I'm happy with my penis size and yet....

One of my recent personal deveopments since coming to UWI is that hI've begun to see themes everywhere.  Literary themes pop up in real life, in small talk and apparently random behavior.  Everything has a subtext now.  Everything has a socio-political impact.  Especially the proliferation of KFC and the lack of natural, unsweetened chocolate on store shelves.  Normally I'd say I was losing it.  I'm just reading too much into things.  But then, I've been beaten over the head with the idea that if I see it, and I can prove it, then its there.  If you perceive it, then it exists.  I have yet to figure out where that leaves room for illusion, or possibly even delusion.  For the time being, Im a little more concerned with actively addressing the things I've been seeing.

One of these themes is Manhood.  Not adulthood, mind you.  Not male homosapiens of reproductive age.  No, I've been thinking about manhood and masculinity.  Luckily there's a gender studies course on that next semester that I can take as an elective.  In the meantime though, my mind is racing.  I don't know if I can wait that long.  Take, for instance, that thing that just happened in KFC.  That was definitely a threat, right?  Definitely a chest-beating, dick measuring contest, right?  Oh, right.  You weren't there.  Let me break it down for you.

So we're in the food court by KFC.  I'd just had a horrible day of splitting my attention in two different directions and producing mediocre work for both, so as punishment I decided to get a snack-pack.  There I met Scott.  Scott's a pretty cool guy.  He's not a guy's guy by any measure.  He's long and gangly, as if he liked puberty so much he just stuck with it into adolescence.  This doesn't make him bad looking though.  I'm sure some young lady who sincerely values a man with a sense of humor would gladly take strangely angled pictures with their foreheads touching so they can both put on facebook someday.  Scott is in my Drama class, and my Intro to Prose class.  Scott's also in the Intro to Poetry class which I won't be taking until next semester.  Still, with all that reading and writing, Scott is never without a smile or a joke.  In other words, Scott's my kind of people. 

Scott tells me that he's waiting for Gabby, Chelsea, and Nick, who are all also lit majors and classmates of mine.  Since arriving here they are the only Trinis that I don't have to actually try to have fun with in order to have fun with.  Once again, these are my people.  And so, as a matter of course, I decide to wait for the others to arrive.  When they do, we start doing our strange combination of discussing academics along side what we'd call madarass back home.  Both of which I enjoy thoroughly.  Enter, then, The Fellow from North.  Of course he's wearing his traditional Fellow from North garb, a zip up hoody, even though we're in the tropics and coming toward the end of the wet season.  Of course he has the usual north baring.  All they do on north is practice that baring.  Lifting weights and practicing how to fix their jaws and look at people out of the corners of their eyes in the mirror.  No, no.  I'm already letting my personal attitude color this story.  Lets stick to the facts.

Here are the facts: Fellow from north enters.  Fellow from north sees me.  I nod hello.  He may have nodded, but I didn't see one.  Fello from north sees Scott.  Scott does not nod hello.  Scott does not know the fellow from north.  Fellow from North sees Gabby.  Gabby smiles.  Fellow from north walks around the table and sits awfully close to gabby.  Fellow from north drapes a hand over her.  Fellow from north proceeds to flirt openly.  Fellow from north tickles Gabby.  Gabby laughs.  Gabby says 'Please don't do that' and proceeds to explain why.  Mid-explanation, fellow from north tickles her again.  Gabby Laughs.  Gabby says stop.  Fellow from north Tickles Gabby again, thereby initialling a mini wrestling match between the two.  Scott looks at me as if to say 'Is this really happening?'  I look at Scott as if to say 'Yes, this is definitely happening.'  Fellow from north says 'Oh, hey fellas.'  Fella from north walks away.  We've all forgotten what we were talking about when the Fellow from North entered.

To return to my initial question: Was it just me or was that kind of fucked up?  There are certain things that might color my perception of it, of course.  Maybe I'm just not threatened by Scott, but am clearly threatened by The Man From North.  Maybe the Man From North didn't have to do a single thing except be present in order for me to resent him somehow.  Maybe if they did it to Chelsea I wouldn't mind, but because I've taken a bit of a shine to Gabby, I'm feeling territorial. 

