Responses to Salena Levi’s performance
Yes, the struggle is long, curious,
despairing, caring,
then there is glee, freedom and welcome.
My body is old as I join in, my breath is short.
I join in the reverie of opening up,
and for you, for all to see.
The struggling self in character.
—Jill Turner
The doorway to yes
Try, try, try again
Please join me—and we did sing
from the heart and move in community,
connecting our “I,” remembering all
as we traveled along.
—Gale Turner
Waltz
pleasure music
floorboards and beer
a circle somewhere.
Was it in Oregon,
Was it in childhood
Somewhere between
Amal and the Night Visitors
and the wedding of—
who was that?
I know the feeling,
trying to force
a door to open
and it’s easier than all that.
Rumi said, “I’ve been knocking
on a door for years—finally it opens—
I’ve been knocking
from the inside!”
—Christie Svane
In our hesitating we cannot see.
We are stuck.
Persisting is difficult.
What is the answer?
our inner voice says
as we keep on going.
We let go of frustration, letting go
be it however difficult
(pounding makes it easier,
screaming or sounding also)
until in the letting go process,
after the letting go
our intention helps us “click”
into the right
dfadfsdfspace, the right time
and we are ready.
We can then move easily
into the right authentic space,
a yes time,
of celebration and rejoicing.
—Rosemary Fanale
Outside the door the grass
glows greener than Kool Aid
fed by the mosquito-luscious rain.
Frustration and trying too hard
lock my door in my own face.
Chris Williamson, oh my!
The women’s group of 30 years
ago, endless cups of herb tea,
living rooms, consciousness-raising.
Look, here come the children
cloaked as adults, surprising,
spilling into the space
singing.
—Ann McNeal
The doorway to yes
Back and forth I go.
How do I feel about yes?
Do I want yes? I don’t know,
and if I want it,
will yes answer me?
No, it won’t.
Why isn’t it answering me?
I want it now
right now,
I’m sure.
Time for another approach.
If I beat my breast,
will I get to yes?
If I wiggle and pounce
before I knock,
will that help?
No way in. Try again.
Hmm. I’m in!
That was easy, after all.
How did that happen?
Oooh, this is glorious,
this land of yes,
this land of joy.
The door opened and I’m here,
here in the land of yes,
here in the land of dance and leap
and prance and skip,
here in the land of joy.
—Diana Larkin
Yes, my feet would speak if
the door
my feet begin to speak if
the door
my hands, my fluent hands
dance with my arms once
and still within,
I feel their song
the door to my feet, stuck shut
will, will, will open within
yes, I listen, yes.
—Michael McDonald
Cat mulching
Marcel Marceau pressing
Why not butt your head
Alice falls through the glass
And into an irresistible waltz.
Why not?
Sing along.
—Dana Salisbury
Responses to Diana Larkin’s performance
How do you do, other one? Such a glory to enter your world through words sparking imagery and feeling. My aloneness is forgotten as I make my way into your spaces crafted with special sounds bearing meaning for you. Such gratitude I feel for these moments of entering such soul sounds. —Salena Levi
The traffic ballet, the semis
in their semi-sheer fabrics
of rain.
The poet meets her poem
on a back street
in the dark.
He is whistling, insolent,
not the least bit obedient
to her heartfelt comments.
He carries a stiletto
strapped
to his calf and she doesn’t
doubt he would use it
if pressed
so she allows him considerable
freedom of movement.
Egypt
perhaps or Antarctica,
camels or she-bears,
the poet
knows better than to
press the poem
too far.
—Ann McNeal
Where am I, when am I, who am I
inside this poetry?
Would I rather be in a grey end of winter
looking forward to the spring
or enjoying the summer swimming in a lake
knowing that every moment is precious
for the cold days of fall,
however pretty with calmness,
are coming?
The journey of the poem calls out to me
as I watch it wandering through its day
waiting for the pen and paper at night
and a kaleidoscope of images
and splashes of feelings
go through me as I wander from poem to poem,
from place to place, from season to season,
sitting here, relaxing in the quiet
following
then.
