"Spoons" by Caroline Harvey

I fell in love with Caroline Harvey and her work in Austin in 2005. She still ranks up there with of the strongest female poets I've met on the national poetry slam scene.

Committed to a life's work of cultivating creativity, awareness and vibrant health, Caroline Harvey is an artist, educator and somatic therapist in Boston.

Caroline laughs when recalling that her imaginary friend as a little girl was the moon. One of her other earliest memories is of leading a meditation about "floating on the ocean" for a group of first grade friends at a slumber party, and she still has the feather collection she began in preschool.

A passionate communicator with a natural fascination for words and expression, Caroline began writing and performing plays, poetry and short stories as a child. Also a lover of movement, Caroline enjoyed formal dance classes for many years and continues to dance as often as she can. Her parents remind her that she was never very good at following the rules she didn't agree with; she skipped past both the third grade and her last two years of high school and at 16 she left home to follow the Grateful Dead around the country. Caroline then relocated to England where she studied creative writing, art history and philosophy at Oxford Tutorial College.

In 2002 Caroline was awarded a master’s degree in dance from University of California Los Angeles' Department of World Arts and Cultures where she wrote and performed a thesis about somatic healing, the witnessed and felt embodiment of intuition and a cross-cultural examination of sacred art. She dove into her studies, exploring anatomy, movement therapy, choreography and site-specific performance, the politics of the body, and many movement techniques including the sacred practices of Afro-Cuban dance and drumming. Both the renowned movement artist/choreographer Simone Forti and the celebrated theater revolutionary Peter Sellars sat on her thesis committee. While at UCLA she also studied at the Department of Theater, Film and Television where she served as a choreographer for films and was the Teaching Assistant for many of the "movement for actors" courses.

Additionally, Caroline holds a BFA in theater from Boston University where she graduated Summa Cum Laude and won the Dean's Award for Academic Excellence. Caroline is a devoted student of health and yoga pioneer Ana Forrest and is a graduate of her Foundational, Advanced, and Continuing Educational Forrest Yoga Teacher Trainings.

She feels incredibly lucky and wholeheartedly indebted to the many pilgrims, elders, family members and mentors who have led the way and lit her path.

A dedicated teacher, professional artist and health practitioner for over a decade, Caroline currently works as a yoga, dance and meditation instructor & workshop leader, a doula (birth attendant), and is in private practice as a somatic Therapist in Boston, specializing in Craniosacral Therapy. She is the creator of Sacred Groove, an ecstatic dance practice, Awakening the Yogini: Extraordinary Yoga and Education for Women, and CranioYoga, the artful synthesis of Restorative Yin Yoga and CranioSacral Therapy. Caroline also teaches two voice curricula, Free Your Voice and Embodied Poetics.

Caroline also teaches and performs poetry nationwide. She was featured in two documentaries and appeared on Season 5 of HBO’s Def Poetry. A past member and coach of multiple Poetry Slam Teams and currently the Poetry Mentor at Berklee College of Music, Caroline has been a part of victories on both national and regional stages. She is especially committed to facilitating creative writing classes for at-risk youth, survivors of trauma and those working to get free from drug and alcohol addiction and she recently completed a poetry and visual arts project, in conjunction with The Attleboro Arts Museum, for teens in foster care called "Between The Lines." She is honored to have been featured at schools and organizations such as YouthSpeaks, The Esalen Institute, Bristol Community College, Northeastern University, UC Berkeley and UCLA.

Caroline's writing, which tracks her belief that even the fiercest traumas contain within them the capacity for profound healing and beauty, has been published in various literary journals and anthologies including the 2005 National Poetry Slam Anthology "High Desert Voices" and the Harvard publication "The Charles River Review." She is currently working on a new collection of poems based on the women Salvador Dali painted and a book about her most recent travels in Asia and Central America.

She continues to collect feathers, to be curious, questioning, pioneering and wild, and she hopes never to stop talking to the moon.

"Arizona Summers" by Buddy Wakefield

I first met Buddy Wakefield in Arizona during his 2003 tour. He's always been a bright spot in the national poetry slam scene, if not for his bright and enjoyable poetry then for his sheer enthusiasm in performing. He's passed through Phoenix and Flagstaff numerous times, but one trip through Sedona brought him to the house of my former roommate Rebekah Crisp. One of the best times I spent with Buddy was shooting the shit in her kitchen for a few hours, talking about life, poetry and Crisp's eclectic collection raw foods and spices.