From my end the message is clear.  The fellow sat down and basically said, "both of you men are not real men.  Look at what I can do.  I can force her to laugh.  She says no, but because I'm doing it she likes it.  See the way we're touching now?  See the way whatever you boys were talking about no longer matters?  Goodbye losers."  Of course I'm left with the usual question of 'Did that really just happen or am I reading too much into it?"  I'm also left with the realization that I would never do such a thing.  There lies the path of Douchebags.  And then, I think...Douchebags get laid.  So maybe I should be more of a douchebag.  Maybe my lack of douchebaggery represents a direct correlation to my limited number of sexual partners.  I tell myself that its all a matter of quality over quantity.  That if we count by number of instances rather than partners, then I'm right up there with my contemporaries; and that if we count by successful female orgasms, I'm way ahead of the crowd.  A part of me doesn't buy that though.  A part of me wants to have sex with everyone I want to have sex with.  A part of me thinks that each beautiful memorable moment is perpetually overshadowed by the ones that didn't happen.  A part of me wants to know what its like to be a douchebag, and in fact, wonders if that isn't actually the ideal.

And if that is masculinity, then what the fuck am I?

Misuse of Magic

Now that I'm becoming a bit more familiar with my surroundings and there's no more curfew, I might just go and catch a show this coming thursday at Drink! Wine Bar on Roberts Street

Colors

josh and zora slam of the ages 2009

So after learning that I might be able to help out with Youth Voices without having to travel at least a hundred miles, I decided to look up some of my own favorites, and found this one.  Zora really is amazing.  Everything that girl touches is golden.  Also, note the tag.

Day 9: A Poem that Made You Feel Closer to the Divine

Anis Mojgani - Closer

come closer.
come into this. come closer.
you are quite the beauty. if no one has ever told you that before know that now. you are quite the beauty. there is joy in how your mouth dances with your teeth. your mouth is a sign of how sacred your life truly is. come into this. true of heart come into this. you are true of heart. come closer. come closer. know that whatever God prays to He asked it to help Him make something of worth. He woke from His dreams scraped the soil form the spaces inside Himself made you and was happy. you make the Lord happy.
come into this.
come closer.

know that something softer than us but just as holy planted the pieces of Himself into our feet that we might one day find our way back to Him. you are almost home.
come closer come into this. there are birds beating their wings beneath your breastplate gentle sparrows aching to sing come aching hearts come soldiers of joy doormen of truth come true of heart come into this.
my heart was too big for my body so I let it go and most days this world has thinned me to where I am just another cloud forgetting another flock of swans but believe me when I tell you my soul has squeezed into narrow spaces. place your hand beneath your head when you sleep tonight and you may find it there making beauty as we sleep as we dream as we turn over when I turn over in the ground may the ghosts that I have asked answers of do the turning kneading me into crumbs of light and into this thing love thing called life. come into it!

come you wooden museums
you gentle tigers
negro farces in two broken scenes.
come rusting giants!
I see teacups in your smiles upside down glowing. your hands are like my heart. on some days how it trembles. let us hold them together. I am like you. I too at times am filled with fear. but like a hallway must find the strength to walk through it. walk through this with me. walk through this with me. through this church birthed of blood and muscle where every move our arms take every breath we swallow is worship.
bend with me. there are bones in our throats. if we choke it is only on songs.

I suppose its been a while since I've sung praises to Anis Mojgani.  In my head he's constantly there along with a phalanx of other literary influences.  This poem in particular comes into mind everytime I get together with friends, family, and feel that distinct sensation that I always thought I should get from church and sacraments.  I seriously, seriously wanna give this guy a hug if and when I ever meet him.

---

(Bio from his website: http://thepianofarm.com)

Anis Mojgani is a two time National Poetry Slam Champion and winner of the International World Cup Poetry Slam. A Pushcart Prize Nominee and former resident of the Oregon Literary Arts Writer's-In-The-Schools program, Anis has performed at numerous Universities, festivals, and venues around the globe.

His work has appeared on HBO, NPR, in the pages of RATTLE magazine, and alongside Laureates Ted Kooser and Billy Collins in the anthology Spoken Word Revolution Redux. Originally from New Orleans, Anis has two poetry collections, Over the Anvil We Stretch, and his latest The Feather Room, both from Write Bloody Publishing.

