MsJacquiiC

This is an essay I wrote years ago - It most definitely needs some intensive editing process - but I thought to share it anyway - It's quite long - but I hope you enjoy - ALSO suggestions are welcome very much so, as I don't generally write essays and would love to be able to write essays more clearly...

Jacquii.
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This is a story about the truth, beauty and freedom of poetry. The artform is habitually described as a soliloquy in reflection, the montage of a dream - who would ever sojourn for unseen keys to the door of its unintentional ubiquity? Percy Bysshe Shelley was on point, saying of poetry: it is “the work of a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its’ own solitude with sweet sounds.” Generally that song is a diverse cacophony of ingenuity; classic like December pines, blue as the snow caressing their naked limbs.

Being serenaded with poetry, one can sublime in, say, the finesse of a clock’s swinging pendulum, the ecstasy of the metronome’s steady beat. And like a grandfather clock, the chronicling of times’ humanity in a mélange of tones is the primary purpose for such artistry. Adjectives and nouns, verbs and adverbs culminating in a written-word symphony, raucous as a line at the Food Stamp office, pungent as honeysuckle in Spring; a piece of unapologetic prose worthy of the passion that inspires the crowd awaiting government cheese. And the pleasure? The pleasure of coming across spectacular pieces of prose is analogous to running upon a shiny ‘68 Cadillac-car; You inevitably see the truth of yourself in its gleam. You recognize the drama along the sleek lines of misty-grilled confessions and winky-eyed manifestations of double entendre. You have grasped the meaning of sojourning the proverbial “dusty road” to wisdom. You relate.

Welcome to the realm of a poet’s reality, where one aspires to write a diary of truth uniqued in its own voice. Maybe you have reached the Leprechaun’s own shining loot by tap-dancing a rhythm, speaking freely in whichever form that voice shows itself - written, sung, mamboed in the face of triumph, as well as adversity. Poetry is my reality, my poison. And what is a poem but an exotic dish served with a side of improvisational song, a revelation and a Dom Perignon? When the ingredients come together, it can be toxic like Janet Fitch’s oleanders, white as disguised innocence, or as scrumptious as Café du Monde and her powdered Beignets.

Decisive as café au lait, April showers have found me on the verge of mastering the vernacular of invisible domains. Worlds where the prose is ambiguous and the ambiguous disguised, the disguised lurking in plain sight. What shimmy, one may ask, are you gyrating to with that twist of psychological mambo? Very simple indeed is the answer.

I question myself each morning: Why exactly am I here? What is my purpose? It’s the same Folgers in the cupboard, the same Miles Davis “Bitches Brew” in the CD player, and please, you do not want to count the Beggin’ Strips my Chow eats on a regular basis. So I conversate with myself. And the answers - they flow like a bartender’s brew-on-tap; a ballroom dancer’s stealth, a freshwater brook.

As do we all, I exist to share my life experiences with whoever has a receptive ear. (Oh - that sounds so AA.) But truly, I am here to offer the inspiration that seems was lost in the diapers of an infant humanity. The power of prose is my conduit for contributing to the well-being of our pampered society. It was either poet or preach or become a raving alcoholic. I poet much better, creating and offering lovely inspirations via perfect-bound books, though I much prefer hardcover. Perfection is just too much to ask of anyone.

Like the whole of our culture, poetry embraces atypical rhythms. Tastes diverse as chitterlings v. chicken wings; distinct as Budweiser differes from Zinfandel. Thus the fabulous term “melting-pot.” (I would suggest “boiling brew.”)

Whereas our civilization subscribes to the “little-white-pill-and-call-me-in-the-morning” as prescription for the depressed and otherwise neurotic peoples, a dose of inspiration would more than suffice - I think… Possibly a glass of Chardonnay, a concert at The Village Vanguard or Church’s Chicken. The ambiguity, or rather the lack of motivation, the craving for better in our society is mind-boggling. I reminisce…

I remember when “Coming-of-age” showed up on my door stoop with his old friend Depression. Oh, how I racked up on Gregorian chant Cds. The Disc Exchange and Barnes & Noble became my bosom buddies. I became acquainted with self-help books, the Holy Bible; Revelations smiled, my facade like a heathen searching the annals of theosophy for some unknown redemption. I wrote poems like craziness, not even realizing encouragement was lurking in the shadows like a pen in a closed notebook. I diaried, eventually finding my niche: sharing life lessons via prose, verse and the haiku. Who ever would have imagined the cost of inspiration would be as inexpensive as a sixty-cent pen and an eighty-cent pad sitting a’top a 7-11 shelf? (And it sure didn’t hurt that a café specializing in poetry slams was within walking distance of my apartment.)

