SHEsaysWITHaSMILE.blogspot.com

i saw this man passing by

'thousand stories inside green eyes

his smile and accent undisguised

his nature good, his lessons wise

i listened. looked. smiled goodbye

anew from our exchange.

he doesn't want the pretty package

loves to read me raw

he doesn't like to instant message

he reads slow be-cause

he loves me from the inside out

and not the outside in

exactly why i love him back

too bad he's pretend.

~sandra, ttgp

on the spot poetry while mowing the lawn

among my newest cherished additions to my inscribed book collection and collage: the lives of the heart by jane hirshfield.

posting w/her permission two of my favorites from this collection:

if the morning held it like leaves.

-now that is just plain sexy- delightful
to read silently; to say out loud.
those ~ if 's ~and long
and short alluring, suggestive sentence structures
-the sensual unanswereds

interruptive contrasts
singing and grief;
leaves falling upward.
love it.

the poet (pg 86) -this one included in her keynote speech at the pleasanton poetry, prose & art festival:

-this poem is so beautiful and complete. i cry in the retyping of it. the imagery of the shadeless lamp.. the simplistic needs behind the complexities of writing simplistically: a chair, a table, a lamp, some paper
but i love this more, because the writer is female.
a wife, a mom, perhaps - because it speaks to a woman's higher needs: those loved ones.. healthy loved ones.. the experience and knowledge of these things vital
-because the heart is wide open even when the door is closed
it captures so perfectly what writers need..
table, paper, health, love, light, time, silence,
-and those two rooms; for space and mistakes...
this true across the globe

thanks again jane hirshfield! under your spells ~s.

i can come up with

at least a dozen

- legitimate really -

at least thirteen

noble, good-sounding excuses

so cleverly disguised as reasons

no one else would suspect a thing

fifteen reasons

- so unsuspicious -

so researched, valid and partially true

even ~i~ almost believe them

but that one damn truth

voids them all

cuts to the very front as if the place were being saved, sarcastically thanking the others

now there's some 21 great reasons all lined up, screamin' 'bout the unjustice of it all

to shush them, and before i send them on their way, i award the top 3:

has anyone EVER come closer to sincerity without actually being sincere? no.

-white ribbon for you-

has anyone EVER so skillfully, seamlessly avoided the predictible, obvious or cliche'? no.

-red ribbon for you-

has anyone EVER -IN THE ENTIRE HUMAN HISTORY OF EXCUSES- displayed such genius in the selection and arrangement of mere words? no.

- blue ribbon for you -

now run along and don't come back.

i

sit

alone; together

me and that one damn truth

contemplate silently

out loud say,

"who the hell was it.. said you'd set me free?"

i

sit

alone; together

me and that one damn truth

contemplate silently

out loud say,

"was there any mention of a time frame?"

i

sit

alone

contemplate silently

out loud say,

"'cuz i can come up with at least a dozen new excuses

so cleverly disguised as reasons

no one else would suspect a thing.."

i am not unlike a criminal

this nature i have to share myself

no different than the nature of a thief to steal

each time, each post i publish

without consequence

grows my confidence, increases my desire

to share more; MORE!

i am not unlike a criminal

we travel at the speed of risk

fear pacing our momentum

i am indeed a thief of a different kind

stealing power

from those that be

"catch me, editor -if you can!"

(i do return in the scene of my crimes)

sentence me to silence -conformity- isolation.

this nature i have to share myself

no different than the nature of a thief to steal

death is our only opponent of worth

which makes worth noting:

words live on.

so i called my daughter in my room, showed her the cartoon caption contest in the back of the new yorker. said, "you have a thought for this one?" -and in no time, she was out with a winner. -i laughed on the spot. "write that down, i'll frame it for you!"

i've been getting my new yorkers from the pleasanton library. at the library i can stack up on the new yorker and smithsonians for only 25 cents each, and it does my heart good to purchase anything these days on the honor system.

a small treasure chest with a slot for inserting coins or folded bills sits next to the rack of donated magazines and they just trust you to put a quarter or more in for each magazine you take home.

that part is wonderful, the bummer part is that when you are paying a quarter for donated magazines, they are often a bit outdated, and it was too late to send in my daughter's winning entry.

but it is so much fun, the cartoon caption contest. i've decided to subscribe today, in large part because i want to challenge and excite my daughter this way..

