Armenian Cucumbers and How to Hypnotize a Chicken

Jentel Presents, the monthly presentation and reading done by the artists in residence, went wonderfully. We had a crowd of about 30 plus people in the local bookstore in Sheridan and the proprietress P. was a delight and set out plushy chairs and a lamp and created a stage for us. My fellow artists did beautifully and my reading went quite well. I read all new poems and they were received with delight. I was nervous because they are all about wildfires and this community really goes though it in the summer (two people died just a few weeks ago from a local fire). But the book sales (12!) told it all.

It was the first reading I’ve done in a while when I didn’t read a vegetable poem. It felt wonderful to be slowly leaving that part of my poetic life behind and beginning something new. Of course, I’m still a veggie devotee. The next day J., D., and I journeyed to the farmer’s market where I bought the biggest cucumber of my life. Armenian cucumbers are enormous and sweet and juicy. Even the big ones retain their delightful summer lushness. My chicken muse enjoyed riding this one with the help of J. (see picture).

And, since the chicken was out and about, S. graced us with stories of her upbringing in Napa where she and her sisters hypnotized their chickens. "It requires great gentleness, swiftness, and the ability not to laugh." She could, on a good day, before they got wise, line up 5 in a row, on their bellies, beaks pointed in a straight line. (see pictures with the gracious chicken muse, now prop)

Two of the people who came to the reading were the farmers who grew the cucumber. They saw me approaching their booth and said, “It’s the poet!! It’s the poet!!” with such glee I wanted to buy everything they were offering (their tomatoes are some of the best I’ve ever had anyway).

Sheridan, Wyoming: fantastic produce, generous people, cowboys with huge belt buckles that tip their hats when you walk by, cowgirls with sequined belts and tight jeans, bountiful sky, great thrift shops, and a community that digs poetry. What more could an artist want? Thanks, Jentel. Thanks, Sheridan. A girl couldn’t feel more welcome.

When All Pistons Do Not Fire, AKA Creative Funkdom

It has been 3 glorious weeks at Jentel and I've written more poems than I can believe (over 40). In a little more than 21 days many people here have experienced at least one or two days where the work just would not come. In a community environment such as this often those days were the same ones for each artist. The fiction writer, B., that I share my studio with, had a day when nothing was working. I could hear his curses mix with the gurgle of the river. That was the same day when two of the visual artists were stuck as well. And, then, well, I too fell victim to a brief time of drought.

Generally, while I believe it is important to nap, hike, and relax when the work isn't coming, I also believe in forcing the creative process a bit. Or, rather, sneaking up on the muse and pinching her butt. This can be accomplished in many different ways. Here, in Wyoming, I spent one day just hiking with the goal of getting as high as I could on the 1,000 acre wilderness. I recited lines of poems while hiking, shouting them to the wind, re-configuring their cadence and which syllables were stressed when, and whispering them to the grasshoppers. Then, I stripped and swam in the river (check out the river and my studio space with bones, etc. found on hike), letting the cool water have its way with my rigid intentions.

A few days ago was another day of general funkdom. So, I took off with my fellow artists to town and bought a bunch of colored chalk (while they stocked up on paint and rollers and cow figurines). The lovely J. gave me glassine paper (transparent, crinkly paper) that I layered on the mirror in my writing studio and plastered pictures to and wrote all over with markers (see picture). The huge paper gave me the freedom to write large, swirling words at a diagonal, all in caps, etc. The texture of it against the mirror glowed like a fire. Glittering and ready.

The visual artists graciously allowed me to use the big chalkboard in their studio common space and I wrote poems all over it in different colors with the knowledge that I could, and would, erase them shortly. This destruction gave my work a rapidity and intensity that mimicked the fires I was writing about. I wrote with the flat side as well as the pointy side of the chalk. The words themselves seemed to vibrate in the clouds of chalk dust. I added a friend’s musical score (check out picture) to the center of the board and wrote around it, under it, on it. The notes pulsed as the chalkboard bent and thumped against the wall under the pressure of my writing hand. The muse returned through the hills on a wild purple horse whose hooves pounded the rolling hills to crimson dust.