Day 8: A Poem about Fatherhood

Neil Gaiman -- Locks

We owe it to each other to tell stories,
as people simply, not as father and daughter.
I tell it to you for the hundredth time:

"There was a little girl, called Goldilocks,
for her hair was long and golden,
and she was walking in the Wood and she saw — "

"— cows." You say it with certainty,
remembering the strayed heifers we saw in the woods
behind the house, last month.

"Well, yes, perhaps she saw cows,
but also she saw a house."

"— a great big house," you tell me.

"No, a little house, all painted, neat and tidy."

"A great big house."
You have the conviction of all two-year-olds.
I wish I had such certitude.

"Ah. Yes. A great big house.
And she went in . . ."

I remember, as I tell it, that the locks
Of Southey's heroine had silvered with age.
The Old Woman and the Three Bears . . .
Perhaps they had been golden once, when she was a child.

And now, we are already up to the porridge,
"And it was too— "
"— hot!"
"And it was too— "
— cold!"
And then it was, we chorus, "just right."

The porridge is eaten, the baby's chair is shattered,
Goldilocks goes upstairs, examines beds, and sleeps,
unwisely.

But then the bears return.
Remembering Southey still, I do the voices:
Father Bear's gruff boom scares you, and you delight in it.

When I was a small child and heard the tale,
if I was anyone I was Baby Bear,
my porridge eaten, and my chair destroyed,
my bed inhabited by some strange girl.

You giggle when I do the baby's wail,
"Someone's been eating my prridge, and they've eaten it —"
"All up," you say. A response it is,
Or an amen.

The bears go upstairs hesitantly,
their house now feels desecrated. They realize
what locks are for. They reach the bedroom.

"Someone's been sleeping in my bed."
And here I hesitate, echoes of old jokes,
soft-core cartoons, crude headlines, in my head.

One day your mouth will curl at that line.
A loss of interest, later, innocence.
Innocence; as if it were a commodity.
"And if I could," my father wrote to me,
huge as a bear himself, when I was younger,
"I would dower you with experience, without experience."
and I, in my turn, would pass that on to you.
But we make our own mistakes. We sleep
unwisely.
It is our right. It is our madness and our glory.
The repetition echoes down the years.
When your children grow; when your dark locks begin to silver,
when you are an old woman, alone with your three bears,
what will you see? What stories will you tell?

"And then Goldilicks jumped out of the window and she ran —
Together, now: "All the way home."

And then you say, "Again. Again. Again."

We owe it to each other to tell stories.

These days my sympathy's with Father Bear.
Before I leave my house I lock the door,
and check each bed and chair on my return.

Again.

Again.

Again..


I've learned so much from Neil Gaiman over the years.  When I was younger, when I was literally just learning how to write and slowly letting it seep into my blood, it was either Gaiman, or Alan Dean Foster.  It still is both of them in a way.  I still want to write like Gaiman.  I still want to make impossible things seem completely plausible and thoroughly entertaining.  And I want to do it seriously.  Its not a hobby for Mr. G.  It's his life now.  I would say its his everything, but that's obviously not true.  Because when Short stories and movies and comic books and reviews were no longer enough, Neil Gaiman started writing Children's books and fun, sweet, wonderful poems like this one; for his children.  For his children.  Every parent, ever proper father wants to give their child the world.  Neil gives his children countless worlds.  I want to be a writer like Neil Gaiman.  I want to be a father like Neil Gaiman too.

---

(Bio from his website: http://www.neilgaiman.com)

Bestselling author Neil Gaiman has long been one of the top writers in modern comics, as well as writing books for readers of all ages. He is listed in the Dictionary of Literary Biography as one of the top ten living post-modern writers, and is a prolific creator of works of prose, poetry, film, journalism, comics, song lyrics, and drama.

His New York Times bestselling 2001 novel for adults, American Gods, was awarded the Hugo, Nebula, Bram Stoker, SFX, and Locus awards, was nominated for many other awards, including the World Fantasy Award and the Minnesota Book Award, and appeared on many best-of-year lists.