"we'll get you in the new yorker in 2008!" i've proclaimed. and already i can't wait for our first new yorker to arrive in the mail. my own goal is the publication of one of my poems..

the bar is set very high for both of us..

we wouldn't have it any other way.

i am still marinating in her words, her message, her presence

the lady to my left i think was representative of many others in the audience; a long time "speaker series" ticket holder, only vaguely familiar with the name Maya Angelou

so didn't i just beam when she asked me, "so why does the caged bird sing?" -because this gave me the opportunity to reach inside my red bag, pull out the complete collected poems, open directly to page 194 and let her (and her husband) read for themselves.

and i watched their facial expressions change as they took in her words, and listened to their whispered, wow's, and new that they, like my mom to my right, would be blown away by the presence, voice, personal stories, humor and inspiration of one of america's greatest poet's

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her life story is extraordinary, but it's how she delivers her message, how she so generously turns her traumas and blessings into bread and wine for all of us to feed and grow on

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i often think of Maya Angelou when i hear k.t. tunstall's song:

"she makes me feel like i could be a tower, big strong tower, yeah"

but here's the thing.. not only can she make us everyday people feel like we can be towers..

if you're feeling like dirt

she'll remind you you are the very soil; the foundation from which greatness can grow

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in the retelling of stories about her uncle willie, paralyzed on one side of his body, black and uneducated, living in lynchville, usa

we learn that this everyday black man, despite his significant obstacles, and with every good reason to be bitter and unkind, instead helped people much as he could with the limited resources he had

and as a result, extraordinary experiences and opportunities are bestowed upon his niece because, over and over again throughout her life, "your uncle willie was the only one who once helped...."

and as we listen in utter stillness, then laugh out loud, and wipe away occasional tears

a dormant truth is being awoken in each of us: our significance.

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the wide-spread, far-reaching, positive consequences of our smallest sincere gestures.

and she takes such beautiful, sweet time in giving due credit to all -the many, many neighbors, teachers, friends (and foes), family, police, congressmen, employers, staff, acquaintenances, on and on- who have touched and shaped her journey

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her journey - which includes being stuck on a train at around age 5 with her older brother bailey, each of them with only a tag around their wrist noting their grandmothers name and address - no adult supervision - but somehow arriving

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and the blessings from uncle willie's care and attention

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but then also a rape by her mother's boyfriend, who spent one night in jail, and only days later was kicked to death

and then - having realized that her telling resulted in the murder of a man,

for some 5+ years she is mute. afraid to say another word in fear someone else might be killed

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her journey - which includes falling in love with poetry, and the teacher who challenged her:

"you do not love poetry. you cannot love poetry until you sing it out loud and it crosses your own lips" -and how this helped her speak again "i left my voice, but my voice never left me."

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her journey - which includes great financial and emotional poverty, a teenage pregnancy, being the first black female cable car conductor in san francisco, traveling on broadway as a singer/dancer and playwright, helping side-by-side Dr. Martin Luther King Jr among others in the civil rights movement, one son, two divorces, traveling the world, learning seven languages, earning 60+ doctorates, careers in news/television/movies/radio, reading at clinton's presidential inaugration, national best selling memoirs and poetry and sold out, standing room only speaking engagements around the world

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her journey is poetry

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and she sings it for us, on this night, with this refrain

"i am human. and because i am human, nothing human can be alien to me."

a fresh version of "we are more alike my friends, than we are unalike"

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over and over, with grace and determination and humor and love she reminds us what we all have in common as human beings; always uniting; always shrinking the gap

