Loose Leaf Notes

An overflowing crowd packed the Café del Sol for June’s Spoken Word Open Mic. With the warm glow of evening sun streaming in, the café was abuzz with a celebratory din left over from the town's Jubilee festival that day. There was pizza eating, card playing, cappuccino sipping, and socializing, but all quieted to a hush when the readers took to the stage.

Three members of the Floyd Writer’s Circle, Rosemary Wyman, Mara Robbins, and I opened the evening with poetry interpretations to Lora Geissler’s abstract art that hung on the Café Walls. Eight contributors to the new spring issue of Floyd County Moonshine shared their literary talents. Two poets visiting from Washington D.C. joined the performing line-up, along with returning members of the Spoken Word community and a couple of first time readers.

Mara, Floyd County Moonshine’s new associate editor and acting emcee, stood on the café coffee table, projecting her voice over the crowd, welcoming them and reviewing the open mic guidelines. With twenty-eight readers of short stories, poetry, essays, and excerpts from novels and memoirs, the ten minute reading slots had to be cut back to five minutes.

The first Moonshine reader Charles Swanson, who teaches creative writing and composition at Gretna High School, followed Mara’s lead and stood on the coffee table until café owner Sally Walker arrived with the PA system that someone said she borrowed from the Floyd Country Store. Ropes of spider webs hanging …from the low log lintel … we knocked back with a stick … and Granddad made … with twigs and tobacco twine … a broom to sweep the floor, Swanson read from a poem titled "Broom" about reclaiming a barn from an overgrown tobacco patch. He also read a poem about the drinkable kind of Moonshine, which was written from a variety of voices.

“I don’t think I can shout haiku,” I said when it was my turn to share my minute of tiny poems inspired by Lora’s paintings. By the time I returned to the stage later in the evening for the four minutes remaining of my five minute slot, I was speaking into a mic. From my “Fit to Be Quipped” punch line series excerpted from my blog, I read, My husband Joe has thick curly hair. When my kids were little and Joe needed a haircut, they would tease him by calling him “Ofra” Winfrey. Now when he needs a haircut we just call him Rob Blagojevich. Although I could perfectly pronounce “Blagojevich” all through the day, when I read it on stage I needed the help of the audience to get it right.

Other Floyd County Moonshine contributors reading included Floyd Moonshine editor Aaron Moore, author Neva Bryan, Emory and Henry teacher Felicia Mitchell, Radford poet Cynthia Ring, Hollins University Creative Writing student Sharon Mirtaheri, and Floyd’s own Jayn Avery, who Mara introduced as “potter by trade and writer by impulse.”

Before reading an excerpt from his novel Barn Blazing, Aaron told the crowd that the deadline for the summer Floyd County Moonshine is June 30. It will be an all Floyd edition, he said.

Civilizations crumbled beneath me—a plethora of insects and spiders fled beneath the swipes of the pendulating scythe. I, being a veritable voyeur, only relented at the sight of one thing: preying mantis sex. The male was much lesser in stature than the female, propped on the female’s back sitting rigid while hugging her reddish-purple thorax. She was a massive creature compared to him, beautiful in an alien sort of fashion. When they were alerted to my presence, she bore him with her and he held on. ~ From Barn Blazing by Aaron Moore

Post notes: Contributors pictured reading from Floyd Country Moonshine are Charles Swanson, Cynthia Ring, Felicia Mitchell, and Sharon Mirtaheri. Submissions to Floyd County Moonshine, a regional literary and art magazine, should be sent as an attachment to floydshine@gmail.com. Inquiries about advertising and subscriptions can also be made at that address. Copies of Moonshine are available in cafes around town for $7.

Posted by Colleen at 9:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

One might have thought that April’s Spoken Word would bring seasonal poems about spring, Earth Day, or even taxes. But what we got included a letter from Julius Caesar, some frolicking ferrets, a dead orange, and an adaptation of The Raven involving an appendectomy (quote the surgeon nevermore). Although, Neva Brown did return to the Café del Sol stage, reading a short story from her book with a side line theme of forest clear cutting, and I read my inch worth of poetic praise for forsythia.

We all rubbed our hands together and reported the results as Greg led us in an audience participation demonstration of a martial arts exercise designed to feel energy before reading his poetry. Gloria asked rhetorically, ‘aren’t all my poems about death, really?’ before sharing hers.

One of the evening's highlights was a performance piece delivered by two members of the Floyd High School Forensics team, Bedelia Burris-McGrath and Kaya Norton (pictured). It was a poignant and tightly delivered dramatic scene from a play about Alice on LSD and her alter ego/witness, a talking stuffed rabbit from her childhood. Bedelia returned to the stage later to be a back up dancer (a jig in this case) for a friend who sang an Irish song. ”If anyone has the urge to sing along, they can leave right now,” the singer joked.

Another highlight was when Mara (second from left) led an impromptu group in an adaptation of a creative writing class exercise called The Stereotype Poets’ Hall of Fame. She enlisted a stellar line-up of other readers who convincingly played the parts of Classic Poet, Beat Poet, Gothic Poet, Angry Poet, Secret Poet, Hip-Hop Poet, and Professor Poet.

A David Bowie song, the expansive shores of a king sized bed, and the image of young men swimming still linger. I left at 10:00 with readings still going on, so who knows what happened next.

Post notes: That's Stephania reading a comical short story about ferrets. For more pictures and narrative on Floyd's Third Saturday Spoken Word Night, click HERE and scroll down.

Posted by Colleen at 12:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

The Rubik Cube was invented in 1974 by Erno Rubik, a Hungarian sculptor and professor of architecture, Abraham Wolf Cherrix told the overflow crowd at March's Spoken Word night at the Café del Sol. Wolf followed that comment by announcing he would solve the puzzle in less than 3 minutes for his open mic reading slot. His friend provided a drum roll of sorts while another audience member kept track of time. The crowd erupted in applause when the Young Actor’s Coop member triumphantly held up the completed puzzle in just under three minutes, causing one to wonder what might be next for the spoken word; jugglers, magicians?

Before reading his poetry, Greg Locke expressed his appreciation for being a part of such a special scene, where young people and older people come together and listen to each other. “I love this venue. People aren’t just performing up here; they’re opening up. This just doesn’t happen. It should,” he said.

16 readers signed up for 5 or 10 minute stage slots which ran from 7 to 10 p.m. with a break halfway through. Extra chairs were brought in from a neighboring venue to accommodate the crowd. Editor of Floyd County Moonshine Aaron Moore, who read an excerpt from his novel published in the latest Moonshine, announced that the summer issue of the literary and arts publication would be dedicated to Floyd writers. Submissions for the spring issue can be sent to floydshine@gmail.com before the April 30th deadline.

Props and poets, two storytellers, an original song sung acapella by young Kyla Robbins (listen HERE), a reading of The Raven, a poignant piece about the tragedy of mental illness, a tribute to a marriage and another to a friend, and even some printed out email jokes were shared.

Poet Mara Robbins read in conversation with fellow poet Rosemary Wyman before standing on the coffee table to deliver her dramatic performance of a poem written by slam poet/activist Andrea Gibson. Gibson recently performed at Mara’s school, Hollins University. (Listen to Andrea HERE).

Roanoke Market vender Penny Lane told a story of being bowled over by love at the Market by a group of children who wanted to hug her goodbye after she led them in a sing-a-long with her guitar. Cheryl Spangler had the house laughing with her story of a kayak trip gone wrong. There was mention of a vampire, a banshee, a Snow Queen, Jesus, and a dysfunctional old boyfriend who had the gall to ask poet Gloria Gerritz, “Am I still in your will?”

You just had to be there.

Post notes: The third Saturday Spoken Word is a community outreach to promote the Spoken Word in the community. This Open Mic event is hosted by members of the Floyd Writers Circle and the Café del Sol in Floyd. The next Spoken Word will take place on April 18th at 7:00 p.m. All literary styles are welcome and beginners are encouraged to take a turn at the mic. Photos in order of appearance are: 1. Wolf Cherrix, Rubix master and the evening's emcee. 2. The crowd. 3. Aaron Moore. 4. Crowd. 5. Mara with Rosemary to her left. 6. Crowd. 7. Gloria reading.

Posted by Colleen at 6:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

There was no drinking and driving involved in the ride from Floyd down the Pig Path into Radford. And the only moonshine proof there was to be enjoyed was in the readings from the second edition of Floyd County Moonshine at the Coffee Mill on Main Street.

Moonshine, in this case, refers to the “flavor” of the local literary and art magazine, put out by editor Aaron Moore and associate editor Jay Settle. Even the character in Aaron's short story in the first issue, “13 Titanium Screws,” traveled on the Pig Path and others in that edition drank moonshine, hung out in bars, or on Bourbon Street.

Jay read a poem about an elderly man with a cane and his wife walking like “flowers bending slightly,” probably on their way to “Cracker Barrel.” But I swear I saw them in Applebees.

One poem that stood out in my memory was a quirky one from Java lover Chelsea Adams about a woman named Bess who eats blades of grass at a picnic, forgets her sandwich, and then expresses breast milk for Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. I just didn’t expect that.

The cappuccino steam machine sounded like a spaceship landing. A guy with a skateboard only came in and out of the coffeehouse front door when Moonshine associate editor Jay was at the mic introducing readers.

There was a strange juxtaposition between Peter Pan and Jesus when Mara Robbins and I read poems in dialogue about each. And when Katherine Chantal said, “What coffee is to Chelsea, tea is to me and then read “Brewing a Poem,” I told her she should take a cup with her next time for a prop.

Three Radford English teachers and some of their students. Three from Floyd Writer’s Circle and others. RU teacher Jim Minick is working on a memoir about his blueberry farming days in Floyd, he said. Katherine and I left at intermission, so that’s all she wrote.

Got Moonshine? floydshine@gmail.com.

Posted by Colleen at 12:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Sitting in the wallflower chair in the far corner of the café at February’s Spoken Word night, I realized that my nerves at poetry readings are directly related to the size of the crowd that turns out. The bigger it is the bigger they are. From my corner perch I counted 45 people. This is a small town. Chairs had to be brought in from the Winter Sun Music Hall. Where is my comfy couch when I need it?

Café del Sol owner Sally was in form as the emcee ring leader. “I’ll be short and sweet. I’m already short and sweet," said the five-foot musician barista.

The usual suspects were joined by a few first-timers. One newcomer to the café stage, Christine Behrens, begged her cat Lotus not to bring dead mice in the house by way of a poem she read while wearing my borrowed reading glasses. She also read an ode to life in Floyd, saying that poetry has been flowing since she’s been in here.

Several read from the hot-off-the-press second printing of the Floyd’s new literary and arts magazine, Floyd Country Moonshine. Wise Countian author Neva Bryan saved her Moonshine flavor, "The Devil’s Better Half," for the end of the evening because of its subject matter. “How R rated can a girl from Wise County be?” Sally asked as she called Neva up for a second reading. Sex, drugs, and jail Dixie Chicks style (reminiscent of their song "Earl") was the answer.

Jayn Avery read a poem about an abandoned house and the sap being tapped from the maple trees on her farm. Katherine Chantal announced a new genre of poems to add to her signature tea poems. Grandchildren. ‘Will it be a boy or a girl?’ she asked in a poem dealing with the adjustment she had to make learning the sex of her grandchildren early by way of high tech machinery.

Don Nathan read from The Tao of Pooh, followed by his first poem in 30 years. And did you know that Pluto was now a verb? After poet Mara Robbins explained that “pluto” now means "to demote," she read “Pluto takes out the garbage,” inspired by the recent meteor that fell in Texas.

Both Aaron Moore and Jay Settle, editor and co-editor of Floyd County Moonshine, read works of some of the magazine’s contributors who were unable to attend the open mic. Jay also read his poem “Canning Season,” and Aaron read from a novel he’s working on called "Barn Blazing."

“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” Young Actor’s Coop (YAC) actor Cameron Woodruff, who can’t hold his peace, read while wearing the dark sunglasses of his adopted brother Wolf, who recently attended a Spoken Word as Darth Vader, causing barista Ann to shout from the latte steamer behind the counter, “How does Darth Vader look like John Lennon?” We all sent Wolf (Abraham Cherrix) our well wishes upon hearing that he has pneumonia.

YAC actor Bedila McGrath read a well told and moving story she wrote in her high school English class called "The Deer in the Woods."

Along with two new poems, I read my Moonshine contribution "Jesus Paints Graffiti" … Jesus wears a bathrobe and reads the obituaries … He has a long braid like Willie Nelson’s … He drinks his tea black … leaves the cap off the toothpaste … and never uses an ATM machine …

Gloria Gerritz went to Kent State? Or was that poem fiction? Laura… Heather…. Stephanie…I forgot to bring home the sign up sheet, so I’m likely forgetting some readers. It was a thoroughly entertaining evening. The 7-9 time slot morphed into 7-10:30

Post notes: The Floyd County Moonshine can be purchased in local Floyd cafes for $7. Photos: 1. Crowd 2. Christine Behrens 3. Neva Bryan 4. Aaron Moore. Click and scroll HERE for more Spoken Word posts with photos.

Posted by Colleen at 10:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

1. It was a rainy night, five days before Christmas, so I wasn’t expecting much of a turnout for the third Saturday Spoken Word night at the Café Del Sol. But when I arrived, I flung open the door and there was Darth Vader, Mrs. Claus, and a birthday party with cake being passed around the room full of people.

2. Telling us it was "Bring Your Kid to Work Day," Darth called Luke up to the mic for a skit in which he explained that he was Luke’s real father. Luke didn’t take it well. At the end of his 10 minute time slot, Darth revealed the face behind the mask.

3. Sam read a short story. Gloria read a poem about a classified ad and motorcycle ride. Greg read a piece spurred by the low turnout for the Veteran’s Day Parade, and Rosemary read about her children growing up and leaving home. There were nineteen readers in all, a few were first timers. Others spoke of taking writing classes at the Writers’ Bloc, run by Haden Polseno-Hensley a block down the street.

4. It was Heather’s birthday and Laura (who also read) baked the cake. The whole room joined in a Happy Birthday song to Heather when she took her turn at the mic (photo is of Heather receiving our song). She spoke about being moved by last month’s event at the Black Water Loft, her first Spoken Word Open Mic, and said she couldn’t wait for the next one. She belted out an Erykah Badu song that she has sang as a girl’s camp counselor, one about lightening the load of emotional baggage. Confessing that she has no aspirations to be a singer, she told us that singing in public scares her and that singing for us was a way to face her fears.