Seeing him make out with Daphne Gottlieb in the lobby of the National Poetry Slam hotel in St. Louis in 2004 was an odd thing, but totally sweet.

Buddy wrote "Arizona Summers" about his tour through our lovely state, and yes, we are out of our goddamn minds to live in this state.

Buddy Wakefieldis the two-time Individual World Poetry Slam Champion featured on NPR, the BBC, HBO’s Def Poetry Jam, and most recently signed to Ani DiFranco’s Righteous Babe Records.

In 2004 he won the Individual World Poetry Slam Finals thanks to the support of anthropologist and producer Norman Lear then successfully defended that [arbitrary] title at the International Poetry Festival in Rotterdam, Netherlands, against the national champions of seven European countries with works translated into Dutch.

In 2005 he won the Individual World Poetry Slam Championship again and has gone on to share the stage with nearly every notable performance poet in the world in hundreds of venues internationally from The Fillmore in San Francisco and Scotland’s Oran Mor to San Quentin State Penitentiary, House of Blues New Orleans and CBGB’s.

In the spring of 2001 Buddy left his position as the executive assistant at a biomedical firm in Gig Harbor, Wash., sold or gave away everything he owned, moved to the small town of Honda Civic and set out to live for a living, touring North American poetry venues through 2003.

He still tours full time and considers annual Revival tours with Derrick Brown and Anis Mojgani, as well as separate tours with Ani DiFranco, to be the highlight of his career thus far.

Oh and the first time he performed with Saul Williams… that was pretty much awesome in the face.

Born in Shreveport, La., mostly raised in Baytown, Texas, now claiming Seattle, WA as home, Buddy has been a busker in Amsterdam, a lumberjack in Norway, a street vendor in Spain, a team leader in Singapore, a re-delivery boy, a candy maker, a street sweeper, a bartender, a maid, a construction worker, manager of a CD store, a bull rider and a booking agent. Wakefield is a growth junkie, elated son of a guitar repair woman, wingman of Giant Saint Everything, and remembers Kirkwood, NY.

Buddy, a Board of Directors member with Youth Speaks Seattle, is honored that his work is published internationally in several books and has been used to win national collegiate debate and forensics competitions. An author of Write Bloody Publishing, Wakefield is known for delivering raw, rounded, high vibration performances of humor and heart.

THERE IS NO ACCLAMATION FOR THIS ARTIST…

…except for the time one of Buddy’s hero’s, Benjamin Morse, called him “Monster of Energy, Keeper of Hope, Friend of My Soul…” That was a good one.

MORE ACCURATE BIO:

In the Fall of 1984 Anchor Bay Entertainment released a movie called Children of the Corn while Buddy lived in front of the corn fields near Niagara Falls, New York.

This traumatic event (coupled with extensive exposure to Kenny Rogers and Lionel Richie) may or may not have led to Buddy becoming a sensitive poet puss who plays marbles in the trees, listens by talking and keeps fingers on pulse.

"The Kurosawa Champagne" by Derrick Brown

Derrick Brown is one of my favorite slam poets. His poetry builds metaphorical constructs that I often find beyond brilliant and he conveys a sincerity in his delivery that is hard for other slam poets to emulate.

I met Derrick Brown when he toured Flagstaff in 2001 and I have seen him on stage a few times since. In 2003, I gave him a sofa on which to crash for three days during a tour through the Phoenix area. He gave one of the best features I have ever seen in Flagstaff around 2005.

Azami has recently discovered his tracks on my iPod and fallen in love with them, specifically "The Kurosawa Champagne" and "A Finger, Two Dots, Then Me."



The Kurosawa Champagne
By Derrick Brown

Tonight
your body shook,
hurling your nightmares
back to Cambodia.

Your nightgown wisped off
into Ursula Minor.

I was left here on earth feeling alone,
paranoid about the Rapture.

Tonight
I think it is safe to say we drank too much.
Must I apologize for the volume in my slobber?
Must I apologize for the best dance moves ever?
No.