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and in the hour and a half she captivated, educated and inspired she told so many different wonderful stories, and not in chronological, but in spiritual order it seemed

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there was a story about a mom who hugged her and cried "i want to thank you for saving my daughter's life" -which takes a wild emotional turn, because it turns out in the handwritten thank you for saving my life letter from this young, white, racist and suicidal girl, she also writes how very ugly and frightening she found Maya Angelou's appearance

and we feel deeply sympathetic.. taking into consideration Maya Angelou's 6ft stature and remembering the long, painful history of blacks ridiculed for their full lips and generous derrieres

she says, "reading that letter made me want to commit suicide!" and then follows that up with a loud, abrupt, burst of laughter

"oh, but if i was going to commit suicide, i wasn't going alone! i wanted to find that girl and help her get the job done"

and then the entire theatre fills with relief and laughter

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and a fun story too, about her leaving a high paying position w/20th century fox because of some derogatory statements made about blacks

how they offered to pay her more if she would just come back, but she kept right on walking down the hallway, past numerous executives and celebrities, out the door, one foot after the other, head held high, proud and determined to stick by her principles,

around the corner she goes, out the door, across the lot, marching to her car

and then realizes she left her purse with her car keys in her office.

"so i did what any proud women in my situation would do," she tells us wearing a bright, wide smile

"i hid in the bushes until everyone left."

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and weaved throughout these endearing and inspiring stories, she does not arrogantly recite but joyfully sings shakespeare, langston hughes, delighting us with her unique rhythm, breathing new life into the overlooked and forgotten

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reminding us how we are each and everyone, free to do our own composing

compose our lives, our families, our communities, our world

every thought and gesture a note that carries on.

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she was thanked with a long and loud standing ovation.

she is 78 years old now. there is no calculating how many lives she has touched and transformed in this short time frame, but i'm grateful to count myself, my mom, my children, many students and several friends among them.

sorry i didn't get a chance to meet you in person. you were a handsome one, i'm sure you don't mind me sayin'. -and i only missed you by a decade or two

anyway.. i'm going to write a 2 page application, applying new criticism theory to your road not taken poem

i have a special place in my heart for that one, having sprung from it in my, number 5, neurotictransmitters poem. -made you laugh didn't i.

well you make me laugh too. yelling at me the way you did

i was barely thinking to myself.., how this poem is more often referred to as "the road less traveled" poem. barely started wondering if, given the chance, and given the public's response, you would change the ti

"NO!!" -no worries mr. frost. that came in loud and clear.

The Road Not Taken it is.

and if i'm not mistaken -and you've yet to correct me- road not taken is about our misguided sense of free will, yes?

it feels like we have a choice... a decision to make between things

feels like, especially if we stand there long,

turn our head in two directions and

contemplate before we move

feels like free will doesn't it. feels like we make up our mind, when in reality, our mind is already made up

if you're programmed to explore... pre-programmed to explore

there is no decision. only action, awareness and story.

it's brilliant; road not taken. Road Not Taken. statement. period. fact. robotic report.

road. not. taken.

and the rest is poetry. i hear your song in the last stanza (one i borrowed from thank you) but am still working on finding your rhythm in the beginning & middle

i think i might be adding/subtracting syllables inappropriately. feel free to let me know.

i'm grateful for self-interpretation and all that, but would like to hear it the way you heard it in your head when you composed it.

sincerely,

sandra, all ears, kay

" oh, i kept the first for another day!

yet knowing..."

