Stories & Soliloquies

Stories & Soliloquies
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    • Twin Poets Laureate: Social Justice and the Spoken Word

      Posted at 3:30 pm by Michelle Joelle, on April 26, 2016

      April is National Poetry Month. I’ve mentioned before that I haven’t always understood poetry, and that it has taken some very special poets to win me over to the medium. Last week I heard an interview on NPR’s Radio Times of Nnamdi Chukwuocha and Al Mills, the new poets laureate of Delaware, and I knew immediately that I had found two more poets to add to that list. There were several things that stood out to me from that interview that I wanted to share.

      Firstly, their work is wonderfully written, and very easily transcends the genre of poetry and spoken word performance; even if you aren’t that into poetry per se, listening to Chukwuocha and Mills is an almost musical experience. In the interview linked above, they recite the poem “Why I Write” together (among others), and they way they use rhythm, timing, and speaking in unison takes you so immediately into the world they describe while also speaking to grander ideals. It is powerful, haunting, and deeply moving. Their recitation starts at about 3:20 minutes into the Radio Times interview.

      Secondly, their collaborative spirit is interesting and inspiring. The pair are twin brothers, and they learned to write as a way of understanding each other. They say in the interview with Marty Moss-Coane that when they fought, their mother would have them write to each other to resolve their differences, and from there, they grew into problem-solving poets, continuing to use their poetry not just to communicate, but also to think and process. I am particularly taken with Mills’ description of how he uses writing to process his own thoughts; as reported on the twins’ official laureate website, Mills keeps a small journal of his negative thoughts, and counters it with a larger notebook full of positive reflections:

      He carries, at all times, two journals. One, a pocket-size notepad, bears the burden of Al’s negative musings. Such thoughts, he has found, gather speed quickly; suddenly, he’ll notice, he has filled a page with angry thoughts.

      And so, to provide himself balance, Al carries another, slightly larger, journal. It is reserved for positive reflections.

      “That’s my struggle,” he says. “That’s what I do throughout the day — Look at that lady smiling! Look at her picking up her kid! — I’ll remember that, and I’ll jot that down. Look at the way this lady’s walking her dog! Those happy moments. Somebody in the car next to me at a stoplight, dancing.”

      Thirdly, they live what they perform. As social workers, they don’t just use their work to inform their poetry, but they also use poetry in their social work. It speaks to an incredibly cohesive world view where the personal, the political, and the poetic come together. They use poetry to communicate, to help others communicate, and to express that which may not be easily captured without the imagery and transcendence of poetry.

      For more of their work, check out their book Our Work, Our Words..: Taking the Guns from our Sons’ Hands.

      Posted in The Waste Book | 2 Comments | Tagged National Poetry Month, Nnamdi Chukwuocha and Al Mills, poetry
    • A Poem: The Smell of the Peat

      Posted at 12:30 pm by Michelle Joelle, on April 7, 2015

      It was historically common in Nothern Europe, the British Isles, Iceland, and Greenland to both build houses out of peat block, and then heat them by burning peat logs. The latter is, of course, still quite common, but we’ve come a long way in terms of building materials and ventilation. As mere fuel, I find the smell of burning peat is incredibly pleasant. I also love the smell of rain-soaked peat bogs.

      But when I toured a village of recreated medieval cottages made entirely of peat bricks, and fueled by peat fires, I found the smell to be overwhelming. The mixture of the peat smoke with the freshness of the peat walls left the air so heavily perfumed that at first I couldn’t even breathe inside the cottages, and had to step out several times to clear my lungs. It was like a thick incense that clouded my mind, and I tried to imagine what it would be like to live an entire Winter in a cottage like this.

      The result is the next entry into my series of pseudo-Medieval poems. The first three can be found here, here, and here. Please do not repost any of these poems without a direct link back to this website.

      __________________________

      The Smell of the Peat, by M. Joelle

      Under the thatched roof
      The smell of the peat
      Hangs thick in the air
      Both smoky and sweet.

      We curl up inside
      As we wait for the Spring.
      This room is our kingdom,
      And the hearth is our king.

      We serve it, it keeps us
      In warm food and heat
      We owe our whole lives
      To the smell of the peat.

