Category Archives: identity

Amethyst Dauphin

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Becoming

 

My identity is the abandoned house
neighbors point
to tell frightening stories about.
I know which ones they believe.
My identity is a black joke on Father’s Day
a ghetto butterfly in the suburbs
a porn studio
is not a window
I stopped looking at
others in order to understand
myself.
I am a bearded woman
a mid life crisis
a body bag
a place to dispose all of my dead weight.
I am an unkept bedroom.
I know where everything is.
I am trying to be as fluid as word
play.
I want my character to be
rearranged and made better.
I am a poet.
I write to make love to my existence.
I am an old folks home.
There are war stories in my make up.
Sometimes I grow tired of fighting.
I am an antediluvian breath who
can hardly hold themself in.
I spend so much time thinking about
my construct
I forget to thank ancestors who
drink heartache like wine.
I am twenty,
and I am trying to understand my place in
this world so I document the person
my sadness makes me.
When I believed I did not have a right
to exist,
I stopped writing about what I
couldn’t change.
I wasn’t the person I wanted to be
so I evolved
became someone who wasn’t as
near as then.
I am unlearning all of the selves
who have been created for me.
I am trying to be my own god.
I don’t want someone else to take credit for saving me.

 

 

A self-described “gender fluid person,” Amethyst Dauphin was part of a slam poetry team preparing to represent Seattle at Brave New Voices, an international poetry festival. Dauphin aims to document the path taken to understand their gender, and reflects a deep regard for language rooted in the experience of growing up in a household where English, Spanish, French and Creole were spoken on a daily basis. Dauphin is a teaching artist, and has performed with Kwame Dawes, Rafael Casal and Buddy Wakefield, as well as Seattle-area musicians.

Beth Bentley

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Short Trip Back

 

I wanted to place my foot
once more on the burning sidewalk,
stalled in a Minnesota August,
thinned, pocked and feverish
with adolescence, my disease.
I wanted to suffer those years
when I pottered around the neighborhood,
a homesick explorer held captive
by the natives, worshipped
in outlandish ceremonies, kept celibate,
my untranslatable messages
smuggled out from the interior
by birds; held so long I became
like my captors, simple-minded,
chained to the wheel of food and sleep.

I was so far from my own country
I thought I had made it up:
a temperate place
where even the speech was liquid,
where one’s body was a blessing,
where I could put on thought
like a skin and become whole.

 

Beth Bentley has taught in the Northwest and elsewhere for over thirty years. Her poetry has been widely published in journals and anthologies, including The Gettysburg Review, the Atlantic, the Nation, the New Yorker, the Paris Review, Poetry, and the Sewanee Review. Bentley’s poetry collections include Little Fires (Cune Press, 1998), The Purely Visible (SeaPen Press, 1980), Philosophical Investigations (SeaPen Press, 1977), Country of Resemblances (Ohio University Press, 1976), Field of Snow (Gemini Press, 1973), and Phone Calls From the Dead (Ohio University Press, 1972). She has been living in Seattle since 1952.  

Kimalisa Kaczinski

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Hands

 

I think of the journey
my hands have been on and I am
pleased. Stroking my own belly
while my son hiccupped inside
me. My hands that stroke this face
of the man I love, and the way
his eyes light into mine. I think of the poems
these hands have written, poems of loss
and forgiveness, trying to understand
a bit of this world and my place in it.
I think of my hands and how they used
to remind me of my grandmother and her age,
I so wanted that for myself and never thought
it was possible. But here I am, at the dear age
of 51, older than I thought I would make it, and again,
I am pleased.

I remember swimming for the first time,
sure the weight of the water would betray me, but my hands,
oh, my hands, they held me up and I made it
to the edge of the pool. I think of the way that my hands
reached to my Cindy, my best friend when we shared
the death of Riley. We held on tight, and have yet
to let go. I’ve brushed my own bangs away from my face
and been tender. I’ve tied my shoes and made potato soup, carefully
peeling each potato, my hands stirring and being cautious
of being burned. This arthritis that has stricken me, taking away
two fingers and a thumb, the cruelty of a disease inherited.
These hands reach across time, sure of their journey, a fine cross
placed on my forehead as I was confirmed, my hands folded
in prayer. A lifetime of looking ahead is yet to come with these
hands, and what else could I say but that I am pleased.

 

 

Kimalisa Kaczinski lives in Cheney, WA with her partner, the songwriter and poet, Dwayne St. Romain. Her work has appeared in many fine journals. Kimalisa’s  poems are deeply inspired by that which she finds in nature.