So often, the doors to that all-important stimulus persistently hide in plain sight. What am I supposed to do with that? Which door shall I enter today? Which club shall I frequent tomorrow? Or should I simply have gone for the “lil’ white pill” yesterday? Questions! So many damn questions, too many unopened doors. Disguises taunting me like the fun house of mirrors, an obvious reflection in obscurity - Help! The poesy of this lesson is very important. My Chow-Chow knew all along, though he would never admit to his particular fetish for Gregorian chant.

How succinctly cheap and sublime is hope
In the midst of excessive taunts;
To pay or not to pay is the question.

“Welcome to The Velvet Tortoise,” winked the waiter. “Would you like an appetizer to begin with? Our calamari is wonderfully fresh and we have a fine champagne list.”

“No, no.” I winked back. “Just an ice-water and a table by the door please. I’m just writing for the poetry slam tonight. You wouldn’t happen to have a dose of inspiration, would you?” I smiled.

He smiled back. Seems he’d already been to the place I’m going.

While the glass of water sweated on the table, another question… “Ma’am why is it that you always want a seat by the door?” Seems the waiter had a little ice water in his own veins.

I pondered… I wondered… I thought - Wow! That is a very interesting question, when suddenly it seemed potent like a sixty-year old man packing Viagra: easily obvious. The question was answerable with an explanation age-old in the provocation of its truth. It actually became the focus of my satire/poem that night: the tedium of irony.

This is quite an old cliché, but let us assume someone yelled “FIRE” in a crowded theatre. It is feasible to suggest, considering the knowledge we have endowed her with, that freedom pioneer Rosa Parks would also have demanded a seat at the front of a movie theatre as well as a seat at the front of the bus. A seat right next to the exit door. The simple fact is that she would have learned on her sojourn to epiphany: First nearest the door, first to the exit. And in all honesty, (clichés aside) even a poet would not dare entice a flame to her naïve finger, let alone her loving pen.

Having endured that most difficult teaching is one that I steady endeavor to comprehend. Likewise, being amongst the most important principles, the naïveté of post-survival has led to some awesome prose and has time and again shown me the truth of some horribly unjust goings-on. But what is life and survival without the introduction to the soul-song of perseverance? How can one inspire another to reach the Utopian depths of freedom, the ubiquitous search for truelove and passion without having known that song? Moreover, what would Bizet’s “Carmen” be without that unbridled passion?

I’ve come to the realization that there are two kinds of people in this world: those of us with fierce determination in the face of adversity and those whom glory in creating adversities. (Whom do you pity more, the child being bullied at school or the coward who sanctions the rule?) A sociologist, when proposed that very question, would likely say both. He would also agree that that persecution breeds courage, which breeds knowledge, which brings freedom. And even though it may seem a horrible circle of fate, freedom begins in that cycle’s tyrannical sphere. I believe that’s the premise of Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings.” Poets unequivocally endeavor to pen works of that caliber: sitting by the doors, writing not-so-obvious journals and chronicling in an apparent fashion the transparent-opaque. And the purpose for telling an obviously old concept -- the truth -- in a lingo that resonates within the scope of our own here-and-now, but of course, is to free the pen from dying ink, the paper from a blank façade; That a good story of sorrows and redemption, persecution and perseverance stands the test of time with or without a parched voice.

Difficult lessons are always worth the principles they sweat for, stand for. And when true freedom comes knocking at the door, adversity makers will drop the “bitches brew” like a freshly burned potato yearning icy water.

But be assured! The glass doesn’t necessarily like the sweat on the rim of its sides, but rather a soothing hand to do away with the strife. Be also assured that when the brew is dropped like spring dew on grass blades, my naïveté and I will be the first headed to the door, getting up and going with pen intact, a graciously unscalded hand and a notebook spewing forth amateur poetry. We’ll be whistling an uncouth rendition of “La Habanera.”

An oeuvre of shameless clichés and a diverse flocking of cultures epitomizes the concept of a sojourn to epiphany, freedom. Like a rebellious bird that no one can tame, today’s poetry is such that one feels the courage to be risqué, bittersweet, true like hickory-smoked pheasant on Christmas day. Poetry is the flavor of diversity personified and loftily embodies the very principles innately inherent in America’s original music genre: Jazz. And simply put, jazz is lyricisms surrounded in lines of innuendo, cadenzas transcribed in the minor key of melancholia or the augmented key of bliss - yet inspirational and evocative. And true to the improvisation of those masterpieces, I’ve found myself in poetry like an ad-libbed thought, like a glance in the unknown echo of a saxophone’s golden coppery essense. Likewise, I’ve found that jazz aficionados appreciate the satisfaction of joining the two genres for the goals of knowledge and freedom.

