Poetry is a Verb! working theory:
1. All human beings possess creative abilities whether or not explored and utilized in their daily existence.
2. We define the Artist or Creative as anyone who practices or performs any of the creative arts; as one using the skill of creative expression in an artistic method.
3. The judgement of others in regard to the output and quality of creative work is arbitrary; based on individual and cultural bias, the historical time-period in which one lives, and an individuals background and belief systems.
4. Thus, no one (including the creative individual themselves) can accurately judge the artist or the work and its overall contribution to humanity.
Imagine the Past as a body
dressed sharp in black tux
arms open – stance solid
ready for the dance
Imagine the Present as a body
dressed elegant in red silk
arms open – face smiling
ready for the dance
Imagine the Poem as music
a slow rhythm
a four count – with husky undertones
of the ancient Mississippi blues
playing as they dance
Imagine the Past Present Poem
as the dance of life
drifting in time
toward the future
Only in the backwoods of Carolina
in the Year of Our Lord, 1982
would the marriage of a 23 year old man
and a 15 year old girl
make sense. And
Without a pregnancy, to boot!
No need for a shotgun
except we loved before we knew
what love cost,
the price exacted
as that first great flame of crush
burns low, embers left
You were my person of first things:
First trip to the mall
First dinner in a steakhouse
First trip to a movie theater
to watch romance
its union through Richard
and Debra in An Officer and A Gentleman.
All with you. Before then
I walked through gardens, picked peaches.
Motorcycle gangs and Jack Daniels drinking —
straight from the bottle — rape violence poverty
the three demons of daily existence.
You could save me
but it would take years to understand
the depth of that damage,
more years to know no one
could save me from myself.
I hated me years before you
with that cold-sterile hatred.
My promise of kindness
like that day I gave you
a shoulder rub, like
our first Christmas shopping
the mall in Charlotte, the night
I sat in the new pink nightgown
beside the Christmas tree and you
said I was beautiful. Then
I wished I could use your eyes
not those dirty broken lenses I owned.
And I wish the children knew now
How much we loved back then —
air to lungs, pulse through blood —
before they became the only us that endures.
Photo Credit: Sophisticate by Richard Young
We were always
for something we didn’t have.
Living on the kindness
from strangers —
the church folks
with the a dutiful goal
of giving to those
Wood stove for heat
Water from milk jugs
filled across town.
Too poor for water —
Looking with wonder
at houses where
the normal people
our outhouse symbolic
one terrace down —
wondering what it
to wear the normal life
and live in a common town.
Photo Credit: Bear Feet by Robin Lee Vieira
When I tell you that I will write
A poem for you. I am really saying
That you intrigue me and merit the attention,
The effort, and the focus required to write a poem
About you that examines your ingenuity
And your charm and the way you move like
Japanese steel wrapped in silk – a poem about you
Is also about the connection between minds, how
A person unknown becomes known. When two
People shake hands, when their eyes meet, in that
Millisecond, a choice is made: friend or foe or both?
Then comes the second choice: it is one of distance
That a poem about you would consider…how near
Does one step? Lean in and toward or pull away?
The moth would understand. Certain men like poems
Like sex fill the crevices of a soul in search of fire.
Beg entry into the core of our being. A poem
About you is a poem about sensuality, intensity, strength
And all those wonderful qualities that build a man
Into something a bit more, a little better, so rare and
Necessary that it makes women write poems about him.~
Photo Credit: The Celestial Consonance By Dorina Costras
Re-Post from February 2011:
“One should never write just to avoid being silent…. I feel a writer MUST write what is in his heart, and if there is nothing there of strong content or passion, then he must LIVE and EXPERIENCE before he can truly write….writing is, after all like art, simply sharing our passion with the world.” ~from a letter to my mother, April 2001
I believe that the best writing comes from deep belief, sincere passion, and a strong connective tissue between the writer and the written. These qualities allow great writing to transcend the particular time of its creation.
A writer suffering deep loss, of a child or spouse, will put that loss into the words of a poem or story. It is an intimate loss to him, but it is also a common experience, a shared sadness among other human beings. He will articulate the loss, others will read and identify with his words, the poem or story will always be his but will also become an independent identity in many ways. It will outlive him, or keep him alive, in coming centuries depending on your view. It has its own permanence.
