The Resurrection and Death of Mr Wao (wow!)

by: Maggie Garey, SuperRed

     It was 8 o’clock Friday evening. Twilight was beginning to deepen into night. A crowd had gathered in front of the Sylvia White gallery on East Main Street in Ventura. John White, our host for the evening, had just taken off his pseudo coffee-stained shirt and taped it to a window as an example of how life can work to create poetry. He said of his half-monty form, “Not bad for 75.” This was the lead-in piece to the "5x5x5", 5 performers, 5 pieces, for 5 minutes each, in theory at least. What actually occurred on the premises was something I, and many others I’m sure, have never seen before.

     Just as John opened the door to the gallery to invite us all inside, a dirty moon blue Crown Victoria squealed to the curbside, the trunk clicked open as it stopped. Two young men of the sort you’d expect to see in a Crown Vic stepped out of each side. The crowd stepped back as one and some faces were alarmed. The driver, dirty-blonde haired and thick necked, opened the trunk. I saw duct-taped feet kicking out in to the air! The other roughneck, sandy-brown haired with legs like redwoods, grasped the trunk-man’s feet, while dirty-blonde grasped his upper arms and they carried the hooded man into the gallery. While being carried, the man (poet) was pivoting and yelling, “I’m a virgin! I need to support my wife and kids! John, if you’d just called my agent I would have shown up!”

     After being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor of the gallery--curiously in front of an open coffin-- sandy-brown whipped out a long pocket knife and sliced off the red, black and white duct tape holding the poet prisoner. Having free hands, the man removed the black hood and gazed with irritation at the crowd. “I only have one poem for you John,” he said.

     The audience, aghast, amused and highly entertained watched on as the poet, Mr. Wao, wowed us with his poem regarding love and the erotic poet. Mr. Wao’s beautiful wife, dressed in a lovely black maxi dress, was also part of the performance, lending her hand during the rendition. When the poem was complete, Mr. Wao bent down his black-haired head and lowered his gaunt frame into the open coffin. As he lay in the coffin with a beatific smile on his face and hands folded on his chest, dirty-blonde and sandy-brown came out with two other men and, positioned around the coffin, lifted and carried Mr. Wao out to the back of the gallery, followed by thunderous applause, a Catholic deacon sprinkling holy water and several celebrators holding black umbrellas and colorful parasols. WOW!

    Mr. Wao, aka F. Albert Salinas, is not afraid to stretch, and even break a little, the bounds of poetry and performance, taking us to new and unusual places. I’m honored to be associated with him and look forward to more open mics, more writing and more performing! I am anticipating seeing more of what I haven’t seen before!



   Before I check out, many thanks to Harry Barnack and DJ Garey, our "roughnecks", Dave Garey and Carlos Velazquez, coffin handlers and pall bearers, and to the Razor Babes for their participation as celebrators and carrying the parasols.

Babes in Waiting

6:00am 


Quiet Streets in Ventura  

     The streets are quieter this week. I could swear I saw a tumble weed rolling down Main Street in Ventura. The Razor Babes are up in San Francisco touring through UC Santa Cruz, Alcatraz, the Naked Bulb and other celebrated venues. Wait, Alcatraz and the NAKED BULB?! I can't wait to see the pics and postings for those shows! I can see it now: "Babes Behind Bars" or "Naked Babes Behind Bars"! For those of us left behind waiting breathlessly to hear news of their travels, time is traveling slowly. I've been working around the house, writing and editing my own poetry, doing homework and taking tests, and finally, sitting down to write this blog. There was so much frenetic and frantic energy around the Babes departure that I have that feeling of after Christmas, when every gift has been opened, Christmas dinner eaten and all is done and put away. In this case, it was business cards, bumper stickers, t-shirts, duct tape bags and wallets, car rentals and lodgings, but similar in energy and excitement. There is an emptiness or quiet place inside my heart today. This is the time for me to re-group and be ready. For what I'm not sure, but I am preparing myself for their return.

Intelligent Design Poetry Reading

     As you may know, IDAC has a poetry reading and open mic on the 3rd Wednesday of the month at the Coffee Connection in Ojai. On May 16th, Barry Miller was our feature. Barry was great as always, bringing his particular brand of poetry to the stage. He performed my favorite, "The Hard of Hearing Hooker". There is a You Tube post on the IDAC Facebook site if you would like to check it out. Barry is a weathered soul and understands hard-luck stories. His lyrical baritone makes it easy to listen to any story he has to tell, even if they may be hard to hear in some cases. Thank you Barry for gracing us with your words and charm.

     I heard a young man perform at the open mic I haven't heard before. His name is Patrick and he read a poem about being the son of a beatnik poet. It was a very powerful work and I appreciate Patrick sharing it with us. Other highlights of the evening: B.J. Riley drove down, then up, from Santa Maria to Ojai to read for us, Nancy Gross, editor and publisher of the The Bubble, Ojai's premier literary magazine, was in attendance, and finally, Mr. Wao (wow!), our host, stood up at the end and sang a wonderful George Michael song. Mr. Wao wowed us with his talent and sweet tenor voice.

     I performed a piece I've been developing regarding my dad and the music he loved and created and the magic he seemed to wield over the hearts of his wife and eight children. I sing a bit at the beginning and at the end, and there is a rhythmic poem in-between. My performance has been really well received so far and that makes my toes tingle :-) Our next poetry night will be June 20th from 6:30pm - 8:30pm. If you have a piece of poetry, song, music, or other art form you'd like to share, please bring it! We encourage all who want to speak to come and be heard!

Sneak Preview

     Want to see something that will push the boundaries of poetic performance to new levels? Want to be amazed? Be at the Sylvia White Gallery on June 1st at 8:00pm. John White is the host for the evening. That's all I can say right now. Stay tuned for updates.


     Sunrise in Oxnard is beautiful and the air is sweet with the aroma of fresh strawberries in the fields. I look out the window and wait.


  
 

Goodnight B.J. Riley, Wherever You Are

Musings on Rhythm and Rhyme in Santa Maria

May 3, 2012
by: Maggie Garey, aka SuperRed

     It was late afternoon yesterday when my friend Albert and I entered our Toyota TARDIS^* and traveled through time and space from eclectic, surf-drenched Ventura to the rolling, wine-covered fields of Santa Maria. We stopped at the Rest Area—the one right before the tunnel that would turn us away from ocean—to take pictures of the magenta clouds lounging above the unusually verdant and lush green foothills and found ourselves parked next to a 1972 Chrysler Imperial. The car was black and she showed her years, like an old Prom Queen whose past beauty can still be seen behind the dents and bruises of time. The faux leather roofing was peeling off as though she had bad sunburn. I took some cool pictures of Albert and the car, but we had to do it quickly and duck for cover before her owner came back from the Men’s. As we continued our journey, I reflected on the fact that Santa Maria is 97 miles from Ventura. I have new respect for B.J. Riley who travels down from Santa Maria to the Artists Union Gallery in Ventura every week for the Tuesday Night Poets group. That’s commitment!

     Poets, and those who love them, spend a lot of time in coffee shops and art galleries. Café Noir on Broadway Street in Santa Maria is an excellent venue; lots of open space, large windows and a very friendly staff. There is a creative vibe in the air, and the poets who read last night really “brought it” and I was impressed by the caliber of their readings. One of the baristas who worked there even came up and read one of her poems. Very cool! Our host, Terry, is a tall, angular man with eyes that crinkle; a sign that he laughs a lot. He read some of his poetry and performed with power and mature skill. His son, Champion, (what a great name!) was also there and read some of his poetry and performed on his acoustic guitar and sang. He is pretty young, and I'm sure he will be a force to recon with as he matures. I was so inspired by the work of the poets and the welcoming atmosphere, I raised my hand and stepped to the mike to read “Trepidacious Kamikazes”, a poem Albert and I wrote together a few years back. As though angels sat on my shoulders and guided heart, mind and speech, I read with more feeling and freedom than I have ever done before. It was a very exhilarating feeling. I floated.

    On the return trip, we didn't so much as drive, as teleport. The miles melted and time became all wibbly-wobbly and not at all linear. Before I knew it, we were home, safe and sound to sleep, to dream, to travel.

* Time and Relative Dimensions in Space, Doctor Who, BBC

On Performance Poetry and Posting on You Tube

March 28, 2012
by: SuperRed

“To do nothing is the way to be nothing.”
― Nathaniel Hawthorne

A couple of Tuesdays ago at the Artists' Union Gallery (AUG), I recited a piece of poetry I'd written a few years ago. I re-worked the poem, Last Sunday, by adding a few lines and taking away a few. There is quite a difference between standing up in front of an audience and performing a piece created by someone else and reading my own work. When reading or performing another author's work, such as performing in a play or reciting to a class, I express the emotion of the character, or act out the emotion I interpret to be there, but I can be distanced emotionally in my mind. When reciting my own work, the emotion is mine. I'm not only representing myself to the audience, I'm putting my own ideas and work out for others to listen to and, hopefully, enjoy. It is an intimate, exciting, and a little bit frightening experience. Fortunately, Tuesday night at the AUG is a friendly atmosphere. The poets want to see each other succeed.

