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.

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.”

“home, Please.” previously featured on Paperbag’s blog, and was presented as a video installation at TaRLA in Seattle and The Schoolhouse in Brooklyn, NY.

Molly Mac was born in Portland, grew up in Georgia and then came home to Seattle.  She is a multimedia poet and installation artist with an MFA in combined media from Hunter College, and is currently pursuing a Ph.D. at The Center for Digital Art and Experimental Media at the University of Washington.  She performs her work in multimedia poetry readings and her multimedia installations have been shown across the US and UK. www.mollymacfedyk.com

February 5th: I walk into my place. The one that I trust has been lying
to me. Dinner is burning away in the oven. He is lounging on his sofa
enjoying a bowl of Goodness knows what.

Friday: My Friends and I clean everything. Cobwebs thick with grease
and dust–even the poor spider is mummified in a cocktail of wood
smoke and greasy meals.

Eight truckloads of junk later…

The roof and tarps fall in and blow playfully towards the ocean; free as
a ship loose from its moorings.

The ceilings in the bedrooms crumble. I am upset. I just mopped those
floors. Now it holds a memory of the ceiling.

The wiring begins to pop. The breakers groan. The furnace comes to
life at 2:00 in the silly morning. I watch the sparks fly; as shooting
stars in the grey morning light.

By now my Friends are running for cover. Smiles replaced with
concerned frowns.

The shed door falls off. Someone forgot to prop it up with the stump.

The fridge holds a promise of neglected leftovers. “Sniff it! If it
smells good, eat it.”

No fresh yummy cookies.

No Roast Beast on Sunday.

Chewy Pizza.

Oven won’t work now.

Seven people worked on the hot water tank. It worked for three days.
Monday the main pipes cracked in the cold. It was like a sauna.

“I am so cold! Do you think more blankets around the doors and
windows might help?”

(I am asking my Brother)

“No! Get some leftover Tribal Campaign signs-plywood. Nail ‘em up.
Then you can use your Rez curtains on your bed.” So he laughs….

“What about the ceilings? It’s all messy on the floor.”

(I am asking again)

“Sweep it up! Throw it in the woodstove. You said you were cold.” And
he laughs harder.

And…”Do you think I should try to stay here?”

“Why? Waiting for the other door to fall?”

(Where’s Jack?)

Everyone laughs now.

My Place…

Where’s my motel key?

Cindy Lee Claplanhoo is part of an Indian writing group in Port Angeles called “Blood Quantum.” She is from the Makah Reservation, located at the beginning of the United States–Neah Bay. Her given name is Tia–from her Aunt Tan’te. It is Spanish and yes–she is Aunty to fifty-six nieces and nephews and has four beautiful grandbabies too. Cindy works at Makah Forestry and volunteers at MCRC–“The Museum.”  Her project preserving Coastal Native news articles from 1899 to the Present Day inspires her poetry and artwork.  “Wait for me, Grandpa. I am following in your Footsteps.”

The moon was closest as reflected
in the kitchen window where the August
sunset peeled itself from blue to a gray
flashed with embarrassments of pink

that begged the betterment of my mood.
After jotting letters sent next-day air
to Massachusetts, I back-stroked another
hundred laps in the apartment’s small pool.

Summer, that falling glass, that drunk-
and-driving-too-fast friend, was mostly
a suspicion of summer slipping away.
The picnic table held complicated plans in place

while I swam. Missing you— that punked-out
miscreant. That fear of water.

John Whalen’s books include Caliban (Lost Horse Press) and In Honor of the Spigot (Gribble Press), a chapbook. His poems have appeared most recently in Epoch, Ascent, and CutBank. He lives in Spokane.

Langston, CONGRATULATIONS!!!

Langston Ward of Mead High School, in Spokane, won the Washington State Poetry Out Loud finals on March 9 and has moved on to the national finals this coming Monday and Tuesday, April 29 and 30, in Washington D.C.  He will recite ”The Gift” by Li-Young Lee, “The Bad Old Days” by Kenneth Rexroth, and “A March in the Ranks Hard-Prest, and the Road Unknown” by Walt Whitman. Watch a video of Langston’s performance of the Whitman poem below.  This is the second state championship for Ward, who represented Washington state in the 2012 national finals. He placed in the top nine students nationally last year.

Langston Ward recites  ”A March in the Ranks Hard-Prest, and the Road Unknown” by Walt Whitman:

More than 23,000 students from 76 schools in Washington state participated in Poetry Out Loud this year. Following classroom-level and then school-wide competitions, top students from the schools continued on to one of seven regional finals, held in Northwest Washington, Southwest Washington, Central Washington, Eastern Washington, Southeast Washington, and the Puget Sound region.Thirteen students advanced to the state finals, which took place Saturday, March 9, at Theatre on the Square, in Tacoma. Through three rounds of poetry recitations the students performed works selected from an
anthology of more than 600 classic and contemporary poems. Participantswere judged by a panel of experts in poetry and performance. The panelists scored each student based on presence, level of difficulty, evidence of understanding, accuracy, and other criteria.
Poetry Out Loud is sponsored by the Washington State Arts Commission, the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), and the Poetry Foundation. This is the eighth year that high school students in Washington state took part in Poetry Out Loud, a national arts education program that encourages the study of great poetry. This year, the Poetry Out Loud National Finals will award a total of $50,000 in scholarships and school stipends, with a $20,000 college scholarship for the National Champion.

