Wanda Coleman : Harriet the Blog : The Poetry Foundation

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As a poet and writer, still struggling in the woeful margins of our society, gathering the courage and mustering the time to participate on HARRIET has been challenging. Too, being born on the cusp of the first Baby Boom—a post-WWII generation that refuses to kowtow to Father Time, but many of whose intellectuals remain stubbornly recalcitrant in their embrace of cell phones and computers—has caused me to be more than skeptical as I’ve wrestled circumstances, trying to accomplish the task. Contemplative time, insisted upon by some of our finest bards, has always come at a premium in these quarters. When stymied, I hear my father’s Robesonlike commands: “Don’t think about it. Do it.” Or “Get a move on, Big Girl.” Or the softer proverbial tut-tut, “Rise and shine.” In humble quarters where money was eschewed over aesthetic values and love of one’s art, avocations and motivations are reexamined in haste and awe. When reading about the legalized white-collar theft of corporate billions, it’s tough not to feel bitter. The adage “changing the world” presumably for the better rings hollow, until names like Buddha, Martin Luther, Jeanne d’Arc, or Mahatma Gandhi fire in the synapses. But on this very American literary terrain, poets and writers are usually not religious leaders, and rarely become political leaders, if an occasional poetry lover becomes President. Forums online appear to have become a permanent way of progress, fostering the ongoing human dialogue in amazingly unanticipated ways. It has been a privilege to participate.

01.31.09 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (1)

Wanda Coleman

WHAT TILLIE OLSEN TAUGHT ME

Would that cultural, literary and community action panels were less about self-promotion (my book, my poem, my looks), more about the issues at hand—a true dialogue, if in brief, under the pressures of public scrutiny—and less dull (like those unfortunately bookish or ill-spoken, if deserving, souls who appear so frequently on C-SPAN). Perhaps it’s the unmitigating circumstances of tinny PA systems, indifferent microphone placement, and banquet rooms where acoustics were never a thought let alone an afterthought. Given 40 years of technological advancement, the phenomenon that gave birth to the phrase “talking heads,” should have more greatly improved. Focusing on content, it was writer Tillie Olsen (Tell Me a Story, January 14, 1913-January 1, 2007) who taught this once shy and tongue-tied poet the value of not being an aggressively well-spoken advocate while under the kliegs. (See http://www.thetillieolsenfilmproject.com/.) The occasion was a Los Angeles writer’s conference panel circa 1978 that also featured Sci-Fi writer Robert Silverberg. I was fairly burning to score points about the difficulties faced by young Black writers, but stewed as Olsen, high off the success of her best-selling Silences, overrode my inarticulate self-consciousness and Silverberg’s diffident sourness. Rather than be angry or resentful, I took the experience to heart and revamped my public persona. Grateful, if still shy in her light, I looked her up in 1989, thanked her for the lesson, and got my copies of her books autographed.

01.31.09 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (2)

Wanda Coleman

ON ORAL WORD— BEAT TO “DEAF” JAM SLAM

Slams—once the bane of poetry, if the boon of grungy environs, has left the barrooms and stormed academia, as the first conference on hiphop and rap took place in Norfolk, Virginia at the turn of this century. Still—the Def Jam generation has yet to produce giants as impressive as Ginsberg, Kerouac and Kaufman, although it has been a joy to see the spoken word so enthusiastically refreshed. One of my favorite moments of being blasted out of my ears took place in the sweaty confines of a Pacifica radio booth when Austin Straus and I interviewed Jack Micheline (aka Harry Silver, November 6, 1929 – February 27, 1998), on our defunct Poetry Connexion program circa 1995. Feverish in his delivery, Jack forgot himself, sprung up from his chair and began to swing his arm as he sang his paean to Kerouac with the reverence of a Bau gong. The Naropa Institute, in the dedicated hands of Beat survivor Anne Waldman (the eye of the falcon, on fast speaking music) fosters the oral tradition as well as the written. In my playbook, the Tracie Morris “musical poet” experience ties with Ayisha Knight (until, empowerment records), a deaf poet who redefines the art. I laugh out loud whenever I “hear” Ralph LaCharity’s electrifying “Bob” poem, performed at the “post-Beat,” “pre-hiphop” Bisbee, Arizona poetry festival. Say what one may say about “the oral tradition,” connecting to another’s humanity via living forums is an unparalleled event, regardless of venue, place or time.