Paul Nelson

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Juan Vicente de Güemes Padilla Horcasitas y Aguayo,
2nd Count of Revillagigedo

 

……y who is de San Juan after whom
……………….de islas de San Juan are named?
…………………………..& how did Spaniards

….get here and who, why, how
………………………………….did the blood stop
…………at one pig, how
…………………………..were the war pigs (for once)
…………………………………………………………………..denied
………………………………………………………………….(denuded
divested of covering
made bare?)

……………………………… Coulda been war, glorious
………………………………………………..here in Isla y Archiepelago de San Juan.

……………………………….Cannon balls and musket blasts
……………..to scatter the last of the Canis lupis
………………………….the Columbia Black-Tailed Deer, the
…………………………rare Northern Sea Otter (for whom

………..or whose pelt Quimper would trade copper
………..years before Filthy Jerry cd get his
………………………..filthy fingers on it.)
 
 
 
But there’s something in the Cascadia water wd
……………………………………bring out the noble in men
…………………..like Admiral Baynes who’d soon
………………………………………………………be knighted
…………………..who’d refuse Governor Douglass’
…………………………………….August 2, 1859 troop landing order.

………………Something that’d attract
……………………………………………..Spaniards like the Mexican Viceroy:

Juan Vicente de Güemes Padilla Horcasitas y Aguayo, 2nd Count of Revillagigedo

(Not the San Juan who’d be put in a cell not much bigger than himself. Not the one who’d see the union of jiwa and Divine in the metaphor of Holy Marriage. Not the one who’d write about how the bride hides herself and abandoned him in his lonely groaning. Not the one who’d feel the need to purge every last imperfection every last psychic typo every last lust urge every last of the dominator fixation not mitigated but transcended by The Fire to which Blaser wd allude. Not the he of a thousand graces diffusing, graces unnumbered, those that protect from the thousand cuts that come from conceptions of
the Beloved. Not the one whose metaphor’d bride’d leave his heart there in that lashed meat cage maintained by a bit of bread and salted fish. Not the one with the silvered surface who’d one day mirror forth. Not the one on the wing whose Beloved’d one day see the strange islands with the roaring torrents (Cascade Falls?) & whose gales would whisper amour, a love-awakening south wind not spewed by Spetsx who’d be the rain wind from the Southwest a two day canoe journey south of the present scene. Not the one whose Beloved bride from a mother corrupted would make a bed out of flowers,
protected by lions hung with purple and crowned with a thousand shields of gold. Not the one whose bride’d attract young ones & who’d commence the flow of divine balsam & get him pitchdrunk on fire and scent and spiced wine. Not he of all consuming painless fire drunk on pomegranate wine whose only job was amour. Not that San Juan.)

This Juan was a Cubano,
………………….born in La Habana.
……………………………………..The third Criollo Viceroy
……………………………………………………………….of Hispaña Nueva.

This Juan wd see
…………………the Capital (then Veracruz)
………………………………………………..as a slum, peasants
…………………………………..in thin robes, straw hats, trash
…………………………………..in the streets and the first flash
…………………of all those Rez dogs to come.

…………………………………………………………………………..This Juan
(el Vengador de la Justicia)
……………………………………he’d find & hang
……………………………………the outlaw gangs
……………………………………………………..of murderers

& clean the Viceroy’s palace.
………………………………………Light the streets of Ciudad de Mexíco
……………………….pave highways to Veracruz,
………………………………………………Acapulco,
………………………………………………Guadalajara,
………………………………………………San Blas y
………………………………………………Toluca

…………………………find the Aztec Calendar Stone & set
……………………………….the heavens on fire but found
……………………………………………..Cascadia

……………………………………………………………not worth the troops
………………………..it’d cost to own her,
…………………………………………………..settled
……………………………………………………………for leading the flock
………………………………..of 4.5 million future Mexicans
…………………………………………………………………he’d count and a few islands
…………………………to this day
………………………………………in one way or another
…………………………………………………………………..bear his name:

………………………..San Juan
……………………………………….Orcas
………………………………………………….Guemes.

………………………………Dots in a green landscape
………………………………………..as seen from Constitution
………………………………………………………….where the divine balsam flows
……………………………………………………by the kayaks
……………………………………………………………………….and the wind whispers

………………………………………………………………...Mary.