5. It’s always a pleasure when singer and Café del Sol owner Sally MC’s the monthly event. She introduces each reader with a knack for ad lib. “You’re not going to steal my band,” she joked after Heather sang.

6. The youth of Floyd was well represented, with at least four members of Young Actors Coop in the house, each one took a turn at the mic demonstrating their theatrical flair. Crystal (not a member, pictured above), a recent Floyd High graduate, read some stream of consciousness power packed poetry from her laptop.

7. I read the entire contents of my new TEAPOET chapbook, but because the meditative poems in it were all short … serving up sips of haiku and other poetic brew … it fell well under the 10 minute time slot limit. Rose, who later read a poem about a rose, took the photo of me. That’s my New Castle beer on the table (too late in the night for tea) and my basket of writer’s wares (books) that I have taken to carrying around.

8. Mara read new poetry and also joined with her daughter Kyla in song. The announcement of THIS song brought cheers and some sang along.

9. Associate editor of Floyd’s new literary and art publication, Floyd County Moonshine, Jay Settle returned after attending last month’s event at the Black Water Loft where we featured readings from the publication. Jay, an English teacher in Radford, read one of his poems.

10. The open mic is not limited to poetry, storytelling, and literature, or even accapella song. Mrs. Claus ended the night with some humor, which included a question for Santa and for us. “Does this red suit make my butt look big?” she asked as she spun around.

Post note: For more posts on past Spoken Word's click HERE and scroll down.

Posted by Colleen at 1:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

We were short on chairs and long on readers at November’s Spoken Word Open Mic. A record-breaking twenty readers performed to an overflowing enthusiastic crowd. Rose and the crew at the Blackwater Loft did a great job accommodating the last minute change in venue (due to a concert in the hall adjacent to the Café Del Sol where we regularly meet) and the unprecedented evening's turnout. Mara, with her resume-building MC talents, stepped up and did the introductions, beginning with one for the Floyd County Moonshine, Floyd’s new Literary and Arts Magazine.

The magazine’s editor, Aaron Moore, was the first of four writers to read their work from the magazine’s first issue. Moore and others, such as the magazine’s associate editor, English teacher Jay Settle, also read the work of writers included in the publication who weren’t in attendance. Cara Williams, the magazine’s art director, was also in the house.

I wish everyone who read would have made copies of their work and handed them to me at the end of the night because I’d love to be able to see and hold in my hands all the memorable lines and descriptive images that floated in and out of my sensibilities throughout the course of the three hour event.

I recall a funny poem that Gloria read about her slipping into the wrong life and someone else living hers. I hate her for it too … she said. Chelsea’s “sleeping is better in the bath” played out like a lullaby. Katherine’s poem about watching her granddaughter in Spain on Skype gave me a shiver. Jayn’s ode to the color brown was followed by Rosemary’s yielding the green of spring and summer to the welcomed orange shades of fall.

Every now and then I’d peer behind me and feel bad for all the people who were standing in the aisle. My husband Joe brought a contingency of five from the Earthsong Retreat in Stuart, meditators who didn’t seem to mind sitting on cushions on the floor.

The Earthsong group left at the intermission and before hearing Sam read his powerful political piece about the recent election, asking what happened to the revolution; why didn’t we vote for one of the peace candidates; and who will speak for the Palestinians?

Fourteen year old Coriander, a Young Actors Coop (YAC) member, talked about working on the Obama campaign even though she’s too young to vote. She followed that by doing Rumi in sign language. Her brother and fellow YAC member, Cameron, talked about The Earthsong Teen Meditation Retreat and recited a poem he wrote while on retreat there this past the summer.

Mars, another YAC member and Spoken Word regular, is taking a poetry block in school and read some of his recent prolific writings. He shared the stage with his Mom, Sue, who read several poems, one about the realities of poverty.

Mara, who not only writes a yard worth of poetry to my inch but can memorize it too, pointed out how brave everyone was to share their work, saying she was thankful for a forum that could give voice to so many views.

Rose Cherrix read a “statement” from her son Abraham in which he mentioned several people in the room and apologized for missing the event. In the end he asked for a round of applause that he hoped he could hear at his house, where he was busy working online.

Haden, who heads up "The Writers' Bloc" and is currently teaching a class on memoir writing, transported me, once again, into the believable world of his fiction. Rowan returned and newcomer Heather read several succinct and lyrical rhymes from her Facebook introduction and introduced us to her non-political Canadian husband.

Kyla provided the sweet dessert to the evening’s full fare of entertainment with an accapella song, sealing the sense of community that so many of us were feeling.

P.S. No one answered to the name Brook, number 6 on the sign up sheet, because in actuality the word said Break, as in intermission. It was written so small that I was able bump my way in line by adding my name as reader number 6B.
It was either that or be reader number 16 and I needed to be put out of misery (the thought of reading in front of a large audience) much sooner than that.

Photos: 1. Group shot. 2. Mara holding up Floyd County Moonshine. 3. Floyd County Moonshine's Cara Williams, Aaron Moore, and Jay Settle. 4. Kyla, Rose C, and Gloria. 5. Susan and Mars. 6. Katherine reads. More about Floyd County Moonshine HERE. Click HERE and scroll down for more Spoken Word stories and photos.

Posted by Colleen at 10:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

A couple plays a game of Shogi, a man works at his laptop, a tourist stretches out on the Café Del Sol comfy couch reading a book to the sound of barista Melissa grinding coffee beans for lattes.

Young, soon-to-be thirteen years old Mars, a frequent spoken word open mic participant, offers to be the evening’s MC because the cafe owner and host, Sally, was at a singing engagement a few doors down at the Floyd Country Store.

Mars welcomes the crowd to the third anniversary of the spoken word in Floyd and then, as the blender becomes silent, he kicks off the entertainment with a poem about a tree full of apples swinging and agreeing in the breeze. I sit between the gaps of the knobby roots … he reads.

Abraham Wolf is writing fervently in between Japanese chess turns. When his name is called from the sign-up sheet, he shares his impromptu on the spot poem about all the things he saw on the café table.

There's a poem by Steve titled "Why all the Cursing" and one by Rosemary called “Girl Jumps Off Rope Swing.”

I read my latest, a poem with a title like Prince’s name (five asterisks *****) about why poets like to write poems with stars in them. Using my poetic political license I then read a few punch lines from my blog. The one about imagining women of power (other than Sarah Palin) winking while giving speeches – like Condi Rice, Margaret Thatcher, and Janet Reno – got some good laughs.

The laughing continues with Cheryl, a storyteller and former public school teacher who tells a humorous story about when she taught Mars. He comes back from the bathroom when she was in the middle of the story. Surprised to hear his name being mentioned, he sheepishly says, “Is that you, Miss Spangler?”

Greg reads a poem and tells a story of a recent medical close call. He says he’s arrived at a point in his life where he no longer feels the need to “seize the day” but has decided slow down and simply embrace each one.

Newcomer Rowan charms us with her reading of four original poems. At the end of the night I ask her how she found her way to the Spoken Word. She explains that she had just walked in the café to work on her poems and saw the Spoken Word announcement sign on the door and so stayed to participate.

Rose Cherrix also tells a story, one about approaching a stranger in the café and the friendly interaction that followed. She reads a poem in honor of the third anniversary, titled “Spoken Word.” My parents always said … Speak when spoken to … Now that I am a parent … I do not say that to my children … I want to hear what they say … I want to know them … She leaves us with an address of a young woman she knows who has Hodgkin’s Disease, the same kind of cancer that her son Abraham bravely battled. “Go to her mom’s blog (helpmegan.org) and leave a comment. They really need the support,” Rose says.

Photos: 1. Abraham and friend. 2. Mars MC's. 3. Rowan reads. 4. Rose reads. Hear Sally sing HERE. Scroll down HERE for more Spoken Word photos and stories.

Posted by Colleen at 8:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

We could see the sun set from the Café Del Sol comfy couch at September’s Spoken Word. It filled the café with a golden glow and shone on early readers at the open mic. A few of us were slightly overdressed in fancier than normal clothing, having come from our friend Jeri’s wedding earlier in the day. It was also Jayn’s birthday and she received a few gifts, some in the manner of Mary Oliver poems read and dedicated to her.

The name Palin was mentioned at the mic, by way of poetic license. There was a paradoxical theme, introduced by Wolf and carried on by Chelsea, who read a poem about Pro-life/Pro-choice …except when … except when … except when. Mara brought a brown paper grab bag of poems from which audience members picked. I read my summer beach vacation report in the form of one-liners: In a pinch when I’m at the beach without a notebook, I can write on a clam box menu using my flip flop sandal for a desk.

First time reader Gloria read several poems. She received a rousing round of applause for her poem about retirement, the humor of which was reminiscent of Jenny Joseph’s "When I’m Older I Shall Wear Purple." Jayn confessed that she was an “Old Hippie” with title of her latest poem. Greg read “When Our Beards Were Brown,” and other poems.

Steve Saft (pictured above) returned to the mic after a long absence. He read three new poems, one of which urged gratefulness for “Another Day of Life.” The final stanza of that poem read, Focus on the now, not on what you think is missing. Be grateful you can still have that latest obsession— money, family, the unpublished books. Old as you are, old poet, you still are, and from you, we do not have that final verse.

Steve, a Carroll County resident who is currently recovering from a serious illness, has a new book out. It’s an adventure story told in the form of a narrative poem. The book, titled Murdoch Mcloon and His Windmill Boat is available for sale at Xlibris and Amazon.com. You can read more it and about Steve’s previously published book on at his website HERE.

Fellow teapoet, Katherine soothed the audience with her poem titled, "Day with Darjeeling." Mara’s daughter Kyla (pictured above) closed the evening with a sweetly sung acapella song. You can hear of clip of her singing HERE.

Posted by Colleen at 8:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Mara’s introduction for Hollins University writing teacher Thorpe Moeckel at the Café Del Sol was so well crafted and delivered that Thorpe thought maybe he shouldn’t read any poetry, after all. Her words were a hard act to follow. But follow them he did, taking us listeners on a ride through Alaska, Maine, and North Carolina, where we met his grandfather, father, a pecan farmer, some kids who were court ordered to take one of his rafting trips, and more.

I was intrigued by a man who has been published in Orion and Mothering, and was touched when he said that he reads better when his wife is in the audience. His passion for river rafting and words converged in a way that made me want to go home and write poetry, or never write it again. I laughed, got some emotionally charged goose bumps, and sometimes just drifted in the tide of his words, hanging my arm over the side of the Café Del Sol's comfy couch.

After the reading, Thorpe -- a thoroughly likable guy who almost moved to Floyd once -- signed books and answered questions. “How do you teach poetry?” my friend Jayn asked him. I think he answered something related to rafting, something about going with the flow.

Mike Mitchell (left) who teaches fiddle at the Floyd Country Store left the lights on in his car all day. And so it was an unlikely ending to a poetry reading. Everyone left charged up.

Post Notes: Thorpe’s books Making a Map of the River and Odd Botany can be purchased on Amazon HERE and HERE. Scroll down HERE for more Spoken Word posts. The third photo of Alli C and Mara was taken by Tracey Ann because I wasn't tall enough to score the shot.

Posted by Colleen at 10:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)

The monthly Café Del Sol Spoken Word schedule got changed and the announcement never made it into the Floyd Press. Even so, on the merit of The Museletter (our community newsletter), word-of-mouth, and one flyer hanging on the café door, June’s event on Saturday night ended up being well attended.

But a certain someone who shall remain nameless smoked some pot before we got started and came down with an anxiety attack. Everyone wondered what was wrong with her and why she didn’t read her own poem at the mic. A surrogate read it for her, my favorite line of which was, “I’m one of those assholes who writes prose poetry.”

When it was my turn, I read a few poems, preceded by my essay about the “accessibility” of Billy Collins poetry and how Collins’ thinks the word accessible suggests ramps for the poetically handicapped. For the rest of the evening I heard comments like, “but is it accessible,” or “Look, I think Walter needs a ramp for that one.”

Mara’s "Praise" poem was powerful and needs to be published somewhere soon. Chelsea’s poetry knocked my pink flip flops off. Rosemary shared some recently remodeled poetry and a fairytale that George Carlin might have written if he had been a woman. Previously published in Mothering Magazine, the piece, titled "Snow White and the Seven Menstrual Dwarves," had the crowd in uproarious laughter.

Sally, The Countess of Coffee, introduced us up to the mic by our tag lines, coined by Tom Ryan, our local satirist who pens the online “ Floyd Enquirer.” Ryan tagged Mara “Mara Drama O’Rama” and me “Soul Crusher,” because of the book I wrote about grief and loss. Sally may be the Countess of Coffee but Chelsea, author of Java Poems, decided she was the queen. Mara made a paper napkin Coffee Queen crown and presented Chelsea with it, placing it on her head.

Those of us who help promote and host the spoken word are thrilled that the event has been drawing a teen following. Seventeen year old Cameron, a local Young Actors Cooperative member who introduced himself as King of the Hobbits, was a first-timer at the mic. He decided to try an experiment and use his ten minute time slot to talk off the top of his head about his life. He shared that his parents wouldn’t mind if he stopped wearing his hobbit cloak around town and that he recently had a girlfriend that had more swords than him. “Don’t quote me on anything,” he said as he left the mic (eight minutes early). Rosemary reminded him that I was in audience and he would probably be reading all about it on my blog or in the Floyd Press sometime soon.

Gannon told a story, recited some short poetry and promised to write some of his own soon. Sam read an eye opening thoughtful excerpt from his memoir about growing up in Beirut in the midst of civil war. Rose read a tribute to her son Abraham for his recent eighteenth birthday. His birthday was a milestone for their family. She and her husband had to fight the courts for Abraham’s right to refuse chemo/radiation treatment when he was battling Hodgkins Disease, even though he was given a slim chance of surviving it. At eighteen Abraham is healthy and free now to make his own health choice decisions.

Abraham read a poem about a wolf. He brought his friend Liz, visiting from Florida, who also read. She had the coolest full length sneaker boots with snazzy striped socks to go with them. I took a picture of her reading and when I was downloading it, later at home, my fingers slipped and it ended up as my screen saver and now I don’t know how to get it off. I like her sneakers but not that much.