01.30.09 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (9)

Wanda Coleman

BELATED VALENTINE

Needing a quote for a project in 2006, I tracked down Eileen Kaufman, wife and amanuensis to poet Bob Kaufman (the Black Rimbaud, April 18, 1912-January 12, 1986), with the help of San Francisco’s Kush Cloudhouse. She was in an assisted-living facility in the Richmond, California area. After a number of false starts, we finally connected. She was pleased to grant my request, and I said that I would send a permissions letter with SASE. I did so, twice, but never heard back. Further research revealed that the rights were owned by a publisher, and subsequently I obtained them. Too, I suspected, from previous experience, that mail was often lost or forgotten after its arrival to homes for the elderly for reasons other than staff shortages. A year and a half later, in February of 2008, I happened to be in the Bay Area on business. Accompanied by my husband, Austin Straus, we decided to look up Eileen at the El Cerrito Royale, one of the classier senior centers. She was getting along splendidly and looked great. Having visitors from out-of-town aroused envy in nearby peers, as we chatted in the dining room, where a band played old favorites and ever-spry residents fox trotted and waltzed. We brought Eileen up to date on contemporary poetry scenes, then I presented my gift—the book in which Bob was quoted. As we started to leave, she took my wrist, leaned forward and smiled fiercely, “Wanda, let ’em all know I’m STILL kicking!”

01.30.09 PERMALINK | NO COMMENTS

Wanda Coleman

A NATIONAL MUSEUM OF POETS & WRITERS?

In the mid-90s I became aware of competing factions writing proposals for a museum celebrating American poets, from Antoninus to Zukofsky. I did not keep up with their progress—if any. It was a great idea, although criteria for such an edifice might prove a nightmare, given the diversity and pettiness of American poetry. Too, if I had my druthers, I’d further broaden the idea to include writers of fiction, and memoirs—since literary writers tend to be among the least rewarded if often the most remembered, quoted and paraphrased. Walks and halls of fame and the like have sprung up across the nation only to die. Outside the Library of Congress, art museums frequently provide evenings of poetry and slams, usually hosted by literary organizations. University enclaves like the Lillian Vernon Creative Writers House at NYU, and centers like Cave Canem abound. Sometimes, cultural centers like Milwaukee’s Woodland Pattern or Just Buffalo in upstate New York constantly rededicate themselves to honor The Muse. The National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum includes a cowboy poetry archive. Salem College in North Carolina boasts a Literary Hall of Fame, and even Venice Beach, California, more widely known for muscles and bikinis, has its Poet’s Walk. Who would finance such a venture and where should it be located? What kind of public would enjoy what kind of exhibits or make use of its archives? Who would be inducted and who would be overlooked?

01.29.09 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (8)

Wanda Coleman

MY OWN PRIVATE INAUGURATION

It is January 20th, 2009 and I am here. I come from every state and territory, and from all over the world. I walked, I bicycled, I hitchhiked, I drove by car, I flew by plane, I rode the A-train—I watched on TV and listened on the neighbor’s radio. I am the millions who made the hajj to Washington, D.C., recorded and documented—bona fide witnesses of The First. My coat is raggedy, my coat’s fine, mine is a cloak of dreams. The future blows blithely from the White House, the Library of Congress, the Lincoln Memorial, and from the mountaintop. I am drinking in the wine, the water, the milk and the glory. We eat donuts, pizza, share sandwiches, dine in grungy cafes and upscale restaurants, we don’t have anything but potato chips, candy bars and manna, but we are all sky high on hope. I am warm, my head is elated, my heart is full, my feet are on clouds, my soul is with Aretha. I watch the parade and go to every ball. I groove to “At Last” on shining parquet, gleaming tiles, the beat-up rug, in mosh pits and the streets (they play the Beyoncé version but I hear Etta James). I gather memories on camera and buy everything collectible. Then I gather myselves up for the struggles ahead on the road that goes on-and-on, that eternal journey home, smiling so hard my face breaks with justice. We gots happy tears and wild wild laughter.

01.28.09 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (2)

Wanda Coleman

ASK

Black History Month approaches, and, it seems, is amazingly becoming a daily affair with the election of Barack Hussein Obama as our nation’s new president. I have never seen so many identifiably African-American faces on programming outside of BET, if most of our females look like White women dipped in molasses. This is both boon and bane. The positives are many and obvious, so I’m skipping them to focus strongly on one rarely discussed negative: People don’t ask when people don’t know.
I can’t count the times I have been embarrassed, lost a budding friendship (even a job opportunity), or gotten into life-threatening trouble because of the assumptions others make about me based on skin color, grade of hair and gender. Between ages 13 and forever, I have often entered a situation and immediately been handed a doobie, offered a line, a rock, or a glass of imbibe without being asked if I indulged. In every instance, I was met by a stranger who knew nothing about me and had not read my work. How I handled it depended. Learning diplomacy under such conditions has been quite the education.
The most recent incident took place two months ago in an insanely busy hospital emergency room, when the young intern taking my medical history cozied up to me and said, “Come on—you can tell me about the marijuana.” Looking at my dreadlocks, her body language inferred that she wouldn’t rat me out but needed to know if she were going to do her best to help me. (I had been severely burned in a home accident). “Damn,” I smiled, “I could use a joint right now! I haven’t had a good toke in decades. I simply can’t afford it anymore.” End of discussion.