………………………………………………………………………………..8:49A – 2.24.13

“Juan Vicente de Güemes Padilla Horcasitas y Aguayo, 2nd Count of Revillagigedo” is from the Pig War & Other Songs of Cascadia.

 

 

SPLAB founder Paul E Nelson wrote Organic Poetry (VDM Verlag, Germany, 2008) & a serial poem re-enacting the history of Auburn, Washington, A Time Before Slaughter (Apprentice House, 2010) shortlisted for a Genius Award in Literature by The Stranger. In 26 years of radio he interviewed Allen Ginsberg, Michael McClure, Anne Waldman, Sam Hamill, Robin Blaser, Nate Mackey, Eileen Myles, Wanda Coleman, George Bowering, Joanne Kyger, Jerome Rothenberg & others, including many Northwest poets. He lives in Seattle and writes at least one American Sentence every day.

Ben Holiday

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I met Ben Holiday through the wonderful Red Badge Project at Joint Base Lewis McChord. I’m happy to have the chance to post one of his poems.–KF

 

The Gray Man

There are many colors that we are,
and many colors that weve seen.
The most common of these colors,
are red, blue and green.

Red is for the anger,
the fury and all the rage

Blue is for the lost ones,
and for the worst of our days.

Green is for envy and jealousy
and like a tree it grows,

But there is one color,
few have ever seen,
or will ever know.
The one color that is gray,
the one that never shows.

Amongst all the other colors he stays,
silent like a ghost
for its these other colors
that keep him hidden
in this mist,
and fog
and smoke.

The Gray Man is everywhere,
even though most dont know,
this man that is invisible
whose identitiy never shows
he sits and waits patiently
for what he knows will come to be.
The actions and the tactics,
of all his foes and enemies
that the oblivious
and the ignorant
and the blind just cant see.

But dont think that The Gray Man
hasn’t seen any other colors in his life,
thats the reason he became gray
because thats the color that survives.
Surviving all of the trials,
all of his enemies schemes and plans
and this survival tactic
is called being The Gray Man.

There are many colors that we are,
and many colors that weve seen.
Most other colors out there fight dirty,
but they dont know
that one color is aware
of the scam, and their whole plan,
the one color that isnt “there”
the one they call …….
The Gray Man

 

His name is Ben Holiday, some call him Buzz. He is from Spokane Wa. He is ex military and always thinks twice about what he says….The majority of the time he is quiet, he believes it’s far better to listen than it is to speak. He first started writing poetry while injured in an overseas hospital. He doesn’t speak about about what or who he is, instead he’ll use poetry….Poetry is his only voice. Through writing he gained a freedom of perception, which became his salvation….”In his opinion”

Mark Halperin

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ON THE STEPS OF TEMPLE SHALOM

 

Inside the old, gray stone house,
its eaves trimmed in the flat-board,
Midwest style of the neighborhood,
… the children are learning Hebrew
… and history and to be Jewish
as best they can where Jews are few.

Maybe they are learning to be rare
while old snow melts from the roof
and the sun, absent recently, proves
… it can shine in the blue
… and white sky. These are colors
the children would be sure to notice, who

are learning the flag of Israel
and their ties to all that history.
Recognize them? They’d rather be
… screaming and chasing each other
… under them like other children.
And they will soon, but must wait. More

than one of my uncles would have said
Jews can’t live in Yakima or
the town we drove from. One would be sure
… we’d never be American
… enough, another terrified
we just might, all of them come

too far not to understand
only the shadow of the past
grows, but thinner, more odorless.
… The children sit in a room
… waiting for their parents
to rescue them from Temple Shalom.

They are further away all the time,
as Temple Shalom is, under its blue
and white skullcap. It weathers the distance
… carried even here, the Jew’s
… childlike refusal whose name,
if there is one, like God’s, we must not use.

 

“On the Steps of Temple Shalom” is reprinted from Time as Distance (New Issues/Western Michigan U Press).

 

Mark Halperin’s fifth volume of poetry, Falling Through the Music, was published by University of Notre Dame Press (2007).  He is co-author of Accent on Meter (NCTE), and co-translator of A Million Premonitions, poems from the Russian of Victor Sosnora (Zephyr Press).  Halperin lives near Washington’s Yakima River and fishes avidly.

David Whyte

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SWEET DARKNESS

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone,
no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize your own.

There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your home
tonight.

The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.

You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

 
 
“Sweet Darkness” by David Whyte is printed with permission from Many Rivers Press, Langley, Washington. www.davidwhyte.com.