Post note update: (N)ameless is fine and vowed off pot from this point on.

Photos: 1. Abraham and Rose Cherrix, and Liz 2. Lauri came up from Roanoke. 3. Last reader of the evening, Allie B. 4. Cameron who ad-libbed, holds up his timer. 5. Sam's wife, Gannon, Sam. 6. My new screen saver. Click HERE and scroll for more Spoken Word stories and photos.

Posted by Colleen at 11:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

Contrary to Tom Ryan’s Floyd Enquirer report of a full contact mud wrestling poetry slam for the title of High Priestess of Poetry, there was no mud, or even mud pies, at May’s Spoken Word night at the Café Del Sol. There wasn’t even any chocolate cake, which might have been expected considering that it was my birthday.

No mud pies, no chocolate; but there were poems, some of which were written for me in celebration of my birthday. No mud slinging, no slamming, no world titles were won; but there were words, a limerick, storytelling, and stand-up comedy.

In Tom Ryan’s satirical mind, I’m known as Colleen “Soul Crusher,” which I suspect refers to the fact that reading my book The Jim and Dan Stories made him cry. Fitting of that title, I read a seven minute essay of the tearjerker variety, but not before waving a picture of my new grandchild and bragging about his good looks to the audience.

Mara Robbins, referred to as Mara “Drama O-Rama” by Tom, did a dramatic limerick with Rosemary Wyman that they had written over a Scrabble board especially for me: There once was a colleen from Floyd … who didn’t get pissed off or annoyed … but she had a goal … of crushing your soul … behavior that’s best left to Freud.

Café owner Sally Walker, who Tom calls the Countess of Coffee, excused herself as MC with a note, claiming that she was consoling her husband Frank who was in hiding after being outed by Tom. Mara read Sally’s note to the crowd, which closed by saying that (seeing as how she is the Countess of Coffee and all) she would get back to work as soon she pleases.

Justin Winters grabbed up a large green and white golf umbrella that was leaning against the wall and, using it as a mock microphone, filled in for Sally. Reading the names off the sign-up sheet, he called us up one-by-one to the mic, alternating ad-libbed stand-up with his master of ceremonies duties. He also performed an original poetic rap when his own name, which he pronounced in a French accent, came up on the list.

Jayn Avery had a new poem written while selling pottery at the Roanoke Market earlier in the day. Rose Cherrix wondered why she brought a white feather until she heard me read my piece, in which both black and white feathers played roles. At the end of the night, she gifted me with her perfect white feather in honor of my new grandson Bryce Gabriel.

In the background, we occasionally heard evidence of the Young Actors Co-op Production of “The Amazing Wonderful Theatre Variety Show” being performed in the back of the building, in the Winter Sun Hall. Some of us, some of time claimed their applause as our own, even though there was plenty of clapping in our part of the building. (I wondered if any of the young actors took bows to our applause.)

Felicia Mitchell, one of the readers at the Southern Appalachian Writers Cooperative and the Floyd Writers Circle poetry swap at the Floyd Country Store last month, drove an hour and a half from another part of Virginia to read her poetry, which was well received. Hayden Polseno-Hensley returned to the mic with a poetic list of do’s and don’ts. He spent part of the night in the café and part next door at the YAC Variety Show, where a skit he had written was being performed.

Chelsea Adams dedicated her six word memoirs to me, after I read a group of them last month and challenged others to write some. Her prophetic poem written on the morning of April 16, before the Tech shooting, was chilling. Sam and his wife played Scrabble when he wasn’t reading from his chapbook. Rose’s son, Abraham, told a funny story about oysters being confused with ponies on Chincoteague Island. Two first time readers braved the mic.

Katherine Chantal, who Tom has named “TeaTime” Chantal should have won a prize for being number one on the sign up sheet of thirteen readers. It was a first, going first for her.

Photos: 1. Katherine reading in the background to the birthday girl in the foreground who turned around to listen right after this was shot was taken. 2. Mara and Rosemary perform a singing telegram limerick to Colleen. 3. Mara and Justin enjoy the show. 4. It was a good turnout. Chelsea up front. 5. Sam's wife had two seven letter bingos. 6. Hayden about to make us laugh.

Posted by Colleen at 8:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

This story was published in The Floyd Press on May 1, 2008. It was also featured on the newspaper's website HERE.

"This is getting to be a real good smelling poetry reading,” said visiting poet Jim Webb in reference to the scent of popcorn coming from the front of the Floyd Country Store.

Webb and seven other members of The Southern Appalachian Writers Cooperative (SAWC) were at the Country Store Friday afternoon for a round-robin poetry swap with members of the Floyd Writers Circle. The evening before, the visiting writers attended an event at Radford University (RU), celebrating the publication of All There is to Keep, a book of poetry by Rita Riddle, an RU English professor and SAWC member who died of cancer in 2006.

Webb works for Appalshop, a media arts center in Kentucky that produces documentaries, some of which have aired nationally on PBS. He was recording the Floyd readings for Kentucky’s WMMT FM, a mountain community, listener-supported station affiliated with Appalshop.

Floyd Press columnist Fred First, both a member of SAWC and the Floyd Writer’s Circle, hosted the Floyd event. Robert Cumming, Iris Press book publisher from Tennessee, was also present.

Readings of mostly poetry spanned subjects ranging from love and death to farming and tea drinking.

First read an essay from his book, Slow Road Home, about his childhood dread of asparagus. … My parents claimed this was a vegetable. To my mind, this vile substance was never anything more than a green poison created by children-loathing adults on the other side of the Iron Curtain ...”

Dana Wildsmith, whose most recent book, One Good Hand, is a reference to her life of alternating farm chores with writing poetry, read a poem called “Southern Love Poem.” … You’re slicker than Talladega, as classic as Gone with the Wind, more hometown than Patty Loveless or REM, sweeter than Iris Dement. How could my heart not be yours? … Wildsmith, a teacher of writing and an ESL instructor from Georgia, authored a poem titled "Making a Living,” which was read on NPR by Garrison Keillor.

Webb, wearing a bright pistachio green shirt with one of his poems printed on it, read an impassioned poem decrying mountaintop removal. He lives on the second highest mountain peak in Kentucky, second in height only to another peak that he can see from his home, which is being strip-mined, he explained. … As close to heaven as you can get … Why doesn’t God complain … Call the cops … he read. Webb told the group, “until they stop mountain removal, I’m going to read this poem at every reading.”

Radford University teacher and former Floyd Countian Jim Minick edited the posthumously published book of Riddle's poetry and hosted the Thursday night book release event at RU. At the Floyd reading, Minick read some of his new poetry that will be included in a soon to be published collection. He spoke of the readings the night before and the impact of hearing SAWC members read Riddle’s poems. Members of SAWC and Iris Press were involved in the publication of All There is to Keep, and many were friends of Riddle.

Chelsea B. Adams, Floyd poet and writing teacher at RU, joined the circle, reading poems that Riddle had commented on when she and Riddle were in the same writers workshop group. Adams is author of Looking for a Landing, and Java Poems.

Other SWAC members attending were Ron Houchin, who has had three poetry books published in the U.S. and Ireland; Felicia Mitchell, a poet and writer who teaches at Emory & Henry College; David Hampton, who teaches high school English in North Carolina; and Beto Cumming, a book designer and editor for Iris Press.

Five members of the Floyd Writer’s Circle who shared their original work included First, Katherine Chantal, Jayn Avery, Mara Robbins, and Colleen Redman.

After the readings, the group mulled around a table display of their books, signing, selling, and trading them with each other. Writing resources and stories also got swapped. The visiting writers had dinner at Oddfellas Cantina and attended the Friday Night Jamboree. ~ Colleen Redman

Post Notes: To learn more about the Southern Appalachian Writers Cooperative, go to sawc.us. The mission statement on their website states an intention to foster community between Appalachian writers and encourage the publication of their works.

Photos: 1. Beto Cumming reading poetry at the SAWC/Floyd Writers Circle meet-up. 2. Dana Wildsmith reading as (left) Felicia Mitchell and (right) Robert Cumming listen. 3. Jim Webb reads a poem condemning the practice of mountain top removal. Doug Thompson has posted some nice photos HERE.

Posted by Colleen at 10:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

The 7-9 time-slot stretched on to 10:30, with several new readers, a full house of attendees, and a line-up that resembled a Spoken Word variety show. After Greg opened the evening with a reflective essay about photographs and memories, Mara (pictured left) and I shared our very different Scrabble poems, created using words we played in a game on St. Patrick’s Day.

Chelsea (pictured reading below), one of my fellow winning teammates of the Literacy Volunteers Scrabble Tournament, kept the theme going with a just-written poem about Scrabble. Others, read from her first poetry collection, “Looking for a Landing,” were prompted by the subject of Greg’s reading.

Our third Scrabble Tournament teammate, Virginia, was in the audience with her husband, Don. Don took a shot at the mic, reading a poem from Chelsea’s second poetry collection, Java Poems. Seeing as how the café specializes in coffee, Java Poems is a favorite of Café Del Sol owner, Sally, the evening’s gracious master of ceremonies.

Rosemary premiered a performance piece about self-empowerment, presented with an edge. Mara read several poems by Virginia Tech creative writing professor, Bob Hicok, and one of her own, for the first anniversary honoring the victims of the April 16th Tech shootings. Her “Show and Tell” about wearing her late husband, Cory’s Calvin and Hobbs Grateful Dead T-shirt was memorable … Tonight I need a miracle, and not the kind that Calvin wants with one finger in the air asking for a ticket. I need to know you’re there.

A few of my six word memoirs got some good laughs … Gidget goes Woodstock; ends up country … College drop out, flunked middle class. I followed the memoirs with a group of short poems representing spring, taxes, and Earth Day. “Save the Planet” is a good slogan … or is it a slow gun we hold to our head … a sound bite to relieve us of our sins …. a glossy sticker on a gas guzzling bumper …

Photojournalist, Doug Thompson (above), was in the house. I told him that his large wide lens camera was a little intimating, but I knew he would capture some great shots, and he did (see HERE). Doug, who is a walking storyteller, shared some mic time with us, adlibbing a story with a mix of humor and tragedy. The attentive audience laughed, gasped, and choked up.

A young man (below) scribbling in a notebook during the readings shared the results of his notes, a new poem called, “In the Ear of the Beholder.” His mother followed him with a poem about closing your eyes in order to see. Sharing that her son is in cancer remission after forgoing a second round of chemo in favor of alternative treatments (a case that made national news when his parents were charged with medical neglect for not forcing mainstream treatment and then exonerated), brought a rousing round of applause.

Sam read a darkly, funny short story about a half-bald chicken getting revenge on its owner who had accidentally caused the balding (and scaring) when he tossed a pan of boiling water out a window.

Special Ed teacher Skip King was back with some 55 word poems. Lezlie performed her signature free association poetry, some of which involved – of all things – "gay McDonald burgers." It was a ludicrous notion meant to zero in on divisive judgments and one that had the crowd in an uproar. Fresh from New Orleans, a newcomer named Justin added to the variety, closing the evening’s event by rapping some rhythm and rhyme.

Post note: Notice the view from the window in photo 2. It's of the new timber framed public restroom, part of the downtown renovation and renewal.

Posted by Colleen at 5:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

There was lime green, kelly green, olive, and teal represented at the third Saturday Spoken Word Night, two days before St. Patrick’s Day. Even the sign-up sheet that our master of ceremonies, Alli, held as she announced the readers was green. Alli – standing in for Café Del Sol owner Sally, who we were told had a singing gig up the street – sometimes announced the readers in an accent that sounded Swedish, but I heard someone say it was from Wisconsin. Personally, I was hoping for an Irish brogue.

I didn’t use my brogue, like last year, but I did share a poem about someone who regularly wears green: Peter Pan. I hadn’t read “The Lost Adults of Neverland” since I shouted it from the poet’s soap box at Floyd Fest last summer. I also shared my poem about finding my first four leaf clover pressed between the pages of a library book sale book. The said book was used as a prop, the four leaf clover was waved in the air, and the word shamrock was mentioned.

Pat read from her book, Strange Tales of Floyd County, about a Floyd banshee, a female spirit in Irish mythology, usually seen as an omen of death and a messenger.

Cheryl (to the right) did a stand up routine based on the fact that she is NOT a “retired” school teacher, as she was described in the Floyd Press Spoken Word announcement (written by me). Although she was a public school teacher for many years, she’s currently unemployed and had just hung a “teacher looking for students" want-ad sign on the Winter Sun bulletin board, she told us. It wasn’t just part of her act. She actually gave me one the ads at end of the night so I could put it in the April’s Museletter (our local newsletter).

Alli C, a creative writing student at Hollins University, did two performance pieces, one of her own and one written by her favorite slam poet, Big Papa E. I was impressed with a poem Mara read, which I think was about one of her first loves. I’ve been trying to remember a line in it about how they climbed like ivy up the side of the university building where his father (a professor, I think) was working.

Rosemary took us on a fun ride, reading two versions of the same poem, and in between those she read one about the process of rewriting the first of the two. She also read a poem on how to grow Rosemary. Apparently, the plant and the woman (I gathered) should never be pot bound.

Mara's daughter, Kyla, won the imaginary prize for wearing the best Irish green. She joined her mom and Ali, closing the evening with a song from Juno in which the audience got involved, singing the refrain: remember that I love you … remember that I love you … remember that I love you. No leprechauns or limericks were spotted.

Post notes: Apologies to those who visited yesterday and couldn't comment. I couldn't post either. I guess my blog needed a good night's sleep to fix itself, which I hope it did. Also, my commentary on autism and vaccines came out in the Roanoke Times today. You can read it HERE.

Posted by Colleen at 7:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Extra chairs were carried in from the Winter Sun hall to accommodate the overflow crowd for February’s Spoken Word at the Café Del Sol. I told my poet friend Mara that interest may have been piqued by the photo announcement in the recent Floyd Press of our mutual friend, Janean, reading at last month’s event. “Not only was it was prominently placed and as big as a billboard, the caption under it said she was reading a poem about a zombie” I joked.

Of the list of fourteen readers on the sign-up sheet, six were new to the venue. Sally helped the first reader, Hayden Polseno-Hensley, adjust the mic, asking, “Are you a sitter or stander?” “I usually crouch,” the over-6-foot tall Hayden replied.