Booze is my tuition to clown college.

I swung at your purse.
It was staring at me.

We swerved home on black laughter.
bleeding from forgettable boxing.

I asked you to sleep in the shape of a trench
so that I might know shelter.

I drew the word surrender in the mist of your breath,
waving a white sheet around your body.

‘Dear, in the morning let me put on your make-up for you.
I’ll be loading your gems with mascara
then I’ll tell you the truth…’

I watched black ropes and tears ramble down your face.

Lady war paint.

A squad of tiny men rappels down those snaking lines
and you say;
“Thank you for releasing all those fuckers from my life.”

You have a daily pill case.
There are no pills inside.
It holds the ashes of people who died

…the moment they saw you.

The cinema we built was to play the greats
but we could never afford the power
so in the dark cinema
you painted pictures of Kurosawa.

I just stared at you like Orson Welles,
getting fat off your style.

You are a movie that keeps exploding.
You are Dante’s fireplace.

We were so broke,
I’d pour tap water into your mouth,
burp against your lips
so you could have champagne.

You love champagne.

Sparring in the candlelight.

Listen—
the mathematical equivalent of a woman’s beauty
is directly relational
to the amount or degree
other women hate her.

You, dear, are hated.

Your boots are a soundtrack to adultery.
Thank God your feet fall in the rhythm of loyalty.

If this kills me,
slice me julienne
uncurl my veins
and fashion yourself a noose
so I can hold you
once more.

Derrick Brown, a former paratrooper for the 82nd Airborne, gondolier, magician and fired weatherman, now travels the world and performs his written work. From Nashville, he is dedicated to bringing American poetry into rock and roll status.

And, yes, he was a weatherman in Flagstaff ...


Brown has consistently been the opening act for Indie rock act, Cold War Kids and has been booked with The White Stripes and performed with Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. His work has been featured in books with Jeff Tweedy of Wilco, Billy Corgan of Smashing Pumpkins, Viggo Mortensen, Jeff Buckley and Jim Carrol.

As one of the most original and well-traveled writer/performers in the country, Brown has gained a cult following for his poetry performances all over the United States. and through Europe. A poetic terrorism group has taken to sticking and tagging his metaphors across the globe.

To date, Brown has performed at over 1,200 venues and universities internationally including The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, La Sorbonne in Paris and The Nuyorican Poets Café in New York City.

Known for a moving show that incorporates spoken word, minimalist music, and even sound effects, Brown is unique for being an outstanding performer but is foremost a page poet. He has won the California Independent Book Critics' Award in 2004, and his performance poetry has won six first-place poetry slam finishes in Venice Beach, England, and Germany.

"This is a suit " by Joaquín Zihuatanejo

Names are important. Some names have a heritage that can create a powerful poem. Dallas poet Joaquín Zihuatanejo, whom I heard in Austin, Texas, in 2004, wrote this poem about his name, Joaquín, that relates to a Chicano culture figure.

Joaquín Zihuatanejo is a father, a husband, a poet,a spoken word artist and an award-winning teacher. He was born and raised in the barrio of East Dallas where his grandfather, Silas C. Medina, showed him what the novelist, Rudolfo Anaya, describes as the Path of Light.

Through his poetry he strives to capture the duality of his culture, the Chicano culture. His is a mestizo culture that is steeped in duality, and in his poetry he depicts the essence of barrio life, writing about subjects as varied as his grandfather's garden, the experiences of a youth that was plagued by gang violence, a heritage that is steeped in sacrifice and borders.

Zihuatanejo writes of borders that are both actual and metaphorical, borders that plague a people seen as immigrants in their own homeland. Zihuatanejo is a member of the 2004 Dallas Poetry Slam Team and a Grand Slam Spoken Word Poetry Champion of Dallas. Zihuatanejo and Dallas Slam placed third out of 60 competing teams from the United States, Canada, and the United Kingfom at the 2004 National Poetry Slam competition in St. Louis.