And then we had a glass of wine.

Arriving

Yesterday marked the beginning of my second week at my Jentel Residency in Banner, Wyoming. And, amazingly, it also marked the beginning of what feels like fall coming on here. Morning and evenings so cool I actually close the window to my bedroom. The residency is phenomenal. I feel incredibly thankful to be here.

The woman who runs things around here, L., is particularly wonderful. A real tall, beautiful Western woman with a great dog, Josie, horses and that ability to make you feel like there is nothing she can't handle. The place itself is spectacular, the bedrooms and bathrooms HUGE and full of color and antiques from around the world, the common room and kitchen large and full of light, and I get my own writing cabin (see picture) with woodstove, bookshelves and a recliner and blanket (where I've already taken one blissful nap).

There is a library, complete with ladder and computer, napping space under the main stairs (see picture of pillow insanity), mail area, laundry room, and a recreation room with so many movies it took the crew 30 minutes to pick one the other night. I heard The Scent of Green Papaya's lyric flute score wafting down into the kitchen as I made tea.

The crew consists of: J., a sculptor/painter from Baltimore who has an obsession with food consciousness, corporations, sculpy clay and optics (you peer into her little vial-contained clay-sculptures and discover a whole world), S., an abstract landscape printmaker and sculptor from Oakland who uses everything from ground up rocks and wild grasses outside her studio to pictures of rattlers devouring birds in her work, B., a fiction writer from Florida (who is originally from Alaska) whose work is bittersweet and incredibly funny, K., a painter from Oregon whose work is unbelievably visceral, is working entirely out of yellow and puts "bad" paintings in "time-out" at the edge of her studio, D., a landscape photographer originally from the Wisconsin, now in Louisiana, who specializes in disasters and has work of incredible precision and texture and me, the poet.

They are a wonderful, generous, gentle group of people who all pitch in to do the dishes and make dinner. After this first week we've gotten into a rhythm of knowing who stays up late working (me), who gets up super early (the fiction writer), who makes the best baked eggplant (S.) and who drinks the most wine (darn photographers). We've hiked together to the top of local peaks (see pictures) and spent time searching the bowels of local thrift stores for a pair of perfect cowgirl/boy boots (mine were $15). I am continually delighted to find myself paired with a group of artists who are so knowledgable, kind and darn fun to be around.

Yesterday after lunch we sat around and K. and S. compared stories from the 60s and 70s in New York, most of which are not fit for this blog!! S. told me about meeting Anais Nin at a friend's house, how she sat so proper and French and drank her tea with pinkie raised.

The days are spent working diligently on our projects (I've written about 20 new poems with at least 5-6 worth saving so far), walking the hills, biking on the ridiculous cruisers, wearing our orange vests when we leave the property or to make a cell call a mile up the road, and driving into Sheridan and the surrounding towns for a bit of local life. Sheridan is the closest town, with horse saddle makers, a good steak house (that we'll try out this weekend), a cute little coffee shop and a nice farmer's market, where the tomatoes are luscious and the cabbage bright.

Every morning I make my thermos of tea and work for several hours before emerging for my afternoon hike. Most of the artists take time for a swim in the creek or a nap or both. At night the sky fills itself with silver starlight and the smell of the alfalfa fields rises up all earthy and sweet bidding us to sleep well and dream wildly.

Them Bones or Antlers

Yesterday in my dance class we had a substitute teacher who wanted us to focus on our bones as we danced. We did a lot of jumping and shaking, the general “rattling of bones” kind of thing. And then we did these lovely circular movements with our arms and legs in space where the teacher asked us to still focus on our bones, but as light or liquid, as if they contained the ocean. It was a really enjoyable class, the mixture of rigidity and fluidity manifested in the body.

A few days ago I found a set of antlers outside my house (hence the photo). They were bleached by the sun, Georgia O’Keefe-esque. All of these things together got me thinking about art, in particular poetry and what the “bones” are for a poem. Many poets I know out here rail against form. They place their poems all over the page; they don’t pay attention to meter or line breaks. They don’t have the intentionality I believe that is needed for a poem to have backbone. These things are the poem’s bones.