Hayden, who grew up in Floyd and recently returned after being away for twelve years, had to tell me who he was before I could recognize him. He stood as he told the audience that he’s recently started a writer’s workshop for short story writing. The short story he read about an airplane crashing into a yard was well received by listeners.

There were love poems, a poem about wild strawberries, winter, and Jesus.

A woman named Rose, who has been living in Floyd since May, spoke about how happy she was to be here before reading her poem, which she dedicated to her son. She said “You know you’re in the right place when you hear, ‘Oh, our house is perfect for someone with five children.’” Floyd is a healing place, she said.

It was, retired schoolteacher, Cheryl Spangler’s first time at the open mic, although, I’ve seen her act in plays and heard her do a stand-up comedy routine years ago at a different venue. She read some of her original comedy that involved several small children and bowls of spilled breakfast oatmeal.
At one point Sally, Café Del Sol owner and spoken word MC, asked for a vote to determine if people wanted the lights kept on or if they wanted a candlelight atmosphere.

“Do you want a super delegate vote or just a show of hands?” someone from the crowd asked. The candlelight party won out and that was the end of my ability to snap any good photos.

A couple of non-coffee drinking readers (myself included) inspired by last month’s challenge in which Sally asked us to write coffee haiku, read newly written poetry about tea. There were several interactive pieces, which began with a nursery rhyme called Poet for President that Hollins College student Mara, recently wrote for a class assignment. And after school teacher, Skip King, read a series of 55 word poems, Mara assigned Sally to write a 55 word poem about coffee for next month.

Some read from chapbooks, others from notebooks. A woman named Elise shared that she had just come from the Dollar Store, where she purchased the brand new notebook she was reading from. Her chanting voice was melodic and her poetry was more of a story telling performance than a reading.

The two hour evening of entertainment was like a variety show of talent. I can’t wait to come back in March and see what will happen next.

Post notes: March’s Café Del Sol Spoken Word is scheduled for the 15th from 7-9. Reader pictured above is not Hayden but Sam. The other one is of Elise Brion. Click HERE and scroll down for more posts on the monthly Spoken Word.

Posted by Colleen at 3:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

~ Third Saturday Spoken Word at the Café Del Sol 7-9

I wore my purple poet’s beret. Mara’s was black. Everyone else was hatless, even though the night was frigid, and a few flurries earlier in the day threatened to cancel our open mic.

I’m so gullible. I tend to believe everything the poets say. But I’m pretty sure Janean (pictured below) did not hear a zombie climbing up the stairs where she works, going AAAARRRGG AARRRGG, as one of her poems described. She read another one about loving the NFL and later insisted that part was true. But she is not Greek as another line in another poem stated.

“I’m never going to get to know you better through listening to your poems,” I joked to her at the end of the night.

I sat up close, on the cafe couch as the poet's spoken words wove spellbinding plots. Six readers and some new attentive faces made up the crowd. Chelsea, who teaches writing at Radford University, is working on a new collection of poetry about insomnia. I guessed her new work might be directly related to her Java Poems, another collection espousing her love coffee. Sally, the Café owner, told jokes in between readings. She challenged us to write some coffee haiku for a future reading (although she gave me the poetic license to write mine about tea).

When it was Mara’s turn, she read a poem about Jesus in which her favorite line was “Jesus was totally an Aires.” I liked this part: “Jesus drove with the windows down and knew what he wanted for breakfast.”

After that poem I spent the rest of the night jotting down things that my Jesus would do. I’m pretty sure my Jesus is a morning person who has a braid like Willie Nelson’s and wakes up in a good mood.

Post Notes: The first photo is of me and Mara. Photo number two is of Janean reading and number three is of fellow writer’s circle member and Scrabble playing friend Rosemary. Read more about the purple beret HERE. Click and scroll down HERE to read about more spoken word nights at Floyd's Cafe Del Sol.

Posted by Colleen at 4:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

“Did you find one you like?” I asked Phil, father of our youngest spoken word reader, Mars.

“No, I’m just reading the funny papers,” he answered as he held up one with a fish on it that said ‘don’t give me that carp.’

Chelsea, a retired Radford University Professor who has recently authored a chapbook dedicated to her addictive love of coffee, picked out one with a coffee theme to take home. Jayn’s was black with a photo of one the three stooges and bright red letters that said, “Just say Moe.”

Earlier in the evening, Mara shared a short poem written in a form called a “minute,” and so I followed with one just as small that I labeled “a sip.” The last reader of the night, a Hollins College Graduate student who drove up from Roanoke, read a long poem that I thought was three different poems, or maybe a book. He dubbed his genre a “guzzle.” June said she was even more nervous than when she last read, which was her first time. Maybe it was because of the crowd. It was bigger than usual. At one point I counted thirty-six people.

Sally, the café owner, was too busy serving customers and then introducing the readers, to set up the sound system, so we projected our voices. I resurrected my poem “Dream for President Bush,” which was written five Novembers ago, before the U.S. invasion into Iraq. At that time it was read at several peace rallies and handed personally by me to actress Jessica Lange who spoke at one of the pre-war Peace Marches in Washington D.C. I went to.

I want President Bush to have a dream … like the one that Ebenezer Scrooge had … I want him to be haunted by the ghosts of Iraqi children … who cry out, “but mankind was your business” ...

I particularly like saying these lines:

I wish President Bush would have an affair … I wish he'd take off his black pointed cowboy boots … and look at the moon more often ...

And these:

I want his mouth washed out with soap … every time he says "weapons of mass destruction" … and for him to wear a Darth Vader helmet … if he ever says "the axis of evil" again ...

Nobody seemed to miss the mic.

At the start of the night I lugged a heavy garbage bag full of T-shirts up to the reader’s chair and spread a few out. “It will all be explained soon enough,” I told the curious onlookers who were watching me.

Elliot was a poet and member of the Floyd Writer’s Circle, the group that co-sponsors the monthly spoken word nights. It was the second anniversary of his death. Earlier that day, Kathleen, another writer’s circle member, and I had photographed Elliot’s T-shirt collection in a final farewell memorial for him. Mara put Elliot’s name on the sign up sheet for one of the ten minute slots because we planned to read a few of his poems. When Sally got to his name, she spoke faintly and questioningly, “Elliot?” while scanning the audience as if she was looking for a ghost.

Jayn, Mara, and I shared the spotlight for the tribute to Elliot. “He sat right in this very chair and read these poems himself not too very long ago,” I told the crowd. Mara talked about the book of Elliot’s poetry that she and Kathleen have been working on. At the end of the night, we invited everyone up to find a favorite T-shirt to bring home.

Post notes: You can read my account of the Washington D.C. Peace March HERE and the rest of the poem "Dream for President Bush HERE.

Posted by Colleen at 10:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

My life is structured around seasons and holidays in the same way I imagine an elementary school teacher’s might be. Every month I look for seasonal graphics and clip art to adorn the Museletter, the local newsletter I put together with others. Page colors are chosen with the seasons in mind. Orange and pumpkins for October. Pink hearts for February.

The monthly Spoken Word nights at the Café Del Sol, which started two years ago by the writer’s circle I belong to, also mark the seasonal cycles of my life. Every month brings a few new attendees, and the seasons are reflected by the choice of readings that are shared. October is an especially rich time for poetry and prose. The bright colors of fall coupled with descending darkness, Halloween, and death made for some interesting themes that repeated throughout Saturday night’s readings.

Rosemary Wyman opened the set with a poem about our unusual warm autumn weather, followed by a prose tribute (which will appear in November’s Museletter) to Catherine Pauley’s garden. Catherine, a well known artist and long time high school teacher, is director of Floyd’s Old Church Gallery. Her garden is a wild spot cultivated with an artist’s eye in amongst the open and rolling hills by the Pauley well drilling business office. It was started by Catherine with the help of her husband after her battle with breast cancer over ten years ago. Since then, her husband has passed on, and recent additions to the garden have been in memory of him.

It was the view that called to me first, and then when I started to look around at my more immediate surroundings I noticed the old hand pump, the large stone table, the set patio stones, the low stone wall and the informal stone steps that snake away through the flowers and trees and off down the wooded hill, Rosemary read. She described the garden, which has a sitting bench and a swing chair, as a place of healing. She spoke of how the garden gave her support when she wasn’t feeling well, and of introducing it to a woman with failing health who found solace during her illness and before her death. Oddly, I had visited Catherine’s garden just an hour before coming to the café for the first time in several years.

I followed Rosemary at the mic with a reading of “Country Boy,” the WVTF radio essay aired this past summer about my Asheville potter son, a good old boy with a twist and one of the kids of Floyd’s alternative community who paved the way for a meeting of cultures. After that, I read an older poem called “Sunflowers” which I chose because it’s fun to read this time of year. I can’t stand to see them droop … Faces hung like lamps bent over …Their lights are out … and … They hang like skulls in suicide nooses … in garden graveyards for Halloween … Their thorny crowns have fallen down … Their bones loom long …

Greg Locke, sign painter by trade, took questions after his reading. His mostly surreal art of the past twenty years was being shown on the cafe walls. People wanted to know which pieces were earlier ones and which were new.

Earlier that day, when I talked to Katherine Chantal, she said she had nothing new to read. I encouraged her to read something old. She did, but she also read a new piece that she ended up writing after all, after taking a walk and being inspired by the fall colors.

Retired Radford University Professor, Chelsea Adams, returned to the stage to share a few original selections. I especially enjoyed her poem in answer to Dylan Thomas’s Do Not Go Gently into that Good Night, in which he implores us to rage against the dying of light.

“But I want to go gently,” she began, and went on to describe how she wants her eyes to be closed and to be wearing a favorite red robe when death visits her.

Dr. Sue Osborne was there with her son Mars and his friend Emerson. Each read a piece of their own before joining together to entertain us with some three part harmony. I think the song they sang was about a skeleton, judging by the refrain that went something like ‘it must be chilly it must be without skin,’ and by the fact that Sue said they chose it because of Halloween.

Café owner, Sally Walker, introduced each reader and offered tidbits about what was going on in Floyd as she did. June, blogger from Spatter, made it back from her trip to Assateague Island in time to attend, but she didn’t read anything this time. Regular reader and Writer's Circle member, Jayn Avery, was too tired from selling pottery at the Roanoke Market that day to do a reading. After the last performer had read, a group of us stayed on to mingle and to meet Jayn’s sister who was in town. With the foliage starting to peak here in the mountains, it’s a good time to visit Floyd. And there’s a lot going on in town these days. The third Saturday Spoken Word Open Mic is just one of Floyd’s unique offerings.

Post notes: To read more about The Café Del Sol’s Spoken Word nights, go HERE and scroll down. Photos above are of Sally, Rosemary, Greg, Katherine, Emerson, Mars, and Sue.

Posted by Colleen at 8:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

In the end I’m like Rosa Parks … I don’t want to get up and go where I’m told … I work just as hard as any other poet … and I write from where I sit … Colleen

Mara and I performed our dueling punctuation poems as promised at this month’s Spoken Word open mic. The best part was that both our poems were work-shopped at our writer’s circle earlier in the week as poems, not as a poem with punctuation and one without. In the end, the irony was that the audience members listening couldn’t see the punctuation, or lack of it, and so the point was mute.

Refreshing newcomer to the open mic stage, June, read a poem about a dying squirrel. … even in this moment of anguish I admired his full tail and beautiful coat. It seemed the right thing to do ... She’s also a new Floyd blogger and you can read her poem in its entirety on her blog HERE.

Greg brought a prop. No, I don’t mean the tattoos up and down his arms. I mean a painting he did. His poem was directed to all the art buyers who didn’t buy it at an art show he placed it in once.

Chelsea Adams loves coffee! Retired, for the time being, from teaching writing at Radford University, Chelsea has a new chapbook, called Java Poems. The tie in to the main feature of Café Del Sol was not lost on Sally, who introduced each reader. “You can come read your poems here anytime,” Sally said into the mic after Chelsea faced her addiction with odes to her dark potent master.

When she read one called “Seductress” written in the voice of coffee it made me think about vampires, the gory lure. .. You are afraid of your desire for me, the hold I have on you, my sultry depths, wary of the jittery feeling I sometimes create in you, leery of a night without sleep …

By the end of her java reading she was proclaiming “Hallelujah!” in a poem titled “Salvation.” Research proclaims drinking six cups a day prevents diabetes, cancer, a heart condition …

Janean wears red shoes and writes funny, sexy poems. The pieces she read ranged from poems about drag queens to those about her love of the opera. “I don’t know if I should believe a word you say,” I joked at the end of the night.

“It’s all true,” she insisted.

There were only six readers, but each brought a rich variety of good work to the mix. We started on time, ended early, and really appreciated the people who came out to listen. But we really didn’t end where we ended. Last month the café was closed when we arrived, and we ending up doing a sidewalk street performance. This month we stayed till the chairs were turned upside down on the tables and Sally gave us a tactful reminder that we didn’t live there.

Laurie and Rob, a couple from Roanoke arrived late. Mara, who knew Laurie from Hollins College, decided they deserved a private reading. Four of our six readers agreed to hang around and an impromptu round robin reading around the coffee table ensued. As the café staff cleaned up, we re-read our poems and broke out some other ones. Mara recited one for memory so naturally that Rob thought she was just talking and interrupted her. I wanted to correct the line I flubbed during the official reading. After that I read a poem about spooky sunflowers to ring in the beginning of fall, which seems to have arrived overnight.

I can’t stand to see them droop … Faces hung like lamps bent over … Their lights are out … Their shame is as drastic … as their joy was in August … They burn at both ends …

Maybe next month -- October 20th from 7 -9 at Café Del Sol -- we'll read dueling ghoul poems.

Photos: 1. Greg reads 2. June 3. Chelsea 4. Janine 5. Left to right: Janine, Mara, June, Laure (can't be seen), Rob, Colleen. Scroll down HERE for past Spoken Word entries.

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After nearly three years of co-hosting a Spoken Word Open Mic with the Café Del Sol on the third Saturday of every month, local writers were stood up. This past third Saturday when we arrived at the café, it was locked.

Poets began to gather on the sidewalk. Questions were asked. Cell phones were used. Some came and left while others lingered, pacing the sidewalk and peering into the café windows.