Zihuatanejo performs his work at various conferences, poetry recitals, and poetry slams throughout the country. He competed in the Step to the Mic Spoken Word Competition in Stockton, Calif., finishing in the top 10 out of some 100 competing poets. As well as being a featured poet at the Austin International Poetry Festival, Zihuatanejo's work was published in the 2004 Di-verse-City Poetry Anthology. He has been the keynote speaker/performer at several conferences related to issues concerning Mexican-Americans. He has self-published two collections of poetry, "Barrio Songs" and "I of the Storm" and has completed his first spoken word CD, "Barrio Songs, A Spoken Word Collection." He has had the privilege of being selected as the poet to open up for award winning poet and novelists Maya Angelou and E. Lynn Harris at their recent recitals at universities in the North Texas area.

Zihuatanejo currently lives in Denton, Texas, with his wife Aída, his two daughters, Aiyana and Dakota, and their two guinea pigs, Pancho and Cisco.

"The Drunk Guy’s Dick" by Mikel Weisser

"The Drunk Guy’s Dick"
By Mikel Weisser, of Kingman

Written March 14, 2009,
read at the Sedona Poetry Slam
on Saturday, March 20

So,
We see this drunk guy
Fucked up
And there he is
Pissing against the wall

Understand,
It’s New Year’s Eve
And it’s right at midnight
And our evening of party has fallen to fighting
And right at the stroke too,
Right at the stroke
So we go outside for air
And there’s this drunk guy
And the drunk guy’s dick

Understand
It’s not just any old wall
And not just any old time
He’s two feet from the front door
Of this crowded downtown bar
And it’s midnight + 30 seconds
The first new minute
Of the New Year 2005
And he’s pissing right at us
It’s splashing on our shoes

Happy Fucking New Year and all that

As I remember it now
And I do remember it
Now and again
I remember we were fighting
Did a lot of it that night
Don’t remember much else of the evening
But I do remember the drunk guy’s dick

Which is kind of annoying

That puff of graying copper wool bursting out of the jean vagina
The nodes and veins
The black of his nails
The way the 2 finger hold of his
Failed to steady the hose
And the shadow on the shaft between them
That odd angle of the Moyle’s work

The arching steam
Neoned globules
Sprinkled into the pavement in a fog
The intensity of his exhale as he released

Huh!

His eyes were closed in concentration’
It may’ve been the best feeling of his entire life
Meanwhile it’s downtown in a state capital on New Year’s, you know?
Cars were cruising by honking
Yelling about New Year’s
Squealing at the guy’s dick
Understand,
It’s Springfield , Illinois
Land of Lincoln, 5 blocks from Lincoln’s house,
3 blocks from the capital itself
It is right at the cusp
Of the next new era

And we’re dodging flying urine

Meanwhile the guy’s stream has reverse tributaried
Into several simultaneous vigorous channels
Blocking the sidewalk better than
Police crime scene tape.
The rivulets are rippling around
Cigarettes and holiday confetti

And those dirty fingernails
That endless urine stream
It must have been a 12-pack
It might’ve been gallons
It might’ve been better measured in acre feet per minute

And it froze me,
I was fixated
And at some point he sensed our staring
“Well, don’t just stand there looking.
What’s wrong with you people?”

He squinted harder and gave his stream more force

“Wrong with us?
You’re the one with your dick out
In the middle of the street.”

“Didn’t tell ya you had to watch”
He blinked once and then kept going

Meanwhile she was gone.

Saw her up the street
Snapped out of it
And walked on
Remembered we were fighting

I saw my wife walk away from me
While I tried to hopscotch through his tributaries
But I didn’t make it
I jerked and spasmed
To shake his pee off of me
And followed her into the darkening New Year night
While his bladder kept splattering
In the distance

And as I tried to follow my wife
As she kept receding
I kept remembering the drunk guy’s dick
And wondering why
I kept remembering the drunk guy’s dick
And what kind of a year
This kind of omen meant

The next day we were wary
And silent except for apologies to each other
We flew on home
And two weeks later
To the day
I picked up the phone and
Her mom was gone
And the world as we knew it ended then

Oh, we stumbled back to the town where the year had started
And things just kept dribbling downhill
By spring the estate was an uproar
By summer the money was gone
By fall they were taking our house
By December my wife took her life.

