CalloftheWild:TheCalltoPoemDearWriters!Thankyouforjoiningme!Hereinpleasefindagenerous

assortmentofmaterialallgatheredtoofferandinspireyoutoWriteto

YourEdge!ToWriteWild….impassioned…free…Tocreatejuicyandvivid

workthatwillrockyouandyourreaders!Let’sGO!xxxxJudyth

Poetryismywayofimpassioned,diligent,beautymaking;singing,asbest

Icanonanygivenday,theworldtogood.

Butneverattheexpenseofthepoem.Allegiancetopoem,andletting

goofwhatwewanttosay:thisistheheartofwritingwild.

JeanCocteau:"Thepoem,likethemoonmustadvertisenothing".The

poemmusthavenoaxetogrind,nosalespitchtomake.

Audensaidpoetrymightbedefinedas"Theclearexpressionofmixed

feelings."

Inprose,goodprose,wegoforward,butinpoetry,verse,verso,we

mustturnandturn.Andride,heartinourmouth,thecurlingwaveof

thatturningtowardswhatistrue.

Poetrycanlivewithitsownconfusion,ifyousayitclearly.Whatelsewill

cutyouthatgoodadeal?

OkOk.Butthequestioniswild…howdowestaywildinourwork?

Aroundtheyear1000,theJapanesewomanpoet,IzumiShikibu,wrote

thisfive-linetanka:

Yes,thewind blowsterriblyhere– butmoonlightalsoleaks

betweentheroofplanks ofthisruinedhouse. —translationbyJaneHirshfieldThistellsasecretinfloodsofcoollitnight-wisdom.Whenwemoveout

beyondtheshelterofthehuman-madeworld,weareplungedintothe

transformationalmoment—thatflash-panofrelationwheneverything

canhappen.

Andwhatisitthathappens?Quitesimply,revelation—butofwhat?Of

thevividactual,theplacewhereweare:theplacewherewedon’tknow

what’snext…..ourownEdge.

LucilleCliftonsaid,"Abirddoesn'tsingbecausehehasanswers.Hesings

becausehehasasong."Poetryallowsusafirmperchonthesolidground

ofinquiry.Let’smakeahomehere!

Poetrydoesn'thaveto"work",theferociouslymisusedwordofpoetry

workshops.Poetrydoesn'tneedajob.

Wehaveajob:thebardhasajob.Thebardhastostopbeingbusy.The

bardhastoaskafteryourAuntSophie,andnoticethefirstvelvetybudsof

thescruboaksinlateMarch,thatexactgreenlikenoneother.

Thebardgetstolistentoallthegoodgossip,thecrunchoftiresongravel,

owls’ low call, and the hush after wind sweeps through the canyon

ponderosa.

Thensingsitbacktothepeople,storiedalive,repletewithseasonsand

phasesofthemoon,theflavorofapricots,yourbestkissandthearoma

oftoastthatmorning,inlanguageyouhavegivenyourallto…

Poetryistheexultantstateoftheecstaticallyunemployedwhowork

likeliliesandironworkers,hardandgorgeously.

It’sthebestnon-workyou’lleverdo.

Andifyou'vebeencalledtothisjob,honey,youbetterdoit.

Slam?Ifyoumust!Perform?Yourcall!Publish?Don’tperish!

PoetryisthesmallI,thebigWE.It'sthescentoftheimaginarywafting

offthesensuouscurvesofrealbread.TheEverythingMattersSchool:my

almamater.

Poetryischarmbracelet,linkingourconnectiontothecheetah,thered

tail,Pascalflowersandbotryoidalslopesofmalachite.

It'sfactsandfiguresandyourNana'schickensoup,andherrecipefor

matzoballs,andit'snoneofthose.

Forgetyourself!Thenremember!It'stheself,firingjustrightwiththe

world,agoodoxygenmix.

It'ssimple:andnot.It'sthegifteconomy’sdistributaryfunction;you

givebecauseyouhave:that’showabundanceiscreatedandspread:

artistsnotas“gifted”butgifting.

Poetrywantstomakeasoundintheworld;weneedtobethefirstears

onthescene.

It'stherightinthebody,outofyourmind,straightfromtheheartreal

thing.

SylviaPlathsaid,“Poetryisthebloodjet”;Isay,it’sthelifeline.

AliceWaterswrote,“Everypoemisathankyouletter,anIOUanda

complainttothemanagement”.

Isay,StayWildandWriteOn.

CallofTheWild:StayingSolidintheMystery

Flow from your growing edge. ~ Sally Kempton

Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net -Pablo Neruda

A writer is not so much someone who has something to say, as he is someone

who has found a process that will bring about new things he would not have thought of if he had started to say them. That is…he engages in an activity that

that brings him a whole succession of the unforeseen! ~ William Stafford

Gravity is the root of lightness, Stillness, the root of movement .~ Lao-tzu

Poetry’sdeepwellspring,silence,isoursource,as,actuallyever:themagnificentSufipoet,Rumi,whowanderedtheNearEastinthe13thcentury,closesmorethan500odeswiththeword,khamush,thePersianwordforsilence. Ode#1888ThereissomekisswewantWithourwholelives,thetouchofSpiritonthebody.Seawaterbegsthepearltobreakitsshell.Andthelily,howpassionatelyItneedssomewildDarling!Atnight,IopenthewindowAndaskthemoontocomeAndpressitsfaceagainstmine.Breatheintome.Closethelanguage-door,Andopenthelove-window.Themoonwon’tusethedoor,onlythewindow.InhiscollectionofRumi’swork,“LikeThis”,translatorColemanBarksdescribestheplacetheseecstaticGodfirepoememergefrom:aplacewherelonginggetspushedoverintosilence,andheasks,“…isitoneplace,thevergeoffireandwordlessness?”