This permanence, or legacy, is part of arts truth, so to speak. Most people can name a few classic writers and artists without great trouble (Shakespeare,Hemingway, Van Gogh, Rembrandt), but how many could name current artists? Very few could name the current Poet Laureate or a current popular painter. Artists understand, to some degree, that their work may well have more meaning and be worth more value in the future. A writer writes now with an eye focused a decade away. An artist creates now with the understanding that his canvass is more permanent than himself.
The artist is a creator. He excavates his emotional soul and pours deep truths onto the waiting page or canvass; he dissects and maneuvers the universal realities he sees as he lives, recasting and reworking them into a timelessness that becomes art. This art becomes a flexible representation of the universal passion of humanity and endures because of that kinship. He creates a legacy, an oeuvre, for himself that will eventually be all that remains.
Art is steeped in the history of it’s time of creation to some degree, but that is more reference point than anything else. The language, dress, and backgrounds’ may change, but the faces and voices are timeless. Eyes look out hauntingly with fear or joy, action takes place with a certain tone or with laughter. The experience is universally human regardless of the time period.
I’ve been writing this since
the summer my grandfather
taught me how to hold a blade
of grass between my thumbs
and make it whistle, since
I first learned to make green
from blue and yellow, turned
paper into snowflakes, believed
a seashell echoed the sea,
and the sea had no end.
~from the poem, Since Unfinished by Richard Blanco, in his book, Looking For The Gulf Motel.
Richard Blanco: Looking for The Gulf Motel
Richard Blanco is one of my favorite poets. He has the unique ability to transport readers into the vivid world of his life with simple and effective language. There are no high-brow obscurities or cloudy word association-meaning questions. Rather, Blanco is a poet who paints bright portraits of people and places, a narrator who brings voices with their individual nuances and personalities to life on the page. His poems are memoir vignettes that trigger deep emotions and lasting impressions for the reader.
I first heard Richard Blanco read poetry, like many other Americans, when he read the poem, “One Today,” at President Obama’s second Inauguration in 2013. The voice of the poet combined with the simple truth of the poem was entrancing. His reading was a beautiful tribute to the President and the country.
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper —
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives —
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem. /…/…
We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always–home./…/
“One Today” is standard Blanco, mixing the personal life experiences, the normal and mundane moments that give our days meaning, with the larger aspect of culture and country — the “we” of the now-famous poem a unifying cry.
The second time I heard Richard Blanco read his work was in May of 2014. It was a privilege to hear him in person while attending The Writer’s Institute program at Miami-Dade College in Miami, Florida. He read the title poem from his book, Looking For The Gulf Motel. Again, a unique voice mixing past and present, one and all, in a poem that reaches out to pull the listener into the magic that is Richard Blanco’s world.
A striking aspect of his world in Looking for The Gulf Motel is its complex duality: Tupperware, cats, and Blow Pops sit opposite being queer in the poem, “Queer Theory: According to My Grandmother.” Then, in the poem, “Venus in Miami Beach,” the eternal ocean opposes the human frailty of aging:
Once, as gorgeous as her name– Geysa—
once a girl chasing fireflies who hadn’t lost
her home and country, sisters and husband,
once a mother who watched me as I watch
her now, afraid of her alone with the sea.
Blanco’s Gulf Motel world, as with his other work, is one of diversity and mixture: cultures, locations, and experiences are all participants in a complex dance, intertwined with the dual realities that lie at the heart of being human and finite in a world that exists infinite after us.
It is the meticulous decoding of these qualities that reaches beyond the “normal” boundaries of poetry – an eclectic juxtaposition of past and present shared by a voice that knows every inch of it by heart.
Blanco opens his life to us in a way that brings us distinctly into that world. We live the moments with him, experience his love of this America, his closeness and devotion to his family, his confusion at the complexity of life — and the unique challenges that being gay and Cuban create for him. Heart is at the core of Richard Blanco’s writing.
Blanco’s loving heart is exemplified by finely detailed poetic craft. This love creates an articulately expressed depth of sentiment and clarity of emotion rare in American poetry today.
For further reading: