Poetry and Multiculturalism

Yesterday I learned about an interesting poetry related event happening in Bologna, Italy earlier this month. Let me explain the event as I understand it, with cycling and recitation becoming a traveling presentation of poetry to the unwary as part of a multicultural festival. This is known as the “poeciclettata,” or “poetandem” as the English language media expresses it.

A number of poets are recruited to recite from memory a poem in a language foreign to Italy, not the poet, a language native to a segment of the population of the region. These dozen or so gather in a suburban square and recite their poems at different locations in the square to passersby and anyone who cares to gather. Poets are usually accompanied by hand drummers (acting first as a call to attention and then as a background rhythm.) After the performances are done, the poets and drummers (in tandem?) take off on their bicycles for the next stop, ready to invade another public square and repeat their performances. It takes place in late afternoon and early evening, ending with a public party after the final performance.

I love the idea! I can see it now: the drumming gathers a few people, the poet begins to recite. The words mean nothing to some or most of the audience, but one or two are excited – hey, that’s my native language! Maybe they pull out a cell phone, spread the news. Others recognize their own language from other poets who are performing nearby. The poets repeat at intervals; it’s not a personal reading. After a set time all of them, poets, drummers, and possibly some of the audience, take off for the next public space to repeat. As they move on, the cyclist audience travels with them and the whole thing just grows!

Bringing poetry back to the people, not just to native speakers but to migrants who have settled or are passing through. In a way it’s like Canada’s “Random Acts of Poetry” but with an ecology minded emphasis (bicycles) and a lot of street theatre thrown in.





And then I imagine it happening here. Poetry for the people entering or leaving the mall. In Korean, Urdu, Arabic, Spanish. Moving on by bicycle to the bus station, the train station. Stopping by the city’s ethnic neighborhoods. Ending with music and food in a downtown park.

Yes! Poetry as an expression of culture. Poetry as fun and pleasure. Poetry as a reason to party. Bring it on!

Toward Haiku

I went to "Purdyfest," a newish literary festival held in the Belleville/Trenton area, home to the late Al Purdy and a movement to protect his heritage. This year began early, on the Thursday, with what was billed as a "haiku" day. I wasn't quite sure what to expect (except that mention was made that the attendees would be invited to take part in a linked group writing.)

Now I find that to be receptive and expressive to haiku I need to have a certain mind-set. No, that's not quite right. I need to open my spirit to a special way of experiencing the world, one that is available to me only if I try. I did so and found that the haiku sensibility stayed with me the whole weekend, not just that day.

The afternoon, after we got to know each other, had two experienced writers from the Ottawa area explain different forms of Japanese verse and their practice in modern English. One then explained 'renga' or the linked verses, using a recent collaboration of her own as example. When she was satisfied we had some idea of what we were doing, she led us in the creation of a renga, or at least as much as we had time for that afternoon/evening.

The renga begins with a hokku; she wanted three short lines about the 'place' we were at; mine was chosen. It then continued, three lines alternating with two, each participant writing and submitting for each verse with the renga master choosing which one would best fit the (changing) rules and qualities as she presented them. We only finished ten verses, with all the choices and explanations that needed to be made.

The next day saw unofficial continuations of the discussion as well as the launch of three collections of poetry in the haiku/tanka tradition.

The wonderful thing for me was that that spirit, that way of seeing and experiencing the world through haiku moments, did not diminish. I came away with more than thirty rough haiku, awaiting careful construction.

Because they are not finished to my satisfaction I will not present any here, with this exception. This is the 'hokku' or beginning verse that headed the renga:

tall trees, tall grass

a river

runs through it

Theatre and Poetry (3)

One last taste of poetry related musings from the Fringe Festival. I won a pair of comp. tickets from http://www.cityofwaterfalls.ca/ and decided to take my friend Gary to one of the shows. Because he had once planned to write a modern interpretation of the Divine Comedy, I took him to see the production, "Dante."

It was well done on an interesting premise, an underlying theme of selling out one's art for one's own survival/well-being. Dante has survived into this time in the company of Petrarch's inspiration "Laura" who has taken care of him through the centuries. Dante may have lost his own inspiration, his Beatrice, but his reputation and that of his masterpiece continue.