After the open mic was completed and many wonderful poets shared their work, we had the post-reading gathering. During this part of the evening everyone worked together to put away the chairs, clean the coffee pots, and of course, eat up the last few cookies and brownies, while they talked. Since I started coming regularly to the AUG meetings a couple of months ago, I watched as first the other poets looked at me with indifference, then interest and after "putting myself out there" in performing my poem, they greeted me as one of their own. I'd "made my bones" as Sonny Corleone would say. I can now say that of this group of strangers I'd met, many of them are fast becoming friends. Next week I am actually becoming a member of the AUG. I AM A POET :-)

In addition to presenting the poem to the audience, my fellow Intelligent Design Arts Collective (IDAC) member, Mr. Wao (Wow!), also recorded it. Mr. Wao does an awesome job putting together video for posting on You Tube. I was surprised at how easy it was to post: create an account and upload to You Tube. Simple, right? I felt trepidation. This was different than reading in front of 20 poets--this was the world. My finger shook slightly as I clicked "upload".

I am so happy to have done the reading and the video. I feel liberated after crossing this new challenge and now standing safe on the other side of it. I plan to do a lot more writing, reciting and posting. If you have something you love to do and it is positive for the world, share it! Don't hide that light under a barrel. Let it shine, baby, let it shine.


Here is the link to the video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VF9x1vlVFCI

A Night at the Gallery - March 13, 2012

March 13, 2012

By: SuperRed

TUESDAY NIGHT POETS

INT. ARTISTS’ UNION GALLERY – VENTURA, CALIFORNIA – MARCH 13, 2012 -EVENING

POET 1

What is the difference between a poem and a song?

POET 2

A guitar?

POET 1

No,

(beat)

a million dollars.

While it is true that hardly anyone can earn a significant amount of money writing poetry, Tuesday after Tuesday poets gather at the Ventura Artists’ Union Gallery with their binders, notebooks and folded scraps of paper. They are drawn together, not by dreams of avarice, but by other desires. Words are their currency, traded on the stage. Along with the Tuesday Regulars, there is also a featured poet, and last Tuesday was an exceptional experience.

The format for the Tuesday gatherings is simple. The featured poet reads his or her poems first for about 20-25 minutes. This is followed by the open mic. The open mic has rules: each poet can share one poem and NO, I repeat, NO EPICS are allowed. Apparently, Doris will put the hurt on you if you go too long ;)

The featured poet this week was Carol V. Davis (bio below). Ms. Davis shared poems from her new book Between Storms (available at amazon.com). Ms. Davis is a very pleasant woman, with an engaging smile and an easy laugh. This Fulbright Scholar and T.S. Eliot Prize winner is currently teaching at Santa Monica College. She seemed at ease in front of the audience, and I was surprised when after reading two poems she mentioned that she was nervous when she first started reading. Ms. Davis also shared that Between Storms is a bit of a “darker” work, and I felt that in poems she shared with us. In the second stanza of the title poem, a storm is building:

A sweep of clouds darkens the sky,

On either side of the traffic

the canyon walls are growing.

The heavens could open now,

lightning bounce from the cheekbones of rocks

Scrub acorns sprout from the hillsides,

its stubble of beard sways unsteadily.

Ms. Davis’ work has been called “stark” and able to “conjure up the beauty amid the terror” (Enid Shomer), but she also shows us a humorous side in Singer and His Sewing Machine. This poem is about Isaac Merritt Singer, the inventor of the sewing machine, who lived a life in direct opposition to the products he created. “Model 7463 is called Confidence. Model 7436, Ingenuity. I’ll take one of each.” I found both her and her work wonderful. As Phil Taggart advised, and I agree, “Buy the book, buy the book.” If not for a million dollars, at least for a song.

Davis, Carol V., Between Storms, Copyright © 2012 Truman State University Press, Kirksville, Missouri, 63501 tsup.truman.edu

http://www.venturaartistsunion.org/

Carol V. Davis is the granddaughter of Jewish immigrants from Russia. Her fascination with Russia, aided by a Fulbright grant, drew her to St Petersburg in the mid 1990s. Over the next decade, she divided her time between the US and Russia, where, as an American-born Jew, she was an outsider in Russian society.

Carol now lives in Los Angeles, California. Her poems have appeared in magazines in the US, Ireland and Israel. …In 1994 she received one of the Anna Davidson Rosenberg Awards for Poems on the Jewish Experience (USA) and also won the Reuben Rose Poetry Competition in Israel. In 1995 she won the Black Rock Press Broadside Competition, The Book Arts Press of the Univ. of Nevada. She is the author of a chapbook, Letters From Prague, (Paper Bag Press, 1991) based on the letters of Franz Kafka to his fiancée. She spent the 1996-97 academic year as a senior Fulbright scholar in creative writing in St. Petersburg, Russia, where she taught modern (19th and 20th century) Jewish literature at Petersburg Jewish University and wrote. Her book, It’s Time to Talk About…, was published in St. Petersburg, Russia in November, 1997, in a bilingual edition. In May, 2000 Ireland, she received the Strokestown Poetry Award, 2nd place, Co. Roscommon, Ireland.

Source: http://theshop.free-jazz.net/carol-v-davis-into-the-arms-of-pushkin-poems-of-st-petersburg/shop/poetry-books/