shake it, sonia sanchez

[sara]

Last night the hubby and I went and had some beers and then headed off to hear Sonia Sanchez.

My professor friend, the lady who had cancer (in remission!) and who gave me books when I was kid, sent me two tickets and a little newspaper article -- no note, just FYI, scrawled in her masculine handwriting.

So we went and on the way there the hubby asks, is there going to be any wine? And I say, no, there should be, but I'm sure there won't be.

And there wasn't. It was a terrible room. Bland, not even academic, just void. Harsh lighting, grey, neutral walls and floors -- sort of dead space. I guess it's safe to be cold and generic when designing these rooms, but they are uninviting. Anyway, someone was selling her poems by the door, and the hubby asked if I wanted some, and I said, I don't know, I haven't heard her poems yet. But afterward, he said how many do you want? And I said as many as you can buy.

This is the thing though. Her poetry, should be heard not read; she has a rich, smooth voice, and she laughs while she's reading; she works into a melodic cadence and you almost miss what she's saying for listening to how it sounds. You just can't buy a book and hear it.

After she read her final poem from Shake Loose My Skin, my husband, and this is my guy who wanted to go see Starsky and Hutch instead, said, she‘s awesome.

Maybe we liked it just because she spoke to the part of us that has been so sad lately. I mean, she knows about hate, but she's talking about love -- it felt good.

Here are some excerpts from one of the poems she read, but this isn't going to do justice to her and her voice:

This earth is hard symmetry
This earth of feverish war
This earth inflamed with hate
This patch of tongues corroding the earth's air
Who will journey to the place we require of humans?

I turn away from funerals from morning lightening
I feast on rain and laughter . . .

What can we say without blood?

I came to this life with serious hands
I came observing the terrorists eyes moving in and out of
Southern corners
I wanted to be the color of bells
I wanted to surround trees and spill autumn from my fingers
I came to this life with serious feet -- heard other footsteps
Gathering around me
Women whose bodies exploded with flowers . . .
Little by little we shall interpret the decorum of peace
Little by little we shall make circles of these triangular stars
We shall strip-mine the world's eyes of secrets


McCutcheon mentioned writers talking about post September 11 in their work -- everything I read recently makes me disillusioned -- sometimes I feel like I just want to burn my books out of sadness -- or never crawl back out of the cave. I need things like women whose bodies explode with flowers and sex that starts in the mind.

Mark, I would love to have seen your reaction to her -- she gave out her phone number, three times, and told the audience to call her, to have their young people call her.

[mccutcheon]

Sarah, this is the best post I've read this year. i got shivers on my body. nipples hard and all that. and tell that husband of yours that when Burnt comes out and I personally bring a copy to your doorstep the drinks are on me. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!

[marky]

Happy Birthday Sarah! That's powerful poetry. Reminds me of how Pluto recently went into retrograde. Secrets get revealed.

[sara]

Mark, Pluto in Retrograde would be a cool title to a poem -- secrets revealed -- write a poem, Mark, please

Spring, National Poetry Month and Pluto! I can think of no one better in the spring than the goat-footed balloonMan (it's only thinking. Your pardon if I err.) Your pardon also if you think ee cummings is obnoxious -- but goddamn it's been a beautiful spring day.

In Just--
e.e. cummings

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

[mccutcheon]

sarah, at the small book press fair I went to some people said as far as marketing in the US goes literal fiction is the new poetry. and I love your poetry and the joy you get from it. sarah, submit your poems to pax acidus. we are now interactive and takinf submissions.

[sara]

this place is breaking my heart tonight -- what is going on? It's exploding I think. Thank the good lord, on my way in, I saw that Tommy is here.

I have erred -- pardon!!

I think I've been misleading -- and I think, you, you goat-footed balloonMan are giving me way too much credit -- I should have said that the poem is in Just by ee cummings. And you are always going to be the pan of paxacidus; now whistle, chase nymphs, and frolic