A good friend of mine, S. Heit, is a master at the combination of these things—both maintaining form and allowing it to breathe a bit. As if her bones were unconstrained by skin. She places poems at the edge of a page, down towards the lower-left corner and they seem to sigh in place there. Land, if you will. She places them all along the left margin, beautifully spaced couplets and you have the sense that the lines are perfectly balanced in space like shelves ready to hold something. I’ve been thinking about form a lot lately in terms of the collaborative work I’ve been doing with several musicians. Their music seems to give me permission to break my usual form. Seems to demand it almost, as if my words reflect their music only when I use all the available space on the page. But, I still want each phrase to have vertebrae, to use all 207 bones of its body. I’m working on this and I’m thankful to have the opportunity to work with music to help me break-free from my previous poetic dance. By the way, S. Heit is a dancer. Perhaps all poets should dance to better see their words and ideas in a space larger than what fits in a printer.

snakes and desire

Today I saw my first rattlesnake of the season. Usually I see them outside my house or on a hike (pictures of yesterday's hike and Sabine), but today the snake was slithering through a residential yard. The home owners had let their grass go wild and meadowlike, and I guess the snake was happy to find something familiar amongst all the manicured lawns nearby. It rattled at my dog and I and then quickly disappeared into the tall grass. I caught just the end of the rattle and its deep diamond coloring, like a desert from an airplane. All the varied shades of brown and gray laid out in overlapping checks.

Unlike a lot of people around here, I'm not afraid of snakes. Cautious, yes, afterall, the first snakes of the season contain the most venom. But, I view seeing them as a call to summer. To heat and desire. They come out only after everything on the surface has warmed up sufficiently. As if spring itself was foreplay. I was wandering around the Boulder Bookstore today and noticed how every book seemed to be about this sense of arousal. Books on the bargain shelf had titles like: Hunger, Desire, Jumping Across the Table, Purple Passion, etc. It got me thinking about intention and creativity. Do we, as artists, create, unconsciously even, what is most needed in the universe? Are we, if we allow ourselves to open enough, conduits to something that is lacking? My full collection is all about desire. As I roamed the shelves I couldn't help but observe the fact that this issue seems to be on everyone's minds at the moment. Maybe it always was and I'm just now aware of it. Like the snake. Waiting in the grass, till I walked by and it rattled at me. "Hello, I'm here, notice."

Return

I've just returned from 3 glorious weeks at the Atlantic Center for the Arts where I spent my days with lizards, carpenter bees, giant spiders, armadillos, and, oh, yeah, over 20 of the coolest visual artists, poets, and musicians I have ever met. Once my website is up and running again (having been down for over a month now), I'll post photos and some poems as well. Let me just say that the experience was heart-bursting, mind-widening and all around amazing for me, both as a poet and as a human being. Whew! I'm still having a bit of depression around all those fantastic poets, visual artists, and musicians not living down the street from me. I can't walk 5 minutes and have a cup of tea with each of them whenever I want? Justice? I think not.

The residency was thick with Southern air, a bit of heat (in the form of early morning chili pasta, the usual weather variety, and smokin' music, poetry, and art) and the sound of creatures greeting spring. I've been writing non-stop since I returned home. Everyone was so incredibly inspiring, both in how they live their lives with such artistic intention and how they create. So many of them have choosen a life where their central focus is their art. My writer and musician friends here in Colorado almost all have full-time jobs and "fit" their art in, but the ACA crew were, by and large, composed of people who do the opposite. Completely fantastic. I'm even thinking of cutting back on my cooking clients a bit, so I can begin to make my own artistic switch.

I'm still a bit raw with the buzz of those 3 magical weeks, but mostly what I feel is hope--for art, for truly seeing other people for the beautiful ones they are, for the ability to create meaning out of the chaotic stew we are all thrown into. I'm hoping I will continue to feed this fire in my chest, to make and make and make and never tire of it.