Dante is useless, unable to even try to get a job to sustain the two. To make ends meet and unknown to Dante, Laura has been selling quotes from his poems as advertising jingles but the producers want fresh materials. Dante refuses to write. Then a lucrative offer from a movie production company to film the Divine Comedy, promises to become the answer to their problems. What's more, the power behind that offer is the incarnation of his beloved Beatrice, his inspiration all those centuries ago. Now he can have his cake and eat it too, so to speak; have his poetry spread through the world and his beloved Beatrice by his side.

All Beatrice wants is that he sign over all rights to his work. To make it more palatible for her audience she needs to make some changes, changes Dante did not envision in the original. So. Does Dante sell out for money and basking in the glow of his beloved or hold his art close and continue to try to exist under harsh circumstances but with his masterpiece and reputation intact?

Important questions for any artist. If your muse deserts you, can you recognise her should she return? Would she be the same, treat you as she did before?

How much should you let others influence or even shape your art? If it is produced for a commercial purpose, is it art?

Every painter, writer, sculptor, photographer, whatever the medium of expression faces this question at one time or another. And sometimes our answers do not remain constant.

We have to live with and by our decisions.

Theatre and Poetry (2)

As I mentioned in a previous entry, several of this year's Fringe Festival productions involved poetry. Sunday afternoon I went to see one that caught my attention.

"The Portrait," written and produced by local people, was described in the program blurb as "a play written almost entirely in poem form." The theme: murder and haunting and suspense.

I wasn't sure exactly what to expect, perhaps a Shakespearean performance in iambic pentameter or something equally solemn and dramatic. What I got was a narrator, the spirit of the niece of the man whose portrait comes to ... however, this isn't about plot intricacies but about the advertized "poem."

The lines were in a less conventional form; the complete play consisted of an extended ballad delivered in quatrain stanzas with lines of three or four feet and alterate rhyme. The marvel of the experience was twofold. Unless you were listening carefully for it, the rhyme and rhythm was almost unnoticeable. And even if you made yourself aware, there were enough changes to ensure that it wasn't repetitive or boring. The metric flow would often jump naturally from one character to another.

Although at the end I felt unsatisfied and wanting more, I left with a sense of amazement that the language had been so well-used.

The flow of narrative carried by rhyme and rhythm in this piece, contrasted with a segment of a performance I had seen the evening before. "Tell Me Another One" was a retelling of three fables. 'Little Red Riding Hood' was delivered as an interprative dance.'Fox and Girl' was a newer puppet show which, for me, didn't cohere. The center of the presentation was the Grimms' 'The Juniper Tree,' but it was done as a folk ballad. What could have been a brilliant concept in the hands of a true balladeer or singer/songwriter was turned into tasteless pap. I hadn't heard the story before; I don't remember it now. I couldn't tell you what it was all about and it didn't interest me enough to look up the original. The accoustic guitar accompaniment was uninspired and forgettable.

All I remember is a strumming guitar and a bearded face. That is neither poetry nor drama.

Theatre and Poetry

I went to two of the shows running at the current Fringe Festival (theatre) because I had read about several that involved poetry. The first I attended was called "I Hate Poetry."


It had an interesting premise: three spoken word artists (poets) do a last minute impromptu rehearsal for a performance. They act as a troupe and as individuals, and the audience is left to consider what is "act" and what is the characters' unplanned disclosure, what is being rehearsed and what is supposedly not. But about the poetry.

It was the common spoken word genre, at times heavy on rhyme, often rhythm depended on that rhyme, and very little else that establishes language as poetry: the use of metaphor or simile, images to portray meaning that is not immediate. Any emotion or feeling was direct and in your face; all to keep the piece moving. Any contemplation would have to be done elsewhere later.

Still, with all my reservations about spoken word poetry, language, form, and meaning, I found the frantic pacing that is the nature if this type of presentation worked well. It communicated the characters as well as the concerns behind its topic. Thank you, Dream Chasers.