Thisisaplacewecanwritefrom:aspontaneous,unhurriedunfoldingintoapassionatecurrentofwordsatumblin’,andatthesametime,anintensitythatsealsthelips,andopenstheears,theheart.Whatisittomakeapoemthatholdthepossibilitiesofmovinginsidethese“opposite”places?Thisbroughtmetothinkingoflisteningasthedeepecologyofwriting–aplaceinitself...So,let’smakeapracticeoflistening:invariousplaces,takingbroad,spaciousnotes,and“Notice”,asAllanGinsburgsaid,“Whatyounotice”.Eachday,takeyourself–and,alternately,findyourself-somewhere:thewoods,onamountaintop,yourkitchen,alaundromat,thegrocerystore,anattic,abasement,byariver,atalivelycafé,nearapooltable,atakirtan,abaseballgame:andlistenintently.Separatethelayers,farthersoundsfromcloser,louderfromquieter:noteconversations.Watchyourpulltowardsstory:letonecomeifitdoes&followthatTale!!!!!Letyourawarenessofsoundfillyou,andbegintolistenforthequietbeneath,thehorseofsilence,thesoundsride.Letthatqualityunderthesoundsgetstrongforyou–itstimeframesandrhythms.Begintoaddspaceinyournotesforthese.Nowtakingeach,oranyofthesewritings,workonthem:effortlessly,lettingaformemerge.ShenT’sungCh’ien,aChinesepainterwrote,“WherethingsgrowandexpandthatisK’ai,wherethingsaregatheredup,thatisHo.Whenyouexpand,thinkofgatheringup–andtherewillbestructure,andwhenyougatherup,thinkofexpanding,andthenyouwillhaveaninexpressibleeffortlessnessandanairofexhaustiblespirit”.Interestingscienceexperiment!Isitsoforyou?AhugeandimportantmovementinPoetryisbeautifullydetailedinthe1950essay,“ProjectiveVerse”,bypoetCharlesOlson.Therehetalksaboutthis“new”waytomakepoems,apoetrythatrepresentsthepoet’senergy,andwherethepoemactsasafieldinwhichforcesareatwork,thatthepoetcloselyattends,andfollows.Howthepoemappearsonthepageallowsforthepouringoutofandreplicationofthepoet’sspirit–andthepoem’snecessities–onthepage.Thus,formisbothanextensionandreflectionofthepoems’contents.Apoet’sdiction,syntax,linelengths,Olsonsays,arealldeterminedbythepoet’sindividualrhythms,pauses,andbreath.ProjectiveVerse,issomethingwealmosttakeforgrantednow!

But–let’splaywiththis-focusingonspontaneityandimmediacy,whereoneperceptionleadsassociativelyintothenext–andthepoethasnostrategyorideaofwhatwillcomenext–&yourwritingshowsyouyourwriting!Letthepoemtellyouwhatit’stellingyou-determiningitsowngrowth,developingitsowndemands,andasthewriter,servethatliving,breathingbeingasitcomesintoitsownnecessaryskin.“Fall”,Rumisays,“towardstheGlassblower’sbreath”.Stand,andwalk…stride…breathe!Swingyourarms!Movemovemove…loosenedup?Relaxed?Now,divein!Letthewordsfallonthepage,allowthewordstoseekandfindtheirspacing,theirownsweetlyself-desiredclusters,sothatpoemsingsitswayin,andanyreadercanpickitup–andreadexactlyyourcadencesofquiet,ofaccelerationandslowingdown.CharlesOlsonhugelyinfluencedtheBeats-GarySnyder,especially.Here’sanexample:Burningthesmallbranchesbrokefrombeneaththickspreadingwhitebarkpine.ahundredsummerssnowmeltrockandairhissinatwistedbough.sierragranite;Mt.RitterBlackrocktwiceasold.Deneb,Altairwindyfire.Snyderletstheworldsingalmosttransparentlythroughhispoems;bythispayingofsuchintenseattentiontohisownlistening:wehearthroughhim,andthepoetdisappears.Letyourpoemsridetheirownwindsonthepage,andmayyouridethesewindsinjoy!

NextarethePoems&Exerciseswewillworkwith…..