-very clever mr frost. enthusiastic insight

time for a beer with my sister. you are welcome to join us

an anthology of stories, poems, and creative non-fiction written and told by people who write and tell stories at livermore's 4th street studio

and the release party was yesterday; at tenuta vineyards!

http://www.tenutavineyards.com/

now, i am guilty of creature of habit driving, and always on isabel from vineyard, i turn left.. head down to concannon, make a right.. look for the collection of winery posts; follow the signs and wine taste down the sunset strip of wineries: tesla, maybe branch off to mines. but never before have i turned right on isabel.. so this release party quite literally took me in a new direction!

and what a beautiful drive! what magnificent views!

the poetry and short story readings took place, not inside the beautiful and festive wine tasting room at tenuta, which several of us would visit afterward, but inside the warm and gorgeous home of tenuta's owner: nancy. what a treat to drink wine, snack on cheese and crackers (and brownies!) and get lost in the words and stories of fellow writers who all read with such passion and authenticity, standing in front of a gently hypnotic fire in a rather grand fire place; with easy access views to mount diablo, the vineyards, the landscape and sky in general. and on such a gorgeous november day!

blessed we are.

i have some idea that printing and publishing this anthology is no day at tenuta, so want to of course thank karen hogan and selene steese; wingspan press

i love so many of the stories and poems in this anthology, and still have many left to read. but it does come easy for me, choosing one as my favorite to capture on this blog. the reason it is easy, is because the first time i visited 4th street studio, this particular poem was read by its author, and it just entered me so directly. the message and rythm reminded me, i think, of maya angelou's work, and so my attachment was immediate. not just to the poet & poem, but to 4th street studio and the saturday salons. and i've heard her read it at the century house, and then again at this reading. i am so happy to see it officially published. and prior to her reading it, she said something like.. "hope i don't have to read this again" and i thought.. please no. each time there is something new to learn. i hope she reads it again and again (midnight train to georgia); the more ears the merrier...

i pledge allegiance to freedom
by charan sue wollard,

we are americans, free to be who we are,
to say, love, vote and pray who we are,
to shout, march, lie down in the streets who we are,
to wear ribbons of many colors who we are,
to wrap ourselves in flags or chadors who we are,
to cover our heads with mantillas
or yarmulkes or dastarrs who we are,
to write poems, sing songs,
dance in the streets who we are
grasp hands from sea to shining sea, light candles,
hold silent in earnest vigils who we are,

(and the rest can be found on page 284/285 in this anthology).

i feel bad i didn't get to hear everyone read, arriving not until 3pm-ish, and worse, that i can't remember everyone i did get to hear.. but i do remember:

selene steese: always wonderful and straight from the core of her soul
tom darter: theatrical, relatable, funny
peter bray: wonderful love story.. true appreciation of life; family & romance
frank thornburgh: always engaging, original, so candid and as a result: very funny.
and, feel terrible... met you, can see you in my mind, but sometimes fail with names.. but you read discarded things for the author/judy clement wall. you were the perfect person to read this aloud! you gave this story so much life! i loved every word! and the writing/reading made it so easy to see the entire movie in my head. to feel it/experience it. ~wonderful. and i totally understand and appreciate: not every writer wishes to publically read. that is why i am extra grateful for people like yourself

and oh my goodness! david hardiman.. you were hilarious! obviously you are one of those people who speak AND write with equal talent. i've not seen, heard or met you before, but i have read your work.. i kept thinking to myself... that name seems familiar... and when i returned home and looked, sure enough... it was your piece titled identity thieves strike god, that was my favorite in the 2005 anthology! please consider me a fan.

and, slightly intimidating to read after you! -but elevating also.

and cynthia patton! i want to tell you this... i was glued to every word. how you used words, shaped this story at the pace you did, conveyed the intensity of emotion through the behaviors, actions, scenes, dialogue. it was just magnificent. and the thing about creative non-fiction is that, at the same time i can be awed by the writing skill, the whole experience is deepened when i realize throughout that the story is not just craft; but a very real human experience. congratulations and thank you!

and frank: thank you for your good company and encouraging words. look forward to knowing you better. perhaps come creative collaborations lie ahead... or mischief. or both.

thank you for your hospitality to: nancy and rich.

arrived home with a bottle of serendipity (chardonnay/pinot noir) and zinfandel; good memories behind, good book ahead, and what i hope is just the beginning of a long & rewarding creative writing career.

oh please i pray. ~amen.

california poet laureate al young!