Mara decided she wasn’t going to wait till she’s an older lady in a purple hat to sit on the sidewalk. “Where is our soapbox when we need it?” she asked.

Kyla got her hula hoop out of the back of her mom’s car.

Joe ate French fries that he got down the street at Oddfellas Cantina.

Cars and motorcycles drove by. Heads turned. Jayn pulled up a chair on the sidewalk next to Mara and chatted as if she was sitting on a front porch.

One couple who came for the entertainment pulled out their lap top and clicked on the Café Del Sol page. “See! It’s listed right here!” the unidentified man shouted.

“Yes, it was in the Floyd Press too,” I answered while balancing Kyla’s hoop on my hips.

Mara and I used the sidewalk as a stage for an impromtu street performance. With the setting sun as a spotlight, we did a piece from the OUTLOUD women’s collective that was recently featured at FloydFest. You can see and hear it HERE. We hope all is well with the Cafe owners and will keep you posted.

Posted by Colleen at 12:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

The following was published in the Floyd Press on August 9, 2007.

Local poets stepped up their presence at FloydFest this year by way of a stage in the Global Village. We moved from our soapbox stand under the Poetree at the festival entrance because with continuous bands playing on two near-by stages, we could hardly hear our own alliterations. At the village stage, under the shade of a brightly striped orange tent, we had mics and room to stomp around. Our group was also featured in the Floyd Fest program, which guaranteed some festival goers would make the trek off the beaten path to attend. And they did.

The theme of the collective performance, OUTLOUD, was on woman’s issues, and there were six of us representing a variety of related subjects. Besides me, other FloydFest Poetree Players featured were Tabitha Humphrey, Bekah Parker, and fellow Floyd Writer’s Circle members Mara Robbins, Rima Sultzen, and Rosemary Wyman.

Mara, FloydFest Poetree organizer since the festival’s inception in 2002, began by welcoming the audience, introducing the collective, and giving a little background on the history of the spoken word at FloydFest.

Wearing a long hot pink scarf, I opened the show with an original poem titled “Woman: a Definition.” I’m fire and magenta … Tahitian red magma …I announced as I flipped my scarf for effect. Rosemary, adorned in another shade of pink answered from her mic, I’m murmurs and contours … I’m cradles and curbs …

Magnetic … I’m Venus … compass and radius ... I countered. Our poetic conversation continued as momentum built.

Several poems were presented in this two way conversational style, others were read as a group, and a few were done solo. The most theatrical performance piece was one on perfectionism, titled “For What I’m Worth.” Written by Rosemary Wyman, mother of a blended family with eight children, it was like an abbreviated one act play.

“Where is it written that I must measure each breath I take? Why am I driven to strive for perfection? And if I am not determined to have the perfect body, make perfect grades, keep a perfect house, raise a perfect family, why am I considered a slouch … or worst of all a selfish woman?” Rosemary pondered out loud. Her performance rose to an empowering conclusion and was accompanied by the rest of the troupe who recited chorus lines and improvised movement, complete with measuring tapes and rulers as props.

The poets took on some controversial issues, but it wasn’t about dividing working mothers from stay at home ones, woman on opposite ends of the political spectrum, of different ages or lifestyles. The spirit of the performance was upbeat, meant to encourage diversity and remind us that we are all more alike than we are different.

Bekah, who works at the Women’s Resource Center in Radford shared her rousing signature poem “Rebelution” with a B. “Declaration of Independence,” a manifesto written by a 15 year old girl recovering from anorexia, was read by the group.

Tabitha Humphrey, an award winning poetry slammer gave a moving delivery of an original prose piece called “Will I be pretty?” It was a serious look with a humorous undertone at our culture’s focus on outer beauty. You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist; you sucked you thumb that’s why your teeth look like that; you were hit with a Frisbee when you were six; otherwise your nose would be just fine. Don’t worry we’ll get it all fixed.

The poets didn’t completely abandon the soap box. It was used throughout the four day festival at a variety of venues, as Mara and other poets hopped up on it, spouting poetry like FloydFest town criers and encouraging others to do the same.

One impromptu soapbox reading took place Saturday evening at the coffee bus and was a round robin dialogue of poetic interpretations on the story of Peter Pan. Mara revived her poem, “Wendy Fallen” from the OUTLOUD performance. … Here on the island where we all wear pajamas, I’m the only one with a dress and an apron … Rosemary’s poem described Wendy sewing Peter Pan’s shadow on at his death bed. Arden Hill, an MFA Creative Writing graduate from Hollins University shared several Peter Pan poems.

From the soapbox, I shouted out to the crowd … Before I knew that a grown woman named Mary Martin was playing Peter’s part … I already didn’t want to wear a tie ... Festival goers coming from a main stage musical performance stopped to listen. I was girl determined … not to be tied to a 9 to 5 … wearing panty hose and stilettos … in the middle of July … As I concluded my poem and jumped off the soap box to make room for the next poet, I imagined I was jumping off Captain Hook’s plank.

Lezlie, a poet who traveled from Charlottesville closed the soap box set with some improvised stream of consciousness poetics urging passersby to get involved in making the world a better place.

Post Note: The OUTLOUD performance will be repeated at the August’s Spoken Word Open Mic held at the Café Del Sol on August 18th from 7 – 9. Photos: 1. Rosemary and Colleen. 2. Colleen, Rima, Bekah, Rosemary, and Mara. 3. The group. 4. Mara on the poetry soap box shouts, "Attention shoppers!" See a short video clip of the tail end of Rosemary's piece HERE.

Posted by Colleen at 8:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

The moon in June will bloom blue and times two, but the poets will be out when it’s NEW ... So began the Floyd Press ad and the Museletter announcement for The Floyd Writers Circle’s June Spoken Word Open Mic. My fellow circle member and poet, Mara Robbins clipped the line for the poster she hung on the Café Del Sol door, where the monthly open mic usually takes place. But she changed the ending of the verse. Instead of the word NEW referring to a stage of the moon, she used it to refer to the open mic stage at a new venue, and to re-route attendees. Because the Café Del Sol crew was busy tending a private party, the café was not available on the previously announced date. The owners of the Blackwater Loft, just a few doors up and across the street, graciously agreed to host the event.

But the NEW in venue could have also referred to new readers because there were several of them. A grandmother of seven from Willis read an entertaining light verse written by one of her favorite poets. Although she was a newcomer to the spoken word stage, she read as if she had a background in theater.

Another woman shared what she described as flash fiction. Structured as a dialogue between the author and an unsuspecting acquaintance, it was a wildly hilarious piece about ferrets. I later learned that the reader really does have pet ferrets, but I don’t think she dresses them in sweaters or bounces them on the bed like the woman in her story did.

A young new reader named Allie read from her journal. When someone in the crowd reported that she wasn’t able to hear the reading, the air conditioning was turned off and the young woman read the piece again.

With the late evening sun streaming in, there was a break for refreshments and socializing before regular reader, Greg, took to the stage. The crowd laughed when he started his recently penned poem, What will I write for Saturday night? I don’t have a clue what to say …

Mara read a villanelle for picking lettuce and one for summer squash. As soon as you see them, pick them quickly – long zucchini, yellow crookneck, quick and prickly … A villanelle is a style of form poetry in which some lines repeat. It may have its roots in Italian harvest songs, Mara explained.

It was the eve of Father’s Day. Rosemary and I, both Floyd Writer’s Circle members, read poems about our late fathers. They were loving tributes that that mixed humor with more serious issues. Other readers included Floyd’s Dr. Sue Osborne and her son Mars, and a poet from Radford named Bekah.

A petite young woman in a flowing cotton skirt who was working at the Loft closed the evening with an impromptu song. Accompanied by a friend on guitar, she did a rendition of George Harrison’s Blackbird. “She should try out for American Idol,” I whispered to my neighbor as she sang.

After the event wound down, I headed out of town to a dinner party at my friend Katherine’s house that was already in progress. When I arrived about ten people, including my husband, were gathered around a large round table on her porch. “How did it go?” Katherine and my other friend Jayn asked at the same time. Both Writer’s Circle members who usually participate in the open mic, they were particularly interested to hear my report.

“I was great!” I boomed with obvious excitement.

For the past two years local writers in our community have been promoting monthly spoken word nights with the purpose of creating a forum where people of all ages and backgrounds can come together and share their stories. I’m always excited when these evenings draw new readers and listeners because it means that are goals are being fulfilled. To see a first time reader give voice to their creative expression is what it’s all about. I can’t think of a more fun way to spend an evening.

Post Notes: The couple that run the Blackwater Loft graduated from Floyd high school with my son Josh. Look what I found in the cafe: one of Josh's Building Community Bricks. More about that HERE. Scroll down HERE to read about more spoken word nights.

Posted by Colleen at 7:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Sometimes it takes a poet to speak the unspeakable in a way that is pointed and yet melodic enough to make us hear with more than our ears.

Our April Spoken Word night at the Café Del Sol in Floyd took place five days after the Virginia Tech shootings in Blacksburg. With Blacksburg being only 40 minutes from Floyd, I figured some of the readings would involve more than the expected seasonal and Earth Day fare.

I was right. Mara read a prose piece about when she was fourteen and first heard Nikki Giovanni, the Virginia Tech professor and poet who recently brought the Tech community together with her rousing words. Later, as a budding new poet at age of sixteen, Mara met Nikki and asked her if she had any writer’s advice to offer. “How old are you?” Nikki asked before answering Mara’s question, “Go live awhile, for God’s sake."

Mara leaned into the mic and looked out at the audience as she spoke: “My grandmother made food when there was a tragedy. Many women who I have known resort to that, hands-on care of those who are still alive … there is comfort in a bowl of rising bread, in layers of lasagna, in new sprouts of spring greens in a fresh garden salad.”

Then she grabbed two baskets full of home-made chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and passed them out to the crowd, saying, “This food will not heal you. It will not make the tears go away; it will not bring anyone back. There is nothing, really, that anyone can do. But this is my heart, my tears my grief, and my relief that all of you are still here to share this with me.”
My poetic offering did not involve food, but did relate to the Tech shootings. “The Poet’s Lament” was written the day before as a sub-conscious journey, which began with my complaining about forgetting how to write poetry and led, clue by clue, to the truth of what was really bothering me.

Arden (first photo), a Hollins University creative writing student who is about to graduate with a Master’s degree, might have wondered why I was snapping so many photos when he was reading. It was a pleasure to hear his original poetry, but I was also taken by the outline of the large tree outside the large café window at sunset and the reflection of the café lamps that seemed to go on forever.

It was uplifting to hear the sweet voice of young Janie. Because of her disability, which I was guessing was cerebral palsy, she was assisted by Joyce (her mother or guardian) while she sang. “I have butterflies,” she confessed before beginning a duet of three songs. (Of course, we all shared that we had butterflies as well, after that.)

Young Chris wheeled over in his wheel chair and told a few jokes. Rosemary read Rumi, Greg read about motorcycling, and nine year old Kayla added some comic relief, reading the poetry of Shel Silverstein, such as "The Battle." Would you like to hear … Of the terrible night … When I bravely fought the---- No? … All right.

Case closed. We all broke for cookies and poetic fellowship.

Post note: Mara was still carrying around her basket of homemade cookies and sharing them the next day at our Writer’s Circle meeting. Photos: 1. Arden reads. 2. Sally, cafe owner, introduces a reader. 3. Greg reads. 4. Janie and Joyce sing. Click and scroll down to read more about Floyd's Spoken Word Night HERE.

Posted by Colleen at 10:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

The following originally appeared in "The Floyd Press" newspaper on March 22nd.

“Say Green!” someone called out as Max Charnley snapped a photo of spoken word performers at the Café Del Sol this past Saturday night. Because the Open Mic, scheduled every third Saturday, was on St. Patrick’s Day this month many in attendance were donned in green clothing.

“I want you all to know that I take reading poetry on St. Patrick’s Day very serious,” I announced to the audience as I began my 10 minute reading slot. I was wearing a sage green sweater that was purchased in Ireland and had the word “Blarney” sewed in the tag. “I don’t know whether blarney refers to a bunch of baloney or the gift of eloquence. It’s probably something in between,” I joked.

Earlier that day I had been reading from Thomas Cahill’s bestseller book, “How the Irish Saved Civilization.” The title is a reference to the Irish monks who, at the fall of the Roman Empire when literature and artifacts were being burned by barbarians, hand copied the Greek, Roman, Judeo-Christian classics, which would have otherwise been lost to us.

Said to have invented rhyme, the Irish tradition was an oral one in which their history was preserved by way of spoken verse. Literacy came late to the out-of-way island, but once it did, the Irish made up for lost time. In one generation they learned Greek, Latin, and some Hebrew; they devised Irish grammars, and copied the whole of their native oral history. But they didn’t just copy. The Irish are credited with inventing the codex, the first prototype of a book (before that scrolls were used), and they produced the most magically illustrated manuscripts the world has ever seen. The Book of Kells, which includes four gospels and the Bible in Latin, is one such example.

I read a few excerpts from Cahill’s book about the Irish, their playful love of the alphabet, and their reverence for language. “The Irish enshrined literacy as their central religious act,” Cahill wrote. Even at the earliest stage of their development, “the Irish were intoxicated by the power of words. Every noble Irish family maintained a family of ancestral poets,” I shared with the café crowd.

I knew from other reading that in the old Irish tradition the only position more noble than a poet was a king. In the spirit of the Irish poets, I introduced myself. “I am Colleen, which means “girl” in Irish Gaelic. I’m the granddaughter of Ellen Bergin of Youghal, County Cork, great granddaughter of Mary Murray, Margaret Keating, and Theresa Dineen from Cork, Tipperary, and Offaly,” I said before beginning my poem titled “My Grandmother’s Brogue” (which I read, in part, with a brogue).

The Irish theme continued when Katherine Chantal read a poem that wove two trips to Ireland together. In the early 70’s she traveled through the country with a backpack. Then, while on a more recent trip, she navigated the narrow country roads there while driving with her sister on the left side. … When wind is ever present in a land … How then to be still? ... Those emerald hills … The constancy of the ocean’s voice … Presents its own quiet … And projected us back to … Our ancestors who once walked the same … She read.