(from the press release from ArtsWA)

Poetry Out Loud goes multimedia with a live webcast and viewing parties

You can watch the entire semifinals and finals through a live, one-time only webcast at www.arts.gov. Or make plans now to gather fellow poetry fans and host a Poetry Out Loud Webcast Viewing Party. Register here and find tips on hosting your party, promotional materials, and details on other viewing parties around the country.

The NEA is taking Poetry Out Loud online on Twitter at @PoetryOutLoud and @NEAarts, hashtag #POL13. For more information on the event, webcast, or viewing parties, visit arts.gov or call 202-682-5606.

Good Luck, Langston!

She wanted a diacritical mark on her forehead.  Something to set her apart.  Not in a lightning bolt something-dreadful-happened-to-me-as-a-child and now I’m cursed (or blessed?) sort of way.  An umlaut, perhaps, or an aigu or grave.  Some mark to keep her from getting lost in the thicket of talk, to show where emphasis resides.  Something stochastic, ekphrastic, lingua-fantastic – some barking mark a listener could discern, distinguish, know – that varies with a conversation’s weather.  A signpost to visibly map her moods, to show the world she’s listening to whatever random, perchance profound, perchance unlikely, words are being said.  Something to say “right!” – attention paid; the right note struck, and resounding.

Jeanne Yeasting is a poet and visual artist.  She lives in Bellingham, and teaches creative writing at Western Washington University.

I’m an ounce
Of flit and bounce,
An inch
Of hop and flinch.
I chirp and chatter,
Perch and scatter,
Alert, still:
The world can kill
And think it doesn’t matter.

“Sparrow” is reprinted from ArtWord Quarterly and Resin from the Rain (Rose Alley Press, 2002).

David D. Horowitz founded and manages Rose Alley Press. His most recent poetry collections, published by Rose Alley, are Sky Above the Temple and Stars Beyond the Battlesmoke. His poems and essays have appeared in numerous journals, including The Lyric, Candelabrum, The New Formalist, The Smoking Poet, and Exterminating Angel. David has edited and published two Northwest poetry anthologies: Limbs of the Pine, Peaks of the Range and Many Trails to the Summit. He frequently organizes poetry readings in the Puget Sound region and in 2005 received the PoetsWest Award for his contributions to Northwest literature.

……..In this bright gray
light, the blinding day,
listen to the whispering
of angels. Tittering wings and wordlessness float in strings
of sound. Such trembling
music. The pavement shines.
I ride the gales, wind and night,
they push against, slip through skin—gripping each cadence—
so hairs stand, ascending pins.

It’s warm, still
inside the chill
of fall.

But still, in motion. Still inside
the weathered chaos. Stillness.
This is —happiness?

………….Everything shines
………….when it rains.
When it rains
and right after
………….Everything shines:

the Pacific’s quiet arousal.

The Kingfishers rouse
for quiet repose, in
blue winged days. In praise
………….I build sunlight
under fingertips,
in each rib. Feel it lit
inside the wick of grim rubbings,
uncertain burns: a light singing.
In air. In air. Remember—
………….this light, its organ
warmth, sounds brass chords,
a mast of fog in rooms
that melts away. Hold on—
………….to such crisp, wet
pleasure.

Everything shines:
………….Praise—
sun sheering leaves so you can see:
the shake of white: the shake
of still, of empty white: sleet
of lupine time: fields: the gorgeous
tickle of clean sheets: a sweep
of sea aligning beach: a lingered
quiet drunk in mint: balloons
suspending: stars.

………….O obvious stars!
Their light uncovers
all that’s honied, sweetly
shining, shining.

………….Everything shines.
Each sun or star or skin
the leaves the wind and
eyes each dream idea mourning
lover scissor headlight touch

It’s always been this way,
lost inside a simple forgetting,
brash midland breachings
of each, our gauzy seams

Still. Warm. Shining.

Remember—
………….Joy—each wheel
a spindle slick on these wet
leaves the fall, which falls
a maple in my stride, a tail whip
that gasps in lungs and stays
aglow—a pink and golden hue
blazed within my skin, in ribs,
a lift, a blessing.
………….I ride into the day—

“As A Threshold Brook” is reprinted from Taiga Issue A.

Amber Nelson is the co-founder and poetry editor of alice blue, a well as the founding editor of alice blue books. Her work can be found variously online  and in print, and she is the author of 3 previous chapbooks: This Ride is in Double Exposure (h-ngm-n books), Your Trouble is Ballooning (Publishing Genius), and Diary of When Being with Friends Feels Like Watching TV (Slash Pine Press). Her first full-length book, In Anima: Urgency is forthcoming in May from Coconut Books.