I woke one Saturday to find her dead and warm
In my arms
Her red-purple rose of lividity
Spread across her lower face
Like a drunk woman beaten
And her panties soaked somewhat
As her sleep slipped into something deeper

By New Year’s Eve I was broke from buying her funeral
And the lawyers and I
Were negotiating my upcoming eviction
I was returning from yet another trip to Springfield
And yet another funeral
I’d driven all day and into the night
The evening blurred into miles
Racing across the desert dark
Heading back home to a home
That was soon to not be mine
Mile after mile driving ‘home’ that way
Till somewhere west of Williams
I saw the apparition of a woman
White dress, white puppy, book in her hand
Splotched snow framing
The way her dress whipped in the wind
No coat, no hat, no luggage
Just ambling down the road
Lost in the middle of the darkness

I stopped and waited till she drifted to the truck
We hardly spoke the next 100 miles
She sold me her book for a twenty dollar bill
It was a battered old copy of “Pilgrim’s Progress,”
But not $20.00 worth of old
I’ve yet to open it to this day

I sat in my darkened living room
In time for my new year’s eve minute
I said nothing at all
There was no one to talk to

And now days the year of 2005 is long dead
And largely buried
In the ongoing stream of time
Most of the year is lost to me now
The way a charred trunk
Leaves only the barest hint
Of the tree it once might have been

Shards of events come back sometimes
The purple rose of that Dec. morning
Most present
Amid the random moments of watching
The life I had known be washed away
And the black under the fingernails
That wrapped round that drunk’s dick
Those lively yellow tributaries
That worked their ways to the gutter

And the taste of the instant I thought
What’s it going to mean
This drunk guy pissing on my New Year
And the forever wishing I had caught
The look on my wife’s face
As she stared
Before she started off into the night
That instant when she stepped across those streams of urine
And into her last New Year.

Mikel Weisser © 2010

From Mikel Weisser's "Over This Mountain"
Available for $10 from:
Cohillican Productions
4490 Sundown Drive, So-Hi, AZ 86413
yzurthemepark@gmail.com

"The New Material" by Mikel Weisser

"The New Material"
By Mikel Weisser, of Kingman

Written Sept. 7, 2000,
read at the Sedona Poetry Slam
on Saturday, March 20

Last night
I dreamt a group of scientists announced the development of a new material,
one that was all style and no substance.
Odorless, colorless, tasteless,
each of those things and yet none.
All style and no substance,
the implications were immense.

Immediately an investigation was begun to establish the practical applications.
I was called on to be part of the team installed to exploit
the unlimited possibilities of a material that was
all style and no substance.
And though I knew there were several of us on the team
I never saw anyone else’s face.

Of course, at first, we worked to apply the new material to its most logical application:
advertising.
It was the breakthrough we’d all been waiting for.
All style, no substance.
We could make a burger that glistened on the screen and touched the eternal longing to be filled,
yet left no cholesterol or mustard stain,
a car that felt as powerful as a five foot penis,
yet would not pollute nor deposit road kill,
a blond to make you buy diamonds and feel desired
yet offered no morning after after taste of age.

We sold cities to country folk, pastoral scenes to subway dwellers
and no one had to leave their one place to be the other,
for it was just a matter of style, not substance.
We sold intelligence to fools
and ignorance to the blissed
yet neither was stuck with the sense of responsibilities therein implied,
for it was merely a matter of style, not substance.
We sold cyber-sex to the celibate, strength to the weak
and non-dairy low-fat whipped topping to those who felt unadorned.
We dressed it up as everything, and it was loved by everyone,
and all of them clamored for more, more, more
and we gave it and gave it, and gave,
and it was never too much,
because it was all style and no substance.

So we tried to apply it in music
Size 4 singers in size 14 jeans wrapped their tonsils ’round it and poked out their belly buttons with pride.
Booming thugs puffed up their chests and clutched their 9s as if it were their crotches and bellowed how the material embodied their absolute essence without even requiring them to say “motherfucker,” as they swigged on their gin and juice.
Razor edged haircuts moshed each other into angst ridden pulp to vie for the honor of hammering home its three chords.

We tried it everywhere and soon it was everything.
All style and no substance, all style and no substance.
It was the mantra of our century.
It was at last a voice of reason.
And as I kept saying “we” I knew I kept knowing “I..”
I ogled the material, and coveted it, and felt shamed before its truth.
I praised it, I lusted it, I worshiped its freedom from failure, its purity beyond judgment.