Four of the nine members of the Floyd Writer’s Circle, including myself, were in attendance. Most of us were already warmed up from reading two nights earlier at the Jessie Peterman Library where Friends of the Library hosted us as part of their Floyd Naturally! program. Our writer’s group is dedicated to promoting the spoken word in the community and has been co-hosting the Spoken Word Night with the café once a month since October 2005.

Writer’s Circle founding member Mara Robbins is a Hollins University student and a recent finalist in the undergraduate poetry competition at the 47th annual Lex Allen Literary Festival. She read several poems, one of which was about writing poetry forms, such as pantoums, haikus, sonnets, and villanelles. Jayn Avery, just back in town from selling her pottery on the Roanoke Market, read a hopeful poem about the coming of spring. Rosemary Wyman was inspired to write the poem she shared when she saw an acquaintance and his caregiver walking down the street.

Sally Walker, Café Del Sol owner and master ad libber, introduced readers and helped to make them comfortable by adjusting the mic when needed. There were two first timers. Young Mars read and essay about losing his beloved cat, and Martha Taylor shared the words of a poet she admired. Greg returned to the mic to read a poem that explained his recent haircut.

Poetry wasn’t the only evening’s offering of entertainment. Some in the crowd hummed along to a ballad that Chris Youngblood crooned a capella. Foot tapping and handclapping could be heard when Joe Klein belted out “The Star of County Down” (which I hummed then and continued to for the entire next day)

As Joe sang, I closed my eyes. Sitting on the café’s comfy couch and sipping my cold amber brew, I imagined us all in an Irish pub. I couldn’t think of a more appropriate and fulfilling way to spend a St. Patrick’s Day evening.

Post Notes: THIS is a video of me reading “My Grandmother’s Brogue.” Photos: 1. From left to right backrow: Mars, Mary, Greg, Colleen, Jayn, Mara, Rosemary, Walter. Front row: Joe and Katherine. 2. Martha reads. 3. Jayn reads. 4. Mara on a chair. 5. Colleen and Joe on the comfy couch. Jeanie O'Neil's paintings are displayed in the background. Scroll down HERE to read more posts about Floyd's Spoken Word events.

Posted by Colleen at 10:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (19)

Two stand-up comics, two children, one poet performing to the Indigo Girls singing Bob Dylan on a boom box, and another reading while standing on a chair made for a wild night at the Café Del Sol’s Spoken Word Open Mic. A total of twelve performed to a full house. At one point Sally, the café owner had to borrow chairs from the Winter Sun Hall to accommodate the overflowing numbers.

Sally, the master of ceremonies, opened the evening with a humorous re-write of the Beatles song “A Day in the Life.” After explaining how she read in the Floyd Press that the spoken word night was rescheduled because the café was closed for a week’s vacation, when they actually had been closed to work on the place, she sang, “ I cleaned the floors today…oh boy … see how the shiiiiine…”

Regular readers Greg, Rosemary, Mara, Colleen, and Brigitte were joined by Bekah who came from Radford and performed her signature poem “Rebelution,” and Lezlie who was in town visiting from Louisa County and performed a spontaneous improvisational poem about Romeo and Juliet. Brigitte’s daughter sang and then recited her poem about frost. Mara’s daughter Kyla sang a beautiful song that she had worked on with her music teacher, Kari, who was in the audience.

Ever since Bekah read a poem last summer while standing on a chair, I’ve wanted to do the same. I had just the poem that would work, but it was an old one that I initially couldn’t find … Everything’s going up … the prices … the stakes … the cancer rates …

I found it that very day, and when I saw that Bekah was back, I knew I had to do it. The ozone hole is growing … violent crime is rising … the greenhouse effect is warming … the temperature is climbing …

It’s called the Wake-up Call and was performed by Jayn, Katherine, and I back in the days of Women of the 7th Veil, a poetry improv troupe we started. Everything’s building up … the population … the pressure … the city skyscraper ...

I think maybe we performed it standing on chairs back then, but I can’t remember for sure. Cholesterol … traffic … the arms race … the pace!

I started out sitting, followed by standing, and ended up on top of a nearby chair. We better get up too … wake up …stand up … speak up …and grow up …

Before it all goes up in smoke … “And I am on a chair!” I concluded and later wondered if I should have invited the audience to stand on theirs.

If the crowd wasn’t standing on their chairs for my reading, they were falling out of them laughing while Mrs. Pickle, our last performer, did her stand-up comedy routine.

After a short intermission, giving some of the most innocent ones in the room the option to leave early, Mrs. Pickle, an elderly church going character who recently lost her husband, took to the mic. What began as a little Mrs. Pickle chat led to a hilarious uproar, as she related her latest adventures in the never-too-late world of sex experimentation.

All blushing aside, the comedian behind the purveyor of passion paraphernalia, known as Mrs. Pickle, delivered a top notch performance with well written jokes, good timing and an ability to ad-lib and interact with the expressive audience.

Next month, the third Saturday Spoken Word night falls on St. Patrick’s Day, March 17. I think everyone should put on some green and come out to share pint with the neighborhood poets and bards.

Photos: 1. Brigitte reads poetry to her daughters. 2. Leslie serenades. 3. Colleen stands up. 4. Mrs. Pickle tickles our funny bone. 5. The crowd responds. Read more about Floyd's Spoken Word night HERE. Scroll down.

Posted by Colleen at 7:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

“Did the spoken word ad in the Floyd Press say that no men were allowed?” I joked when I scanned the café and counted ten women. Because of Rick’s retirement party up the road at Mama Lizardo’s attendance was light. So we gathered up close to the mic that most of us didn’t feel the need to use, sipped our various drinks and took turns reading mostly poetry.

“I read this one ten years ago at a poetry slam in a Roanoke bar," I told the group of women before reading my first poem. “I either won or placed that night, but they didn’t give me anything as a prize. It was late and smoky,” I complained.

“It’s called “The School of Higher Learning,” I went on, “and is best read and heard without shoes on, but since it’s January, I won’t require that.” LOOK SEE SPOT JUMP SALLY … Don’t talk in class …. or take your shoes off under the desk … don’t draw outside the lines …

“I hope you all saw the moon on your way here,” I said before beginning my last poem, “A Fingernail of Moon.” Clipped close from the darkness … the moon is filed down … to a delicate sliver … of smiling light ... The applause that followed was as much for the moon as it was for my poem, I figured.

Jayn read one with an intriguing title, “The Poem Not Written,” and Katherine read an ode to “camellia sinensis” about her devotion to tea. Rosemary’s poem about her son’s helicopter going down in Afghanistan brought tears to my eyes (he survived but most others did not).

It was great to see Brigitte, Daphne, Dove, and Jeanine. Sally, the café owner who frequently has to run off to a singing gig was able to stay for the whole thing and added her adlibbed wit to the menu. A newcomer to Floyd name Dot delivered her poem for memory. About half way through the night’s readings the front door got busy swinging open as late comers arrived.

When I turned around to look I saw them. All men. At least six of them. They sat in the back of the café while the rest of us, all women, sat in front. Like boys and girls at a school dance, we eyeballed each other before the cross talk began, which led to one man coming up to the mic. He didn’t have a poem, but he used the spoken word. “What one book would you want with you if you were stranded on an island?” he posed, and an interesting discussion ensued.

It was 9:00 when the reading, lingering, and mingling wound down, still time to head over to Mama Lizardos and dance a set provided by “The Kind,” a Blacksburg Grateful Deadesque band with long-time ties to Floyd.

“I lived a real life today,” I said with a big smile to my husband when I got home. (We were providing respite care for an individual over the weekend and he agreed to stay home so I could go out.)

And the night was young and the living went on… The smile is still on my face.

Post note: Because the Café Del Sol will be closed for a week in mid February, the next spoken word open mic will not happen on the third Saturday, but on Saturday February 24th from 7-9. More about Floyd's spoken word events HERE.

Posted by Colleen at 5:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

Feelin’ groovy at the Café Del Sol’s third Saturday open mic. Still hummin' from the Hafla the night before. My poem had a fat fly and a clumsy yellow hornet in it. Sierra returned with her sweet words all abuzz … God is a bumble bee with hyacinth desire …. I am a jar of honey… Kayla, our 9 year old MC, stood in for Sally, Café owner, again. Her shirt was awhirl with a butterfly seeking nectar and went well with the fluttering art of Sue Nees that hung on the wall behind her. She introduced me as Colleen Redman…or Redmana… or Red Ruby slippers. She let me wear hers and I tried to make them fit but discovered that it’s hard to walk in Kyla’s shoes.

Girls from Tekoa, a Floyd County residential treatment center for at-risk adolescents, came out and filled 2 tables. Some took to the mic. Greg with the tattoos up and down his arms came back. He read a poem about his hands, how well they have served him. I meant to shake his before he left but was busy flitting to and from other flighty pursuits and never landed quite close enough to do so. Some dark themes were brought into the soft café light. There was also mention of love and a bar of soap, three of them actually, in a poem that Rosemary read about her life’s work, end of life care. The girl named Joy sitting next to me on the couch cried when Leah read her powerful poem about a girlfriend’s suicide. A few people laughed when a girl from Tekoa performed some stand-up at the mic during the intermission.

Post Note: If you look closely you can see Kyla’s finger pointing and calling you to come to the next Spoken Word, January 20th 7-9.

Posted by Colleen at 9:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Spoken Word Open Mic at the Café Del Sol ~
Nine year old Kyla, dressed like a rock star and wearing ruby red slippers, was our MC for the night. Leigh plunked a tune on her bright red guitar. Lora sat in the midst of her own passionate pastels that hung from the café walls. She read a poem about Dance Free, written by a woman in the audience who was too shy to read it herself.

Considering that many Floydians had come out to celebrate Mama Lizardo’s 70th birthday a few doors down from the cafe, the turnout was good. Even Sally, Café Del Sol owner and local singing talent, was at Liz’s party, scheduled to sing, which is how Mara’s daughter Kyla came to be our open mic host. There were new faces in the crowd and several new readers, bringing the evening’s performer’s list to ten.

A horse name Echo… soothing Grandma Lizzy… a poem about a graveyard ….and an essay on the stuff of life and our identification with it all figured into the mix. My favorite poem title for the night was “When All Our Beards Were Brown,” read by a man with long grey hair who had tattoos up and down his arms. The work presented was touching and thoughtful, eliciting head nodding, sighs of approval, and resounding applause for its authors.

When it was my turn at the mic, I read my disclaimer (or is it a mission statement?) before passing out the photos that accompanied my reading of “The Pink Raft.” Therapy is not about finding out who did what to me or why. It’s about finding out what I’m storing and what’s weighing me down. Everyone has some emotional baggage. It’s there whether we acknowledge it or not. I figure I might as well open the bag and see what’s in there, remember why I put it there, and decide what I can now throw away. Shifting from pink to red hot, I followed up "The Pink Raft" with “Hot Flash at Night,” and then “Free Leonard Peltier and the Japanese Tanka.”

Mara, looking every bit the poet in her long kokopelli coat and black beret, read tankas, wonderful slices of poetic observation that had evolved since she read them at our last writer’s workshop. She takes her blue yarn … up on the roof and sings … while she crochets … There will come a day when things like this don’t matter … Not now.

At the end of the evening Kyla’s ruby red slippers got passed around. Sipping my Anchor Steam beer, I put my feet up on the coffee table and admired them in red. Later, Arden, a creative writing graduate student who had come up from Salem, tried them on. “I wonder where I’ll end up if I click them together?” he asked.

Photos: 1. Leigh’s red guitar and Rosemary, who is reading a hot poem about tea. 2. Kyla takes charge. 3. Colleen asks, "Do they make these in my size?"

Posted by Colleen at 9:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

“I feel a little like Leonard Cohen to her Sylvia Plath,” I leaned over and whispered in my friend Jayn’s ear. We were at the Café Del Sol for the monthly spoken word open mic, and Sierra Bell had the mic. Sierra, who grew up in Floyd and recently graduated from Appalachian State, read three poems. Her style was natural, her sultry voice perfectly metered. She poured her poems out like filling an empty glass. Never losing her place or her rhythm, she did not look up from her notebook, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. By the end of her reading of “The Birds,” posted below, I was giddy. Imagine it read in a Dorothy Parker-like delivery:

The Birds

The birds are dulcet weapons and I wake
each day to their bludgeoning lollipop standards.
All afternoon while I attempt to wallow
in my misery in peace, they accost me
with their shrill cherry-on-top trills.
I didn’t ask for this
saccharine spoonful of warbled jingles.

I’d rather not have my blisters
smeared with syrup, thank you.

Star struck, I called Sierra over to the couch I was sitting on when the readings were over. I wanted to learn a little more about her and tell her how I felt about her poetry. I found out that, although she had taken a poetry class at her college, she majored in Cultural Anthropology and not poetry or creative writing. Eventually she plans to go back to go back to school, but not for poetry or creative writing. “You can’t earn a living at it,” she explained.

Sierra’s father is a well known photographer in Floyd. Her mother is just as well known for her pressed flowers on glass, and her older sister makes jewelry. The results of their creative pursuits are sold at the family’s gallery in town where Sierra is currently working. Knowing how creative her family is, many customers ask, “What do you do?” she tells me.

“You can call yourself a poet. You’re a poet.” I insist.

“Then what do I say … do you want to buy a poem?” she jokes.

We talked about chapbook publications, places she might submit her poems, and the writing courses our friend and fellow poet Mara is taking at Hollins College. But Sierra was right, I had to agree. There are no jobs for poets listed in the want ads. No “poems wanted.” Not many people are interested in buying one.

“I only started calling myself a poet when Will Bason, (a mutual Floyd friend and folk poet), started calling himself one (via a bio in a Roanoke Times commentary). He gave me the courage to,” I told Sierra.

“But I also did it to explain myself. I think being a poet is a way of life, and I was hoping people would cut me some slack and leave me alone to do what I do,” I continued. “I wasn’t claiming to be a good poet. I was just saying that writing poetry was what I was compelled to do more than anything else.”

This is a young poet prodigy, I kept thinking as we talked. I silently cringed, knowing the steps Sierra would likely have to take to be recognized as a poet, to get paid even occasionally for her poems. Although I wanted her to get on with the rest of her life being a poet, I also realized that she’s young.

“Maybe you’ll find yourself home raising young children some day with lots of inspiration and time to devote to your writing,” I conceded. “Just keep writing,” I told her, “and don’t ever hesitate to call yourself a poet because that’s what you are.

