Neruda starts his poem, “The Poet’s Obligation/Deber del poeta”, as follows:

To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or dry prison cell,
to him I come, and without speaking or looking
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a long rumble of thunder adds itself
to the weight of the planet and the foam,
the groaning rivers of the ocean rise,
the star vibrates quickly in its corona
and the sea beats, dies, and goes on beating.

To me, the obligation of the poet is a matter of discourse that depends on the poet’s own navigation through life, along with his/her desire to attend to the word, to distill a simple truth down to an even simpler form. It begins as a personal obligation to make oneself available as the word flows through; from there it’s a individual journey that unfolds between the poet and the word itself.

I know that the word “poet” throws people. Recently, kids in my Monday workshop were surprised when they heard I write poems. To them, a poet was, among other things, “an old man with no hair and tuna breath who wears shabby clothes and goes around acting snooty to everyone.” I couldn’t help but laugh, knowing of course that somewhere, the very poet they described was opening another can of tuna and putting on a moth-eaten sweater.

It doesn’t matter if I use “writer”, “artist”, or just “person”; I’ll stick with “poet” because it was Neruda’s poem that started the thought this morning. All I know is that my thoughts on the “poet’s obligation”, outlined above, are singular, narrow, and at the mercy of my own limited, Ameri-centric perspective. I’ll never make the case that I know the answers, or that anyone knows the answers. The best I can do, or the best I’ll try to do, is to serve as a channel and let the answers come through from any number of sources.

Which brings me to one of the reasons for this post. Starting Friday – perhaps for those “not listening to the sea”, as Neruda wrote – I’m going to post the first in a series of interviews with poets and writers. While the interview will appear here, I’ll also be posting a selection of the writer’s poems on the Creative page. The interviews will discuss process, form, desire, inspiration, triggers, wells – everything that prompts the word to flow from air to mind to hand to paper to eyes to heart to soul.

In posting the interviews on Friday, I’ll be moving the normal “Guest Writer” feature to Tuesdays, starting tomorrow. That way guest writers will still have the space on the site they deserve before pieces from other writers go up.

Finally, I encourage you to comment on this post, and let me know your thoughts on the poet’s obligation.

Thanks,

Dave

“Just can’t get enough,” the next Back Fence storytelling event is approaching fast. If you haven’t gotten your tickets yet, or if you don’t know what Back Fence is all about, check out their site.

When and Where?: 10/22 at Urban Grind East. Doors open at 7, the show starts at 8, and tickets are $7 in advance, $8 at the door.

What?
Back Fence is an evening with six people telling their true eight-minute stories based on the month’s theme. The stories must not have been performed publicly prior to their Back Fence PDX telling. We’re also a blog with a weekly story by a writer, blogger, or someone with an unusual story about the topic. Back Fence gives a polite nod to their kissin’ cousin in San Francisco, the Porchlight Storytelling Series.

Why?
Because the world thrives on stories, and because storytellers light the way so others can access their own stories. And, in the case of next week’s event, can anyone ever get enough?

Go to their site to learn more. Hope to see you there.

my father said
five bucks
will get us to the shore
in time to drop our names
in the hat
where they pull
a million dollar winner
each month.

when i was 12
i took him up on it.
we drove
straight thru dawn,
talked how fathers and sons
must some day,
the one where he listens
to everything i know -

how the world was candy
and i had the teeth
to prove it.
how clouds
over the Whitman bridge
were Abe Lincoln
watching with an honest eye.

near the boardwalk,
i talked with my mouth full,
told him what i knew about girls,
promised life got better
as you grew younger,
had the waitress bring him
a cup of cocoa
to cheer him up.

we didn’t win a thing that day
but came home
with enough gas
to reach Lake Winona
where i corrected his release,
taught him the right grip
to get two more skips
from his stones.

The following examples come from a creative exercise using oracle cards. Students draw four cards (face down), flip them over, and then write a four-sentence story (one sentence per card). Students work on getting the most out of their words, while the stories often serve as seeds for larger tales. Both pieces are published with permission from the writers, 5th grade students at Woodstock Elementary

Serpent of conflict
by Justin Chen

There once was a serpent who cast a spell on a man named Conflict.
Conflict transformed into a bear.
One night, the Seeker of Water turned Conflict into a wolf.
Now Conflict struggles with each full moon.