Gaiman's eagerly awaited next novel for adults, Anansi Boys debuted on the New York Times Bestseller list in September, 2005. About Anansi Boys Gaiman says: "It's a scary, funny sort of a story, which isn't exactly a thriller, and isn't really horror, and doesn't quite qualify as a ghost story (although it has at least one ghost in it), or a romantic comedy (although there are several romances in there, and it's certainly a comedy, except for the scary bits).” An audio version of the entire text of Anansi Boys, as read by UK comedian Lenny Henry, has also been published by HarperAudio as both regular CDs and as MP3-CDs.

(Cripes he's got a long bio.  I guess that's what happens when you become a literary rockstar.  I've only posted a bit of it here, you can read the rest here -->(http://www.neilgaiman.com/p/About_Neil/Biography)  However, I wanted to make sure I got in the bit about Anansi Boys because I just finished it a month ago and I highly recommend it!)

Day 7: A Poem You've Recited to Someone

Rumi - You Worry Too Much

Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You say,
I make you feel dizzy.
Of a little headache then,
why do you worry?
You say, I am your antelope.
Of seeing a lion here and there
why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You say, I am your moon-faced beauty.
Of the cycles of the moon and
passing of the years,
why do you worry?
You say, I am your source of passion,
I excite you.
Of playing into the Devils hand,
why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
Look at yourself,
what you have become.
You are now a field of sugar canes,
why show that sour face to me?
You have tamed the
winged horse of Love.
Of a death of a donkey,
why do you worry?
You say that I keep you warm inside.
Then why this cold sigh?
You have gone to the roof of heavens.
Of this world of dust, why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
Since you met me,
you have become a master singer,
and are now a skilled wrangler,
you can untangle any knot.
Of life's little leash
why do you worry?
Your arms are heavy
with treasures of all kinds.
About poverty,
why do you worry?
You are Joseph,
beautiful, strong,
steadfast in your belief,
all of Egypt has become drunk
because of you.
Of those who are blind to your beauty,
and deaf to your songs,
why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You say that your housemate is the
Heart of Love,
she is your best friend.
You say that you are the heat of
the oven of every Lover.
You say that you are the servant of
Ali's magical sword, Zolfaghar.
Of any little dagger
why do you still worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less,
why do you worry?
You are in truth
the soul, of the soul, of the soul.
You are the security,
the shelter of the spirit of Lovers.
Oh the sultan of sultans,
of any other king,
why do you worry?
Be silent, like a fish,
and go into that pleasant sea.
You are in deep waters now,
of life's blazing fire.
Why do you worry?

Ages ago, I would read this to someone very special.  Sometimes because she asked, and sometimes because she needed reminding of how brightly she shone.  I still intend to get some sort of tattoo based on this poem as a reminder of those time, but how do you draw a field of sugarcanes?

---

(From Wikipedia)
Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī, also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, and popularly known as Mowlānā but known to the English-speaking world simply as Rumi (30 September 1207 – 17 December 1273), was a 13th-century Persian Muslim poet, jurist, theologian, and Sufi mystic. He lived most of his life under the Sultanate of Rum, where he produced his works and died in 1273 AD. He was buried in Konya and his shrine became a place of pilgrimage. Following his death, his followers and his son Sultan Walad founded the Mawlawīyah Sufi Order, also known as the Order of the Whirling Dervishes, famous for its Sufi dance known as the samāʿ ceremony.

Rumi's works are written in the New Persian language. A Persian literary renaissance (in the 8th/9th century) started in regions of Sistan, Khorāsān and Transoxiana and by the 10th/11th century, it reinforced the Persian language as the preferred literary and cultural language in the Persian Islamic world. Rumi's importance is considered to transcend national and ethnic borders. His original works are widely read in their original language across the Persian-speaking world. Translations of his works are very popular in other countries. His poetry has influenced Persian literature as well as Urdu, Punjabi and other Pakistani languages written in Perso/Arabic script e.g. Pashto and Sindhi. His poems have been widely translated into many of the world's languages and transposed into various formats. In 2007, he was described as the "most popular poet in America."