Posted by Colleen at 9:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (15)

For the first anniversary of the Spoken Word Open Mic at the Café Del Sol a lawyer from Washington D.C. with aspirations of becoming a musician scribbled his poem on a scrap of paper before coming up to the stage to read it. Dr. Sue Osborn was in the house with her son Mars. She read a poem from her journal about a blackberry, which began … My family doesn’t want this one. Radford University graduate, Bekah, got a rousing applause for each one of the three original poems she read. Open Mic regulars and Floyd Writer’s Circle members, Mara and I also read. Mara performed an experiential piece, read in between a recording of “Don’t Think Twice it’s Alright,” sung by Joan Baez and The Indigo Girls. Another piece she read was inspired by a National Geographic article that likened being in love to obsessive compulsive disorder …The conversation heart you gave me on valentine’s day … was probably spiked with dopamine. I never ate it … But if I had, I could have avoided months of clichés … I read two serious poems, one of which is brand new and the result of a recent therapy session. Feeling a little guilty about possibly bumming the audience out, I promised to follow those poems with one that would make them laugh. And it did!

At the Dentist

It’s too late to pretend
that the overhead lamp
is the sun in Tahiti
and the reclining chair
is a floating raft in a blue green sea

Because the tube in my mouth
I could be sipping a drink from
is not really a straw for pina colada
and the grinding drill I hear coming closer
is not the blender that mixed it

~Colleen

Posted by Colleen at 8:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (19)

Floyd Fest is different this year. There is no mud. No rain or fog. No hurricane skirted the site, as it has in the past, and festival goers have had to drop the nickname “Fog Fest,” because there is none.

The crowds are noticeably larger. Is that why I lost my parked car and almost missed my scheduled 3:00 poetry reading under the Poet Tree? My husband, Joe, came to the rescue. Not only had he built the benches for Poet Tree area, but he arrived to the reading from a hula hoop workshop in the African village just in time to recover my poems from our lost-to-me car, and he mustered up a last minute impromptu audience for us from down at Hill Holler Stage.

Mara got acupuncture from The Healing Arts Tent to rev up her bravado. Is that how she was able to stand on the literal soap box like a town crier and belt out poetry to passers-by?

I, on the other hand, sat down to read when it was my turn. Our crowds at the Poet Tree are always modest, but you know, I’m shy and sort of like it that way.

The Poet Tree is popular with the kids. Not because it’s a free speech zone or an open mic. They don’t come to hear poetry. They do not stand on the soapbox to complain about President Bush, read their own poems, or organize a revolt against public school. They like the Poetree because there are apples in it!

Post Notes: I’m headed out to Floyd Fest again today. I plan on checking my blog comments at the Blue Nova wireless tent on site. The Roanoke Times has a blogger blogging on the event as it's been happening. You can check it out HERE.

Posted by Colleen at 10:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (15)

Sometimes I worry that my bad poetry…like a nude photograph…will come back to expose me. ~ Colleen

Sally, Café Del Sol owner and our gracious MC for the evening welcomed everyone to the June Spoken Word Open Mic wearing a purple horned headdress. “A variation of the purple poet’s beret some of us wore last month,” I said to my friend Mara when I saw Sally approaching the stage.

The sign-up sheet of performers read like a “Who’s Who” of our Floyd Writers’ Circle. Five of us, all women, read pieces that we had work-shopped together just 3 nights before. And didn’t our final work sound so much improved? “We did our homework,” I said to fellow circle member, Kathleen, at the end of the evening. But Writers’ Circle members weren’t the only ones who read.

We initiated Jack, a painter and poet from Norfolk, by fire by making him go first. “Getting it over with” was the line I used to spin the idea to him. In town to visit Writers’ Circle member, Jayn, Jack was a good sport. His poem about meeting women (or not) in cafés was appropriate considering our venue, and his poems about snakes having sex, and painting in a dream, while wondering if Paul Simon writes poetry, kept the audience intrigued and engaged.

Mara’s girlfriend, Leigh, had been to several of our previous Spoken Word events, but had never read her own work before. She pleasantly surprised us with her rap inspired poem with a “take your metaphor and shove it” theme, and then with a tender tribute to her mother.

Attach the end to the beginning … The life of flowers is finite … once gathered … expect no more than eight to twelve hours before wilting… After her poetic recipe for making a daisy chain necklace, Mara read an essay about a Hollins College writing assignment she once had, titled “What Have you Learned?” She was failing miserably at the task when a giant sequoia pine cone fell from her shelf in a Newtonian sort of moment and caused her to bleed. Maybe we don’t learn without a little discomfort, Mara wondered out loud.

The crowd turnout was good. Seats were filled with some regulars and some new supporters cheering us on. Several couples found their way to the event by way of the Floyd Press and Museletter ads, I learned at the end of the evening.

I sat in my regular front row seat, the big comfy couch, and bantered (not heckled) with the readers, sort of the way sports players psych each up other with encouraging cross talk. When it was my turn to read, I was thrilled to discover that my powers to ad-lib had returned. Last month, on stage I couldn’t seem to form a coherent unscripted sentence, probably due to the fact that the event was rescheduled and took place at 4pm, the time of day I’m usually napping, rather than our regular 7 pm.

“Maybe poetry isn’t meant for broad daylight. I like to read in dimmed lighting that casts reflections on my amber filled glass of beer,” I told my husband when I figured out what went wrong last month. Of course, as one who has been healing from public speaking trauma for most of my life, I don’t need a reason to be nervous. But I wasn’t on this evening, at least not abnormally so.

From the creased and fading underlining …of the mind’s lived-out stories … I summon them up … to soothe a new hurt … I touch my own cheek … to feel his phantom kisses … Even though earlier in the day I experienced an emotional breakdown related to posting the poem about my father kisses on my blog (more on that in a future post), I got through the reading of it without choking up. I did enough bawling while writing the piece, after all.

My reading (which Joe made a mini-movie of, but I don’t know how to post those) was followed by the rest of my Writers’ Circle fellow-members. The sharp beaked, sweet talking, opportunistic malingerer cowbird, bullying for food and out-competing the young thrush reflected the human world as a ferment of human malevolence in Jayn’s poem, titled “Face-off.”

Rosemary reminded us that Mother’s Day was not originally intended as a day for women to pat themselves on the back and receive flowers. It was meant to inspire women to get out and change the world. If anyone could stop the loss of innocent lives in man made wars, it would be women, she stated in a piece about raising bi-gender children, which at its conclusion brought on rousing whoops and applause.

Kathleen, a historian and archivist, is known for her descriptive poetic prose. She wove a story about a large quartz rock to the beat of a repetive line … And India told me this story… years ago … Too big to dig up, on the property she now lives on, it had to be buried. And India told me this story … years ago... When a large rock stopped her while mowing, she asked ‘could it be the one?’

The June Spoken Word Open Mic night was like a home game that everyone who participated in won. When it was over, some of us stayed to dance to the music of the Winged Heart Band in the back part of the building.

Post Notes: You can read about more Floyd Spoken Word events here. Photos: Sally, Jack, crowd, and Colleen.

Posted by Colleen at 8:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (17)

I was on the phone with Mara setting up a date to play Scrabble when she said to me, “I enjoyed the reading you did about your mom at our last open mic, but I think it was the first time you didn’t read any poetry. That was weird.”

“Do you know why?” I asked and then went on to explain.

I was scheduled to read my WVTF Radio Mother’s Day essay, and I wanted to explain to the audience how the essay came about, that I had written one for my father first, in honor of his WWII service, and my mother hoped out loud that I would write one for her.

“When I stumbled on the word “veteran” in my set-up for the piece and almost said “veterinarian,” I knew I was in trouble,” I told Mara. “I just couldn’t find the word. I couldn’t count on my own brain! And then I didn’t know how to verbally make the transition from a Mother’s Day essay to poetry. I just wanted to read the essay and get off the stage.

Mara replied that she hadn’t noticed that I fumbled or that anything was wrong with me, but she and I both have ongoing issues with anxiety, and so she understood.

“I didn’t feel comfortable even before that. Maybe it was hormonal or because the crowd was big. It was as if my brain connections were flipped on OFF. Why am I even in this business with a brain like mine?!” I complained.

My Chinese Medicine Practitioner, who I worked with for 2 full years, believes he was treating me primarily for a head injury (and that’s a whole other story). Many of my family members struggle with dyslexia and dyscalculia. Or maybe my fragile brain chemistry is related to my longstanding issues with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, of which one component is described as “brain fog.”

Later, while playing Scrabble, Mara and I continued our conversation. After writing a blog post about meeting NPR’s Terry Gross with mention of how she didn’t look like I expected (and after being spurred by a comment by Mayberry), I did a little research on Diane Rehm, another Public Radio interviewer I like to listen to. I wanted to see what Diane looked like and learn what was wrong with her voice. It’s shaky and weak and sounds as though she has suffered a stroke.

According to a 1999 Washington Post article titled “Diane Rehm Finds a Voice of Her Own,” Rehm has a neurological disorder called “spasmodic dysphonia, a disorder that attacks the voice. She also suffers the psychological effects of coping with her disorder, which manifest as anxiety, shortness of breath, and self doubt. In a book authored by Rehm, she tells of her traumatic childhood relationship with her mother, implying that the emotional roots of her voice loss started there.

“Can you imagine being in radio with a problem like that? And being successful in spite of it?” I asked Mara.

Then I read my favorite part of the article out loud to Mara, the part that I related to most, Rehm’s own description of anxiety: “It’s not the anxiety that originates the problem. The anxiety follows. It feeds the fear and the fear feeds the anxiety, and caught in the cycle is: the voice.”

Or, in my case, the brain. When I can’t count on it to function right, fearful feelings of being unprepared and incapable ultimately lead to anxiety. Sometimes the fear is a rational one, such as when I’m driving through an unfamiliar and congested city, and I can’t process all the highway signs, overpasses, and exits. Other times it’s less rational, less predictable, and something I can usually bluff my way through; unless of course I’m on stage with a microphone in my hand.

But things could be worse. I feel fortunate that my fragile brain functioning isn’t as evident to others as the voice disorder that plagues Diane Rehm. The next time I’m doing a public reading and I feel ill at ease, I’ll try to remember her and let her perseverance inspire me.

Posted by Colleen at 10:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

“There was an old story that when a revolution occurred in some ancient land the new ruler was asked, “What’s the first thing to do?” and the new ruler answered “Kill the poets.” ~ Bill Moyer

I wanted to wear my new purple beret to Sunday’s Spoken Word event, where I was scheduled to do a reading. I got the beret for my birthday from my sister, Tricia, and thought it would be a good prop for a poet.

Why is it poets are associated with berets? I don’t know, especially considering that the wikipedia on berets only covers the history of military ones. Maybe poets are a militant sort of group, with their words being like weapons when necessary. If they’re any good as a poet, I think they should be counted on to speak truth to power.

I was hoping the purple beret would calm my nerves when it was my turn to read on stage. Maybe wearing it would divert some attention away from me and onto my hat! But, being made of wool, it was too hot to wear on this particular warm May evening.

At intermission time the hat got passed around, not to put money in to support our starving writers, but so that we could try it on and feel...well, more poetic.

My friend, Mara (in the first photo), looks like the epitome of the poet that she is. I think she should use this photo for her own blog or webpage. Even Kyla, her young daughter, read up at the mic, and so she got to try on the hat. Joe and I were finally able to relax because my part of the reading was done.

Who will be next to try on the purple beret? To be continued…

Posted by Colleen at 8:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)

AKA: Come to Spout or Hear Others Out.

Our monthly spoken word open mic, hosted at the Café del Sol, is spearheaded by the Writers' Circle I belong to. The idea is to promote the spoken word and create a local forum for all voices. Kathleen, a founding member of our Writers’ Circle, makes up the flyers. I submit the blurb to The Floyd Press and The Museletter, the homespun local newsletter that I co-edit.

This month Fred First, longtime blogger at fragmentsfromfloyd.com and new author of “Slow Road Home,” will be reading excerpts from his book, and I will be reading my Mother’s Day essay that recently aired on WVTF public radio. Fred is also a member of our Writers’ Circle, a WVTF radio essayist, and a Floyd press columnist. The below excerpt is from the back cover of Slow Road Home. It describes how Fred came to write the book and what it is about:

With a naturalist's curiosity, a photographer's eye, and the heart of one who knows that he is living at last where he belongs, Fred First, in Slow Road Home, invites the reader to join him on a field trip through time and place.

It is that connection you will find in the particulars here, in a book best read the way it was lived: slowly, a day, a moment at a time.

Post note: You can read about April’s Spoken Word Open Mic here. Learn more about Fred’s book, here. Floyd's Spoken Word at the Cafe Del Sol normally happens the third Saturday, 7-9 pm, of each month, but this month it was changed to Sunday due to a scheduling conflict.

Posted by Colleen at 10:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

In the beginning I misunderstood… But now I've got it, the word is good. ~ The Word by Lennon/McCartney

An hour before it was time to head out for Spoken Word Open Mic at the Café Del Sol in downtown Floyd, my husband reminded me that I was supposed to box up 20 of my books for Alan, his former counseling professor who uses the book in a grief and loss class and who was planning to attend the open mic.

I was up in the attic crawl space counting books when my bare foot collided with a piece of glass from a broken frame that held a poem I had long ago written for my eldest son when he was born (26 years ago). It was a pretty deep gash and oddly ironic, since I was planning to read my WVTF radio essay about knowing summer through my bare feet at the open mic. …I remember the dew drenched grass on my feet and then, because it was dark, stepping on something sharp. I probably screamed louder than I needed to, because howling at night somehow seemed normal.

The cut was an opportunity to test the healing power of cayenne to stop bleeding in its tracks. I expected it to sting when I sprinkled some on, but it didn’t. Not only that, it did what I had read it would do. I slapped on a band-aid, called my friend, Katherine (pictured), who would be riding to town with me, and told her I was running late.

Because I arrived at the Café late, I didn’t get a chance to order my customary beer. After delivering the box of books to Alan, meeting his girlfriend, greeting familiar faces, and acknowledging those that weren’t familiar with a nod or a smile, I plopped myself down on my favorite couch, the only one in the café, as though I had a claim to it.

