for me to follow him
-- Pero, Por QUE!!!?
I shouted after him as he completely disappeared down the hole.
-- Porque es la puta madre. Vamos
He called back up to me in musical argentinian spanish. There I was in Lower Austria, crawling into an abandoned world war two antiaircraft bunker. Who wouldve guessed Id be speaking spanish. But it was not the time to muse over cross cultural ironies. I needed to figure out whether or not I would squeeze myself down that hole. And, perhaps more importanly, how Id convince myself it wasnt a bad idea.

We were at least twenty feet undeground. At least. The floor of the bunker was covered in sand. I half expected to stumble upon a magic carpet and a genie bottle which housed a large blue man with Robin William´s voice. My lighthearted musings were put to a dead stop when I looked at the wall of the bunker. In front of me, in red spraypaint was a swatstika, about 10 feet tall. Next to it was a peace sign that was crossed out. The two austrian boys infront of me, who were until now chattering in dialect german, fell silent.

I always hesitate when I talk about things like ´energy´ and ´vibrations´. Im not some super new age thinker or anything. But walking in that bunker, you could feel the energy being sucked out of you. The worst part was not seeing the racist graffiti on the walls. The worst part was seeing the date next to the graffiti, which indicated its recent creation.

We wandered through the gigantic caverns of the bunker for hours,with the light of a small lantern to guide us. And with each step, the pace slowed, the mood darkened and the air got colder. We were all afraid- but of what? It was the feeling that we shouldnt be there tha was scaring us. Not that it was private property or that we should be somewhere else. It was the simple, gut wrenching feeling of being on the wrong side. Your heart races for no reason. You are out of breath but not tired. Your eyes and ears play tricks on you and you see figures in the dark shadowy crevaces of the caves. We shouldnt be here, yet its just so interesting. Just 5 minutes more.

Finally, when I couldnt take it anymore (and I could tell the boys wanted to leave as well, yet said nothing perhaps due to some ridculous macho mentality that escapes me) we turned around and climbed towards the exit. One at a time, we squeezed ourselves through the tiny rabbit hole entry to the bunker.

Outside the air was fresh. The trees were dark and radiant. The stars were glowing. I know I wasnt the only one who felt the energy shift. We three sat on gigantic rocks for a moment, awkwardly taking large gulping breaths and not talking. Only looking at the dark night sky spotted with branches of pine trees covered in snow.