There’s not much a poet who’s loved him since she was six can do with this one, the death of Michael Jackson. Maybe because the visuals of him far outweigh any words, positive or negative, that could be or have been written about the most electrifying American dancer ever to glide or moonwalk a stage. The blank journal pages just stare back at me.

The mainstream society that creates both social freaks and idols then destroys them can continue to say whatever it will about the personal trials of the entertainer, but the work he leaves behind is the true measure of an artist’s life. I’m glad that my own artistic talent fails to capture the devastation of losing that little boy who appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show when I was six, the one-gloved wonder who incorporated the sleekest classic dance moves and the sexiest city hip grinds into his unique style, and the guy who made white socks, loafers, and high waters look Bad! Words failing, I turned to youtube to watch him dance, hear his primal yell and jangling boots…and remember the first time I fell in love with a musician.

Now who’s bad?

Man, the past six months of celebrating the publication of my first book have been wild. It’s impossible to predict how such an event will affect a writer’s life, for better or for worse. I’m choosing to focus here on the positives and thank the poetry fans who turned out to hear my featured readings and to buy every author’s copy of my book and then some.

Now that I’ve finished my last local reading this year, it’s time to focus on finding a publisher for book number two, making a dent in the novella that will someday finish the autobiographical trilogy I’ve been working on since 1996! and nailing down a steady day job for the Fall. (When I’m not trying to figure out why the blogroll is on here twice,) you can find me over the summer editing the online journals MoJo! and U.M.Ph.! Prose; otherwise, happy summer! See you in September.

My last featured reading ’til Fall will be in Cambridge Monday. Check under “Readings…” for details (where there’s also info about a Tapestry… reading this Thursday featuring two of the finer women poets from the other side of the River.)

I unexpectedly read in Brighton last night…standing next to Boston’s first poet laureate, Sam Cornish, and Monday I’ll be reading at the series that put Greater Boston on the modern poetry reading map. For a Boston poet, this is totally trippy!

City narratives (prose poetry, flash fiction, etc.) wanted for first issue of new online journal U.M.Ph.! Prose. Get ‘em in soon. I’m ready to roll!

Check guidelines first, then submit to umphsubmits@yahoo.com.

http://umphprose.com

http://www.cervenabarvapress.com/newsletter.htm

I took on another 30 poems in 30 days challenge.  Most of the poems are here; some have been or will be removed as I submit them for publication. (Some publishers will not publish poems that have appeared, even as drafts, on blogs, so I can’t post all 30 poems here).

1
Sometimes There’s a Simple Solution.

The one who is not lying there/could have been.
–Patricia Beer, “Middle Age”

Maddening alone has a cure that often is
simply called ‘company’. I’m a woman, and
women like flowers. He brought me flowers.

You love me and want me to dream of you,
you say. He kissed my shoulder while I
read in bed–even though it was not bare,

so he had to do a little work first. Tug, tug,
on purple jersey, like a puppy. Just for a peek
of my flesh, a workspace. He did not mind

work. You talk about it all evening long. “Work.
Work!” you complain. Quite often. You make me
miss things I’ve opted not to miss. So I dream.

2 and 3 Removed for submission.

To order “The Woods Have Words” go to:  http://www.lulu.com/ibbetsonpress 

Doug Holder’s website  http://authorsden.com/douglasholder

Cover painting: Charmed Silent by Hannibal King

THE WOODS HAVE WORDS: poems of tribute, my first collection of poetry, is now available from Ibbetson Street Press. Thank you for supporting small-press poetry.

http://lulu.com/ibbetsonpress

Review by Gloria Mindock, Cervena Barva Press

With poetry so honest and images so powerfully quiet, Mignon will be your guide to the many areas of Boston. In one instant, you’ll be in the North End. In another, Teele Square, with life captured in between.  Mignon is a woman who knows the spirit of her family, friends, and the
neighborhoods of Boston, but more importantly, herself. This book is one  you’ll read over and over.
 

Q: What are the dangers for a Black woman writer of writing first-person-narrator poetry?

A: The White-male-authored “I” of a poem is often seen as a universal spokesperson, a representative of the “human condition”; the White-female-authored “I” is viewed as the puppet of a man-bashing and very self-obsessed girl; the African-American male “I” is the authority for Black America…. This is a throwback to the sexist and racist roots of formal literary analysis. See how far removed the multicultural Black woman writer is?

A: Some readers see it as a personal invite into the “world of the Black female,” viewing the actual poet as a gateway to a supposedly-exotic or previously-forbidden realm. The specific poet/poem is lost or misread.

A: The poet must define subsequent non-autobiographical work as such when employing “I.” (Although this is a minor issue, comparatively speaking, it’s there).

There is the double bind of being Black and a woman opening herself up to artistic critique, for certain readers will focus first on the poet’s physical features, interpreting the term “Black” as purely biological, then mentally translate to African-American, interpreting the culture as “alien” to American-ness in general. Old stereotypes of race, class, and gender invariably combine here to define and confine the multicultural Black woman poet (and, indeed, the African-American woman poet). There’s the art, the artist, the assumed artist, the actual artist, the past artist, the future of the artist—that’s a lot to sort through just to get a poem read.

Considering the negative energy expended by the Black woman poet dodging such ad feminam critique, especially that which is both overly-restrictive and at least vaguely belittling of her own unique experience, voice, and talent, makes it a wonder that so many of us keep writing. And think of all the energy wasted by the reader who could have been simply enjoying poetry. Why buy trouble?

Q: What’s wrong with being labeled an African-American poet?

A: Not a thing–if the writing (and/or poet) primarily has an African-American focus.

African-American poets and Black American poets are not necessarily the same thing. The majority of my poetry very much reflects my being a woman. I am indeed always Black, but most of my poetry is not reflective of that; even if it were, my culture is artistic, acquired, not race- and primary-culture- based. The problem with labeling me an African-American writer is twofold. The label suggests that I am obligated to write within a certain literary tradition, which I do not, and it encourages readers to focus on my personal biology (which is offensive, at any rate) instead of the body of my work. The label also implies, directly or via assumptions of the culturally ignorant, that I am a representative of mainstream African-American culture. I should think that a good number of mainstream African Americans would object to that implication. How does a socially deviant Black poet represent the values, traditions, beliefs, lifestyles of mainstream African Americans? Not very well, nor should she presume to. She represents one viewpoint, one voice, hoping to reflect others.

A recent conversation on the topic also reveals that the term “Black” might have a certain resonance to those of us who are old enough that our parents lived through segregation. My parents were not allowed to sit in certain restaurants right here in Boston. Couldn’t order a cup of coffee or a muffin in the city in which I was born!! That still freaks me out a bit. A friend who is about ten years younger, however, embraces the term African-American and doesn’t get what the fuss is all about. Her parents do; they tell her she is Black, never mind what the teachers said in school. There is an added dimension for me that “Black” is a global term. I can elaborate to “Black American” when my nationality is important to a discussion—without that annoying hyphen that seems an unwanted ‘gift’—but I feel linked in a positive, social and emotional way to all Black people as well as via the history of oppression of anyone with Black biology. It needs to be made clear, repeatedly, that racist abuse of Black people around the world is a current event that recycles the past, not “ancient history” that is dead and buried and oughtn’t be dug up. I rarely write about race issues in my poetry, but just labeling myself a Black person speaks volumes.