There were two people already sitting there. As I squeezed myself in, I was reminded of watching TV with my eight siblings when I was a girl. We were all territorial about the best seats in our house, and if you scored a good one and then left it for a minute, you had to fight to get it back.

My couch companions were two high school-aged girls, one of whom was planning to read. She was nervous, she confessed; so we made a plan. “Look at me when you’re reading, I’ll wink and do something to make you laugh,” I instructed her. I was beginning to worry about my own nerves, considering that I didn’t have a beer to steady them.

It was a smaller crowd than last month’s full house, which probably had something to do with the fact that it was the night before Easter, the local newspaper had the wrong date published, and it was our first open mic since daylight savings. The thought of reading poetry in public in broad daylight might have scared-off some.

By the time Mara took to the stage, I was finally settled in and could receive the weight of her words. She read one of my favorite poems about remembering playing Monopoly with her husband who is now deceased …You were always the shoe…when we played we ate popcorn and drank coke…Sometimes we put a joint in free parking…and all the chance money went there too..

Mara also read an essay about the reactions people have had to her generously bumper-stickered car, which she thinks of as a poem with an engine. Her daughter, Kyla, who was present, figured in the piece. It was fun to watch her facial expressions as her mom read. At one point Kyla playfully banged her head against a nearby computer. After that she climbed under the table and hid her face. Did they rehearse that?

I began my reading with a reference to the date, April 15th… in spring I calculate poetry…the way others do their taxes…as though the world were overdue for a good accounting. My friend Katherine, an herbalist and ceremonialist, followed me with an essay titled, “All in A Day,” in which she reflected on performing a wedding ceremony in the morning and then preparing a friend’s mother’s body who had just passed away for a funeral service in the afternoon. I recall her speaking… Let it be… Let it be... like a chorus to the melody of her words.

One of the readers, a man name John (pictured) who came all the way from Blacksburg to read, did a poem that consisted entirely of the names of Beatles songs, which fed right into my longstanding fantasy (which I’m not obsessive enough to pull off) of spending a day saying everything I need to via Beatle lyrics.

I’m so grateful that we have local forum for writers to share their work. I’m looking forward to many more spoken word events and meeting the creative people willing to participate in them. We gather around the mic every 3rd Saturday from 7-9. Special thanks to our host, The Café Del Sol.

Post Note: My sister Kathy posted a beautiful photo and surprise Easter miracle story that happened to my sister Sherry this past Sunday. Check it out here.

Posted by Colleen at 8:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (16)

Girls in brightly colored wigs posing for poets in a clash of culture when live-bands performed at the Winter Sun Hall and the poets read free verse in Café Del Sol on the same night in different parts of the same building. ~ February ‘06

Post notes: On Wednesday, tomorrow, at two minutes and three seconds after 1:00 in the morning, the time and date will be 01:02:03 04/05/06 (via the LoveLink from Sherry). Meet some of Floyd’s other wildlife here and see the wig girls in another get-up altogether here.

Posted by Colleen at 8:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

All my friends would like to know…how I can sleep so late…well, I have a gene for it…the wine of words is mostly partaken…in the wee hours of the morning…I write alone. ~ Colleen, From The Zen of Winter Poetry, Muses Like Moonlight.

The open mic that began as a community outreach effort by the Writer’s Workshop I belong to is taking on a life of its own. The wordsmiths and bards came out in full force last night, the night after St. Patrick’s Day, to the Café Del Sol to share their poetry and prose. Our 7-9 P.M. announced schedule went over by at least an hour. With a front row seat that happened to be a comfy couch, I nursed a beer while taking in the fare and found myself becoming intoxicated with language.

Beginning with the performances of a few talented students from the high school’s forensics’ team and ending with my friend Jayn reading her poem, “City Boy Country Girl” …Yeah, we're in love… Exposed hearts melting in our personal global warming…causing floods of correspondence… climate changes in poetry…and occasional research trips into each other's changing world… there must have been a dozen readers reading all variety of works.

I got to inject my best Irish accent when it was my turn to take to the mic with a poem called “My Grandmother’s Brogue”… My grandmother came to America to be a servant… and then have 11 children for the Catholic Church…Jesus Mary and Joseph! And my friend Katherine, whose article on home-birthing twins was published in Mothering magazine over two decades ago, shared her image-rich remembrances of childhood while writing at her now-deceased mother’s desk.

Although it is actually a serious subject, Doug Thompson, fellow blogger and journalist, brought the house down with his humorous response to being a target of the Bush Administration’s investigation into reporters who write unfavorable stories about them: On an unspecified day last week an employee of a federal agency that cannot be revealed delivered a document that cannot be identified to a company that cannot be named seeking information that cannot be discussed.

His piece was written following a more serious report on the matter, "Bush Declares War On Freedom of the Press," which is excerpted below but can be read in its entirety at Doug’s news site, Capitol Hill Blue. In recent weeks, the FBI has issued hundreds of "National Security Letters," directing employers, banks, credit card companies, libraries and other entities to turn over records on reporters. Under the USA Patriot Act, those who must turn over the records are also prohibited from revealing they have done so to the subject of the federal probes… Just how widespread, and uncontrolled, this latest government assault has become hit close to home last week when one of the FBI's National Security Letters arrived at the company that hosts the servers for this web site, Capitol Hill Blue. The letter apparently demanded traffic data, payment records and other information about the web site along with information on me, the publisher…

Sipping tea over breakfast this morning with my husband, Joe, I realized out loud that 4 of my 5 closest women friends are writers. We spent the rest of the morning poring over an article my son Josh had been asked to submit for a Studio Pottery publication with an editor’s eye (all 4 of them) in mind. This afternoon our Writers’ Workshop is set to meet. Tomorrow night my calendar tells me that I’m scheduled to attend the Blacksburg book club that recently read my book “The Jim and Dan Stories.”

I feel a hangover coming on…

Post Note: Floydian, David St. Lawrence, also one of the night’s readers,has an account of last night’s event, "The Spoken Word is alive and well in Floyd, VA", posted on his blog, complete with photos. The one posted here is of the tip jar on the counter of Café Del Sol.

Posted by Colleen at 12:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

Saturday night: A wedding reception was taking place in the back of The Winter Sun building, the same building that houses The Café Del Sol, where our Spoken Word Open Mic’ was to be held. There was a belly dancing performance across the street at the Black Water Loft, and The Jacksonville Center nearby was hosting an art opening of photography. Cars lined the length of downtown, and a spirited sense of activity filled the air.

Some came to the Open Mic’ specifically for the tribute to Elliot, the poet and member of my Writers’ Circle who had passed away just days before. Others came to read their own material, and all through the evening people trickled in from the neighboring events.

The first set, which was hosted by the Writers’ Circle and dedicated solely to Elliot, was opened by Mars, an 8 year old boy singing a song from the movie “O Brother, Where Art Thou,” “Going Down to the River to Pray.” He happened to be in the café with his mother and friend playing chess when the writers began to arrive. After we heard his hauntingly sweet voice singing impromptu into the mic, we signed him up, and he was happy to oblige.

There was a gallery of original drawings of Elliot spread out near the microphone and the chair where the readers would sit. Apparently, Elliot, burly, bearded and slightly hunched over, had posed for The Floyd Figures Art Group not long before he died. In one prominent drawing done by artist, Rick Cooley, Elliot was dressed in King’s garb with his cane looking more like a commanding staff than an aid to his disability. “Poet King” was etched below the drawing.

Sally, the owner of Café Del Sol, MC’d the evening’s entertainment, something Elliot himself usually did. She called me up first, and I read some prose pieces about playing scrabble with Elliot, which I was hoping would reveal the lighter side of the often bristly man. When the crowd broke out in laughter, after I shared a short interview I had done with him, written on the back of an envelope, I felt that my efforts paid off. “And who will play you in the movie, Elliot?” I asked. Without missing a beat, he answered, “Bette Midler!”

After closing with a newly written poem for Elliot, I handed the mic over to Mara, who read a humorously touching piece written by Kathleen, a Writers’ Circle member who was unable to attend. Kathleen’s piece, based on a conversation with Elliot, was set at a Contra Dance, something that she and Elliot shared a passion for. Mara and Rima then read a selection of Elliot’s poems. It was probably the first time many in the audience had heard his poetry, and it was amazing how good it sounded and how well it held up coming through voices other than the author’s.

It was hard to change gears, but we did. Elliot would have loved the fact that we had several new readers from neighboring towns. In the second set, we heard a lovely prose piece about a wedding in Spain, and poems about living like Henry Miller and not wanting to be a wife. One guy took the microphone over to the computer station and read his poetry off his website. A few people sang songs.

Doug and Fred, Writers’ Circle members who were attending the wedding reception in another part of the building, both made brief appearances, looking quite dapper in their suits. At one point, Jayn (another WC member) and I huddled together on the comfy couch. We fell into each other, close enough for me to notice the tears in her eyes when Elliot’s poem about his painful childhood was being read.

It was well after 10 when Sally bid us all goodnight, and the quiet of the room erupted into chatter. People were hugging, talking about Elliot, and making plans for December’s Open Mic. I grabbed my coat and the several cartons of farm eggs that had been delivered by my egg man sometime during the night. The friend I walked out with had just grabbed up the two hand rolled cigarettes that we discovered had been anonymously placed on the makeshift coffee table altar, next to mementos and photographs of Elliot. And didn’t they smell suspiciously like a certain outlawed herb?

“Well, this is Floyd, after all,” I laughed and said to her.

See Ya Later, Kiddo
~ For Elliot September 11, 1943 – November 17, 2005

Poet
Curmudgeon
Demanding
Liberal
Atheist
Sometimes lascivious
Lover of women
4 on the enneagram
Loved pistachios
and e. e. cummings
Walked with a cane
Smelling of aftershave
Sometimes wore a purple beret
and a daisy behind his good ear
Frequently called me on the phone
“Is that all the time you have for me?”
he asked on a bad day
On a good day he’d say
“Okay…see ya later, Kiddo”

~ Colleen

Post Note: A contra dance memorial for Elliot is planned for Saturday, December 10, 6 - 11 p.m. at Winter Sun in Floyd, and a memorial fund for a poetry prize is being established in his name. Contact: Floyd Writers' Circle, c/o P.O. Box 81, Floyd, VA.

Posted by Colleen at 8:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)

For awhile it looked like we would be reading without a mic. “Sort of like going bra-less,” I said to my friend. “You know, like not having any support…for your voice.”

She did an inter-active piece, once the Café Del Sol staff got the sound system figured out. She passed out index cards and pens before reading her prose, and when she was finished, she asked listeners to suggest a good ending.

I was next. I read a few poems about death, and then, just to prove that I do have a sense of humor, I read “Indian Summer.” The neighborhood dogs…are sitting out October…like wallflowers in the corner…they’re over dressed in fur... I actually got a request. “Can you read the scrabble poem?” the man with the beard asked.

After the bearded man (who doesn’t like to be mentioned on the internet) read a few emotional narrative poems, a new reader from Blacksburg closed the set, but not before the owner of the café, a local blues singer, adlibbed her own impromptu poem.

When it was over, a young high school student approached me to thank me and to tell me that she plans to bring her own poems to read next month. That’s good because that’s the point. Unlike the readings we do (about 4 times a year) at Floyd’s Oddfellas Cantina that mainly feature our Writers’ Workshop Group, the open mic spoken word nights are meant to give people of all ages and ilks an opportunity to share their voices.

The next Open Mic at the Café Del Sol (pictured in the photo) will be November 18th at 7: PM.

Posted by Colleen at 9:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Going to poetry readings – to read my poems in public – reminds me of going to a funeral. I want to go. It’s what I need to do. I know I’ll feel better later for having done it. But I always dread facing it, and I always feel uncomfortable…

Back in elementary school, I was one of those kids – you probably had one in your class, or maybe you were one yourself – who was terrified to get up in front of the class to give an oral report. The first time it happened, I was caught off guard and felt like I had come down with an illness. My heart pounded. My mind went blank. Embarrassed that I had no control over my shaking voice and hands, my face turned bright red, making the obvious worse.

I really don’t understand stage fright. It’s not a logical fear. It’s not as if anyone is going to shoot you, but somehow you feel in danger, adrenaline coursing through your veins...

When I first began reading my poetry in public, about 15 years ago, the trauma of public speaking was already deeply grooved into my nervous system. Back then, I couldn’t even bear to put my name on a sign-up sheet because I was never sure if I would actually get up and read. If the MC was an understanding one, I would signal when I was ready.

I’ve given more poetry readings in the last couple of years than I probably have in the last 15 years. The more I do them, the easier it gets. But it isn’t easy.

I have to rest the day before a reading, take rescue remedy (a Bach flower tincture for hysteria) as the reading time approaches, and if the reading is held in a restaurant, drinking a beer can really help. I begin to have pangs of anxiety about 2 days before a scheduled reading. Hanging out at the threshold of fear, but not opening the door to it, I repeat my mantram OM MANI PADME HUM (the jewel in the lotus of the heart) every time my mind wants to sink into panic.

My Writers’ Workshop and Oddfella’s Cantina hosted a spoken word evening this past Sunday night. My reading went fine. The variety and quality of work others shared was rhythmically rich and deeply touching. Not only was there a decent attendance of attentive guests, but I enjoyed myself and was probably was less nervous than I have ever been (that bottle of New Castle didn’t hurt).

Even so, I (half jokingly) said to my husband, who is well aware of the challenges I face keeping my phobias at bay, “You know, training my mind to resist the compulsion to sink into fear is hard work. Maybe it would be easier just to let myself be a nervous wreck?”

Oddly, it’s easier to do a reading than it is to deal with the anxiety of waiting for it to happen. When it’s over, I always feel better for having spoken-up. I think it’s our job as human beings to speak-up for each other and for those who are voiceless. For poets that’s especially true. And not only have I never been shot at while speaking-up at a poetry reading, when I finish reading, people usually clap.

Post Note: No one took pictures the night of the readings. The one posted here is of me reading at Floyd’s Pine Tavern, taken a year ago. The italic text above is excerpted from an essay that appears in my poetry collection, “Muses Like Moonlight” (pictured above). It’s one I occasionally use at readings as a sort of homeopathic remedy for stage fright. ~ The next Floyd Spoken Word Event is an Open Mic and will be held at Café de Sol, October, 15th at 7 PM.

Posted by Colleen at 9:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)