 

David Whyte is a poet, author, and lecturer who makes his home in Washington.  He is the author of seven books of poetry and three books of prose, holds a degree in Marine Zoology, and has traveled extensively, including living and working as a naturalist guide in the Galapagos Islands and leading anthropological and natural history expeditions in the Andes, the Amazon, and the Himalaya. He brings this wealth of experience to his poetry, lectures and workshops. An Associate Fellow at Templeton College and Said Business School at the University of Oxford, he is one of the few poets to take his perspectives on creativity into the field of organizational development, where he works with many European, American and international companies. In spring of 2008 he was awarded an honorary doctorate from Neumann College, Pennsylvania.  He brings a unique and important contribution to our understanding of the nature of individual and organizational change particularly through his unique perspectives on Conversational Leadership.

john defuca

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Confined..

To judge by outer detail is frail n will fail most don’t see souls so I close my eyes n sail through my dreams connecting to different galaxies to me complexities appear simply split personalities make me learn quickly the downside though is the same thing that I love hurts me, the same I love hurts me, what hurts me I love why I question why, look up in the sky see one figure holding my heart n see numerous ones holding the broken side, god is here, god is here but something in me loves these devils inside.. Soon as I get the first opportunity to escape I will ….see my people killin ourselves everyday off the alcohol n pills… I wish I could tell y’all it’s a movie but This ish is real….lemme show you how danger feels don’t get addicted to the thrill….. Sounds entertainin looking into our lives but this pain n sinnin is never endin man I ain’t pretending… Lemme take you to the beginning…. Young bucks down on they luck drinking in smokin before the age of thirteen where in the world did life get so mean we used to be running around playing now pay attention to what I’m sayin……last night there was partying n wildin come home from school flirting with the girls smiling ….enter the room yo mommas eyes black n blue the violence is constant man why she stickin with this fool…swear when I’m bigger imma pay him back frustrated as hell no time to relax… Oh no they on a binge sneak out the window go stay at your bestfriends… Next mornin same thing again all the adults past out see the drugs in the syringe…man I’m starving no food in the cabinet… So you start to steal n that becomes a bad habit…so now your stealing got the feeling it’s easy thinking you made a big score… So you give money to your older homies to get as much from the alcohol store…drink till you poor.. It’s surprising you Not realizing your doing the same thing your tryna hide from…life goes by life goes by damn now you gotta son! Who with… who with? The girl you used to love now you only refer to her as a bitch! Wasnt you just innocent?? Now look at him you don’t care bout buyin diapers you’d rather get high huh? Now watch the cycle begin! I hope he escape though I hope he escape though find someone beautiful n be faithful work hard so the innocent won’t turn fatal..

 
 
 
 

john defuca writes, “My name is John Robert Pritchard III, however I am one of those guys with a million nicknames. I am grateful to be labeled a Makah, I love my culture deeply. Anywhere I go in the world, I know only I will know my language, songs, and dances. My dream is to see the world and witness others perform theirs. I fight for what I believe in, whether I’m right or I am wrong; it’s going to be righteous in my spirit so may the lord forgive me. Don’t place myself above or below anybody, ultimately I believe in equality. That’s impossible to most but scientists could tell you stars are just dead rocks however they are still beautiful to me. Muhammid Ali hands down is my influence on performing slam poetry. Too many words to explain why, I am always amazed of how strong he speaks and stands alone because a lot of people are scared to speak their truth. I am not, I had a rough childhood. I never play the victim role, it made me who I am. Only thing I despise are cowards, God bless.”

Brendan McBreen

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imagine me
a stranger

I consider myself to be a stranger everywhere.
-Albert Einstein

imagine the wave

center it
………..in a spherical lake

standing
………..in free space

waves of electrons
………..collide

………..with paper swans

ripple
………..to the outer edge
…………………..of time

how could I ever tell you

I want to be a woman

I want
………..to be a swan

rose print paper
petals scattered

some
………..on fire

I want to fold myself

………………….into myself

 

 

“imagine me a stranger” is reprinted from the delinquent.

 

Brendan McBreen is a member of and a facilitator in Auburn’s Striped Water Poets. Brendan has been published in various places, including: Leading Edge, Bellowing Arc, bottle rockets, Origami Condom and Crab Creek Review. Brendan enjoys haiku, surrealism, cats, teriyaki, is an artist, and has a collection of crow feathers, stuffed lions, and plastic aquarium plants, but no aquarium.  He lives in Pacific, Washington.