Day 5: An Erotic Poem

G. Newton V. Chance - Orchid

five-pointed star-
tepal
flesh-pink lip-
petal
seduction
six-pointed star-
petal
and sepal
floral attraction
pink-flesh lip-
petal
resupinated labellum-
mmmmmmm
excitement
enticement
six-
leg in-
sect
land on
obsession
flesh-pink perfumed lip-
petal
pink-flesh enlarged lip-
petal
six-pointed purple-stripe star-
tepal
pedicel
in petal
and sepal
equal
polli-
nation

testicles are roots

woman
you must have bee-
nnnnnnnnnn
an orchid
and I a bumblebee
in another life

Copyright ©2010 by G. Newton V. Chance

Newton Chance can't fool me.  When I left a comment on his blog saying 'I'm so glad I'm not the only who's ever looked a little too closely at an orchid and thought dirty thoughts' he tried to play it off as though I had some sort of floral fetish.  But the truth is obvious.  Go back to the top.  Read this poem out loud.  Let each syllable spill over your tongue and teeth and lips.  Let your breathing follow the rhythm provided by the line breaks.  Listen to your own voice in your chest.  I honestly don't know how he's done it, but Newton Chance, wizard of words that he is, has not only managed to distill foreplay and seduction into written form, and he's done so not with over-the-top double-entendres or sexual references, but with...orchids.  Bravo, Mr. Chance.  Bravo.

---

(From his blog: http://newton-chance.blogspot.com)
George Newton Vivian Chance (Trinidad and Tobago) -- member of the Poet Society of Trinidad and Tobago, http://poetssocietytt.blogspot.com/ and the World Poets Society, http://world-poets.blogspot.com/ -- born in Tobago on 3rd March 1957. While residing at Rio Claro was inspired to write over a hundred poems at the turn of the Millennium. Hobbies include playing wind instruments, building computers, observing nature, reading and writing poetry. Believes that the power of a song is in its ability to evoke emotions by the marriage of lyric and music but that music without lyric can be just as powerful, that lyric without music can also be just as powerful, that there is music in the lyric and that lyric can be simple yet profound. Also, in this the age of computers, would like to model his lines after simple and efficient code and, analogous to Object Oriented Programming, achieve most of his imagery from nouns and verbs, avoiding the bloat and excess of unnecessary adjectives. This is what he aspires to attain in his poetry.

Day 4: A poem about an everyday thing

The Grandmaster: "Time"

Leroy 'The Grandmaster' Young is a fixture in Belize's poetry scene.  His critics might say his poems are often nonsensical and redundant, but The Grandmaster accomplishes an integral task for any poet.  He takes that simple, mundane thing from within our worlds an breathes new life into it, makes us pay attention to the way we interact with the world around us, with one another, with our inner nature and even with our very own language.  His signature dragging cadence and repetitive style are simply further evolutions of African Call-and-response.  Like a running gag, he sets up the audience in such a way that they end up participating in the performance, calling out the refrain before even the poet does.  Detractors may giggle at the stringing of simple words or p-shaw at the effort to make the profound out of minute, day-to-day details of life, but this allows his poems to stay with the audience, rattling around in their minds until it eventually knocks loose some sort of revelation, whether big or small.

---

(From Wikipedia)
Belizean Dub Poet Leroy 'The Grandmaster' Young briefly starred in rap group Fresh Breeze with the Morgan Brothers, Kenny and Turbo, but eventually became addicted to drugs and got into various misdeeds, resulting in a trip to rehab after twice attempting to commit suicide. After spending time in prison and drug rehabilitation he turned to poetry and received a segment in the news broadcast on Channel 7 television station, improvising poems about stories in the news and whatever else.

He parlayed his time on Seven into two books of poetry, Made in Pinks Alley and Generation X. His debut album Just Like That... was released on Stonetree Records in 2004.

Day 3: A Poem about Prejudice

Angela Gegg -- 100% Belizean

I want to start off by saying 'Angela Gegg doesn't look like your average Belizean' but before my fingers even touch the keyboard my internal editor is asking me 'What exactly does the average Belizean look like?'  It'll take some time before I have an answer for him.  This much is true though, Ms. Gegg certainly stands out in a crowd.  But among the Belizeans, her family name as well as her own personal reputation smacks of that certain Belizean vibe.  Not only is Angela a fixture in the poetry and visual artist communities in Belize, but she's also a successful restaurateur, and sort of part-time celebrity.  She's also probably the most prolific spoken word artist in Belize.  Want proof?  Do a youtube search for 'Belizean Poet', count, and compare.