Slowly and slowly I crowded the others out;
slowly and slowly I embraced and embodied the material.
Always to be in fashion, never to be found lacking.
All style and no substance,
always to feel my full fat face and never my emptying soul.
All style and no substance,
Slowly and slowly the institute faded,
and the world faded and eventually even the material faded and there was just me:
all style and no substance,
Just me and my mirror, all style and no substance.
just me and ever death closing in from the one side,
just me and ever life slinking off in the other.
All style and no substance,

Just me and the mirror, all style and no substance,
all style and no substance.
Just me and I cried and I reached and I woke—

and as I rose in my terrors I knew that that dream was truth,
for there I was in my mirror still.

Mikel Weisser © 2000

From Mikel Weisser's "A Simple Calendar"
Available from:
Cohillican Productions
4490 Sundown Drive, So-Hi, AZ 86413
yzurthemepark@gmail.com

FoxThePoet ranked No. 3 of "100 Best Poetry Blogs"

I got a nice e-mail on Sunday, March 21, ranking me No. 3 of the top 100 poetry-related blogs, above About.com and a New York Times poetry blog ... sweet. Many of these blogs also include great links to others' work:

Hi,
We posted an article, "100 Best Poetry Blogs." I just thought I'd share it with you in case you thought it would appeal to your readers. I am happy to let you know that your site has been included in this list.
Thanks for time!
Emma Taylor
Poetry Basics

100 Best Poetry Blogs

Poets have been some of the most respected and lauded writers in the past and even today hold a special place in society as they speak at inaugurations, commencements and special lectures. Whether you’re an aspiring poet, a college student or just someone who loves a good verse, you’ll find a range of poetry related help, information and inspiration on these blogs. Check them out to see what other poets are up to or just to learn more about the craft.

These blogs will teach you about poetry and help you keep up with poetry related news.

1. Poetry Hut: Find your poetry-related news here.
   
2. Poetry Dispatch: Check out this site to learn more about poetry events and poets to watch.
   
3. Fox the Poet: This poet talks about his own work as well as poetry events and writing on his blog.
   
4. About.com Poetry: This blog is a great reference tool for learning about poems and poets and writing your own work.
   
5. Paper Cuts: Visit this New York Times blog to hear about the latest poetry book releases.
   
6. Harriet the Blog: Visit this blog to hear about the Poetry Foundation’s events and projects.
   
7. Poetic Asides: Get insights into the process of creating good poetry with the help offered here.
   
8. Topics and Events: Follow this blog to learn about poetry and arts events posted by writer Alfred Corn.
   

Check out the entire list on 100 Best Poetry Blogs.

Last Grand Canyon Stop: The Watchtower at Desert View

The interior of the Watchtower
Desert View point
Looking toward Cardenas Butte and the Grand Canyon
We're in the shadow
Looking north toward Utah

Another lonely tree watching over the canyon

Looking east
From the observation walkout. Our last stop before heading home to Sedona. About 4 hours along the rim.

Navajo Point

Navajo Point

Cardenas Butte

Azami photographed this lonely tree from Navajo Point



Looking toward our final stop, the Watchtower at Desert View.

Lipan Point at the Grand Canyon

North from Lipan Point
NNW
NNE
The Colorado River is down there somewhere


The dark-walled canyon in the distance is more than 1,000 feet deep, deeper than most other canyons in the world, but dwarfed by the 5,000 deep Grand Canyon.
We're in the shadow, waving.

Grand Canyon's Grandview Point

Looking down into Grapevine Gorge

Lyell Butte

Azami at Grandview Point





The rocks where the ravens gather at Grandview Point

Azami at Grandview

I look ridiculous in Azami's winter hat.

The ravens flying high above Grandview Point

Azami and I at Pipe Creek Vista

Pipe Creek Vista
Azami at Pipe Creek Vista
Pipe Creek Vista
Looking toward Yaki Point and the South Kaibab Trailhead

Practicing my three karate stances:
1) The Crane

2) The Chicken

3) The Turkey

Enjoying the Grand Canyon

Other tourists complimented Azami's choice of early-morning wear.

The sun rising higher
The 500-foot cliff beneath Mather Point
The view toward Phantom Ranch
East toward Yaki Point