I understood then

as any human being would, the difference between love and a love which is visionary. The first may well be guaranteed by security and attachment; only the second has power to transform.

Poetry is full of such transformations.

From Object Lessons: The Life Of The Woman And The Poet In Our Time
Eavan Boland

Eavan Boland's poems has not done much for me so far. There's only one I've read that struck me, and I quoted it in this blog. But I came across this book by her, in my local thrift shop today, and with a title like that, how could I not read it? It's feeding and stimulating me in all sorts of ways. Perhaps, like June Jordan, Boland will turn out to be a writer whose poems I can happily skip, but whose prose is vital food.

gardenias

floated into my life today. Not just one, which fills a room with dream-scent. But two widespread handsful of creamy white petals spilling intoxication. My bedroom is a lake of fragrance to welcome the rising of a new moon.

Fierce

Last night at Locus, Anida dedicated her poem: Who's got us when we fall? to me, Golda, the sisterhood of women artists.

I've heard the poem before. It always fills me up and leaves me larger. Reawakens me to the power and beauty, the goddess and warrior in every woman. I feel so awed, so lucky, to be in this company.

Check out Anida's stunning show, Living Memory / Living Absence in San Francisco, this weekend. Two nights only!

Should I be flattered, outraged or amused?

Two weeks ago, I discovered that an article I wrote for Pambazuka News, Hungry For Live Poetry, about Nairobi's First Poetry Slam, was plagiarized in its entirety by a journalist for the Kenya Times.

Here's the original article.


Here's the plagiarized Kenya Times version.

Neither the Kenya Times editors, nor the journalist, Otieno Amisi, have responded to my emails.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

You've gotta have heard the song. But I bet you don't know it was written by a South African musician, Solomon Linda. It became a chart topper in the West when legendary US folk singer, Pete Seeger (incongruously famous for his own songs of social protest) covered it in the 1950s - and claimed authorship. In subsequent decades, it has been recorded by over 150 European and American artists, racked up hundreds of thousands of album sales. Most recently, it became a global brand as the theme track for Disney's nausea-inducing megahit, The Lion King.

The song's original writer, Solomon Linda, received 10 shillings (about a dollar) for the copyright in 1952, from Gallo studios in South Africa. After the release of The Lion King, Linda's family sued Disney for royalties on the use of the song. An undisclosed out-of-court settlement was agreed just this February. Too late for Linda, who died 1962, aged 53, of kidney disease. And for his daughter Adelaide, who died in 2001, of AIDS.

Both could have received life-saving medical treatment from less than
one-tenth of
one percent of
the fifteen million dollars
grossed by the song worldwide.

(Source: Emma MacDonald,The Age, Australia, April 22, 2006)

and on the subject of recognition in public

it always freaks me out. I wonder how long the person watched me before coming over. If they saw me pick at the pimple on my chin, scratch my nose, mutter a curse at the person who shoved me on BART.

Sod's Law says you always get recognized by strangers on your worst days. The days you slump in the corner of your local cafe in your rattiest clothes, hair uncombed, or slouch down the street, pissed-off and depressed over the latest rejected submission.

Another freakout is suddenly confronting my face on a poster. At those moments, perversely, I always hope that I *do* look my worst. So I resemble the poster image as little as possible, to minimize the risk of being spotted.

so I'm on my way to lunch

at Priya Restaurant in Berkeley, on Saturday, to celebrate my friend C's graduation. A guy gets off the # 51 bus with me, crosses the road with me, and as we wait for the light to change at the junction, says:

Excuse me, are you Miss Eloquence?

I'm like: Whhaat?

He sez: Aren't you the poet who performed at the earthquake benefit for Kashmir?

My impulse, as always in these situations, is to deny it, but that just makes me seem slightly unhinged when it's clear that I am. So I confess I am, we have a pleasant little exchange until we get to the restaurant, where he's also going, but not to C's party. We say goodbye and it isn't until today that I remember the encounter and think:

Miss Eloquence? Where did THAT come from? Is that how the MC introduced me that night?

Sounds like a high school title. Or a pseudonym on a chat site. Or a dominatrix in shiny black leather bustier and thigh high boots. It reminds me of being in my high school debate club at 14. We were recruiting new members at the start of the school year, and I wrote a little blurb that said: Debate Club has improved my eloquence.

The English teacher in charge of the club said: You cannot claim eloquence yet. You may write: Debate Club has aided my efforts towards becoming eloquent.

I was more intrigued than snubbed. Her words gave me a new sense of what "eloquence" meant - a standard to be reached for, not to be lightly claimed.