Choice
by Chinyere Ike

The choice was made.
The Sacred Flame killed the Circle of Life, instantly overcoming the God of Fire.
This cast the Flame as the new ruler.
He overcame the universe, and everyone lived unhappily forever.

Keep an eye out for the open mic this Wednesday, 10/15 at Pioneer Square. Here’s the info:

Wednesday, October 16, 2008, from 12p to 6pm. Rants, poetry, monologues, singing, rapping, jokes, etc. It will be taped for the all local variety show NOW WHAT?

Check this link to see clips from the series.

On October 23rd, 7 pm, at 23rd Avenue Books (NW 23rd Avenue, near Lovejoy, in NW Portland), poets Penelope Scambly Schott and Madeline Tiger will give a short reading followed by a fun poetry workshop, STARTING HERE, STARTING NOW, for beginners and experienced writers. No registration required. Just show up to listen and play. Everyone is welcome to participate and no one will be put on the spot.

If you have questions, call Penelope at 503-291-0159.

“Dark streaks from old weather” fell out of someone’s mouth yesterday afternoon. Earlier I’d written “My father’s house” on top of a piece of paper, which had fallen out of someone else’s mouth. I sat with the two lines in the evening and composed the following – I’ve never built a fence or handled a nail gun for that matter.

Dark streaks from old weather
on the wood we used
for the fence
to replace the one
blown over in a storm.
My father
wanted everything from salvage,
cedar if we could find it,
aluminum – hell, duct work
someone scrapped
could be turned into
a six-foot slat,
same width as a board
and when the rain came sideways
as it did
he’d be graced with a thwap.

He was out every morning
with coffee and the sports page
then disappeared
into the house
he’d been trying to care for
with ease
since my mother past.
Was back in the afternoon
to check tomatoes and mail,
ask if we found fixtures yet,
where the nails came from,
if the compression gun
was due back soon
and if it wasn’t
would we look at the deck,
maybe the spare back room
still with patched drywall,
tear carpet up
through the hallway,
put faux wood floors in,
new stuff your mother would have liked
since it always was her house,
to-do list and all.

I’m in the process of setting up interviews with poets and writers to post on the blog, and the first ones should be rolling out before the end of October. Keep an eye out here and on the Creative page for more details.

Thanks – Dave

Saturday I had an idea for a story. Then it became a great idea. Soon it became a great idea for a book, and before my mind could stop I had a great book to query an agent about, sell to a publisher and get ready for my reading tour.

The above is classic mind trap. What began as a simple idea from nowhere had now morphed into an ego trip focused on production, delivery, reward. I think it’s good for the ego to come in, but not at the pre-nascent stage when I hadn’t committed a single word to paper, and the entire concept existed in the ether.

Each voice that rocks back and forth in the skull has its place, even the critical ones – at their best, our inner critics offer sound editorial advice; at their worst, they tear you and your work down. Since many writers have a constant click-clack running in their heads, the trick is to corral the stream of chatter and do your best to turn as much as you can into something useful.

Honor the word, but first, honor the idea. Let it form and begin to take its shape before demanding it to be something else. Keep your words liquid, lucid and free.

I’m happy to announce that I’ll be one of six featured storytellers at the next Back Fence event, scheduled 10/22 at Urban Grind East. Doors open at 7, the show starts at 8, and tickets are $7 in advance, $8 at the door.

What’s Back Fence all about? Well –

Back Fence PDX is the kissing cousin to San Francisco’s Porchlight Storytelling Series.

Back Fence PDX is an evening with six people telling their true eight-minute stories based on the month’s theme. The stories must not have been performed publicly prior to their Back Fence PDX telling. We’re also a blog with a weekly story by a writer, blogger, or someone with an unusual story about the topic.

Upcoming topic: “Just Can’t Get Enough: Getting Stuffed and Being Stuffed”

Go to their site to learn more. Hope to see you there.