Pablo Neruda 1904-1973

Ode to Salt This salt in the salt cellar I once saw in the salt mines. I know you won't believe me but it sings salt sings, the skin of the salt mines sings with a mouth smothered by the earth. I shivered in those solitudes when I heard the voice of the salt in the desert. Near Antofagasta the nitrous pampa resounds: a broken voice, a mournful song. In its caves the salt moans, mountain of buried light, translucent cathedral, crystal of the sea, oblivion of the waves. And then on every table in the world, salt, we see your piquant powder sprinkling vital light upon our food. Preserver of the ancient holds of ships, discoverer on the high seas, earliest sailor of the unknown, shifting byways of the foam. Dust of the sea, in you the tongue receives a kiss

from ocean night: taste imparts to every seasoned dish your ocean essence; the smallest, miniature wave from the saltcellar reveals to us more than domestic whiteness; in it, we taste infinitude. Ode to My Socks Mara Mori brought me a pair of socks which she knitted herself with her sheepherder's hands, two socks as soft as rabbits. I slipped my feet into them as if they were two cases knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin, Violent socks, my feet were two fish made of wool, two long sharks sea blue, shot through by one golden thread, two immense blackbirds, two cannons, my feet were honored in this way by these heavenly socks. They were so handsome for the first time my feet seemed to me unacceptable like two decrepit firemen, firemen unworthy of that woven fire, of those glowing socks. Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation to save them somewhere as schoolboys keep fireflies, as learned men collect sacred texts, I resisted the mad impulse to put them in a golden cage and each day give them birdseed and pieces of pink melon. Like explorers in the jungle who hand over the very rare green deer to the spit and eat it with remorse, I stretched out my feet and pulled on the magnificent socks and then my shoes. The moral of my ode is this: beauty is twice beauty and what is good is doubly good when it is a matter of two socks made of wool in winter.

An Ordered Chaos: The Sestina This intricate poetic form is a wonderful, playful exercise to stretch skills, work with dominant images in a given subject, or watch fascinating connections form, as totally disparate images cycle and re-cycle through the poem. Writing a sestina is a fabulous way to surprise ourselves with random wild things we say because the words are pulling us across the page! Select 6 words and number them 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. A sestina is a seven stanza poem in which the first six stanzas has six lines, and ends with a final, seventh stanza of 3 lines (a tercet). The selected six words are the end words of each line, and they permutate in each stanza, in the following pattern: 1 then: 6 then: 3 then: 5 then: 4 then: 2 2 1 6 3 5 4 3 5 4 2 1 6 4 2 1 6 3 5 5 4 2 1 6 3 6 3 5 4 2 1 In the final tercet, one of the words appears in the center of the line, and the other at the end, in this order: 1 2 3 4 5 6 So, this is how we work with the words: Number them: kimono (word 1) shadow (word 2) teapot (word 3) cinnamon (word 4) doorway ( word 5) fish (word 6) Then - this is so fun! - and please try both: set up a grid for the poem on your computer or in your journal. The computer allows a certain alacrity, an extra blast of careening energy to the poem. For your computer, write each word at the beginning of a line, in the proper order of repetition, and skip a space for your stanzas. Put the cursor in front of the word, and begin to write your line, pushing that word to the end. In your journal, write each word at the end of the line, in the pattern of Sestina, and fill in the rest of words until you get to it! For example: A painter dances in skywhite kimono Her wintery sleeves cast lunar shadow In evening’s quiet sings the teapot, Green ginger, clouds of cinnamon Swim past the silvered doorway: A sheen, a shine, scales of fish. Today she painted many fish As if the canvas were kimono As if silk was really just a doorway And brushes only solid shadow. Arises from her work, fragrant cinnamon That never came from any teapot. And ends: She wears her kimono as if a shadow She offers the teapot, with its veil of cinnamon You’ll enter her doorway, as if a fish.

Roll Over & Write! OK!!! Here is how this works: Pick a subject that has many subsets…like Furniture: Dining Room Table, Armoire, Easy Chair, Desk…or Kitchen Appliances…Blender, Cuisinart, Coffee Maker, Mix Master… Or Make-Up: lipstick, eye shadow mascara…blush…. Countries: France Holland, Spain…Poland… In Italy last year, I did local cuisine ingredients: olive oil, balsamic vinegar, red wine…It doesn’t really matter what the “subjects” are; the important part is to select “subjects” that do not (on the surface) feel like they carry a huge psychic charge. This clears the ways for the gently-stirred-awake consciousness to come towards the subject with a certain availability and openness. You could use song titles, or Chapters titles, from a book. You write the topic for the morning and five anythings from your Poetry Cupboard – or anything you want in: a place, a fragrance and a weather, on the top of a fresh page in your notebook, and when you go to bed, place a pen there, to mark your page. Place the notebook right next to you, on the nightstand: very close by! Very very ABSOLUTELY first thing when you wake up, (barely open your eyes…no bathroom yet!) you open your notebook and write for 7-10 minutes, and let the writing take you somewhere uncharted, unplanned..unknown….adding in, these 5 things from your Poetry Cupboard and, of course WHATEVER COMES TO YOU!!!!! THERE IS NO Wrong Way to do this!!!! OK?! OK! Write as you will, write as you desire! Every morning…before you get out of bed: you have written…and you necessarily Live a Writerly Day!!! Ok? This is a GREAT practice!!!!!! Have Fun!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!