The second performance I went to because it was so highly recomended. "Head First" by the Toronto all-women troupe Femmes du Feu had won a main stream staging at the Toronto Fringe Festival and would only be here for four of the ten days. They had also won an audience choice at the London Fringe and so became a "must-see."

The performance consisted of interpretive dance, most of it aerial. The first segment was a pas-de-deux performed by the two co-founders of the troupe and explored the idea of two people sharing the same dream, not dreaming but existing in the same dream space; it sometimes occupied the floor, sometimes high off the stage, other times in mid-air, often in motion between those levels.

The second part was a mini flamenco performance, an interesting reflection on rhythm and movement. It was all the more intriguing because this was the only part without music; the motion and the tapping of the shoes had to say it all.

The third segment was performed by six dancers, sometimes all together and sometimes in smaller numbers. The movement and accompanying music fluttered and hung in a number of aerial silks, portraying six or seven aspects of a woman's life.
And what has this to do with poetry? There is no better explanation of how expression in poetry should be understood. Rhythm and flow. Brilliance to capture the attention, colour to hold it. The meaning suggested by the movements of the dance, by the phrases of the poetry.

Although meant to be an experience of theatre, the evening became one full of poetry.

Satisfaction

I want to get a little personal today; bear with me.

Saturday had all the makings for a disheartening, self-pitying, miserable day. It rained hard and constantly before, during, and after sunrise. I didn't want to get groceries but could put it off no longer. And I had obligations to fulfill.

At four in the afternoon I was supposed to be in Cambridge, attending the launch of a volume of poetry by a friend. I had promised a ride to two local friends so I couldn't honestly excuse myself. We went. The reading, surprisingly enough, was warm and moving. Hmmm.

After dropping off one of us at home, my other friend and I continued on to join Hamilton Blues Lovers at a series of acts at the Burlington Sound of Music Festival, blues at the OLG stage. I didn't want to put up with loud music, crowds, wet grounds and more rain butI had chosen the event for the HBL and therefore again felt some obligation.

The music did its magic. It lifted me up out of my funk. By the end of the evening I was rocking and bopping in my shoes. Driving home I was filled with a sense of satisfaction I had no reason to expect.

It reminded me of a poem I wrote some years ago about the tedium of daily living. I ended with:

All I really need

is a course of Oscar Peterson's piano,

with Odetta's contralto on the side,

and a helping of (your) poems

for desert.

It still works. The combination of words and music takes me out of myself into an existence I can reach no other way. Words and music. Poetry and the blues. Oh yeah.

Home Is Where ...

Earlier this month I attended Hamilton's second Jewish Literary Festival. It brought together writers from different parts of North America under the theme "Where is Home for the Jewish Writer?" but rather than limit the presenters to serious discussion of that question it was used more as a unifying theme. Although the festival opened with the Friday service in which some of the writers participated, the main thrust of the weekend was cultural rather than religious.

There was lots of reference to the Jewish cultural heritage, especially from Eastern Europe. Other areas were sometimes mentioned. It surprised me that there was no emphatic Zionism, the Jewish connection to the land of Israel, expressed. Besides connecting the novels, short stories and poetry of the modern writers to the older traditions and teachings, there was an interactive time of music and dance, and the presentation of a drama.

Somewhere among the searches among the stories and songs and all the trappings that makes Jewish literature recognizably "Jewish" came a remark that really spoke to my interest. As a writer born out of a European cultural background (and a culture so minor that we didn't have a written literature but relied on stories and poems handed down orally) and transplanted to flourish in a Canadian tradition, I sometimes question my attachment to my "roots."

Sharon Nelson, a poet and presenter, put the idea of "home" in a way I could understand. Home for the Jewish writer, she explained, was not a sense of place or belonging. Rather it was all that influenced him, was a part of him. Some of this, his core beliefs and influences, remained constant. But around this solid center was a more transitory circle of people, ideas, places, etc. that were a part of his comfort in his own skin and for a time "home" for him. That was a concept I could understand, could apply to my own questionings. It is the main bit of knowledge I'll remember from the festival. And the most valluable.