—Rosemary Fanale
Rhythm of summer activity.
Poem splayed against the grass.
Sauntered through suburban cookout.
Thunk, roll, and crash.
Took a silent swim.
Watched a sad movie.
Plotted its way home.
Only black words.
This Egypt of mine.
Resumes gesture.
—Jill Turner
Dancing words and confident smile
harvesting images from an abundant crop.
Closed eyes so that the sound can take over.
Where did that image send me?—Come back.
—Gale Turner
I am there, on the highway,
mist—tulle—green
in the rear view mirror of my memory.
I still can’t believe, every year,
the snow will bury all this green again.
In Egypt I feel my body
arriving as the box of words
is spread out like landmarks,
like an obstacle course.
Your voice slows and the trance
gets stronger. I have heard
these poems in your living room,
but now you are singing them,
and they become movies.
I am a child at story time.
—Christie Svane
Yes, I’m swimming, I swim, I float
deep waters of the earth’s pockets
deep pockets of the earth waters.
The wandering poem stops to chat.
I ask if I can come along, as I remember
gray roads and all the bad things that
could happen—getting over their happening
and carrying on; can I come
poem of my arms, my legs, and speak to me
feet, speak, I swim,
the hug of the poem swims me.
—Michael McDonald
Fantasia
Slow down.
Do not hit “sharpen” on that tutu
or the fog or the rosy peeping buds
atop like hair tips.
Certainly don’t touch that smoke tree.
Well, the coins, you say, could have
a firm edge, but when they are
falling through space?
Don’t sharpen that road in Costa Rica
to make the near collisions more real.
We were bathed in luck, all of us
on that road, that day.
I have that shower curtain and
couldn’t keep up with politics and history
and finally stopped trying to memorize
what was going green with mold.
Eventually I folded it up and put it away.
—Dana Salisbury
Responses to Rosemary Fanale’s performance
Inside tumult—thumbs, all thumbs,
leaden with choked meaning,
timing too frozen to flow.
The flag wrapped in
Pictures on Exhibition.
The place held by a piano
speakers on a carpet needing
electricity to speak
stands empty now.
We write in silence
except for our
scratching.
—Dana Salisbury
The giant tramples my heart with his bloody feet, roaring into my face to believe in his mission. But the childrens' voices reach my ears, their innocent upturned faces beseech my heart to come out of hiding. And so I find that radiant hearts in numbers can burn away the giant's raging ways to become simply the ash of force, blown by winds of breath from a million smiles. —Salena Levi
Feeling—in my body—feeling— in my spirit.
I’ve done it.
It doesn’t matter how.
The feeling came through
and the satisfaction is felt.
My voice was heard.
My voice, my inner voice—my conviction.
I sit in gratitude.
The words said were important,
the intensity I let go of.
I breathe and sit resolved to sit with this,
grow and let myself grow
listening to my inner voice.
—Rosemary Fanale
Heart calling, wake up.
In your song I am feeling desert, suffering,
blending on the keys, the landscape of the world
on the keys, and at the low end, the lowest actions,
bombs and degradation, your letting that ring on, die out.
I see a painting, a patchwork collage, faces, flags, parades,
graves, people, families, people. I thank you for holding it all
for me to be with while you play. In a strange way, the song
knits together a connection, a bridge, to what’s possible.
—Christie Svane
Connection, spacious, global,
right hand like a wounded soldier walking on.
Addressing the harsh reality of war.
Softens somehow.
Our anthem and the Middle Eastern wail.
How we prevail in pain and murderous rage.
How we operate as if none of this…
Jill Turner
Terror—when one dies we all die.
Death—discordant.
Death—a dirge.
Death—lone voice, a wail.
Death—clamor across the land.
A crowd echoes a loud lament.
Now that lone voice,
for survival this time,
with a note of hope,
before the dirge comes on
with a crash.