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01.24.09 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (12)

Wanda Coleman

OF POETRY AND A-HOLES

In recent history, some insulting moron called films the poetry of our era—deaf to the thousands of poets who raise their voices daily, hoping America, and perhaps the world, will hear. The chilling, if not complete silencing, of contemporary American poetry at peak bloom is an awful thing to watch. Educational factors are too numerous to mention; however, the insistence by the mainstream that poetry sell, the death of independent bookstores, book reviews, and the overall throes of a publishing world that must revamp or die, is brutally ugly. Current economic crises are drying up funds for artists in general, poets and poetry specifically, even journalists, as “little” publications go under and poetry festivals are cancelled—laureates, the NEA, and the best efforts of arts councils aside. No surprise. It began in the late 1980s with declarations by major newspapers that poetry would no longer be reviewed and, ironically, corresponds to the birth, growth and ascension of The Internet—not that poems of all quality, schools and tastes, can’t be accessed in cyberspace. Some of that thrives. But immediate and unfettered doc.com democracy has also meant that anyone, with enough chutzpah, money, and site hits, may affect or direct literary currents—those of poetry, fiction and any other writing with or without the authority that comes with genuine knowledge and commitment. Any ignoramous can become a literary honcho without having earned the chops. In this kind of arena artistic integrity will get you nowhere.

01.22.09 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (24)

Wanda Coleman

OBAMA MEMORABILIA

I hadn’t given it a neuron, but a month ago Chicago native and poet Glory Roberts Warfield (distant cousin of opera’s William Warfield) alerted me about the significance of items even vaguely related to the President-Elect—magazines with Obama covers were being snatched off the racks and store shelves. Ho-hum but hmmm, I thought. Glory had been a wonderful literary resource until we lost track 12 years ago. We reconnected at the 2008 Los Angeles Times Book Festival. In and out of a wheelchair, she survived two strokes and now lives in assisted-care. When freed-up, we go for memory lane “strolls” over chicken-on-the-run, margaritas, or old stomping ground drive-thrus. Between visits, I send copies of Jet as requested. When we talked December 22nd, she wanted “The special collector’s issue of Ebony!”
The next evening, after shopping for Christmas dinner, I scanned the magazine rack. Obama stared into infinity on the last two copies. Delighted, I placed them in the mobile cart and trundled for check-out. As I juggled coupons and cash, watching the cashier ring me up, I noticed a young Sistuh standing in front of the bakery rack off the exit, watching me. I looked at her and she smiled. Physically, she seemed a junior version of myself, thick-bodied with shoulder-length straight brown hair in a loose ponytail.
“Merry merry and happy happy,” I smiled back.
“Can I have your cart?” she asked politely, hands clasped shyly behind her back.

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01.14.09 PERMALINK | NO COMMENTS

Wanda Coleman

FOR POETRY LOVERS WHO DIG THE MANIC

This favorite link may be old news to some, but I was delighted to be hipped to the Caroline Bergvall Dante poem, “Via”, sent courtesy Dr. Natasha Saje at Westminster College, Utah. Received with pleasure. Enjoy….
Here’s the link: http://mediamogul.seas.upenn.edu/pennsound/authors/Bergvall/Bergvall-Caroline-Via-2004.mp3

12.28.08 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (2)

Author Archive

Wanda Coleman

FEAR OF BLOGGING

Wanda Coleman

WHAT TILLIE OLSEN TAUGHT ME

Wanda Coleman

ON ORAL WORD— BEAT TO “DEAF” JAM SLAM

Wanda Coleman

BELATED VALENTINE

Wanda Coleman

A NATIONAL MUSEUM OF POETS & WRITERS?

Wanda Coleman

MY OWN PRIVATE INAUGURATION

Wanda Coleman

ASK

Wanda Coleman

OF POETRY AND A-HOLES

Wanda Coleman

OBAMA MEMORABILIA

Wanda Coleman

FOR POETRY LOVERS WHO DIG THE MANIC

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