(From: www.angelagegg.com)
Angela Gegg is one of Belize’s leading artists. In the past decade she has had 6 Major Solo Art Shows been featured in over 20 Joint Art Shows and Exhibits in Belize, Texas, New York, Miami and Trinidad. She is featured in Calenders, DVD's, CD's, and Books about Belizean Artists. She is also the published author of THE LIGHT, THE DARK AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN (2006) and ARTIST CONFESSIONS (2009). She dedicates her books to anyone who has the liberty and aptitude to express themselves freely without the fear of repercussion from the masses. She is a regular stage performer of the Spoken Word at events, shows and festivals throughout the country of Belize as well as a TV Personality.

Day 2: A Poem about Motherhood

Kalilah Enriquez - My Mother's Heart

I often                                wonder
how  my  mother's        heart  manages  to
remain  so  full  when  she  seems to empty it
everyday  cooking  for    the  hungry  husband
counseling  the  misguided   son  babysitting
for the single-mother  daughter mothering
the  motherless  niece raising the  wide-
eyed questioning grand free of charge
free of charge free of charge free
of charge free of charge With
all the love she dishes out
daily, I wonder if she
ever has any left
to give her-
self

I've been a big fan of Kalilah Enriquez for years now.  And really, so have most people in Belize.  Her book 'Shades of Red' (In which you can find the above poem on page 12) is one of those books that never spend too much time on my bookshelves.  Hm.  Its a book I probably ought to write a review for.

As for this poem?  Well, look at it!  Not only is it fully expressive both in content and rhythm (Enriquez treats punctuation the way some chefs cook with dill: using only as much as is absolutely necessary.), but the reference to the old, familiar songs every Belizean's probably heard by now on Sunday afternoon radio makes this little poem a real gem.

---

Kalilah Enríquez was born, raised and attended school in Belmopan, Belize. After graduating Belmopan Comprehensive High School she attended St. John's College Junior College in Belize City, then left on scholarship to Fordham University in New York, where she earned a Bachelor's degree in Communications. Upon returning to Belize she joined KREM Radio as host of the Vibes and KREM's news editor in 2005. She has on occasion contributed to the Amandala. She now works in Jamaica for Hype TV as a presenter. In January 2010 she was the organizer of the “Help Haiti Benefit Concert and Telethon", the biggest show ever in Belize.

Day 1: A Poem about Childhood

Nicole Homer - False Memories

First, the disclaimer:  This isn't your average poem.  It is in its entirety a spoken word piece.  In fact, I think if I saw it written down it would appear at first glance to be prose.  (Not that there's anything wrong with that.  If it can work for Baudelaire, why can't it work for you or I, or Nicole Homer?)  Its not meant to have line breaks, I should think.  Those would only serve to as a distraction.  The second warning is connected to the first.  This poem is a bit long.

Now, to the meat of the matter:  Nicole describes a phenomena that I think most of us experience, and one that is particularly significant to me.  Not only is there the disconnect between our childhood idols and the later realization of their significantly less-than-ideal realities, but there's also the trick that our minds play when we look back on the past, and on childhood.  If I really analyze it, the only things that have changed about some of the things in my life; my parents, my family, my country, even the cities, neighborhoods, and houses that I live in, have been my varied opinions and perceptions of them. 

Originally I thought of a poem reminiscent of smiling, shirtless days in the sunlight, but this seems more significant, especially when considering poetry as a tool for self discovery.  After hearing this poem, I remember immediately realizing 'Oh, that's right.  Its impossible to have an appreciation of childhood as a child.'

And I became that much more enlightened.