**

well, how spoiled am i? Maya Angelou, elizabeth gilbert, al young; three national treasures in a row! and didn't al young keep us all mesmerized and entertained with his stories about poets, teaching at standford, traveling to egypt, how musicians listen differently and .. oh! darn!... the curse of the "i" poem

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because what did i bring for open mic -of course! an "i" poem. and not just any ol' "i" poem... a rhyming "i" poem. and as i've learned from attending several of these events over the past couple years... rhyming poems are right up there with bell bottom jeans i think. so to read or not to read?

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better just listen.

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and, how can i describe this? it's like crunchy, twice baked, delicious biscotti; his stories... dipped in a fresh cup of your favorite java; his poems. you can enjoy each one separately, but together, and live! in his own voice and cadence, surrounded by livermore vineyards outside, fellow poets inside. it was church after church for me.

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and, as i shared with my children: al young has a visible sparkle in his eyes. i saw it when he autographed my copy of his book: the sound of dreams remembered. and it says: for you sandra, (poems 1990-2000) of the lovely light; with warm wishes, al young. and he has such a formal, artistic way he signs his name; his A and Y remind me of asian calligraphy.

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and then as i sat, the following day, at coffee beans and bistro downtown, under the warm sun with a beer! (they serve beer now! i'm so excited) and a tuna salad, and the sound of dreams remembered, all i could think between each poem and sip of beer and bite of salad was: somebody pinch me! this peaceful, fulfilling life so in contrast to everything before.

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so, of course, it's all good. and as with any book of poems, there are always some outside my understanding/life experience. but there are always others i relate to so directly, or just appreciate so profoundly for the way they capture an experience and feeling with such beauty and rhythm. sometimes i might not understand an entire poem, but there are still lines within that poem; some combination of words i fall in love with. this happens often for me in al young's collection. i plan to read through again with a highlighter in hand, but at the bistro i just dog-eared several pages for my blog. among my favorites:

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(blog format prevents me from matching al youngs line breaks here/and case does not match either. but the words/in order/as written).

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mmmmm. love that one.

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some 30+ people read during open mic at the wine and words event, founded and hosted by livermore poet laureate, connie post. and, i am very glad to include myself among them. i did not chicken out after all.

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a personal goal of mine has been to read, at least once, each poem from my first collection of poetry titled beautiful fish, out loud and in front of an audience. there are 12 poems in my collection, and reading #4, chocolate rain, at this event makes it so i only have 2 more to read out loud to achieve my goal.

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chocolate rain was as fun to read as it was to write. i asked for al young's forgiveness in a way in advance of reading it by saying something like this:

"almost chickened out because i brought an "i" poem." and he said right away to me

"that's okay. i write "i" poems too." (immediate relief!)

"and here's the thing," i said, "the first person i read this out loud to was my dad. when i finished he said, "oh! sandra! you are not the only one to feel that way!!" and i thought -excellent/great!- because if we poets are going to write "i" poems, hopefully we are doing it in a way that allows lots of other people to relate. i do agree that the "i" in a poem should actually be a "we" or "us" in spirit and meaning."

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chocolate rain received a positive reception from the audience, and al young gave me a big smile. after the event, he said this to me:

"you know.. the problem is that you were trying to tell god what to do.. you can't tell god what to do. and the other problem, the devil... well, it was not the devil.. you are your own devil. --you are the devil," he said with hearty laughter and that sparkle in his eyes.

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warm handshake goodbye /delighted i will see him again on the 31st at the pleasanton poetry and prose festival.

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thank you connie post for hosting!

thank you al young for sharing!

thank you frank thornburgh for picture memories & dinner w/diane lando too!

thank you kirk ridgeway for your poetry & enticing encouragement!

thank you all poets for reading/sharing!

for listening/supporting/encouraging me with kind words and laughter

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no place i'd rather be on a gorgeous sunday afternoon.