      We collect it all summer
      And dry it out through the fall.
      Some is fuel for the hearth,
      Some is built into our walls.

      So we keep our king happy
      And we keep the hearth neat
      And we reverently worship
      The smell of the peat.

      Posted in Poems | 4 Comments | Tagged my work, peat moss, poem, poetry
    • Discovering Poetry

      Posted at 1:00 pm by Michelle Joelle, on December 17, 2014

      When it comes to poetry, I’ve always been a total philistine. I never got it. I could analyze it, understand it, recite it, and even enjoy it, but it almost never left a lasting impression.

      I liked poems that told stories. I liked poetic language. Older poetry had a better shot of finding a home in my memory, but invariably, my school kept sending me to modern poetry. Artsy poetry. Poetry that didn’t rhyme, or had no meter, or didn’t use verbs, because it was trying challenge my expectations or make me feel unsettled.

      People who liked poetry, I thought, didn’t care for poetry that rhymed, or had a repetitive structure, or which was just pretty or fun, and that was the poetry I liked best. Those were cliches and antiquated conventions that stifled creativity. Sure, you could appreciate Shakespeare and song lyrics without garnering a scowl, but generally when it came to poetry, weirder was better. I tried to like the “right” poetry, but it all left me cold. Even when I could intellectually see that it was good poetry, I just couldn’t connect, and it made me feel like maybe poetry just wasn’t for me.

      It wasn’t until I finished school that I realized there was a whole world of poetry out there that fit my tastes.

      Ancient epics. Arthurian Romances. Children’s poetry. Anything Tolkien approved. Poetry that was deep and thought-provoking, but still rhymed, played with alliteration, and felt musical and rhythmic. Poems that could stand alone yet still evoke a larger context. Poems that spoke to me rather than at me. It turns out that I didn’t actually dislike poetry – I just didn’t like the poetry to which I’d been exposed in school.

      It came upon me gradually, but now I love poetry. I’m also very, very picky about it. I’ll finish this post with two people who helped save the art of poetry for me: A.E. Housman, who I only just discovered this year (and am still trying to figure out), and A.A. Milne, author of Winnie the Pooh. If you enjoy the same kind of poetry I do, I highly encourage you to click the accompany links and read more of these poets’ works.

      ________________________________________________________

      From Clee to Heaven the Beacon Burns, by A.E. Housman, from A Shropshire Lad

      FROM Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
      The shires have seen it plain,
      From north and south the sign returns
      And beacons burn again.

      Look left, look right, the hills are bright,
      The dales are light between,
      Because ’tis fifty years to-night
      That God has saved the Queen.

      Now, when the flame they watch not towers
      About the soil they trod,
      Lads, we ’ll remember friends of ours
      Who shared the work with God.

      To skies that knit their heartstrings right,
      To fields that bred them brave,
      The saviours come not home to-night
      Themselves they could not save.

      It dawns in Asia, tombstones show
      And Shropshire names are read;
      And the Nile spills his overflow
      Beside the Severn’s dead.

      We pledge in peace by farm and town
      The Queen they served in war,
      And fire the beacons up and down
      The land they perished for.

      ‘God save the Queen’ we living sing,
      From height to height ’tis heard;
      And with the rest your voices ring,
      Lads of the Fifty-third.

      Oh, God will save her, fear you not:
      Be you the men you ’ve been,
      Get you the sons your fathers got,
      And God will save the Queen.

      ________________________________________________________

      Wind on the Hill, by A.A. Milne, from the amazing site allpoetry.com

      No one can tell me,
      Nobody knows,
      Where the wind comes from,
      Where the wind goes.

      It’s flying from somewhere
      As fast as it can,
      I couldn’t keep up with it,
      Not if I ran.

      But if I stopped holding
      The string of my kite,
      It would blow with the wind
      For a day and a night.

      And then when I found it,
      Wherever it blew,
      I should know that the wind
      Had been going there too.

      So then I could tell them
      Where the wind goes…
      But where the wind comes from
      Nobody knows.

      Posted in Poems | 18 Comments | Tagged A.A. Milne, A.E. Housman, poems, poetry
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