---

So...In an effort to insert as much willy-nilly into this pre-arranged undertaking, I went ahead and made this post without so much as glancing at Geoffrey Philip's Blog Spot, the place where I actually got the idea to do this from, on his 'Day 1' Entry.  Now that I have, I realize that its probably a good idea to include a brief Bio.  So here's Nicole Homer's, snagged straight off her myspace page at http://www.myspace.com/travelerpoet

Nicole Homer
is finding her voice. Since she started slamming, she has won numerous
slams at venues such as the Nuyorican Poets Café, The Bowery Poetry
Club, Brookdale College, Port Africa, Cantab Lounge and the legendary
Chicago Green Mill. She has featured at the Shore Institute for
Contemporary Arts, The Five Spot, The Brooklyn Big Art Show, Georgian
Court University and has opened for Amiri Baraka and Miquel Algarin at
the Newark Museum and for Jim Caroll at the Forum Theater. She is winner
of the Emerging Writers Audience Favorite award at Wordfest 2006. She
was an NYC Urbana finalist but went to the 2006 National Poetry Slam
with Central Jersey's own Loser Slam!!! Nicole represented Urbana at
the 2007 Individual World Poetry Slam in Vancouver where she ranked 9th
in the world. Nicole competed in the 2007 National Poetry Slam in
Austin, TX on the Urbana team, where they placed 6th in the nation.

Geoffrey Philp's Blog Spot: 21 Days/ 21 Poems: National Poetry Month

This seems like a fun idea:Geoffrey Philp's Blog Spot: 21 Days/ 21 Poems: National Poetry Month

Plus, I haven't been doing much with this blog space for a long time. Whaddaya say, Shall we try it out?

Here's the list of categories


A poem about childhood
A poem about motherhood
A poem about prejudice
A poem about a commonplace object/thing
An erotic poem
A poem you ve just read and loved
A poem that you ve recited to someone, you wish someone would recite to you, someone has recited to you, you ve sent to someone in an email/letter or was sent to you in a letter/email.
A poem about fatherhood
A poem that made you feel closer to the divine
A poem about place
A poem that gains meaning every time you ve read it
A poem that you would want to recite to your children
A poem that made you want to write a poem
A poem you wished you could have written
A poem about AIDS
A poem about ancestors/inheritance
An elegy
A love poem
A Praise Poem
A poem that made you feel hopeful
A poem about a body part




Watch this spot. -----> .

The Real New Year

Knowing myself, I've only got a short while, so lets be quick here.  Lets make a promise, you and I, that this week will not be last week.  Look, the sun is shining!  The world is bright!  And we are alive!  While we're on top of the world, lets put some real work into staying on top, eh?  C'mon, waddayasay?  And for starters, lets do what everyone has been telling us to do.  No, I don't mean getting pushed around at work, I mean the hippy 'see it, feel it, do it, achieve it!' bullshit they've all been forcing down our throats.  For once, lets not give in to cynicism.  Lets actually act like we believe that shit!  You are an artist!  You are a creative being!  Lets be that first, and a technical button masher second.  You've got stories to finish and collections of poems to complete!  Lets make some progress!  Ooh!  Even better, lets make some submissions!  Nothing like the approval of others coupled with wider exposure!  Yeah, we'll be on top for a loooong while this time!

That's my pep talk to myself.  From myself.  You, dear reader, should try having one too.  I promised you more Eulogy and I swear its on its way.  A couple other projects I wanna try and do too.  Other than that, just saying hi.  I'm still out here.  Still pluggin' away.

Eulogy Time - 2011

I just realized today, upon flipping through my journal and scrolling through my flash drive, that its Eulogy Time!  Yes, that special time of year when I put this year's journal to rest, but only after thoroughly rifling through the pages for any tiny little literary tidbits, even the embarrassing, the bad, and the unavoidable incomplete entries.  As per usual I'll be posting these up on Eulogy for a Journal, since that's what that blog is actually for, and they'll all serve as good creative fodder for...erm...at least half of the year.

Also, I find myself in a predicament.  There are a handful of blank pages in last year's journal, which is nice, but will soon be used up by some half-formed idea already lurking in the back of my mind.  And when it does, I don't know what I'll do since, for the first time in four years, I don't already have a journal all lined up!  Time was I'd go out and get a rinky-dink little something and stick it in my faux-leather book cover,  but I've gone and spoiled myself!  After countless (2) Moleskines and the absolutely gorgeous 'Lincoln: Fragment of a Speech' PaperBlanks journal of last year, not just any old thing will do.

Hmm, here's an idea.  Why don't you buy me a journal, dear reader?  Not something expensive, mind you.  Just something you'll look at and think 'Hmm...I'd like to write in that.'  Anything that jumps out at you.  If you're so inclined and you want to mail something like that to me, shoot me an email.  I'll let you know where to send the mail bomb package.