How does it all end, this struggle, this tumult,
this collective life, this individual searching,
this shared grief, this questioning?
—Diana Larkin
The dark here so deep, the light
so loud and strong,
within the dark emitted by the dark
the star, the few stars
that are left staring out into
the lonesome universe,
these eyes of other gods.
My turn around heads for
a drink of water all I need
is water a drink of fresh,
a splash in the face
a face made to face
the last wave of light
a night, a day, a daylight,
a night song sung
with no one around.
I place my finger back
where it was pointing.
—Michael McDonald
The terror in
the terror is
the terror ist
the poster, black white and red.
The synth piano
awakens old lessons
electronics makes believe
ivory, leather, felt hammers, wood strings.
The song book of melancholy—
no, tragedy—
Eastern European songs
of suffering—World War I, War II,
the cold war
the hot one.
A plaintive face calls me to hope
the anthem crashes deeper
into piles of dust, death, and destruction.
The tension continues,
our hearts our fears.
—Ann McNeal
Responses to Dana Salisbury’s performance
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the dawn
Mine eyes have seen what the twisted fates bemoan
My inner sight, however, tells me truth.....
For this I live and love.
All else uncouth.
—Salena Levi
Black outfit, black glasses, bravery.
How people hold you.
Whoo Whoo, swish swish.
Beautiful alone on stage.
Strong, alive, expressive.
Repeated patterns, how people hold you,
how you hear, how you laugh in leaps.
Knowing there is darkness
makes sound more audible.
There is lightening in the dark.
—Jill Turner
I remember performing blindfolded
at PS 122 with Lisa Nelson. I miss it.
I can’t remember the year.1982.
I was about to leave my husband
who had flown out from San Francisco to see the show.
I felt blind inside and out.
I remember his overcoat, like a detective,
and the rain.
Yes, you turn your head and sound utterly recomposes
the space around you. I think of William Blake saying
“sight is our most fallen sense.” I love watching you,
remembering the open awareness behind closed eyes.
—Christie Svane
What is it like being blind?
Being blind, not seeing, sensing,
realizing, sensing, realizing.
Realizing blindness within at times.
Oh yeah, there can be more sensing,
more open awareness
to the moves and feelings of moving,
feelings of staying still, being still.
I am filled with gentle curiosity.
I become more alive in every wondering moment.
What would it be like if I lost my sense of sight?
Would I be like the man in the book, the hero who,
although losing his sense of sight, saw more than others?
Trusting, letting go of the cellular fear or angst,
I can walk in mindfulness and grow
every day more aware.
—Rosemary Fanale
Balance off-balance
lightheat
direction
openshut
forest path
sound silence
Who is leading whom?
careexuberance
exploration
—Ann McNeal
I participated in this event. I’ve heard it before, so I can easily stay with the story rather than having my eye dominate my attention. Perhaps because her eyes are covered my eyes can soften. I am very drawn to her two-tone hair moving in space. —Gale Turner
Bells tinkling, quiet sounds, then birds
chirping, sounds magnified by our imagined
ears-only experience.
She is walking through the woods blindfolded.
I want to try it, want to hear the wind
in the trees all around,
hear the sounds on either side and above.
Maybe I have tried it without knowing.
We’re all blind in so many ways,
and then moments come,
when the world makes sense,
however briefly, in spite of our blinders.
Moments for swinging our arms.
—Diana Larkin
Shadows don’t seem to know
they’re from the same source.
In the dark, the self-imposed light
seems to see itself,
for the first time, surprised.
I have feet, says the body,
they have their balance,
but they need some unbalance
to move me along.
The empty space
Walking, arms swinging
My shadows, which one
will come to notice me?
The empty space
Shadows
Knock, knock,
who’s there?
—Michael McDonald
I went too fast.
Didn’t give myself any room.
I had to let my
words expand for me.
Next time, or the
following one, I will
give myself room to
give.
—Dana Salisbury