One day they came and took the communists,
And I said nothing because I was not a communist.
Then one day they came and they took the people
Of the Jewish faith, and I said nothing
Because I have no faith. Then one day they
Came and they took the unionists, and I said
Nothing because I was not a unionist.
They burned the Catholic churches one day,
And I said nothing because I was a
Protestant. One day they came and they
Took me, and I could say nothing because
I was as guilty as they were of genocide:
Destroying the rights of any man to live.

That soliloquy, the preamble to Charles Mingus’ “Don’t Let It Happen Here”, is not unlike the poems sang by jazz greats Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone and Billie Holiday with their respective rhythm-backing bands.

Oh, How thy memory
Tribulation and education woes sway
Like
Fruit strange

And who would introduce that intriguing orchard of grassroots, but artists. Langston Hughes: the essayist extraordinaire, poet, philosopher; How “semple” was his philosophy? Zora Neale Hurston, though not particularly a poet, wrote verse after verse, teaching about having self-respect when the door has been slammed in your face and closed tightly. She schooled me on how to get that door answered and open; her eyes were on God. Poets: philosophies and tales, their undying need to share experiences and the knowledge from the experiences and the courage to tell about it…

I discovered the tenacious Ntozake Shange and knew instantly that it’s OK to have “nappy edges” and an attitude just as unkempt, audacious. Finally glancing upon Ai’s words: perseverance-in-a-nutshell, caustic as chalk. She talked about rape. And never had I imagined a tribulation so unmistakably bitter as to have an entire humanity sharing in its’ “dirty lil’ secret”, universally known for being good for one thing: dusting fiberglass tables for unseen voices used to yelling, “Welcome to McDonald’s, may I take your order please?” (After the 70th egg McMuffin, I’d be ready to launch the cash register across the dining room as if an Olympic shot-put... Talk about the essence of tedium!)

The fact remains that of the many voices, their songs are a diverse mélange rich in inspiration, dedicated in its testimony and steeped in love. And sometimes that love -- that freedom -- is taken for granted, until you see that it has left the building like an irate fast-food employee longing to share a dream of slick words rather than the nightmare of greasy fries.

My former supervisor always said, “Good morning, I hope you slept well - pick your poison. Is it gonna be front register, drive-thru or sweeping the floors?” That worked for one year until he told me to get on my knees for baseboard duty.

“I really did want that job Mama,” I said recalling the day I was fired. “But it just seems like the broom flew outta my hand. The next thing I remember, Boss was asking me why I’d beaten him.”

(How can reading and writing prose pay the bills?) I suppose the old cliché about hindsight is true. You know the 20/20 thing… Knowing what I do now, it’s reasonable to suggest that the broomstick also sought freedom. I just wanted a Big Mac, a trip to the library and a good compellation of poetry.

[ Picture ]
Blind man walks into library facility that has neither books-on-tape, nor books in Braille: “…and forget about the dog, this is a no-dog facility,” would say the librarian. “But you’re welcome to have a look-see.” Oh - the audacity of southern comfort! Help!

Trying to know the poet and the meaning of her writings can be challenging, as interesting as one interpreting Braille for the first time. Sure, most of us would demand a book-on-tape, as would I if I had any good sense. I don’t. I’d rather learn the lingo of dots. Maybe the dots are speaking in a fabulousness that we all need to recognize, if only to understand the plight of our blind brothers and sisters more clearly, more completely. Perhaps we all need to understand sign language for the same reason: to better understand the plight of communicating with one another.

Amid the many things said of enlightenment, communication is key, the very essence towards achieving enlightenment. Positive communication is simply the sharing of knowledge for the sake of communion, harmony and friendship.

Poetry should surprise by fine excess [and] should strike the reader as a
wording of his highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

Perhaps Mr. Keats should have said, “Poetry must share with fine excess…” That is exactly why a poet’s trade lies in the beauty of memory, the gift of perseverance. There are always alluring things to see and the fun is in the sharing of those insights. The great rhetorical of poetry: remembering yesterday as well as telling about it, shedding tears of joy and woe alike, and laughing about those experiences. Each of ours is worthy of the coffee-cake-and-fine-wine-at-brunch treatment. And that in itself is worth the struggle, the sojourn, the quest for unseen keys wherever they may lie.

I contemplate the desire to grasp, to have
The proverbial flaming “key” in my hand,
Where freedom is lavish; to pass rehashed truths
Like a marathon baton; to hold, to mold,
To stand for justice on an equal scale
Where Liberty is as a given, like the
Heir-apparent who overcomes turmoil
In a time when towers tumble down like a child spoiled,
Knocking building blocks around…

And of course with each struggle comes the hope of imminent victory after having stood stoically for your principles.

Oh how I thirst for freedom’s lyric
To whet the fire of my appetite
With a song of liberty; if only grasping
To douse my thirst, it would be
A burst of elation, a “new” birth of expectation
For I who roams the earth fingers-crossed
Waiting for the fruition of Revelations.
Thus I sit. I sit in contemplations
Of lavish cravings, awaiting - whatever…

The idyllic poem is simply an extension of your mantra. One inherently has principles, ideals that define the purpose for and behind her writings, and is steadfast in her resolve to adhere to them. For example, I have accepted the following statement as my “idyll d’ poesy”:

Stimulation for a humanity craving blatant truths, sarcastic satire and fierce
determination, whilst remaining genuine to the principles of freedom & truelove.

And to have walked on the back-roads of redemption, there had to have been a riveting honesty about my work. An unflinching optimism in a lavishly pessimistic world is the prevailing inspiration I’ve harvested from fellow poets. Considering the times we live in -- suicide bombers claiming martyr status; Iraqi citizens striving to rebuild a devastated homeland; Ground Zero; political posing in the U.S. -- one should advocate audacious optimism. I would “prescribe” all-inclusive compellations of poetry to quench our nation’s thirst for true freedom; Her hunger for the delight of rousing an earth to redemption is necessary and entices such a thirst. Perhaps it is time to serve the masses with exactly that via prose. (Whatever happened to the Poet Laureate of the United States anyway?)

On a whisper and a prayer
And a passion, memory-layered
(Like that famed Dashiki, infamous
In its glaring golds, greens, reds)
The precipice of a new dawn stands proud
As Lady Liberty rests her burdens down
Like marina rocks shining in resolution,
Moist with pre-wedding-type tears of
I do. I do.
And I hear you call
My name. And I hear you
Call my name.

I expect the “good ol’-fashion” thing works for a moment, but how can the hope of a fine champagne and beluga, the want of a good poem and the need of faith inspire a universe to understand the power of purpose, the want-not of poisons? The yearning for a piece of peace.

If only those who forced Rosa Parks to submission knew the answer… If only society was looking for the inspiration of motivating one to greatness, rather than the “quick fix“… If only the damn key to enlightenment was seen in the eyes of that greatness… If only the coward stopped sanctioning the rule that allows a child to be bullied in school…

Do you see how simple it is to slip into a poet’s proper position of chronicling the ways of a humanity plagued with questions? I deduce that it would be an utter delight for one loving the craft - one who is truly in touch with her solitude, familiar with her pen and naïve to the core. One would have to find the shine sublime on old Cadillac-car grilles, rather than taking into account the cracks in the paint. One would have to feel the beat of rhythms -- motivation’s tick-tock -- rather than submitting to the cantankerous clanking of clock chimes.

See - Where I come from cheese is cheese, whether it resides at the local A&P dairy case or the DHS welfare office. (Though neither will be served with beluga any time soon, a little bit of hopefulness in a lavishly cynical world does great things for one’s hunger, as well as going a long way to wipe the tears from a sweating mankind.) Only if…

I’ve found that in studying various poets - their motley mix of song, verse, haiku and prose - that we all have one great thing in common: the desire to please and be pleased. The unrelenting theme of the human condition is forever linked to the infamous, or should I say, now famous line from Moulin Rouge: “The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” And for that purpose, we inspire each other with our smiles, our laughter, our hugs & kisses and our friendly games. And to that end we are more passionate than we know, but rest assured that someone’s eyes are on you. Look closely to your right, to your left. Do you see that lady with the pen, that little man watching you with the voracity of Toto sniffing for rainbows? She is a poet and he is chronicling your ways, peeping your game, wanting your key. He is looking for your loot.

You show me wisdom & understanding
May I reflect love and a smile?
May I reflect truth and a bitter history?
May I, in reflection, recite a poem?
Poetry is my companion, my poison,
My love…
Poetry is my cure.

PaintedDiary

Dear Ms Jacquii,

I printed this out to lay in bed and read and absorb all its awesomeness! Will be back in a bit...love ya!

Kim

MsJacquiiC

hmmmm - Got some interesting feedback on TBP's Forum.
Sooooo? Whaddaya think MS KIM?

Jacquii.

erikestabrook

I finally read most of this msj, and it was awesome, delectable,
full of thought and good stories, and great examples

MsJacquiiC