Turning Poems into a Book Manuscript 2

Every book is different, and I don’t have a singular recipe I can whip up to get to my method for creating a complete collection of poems that has some kind of distinct form, texture and flavors. But for me, each book of my poetry should have a thru line. It is story that carries no plot, no easy beginning, middle and end and yet, like an improvised jazz set, has an emotional and, in best cases, spiritual arc that can leave a reader satisfied. Or looked at from a different angle I try to create a through line like the chain that carries a string of pearls, each one distinct, some larger than others, with whole becoming more than the sum of its parts. I must say that I have always preferred freshwater pearls to cultured pearls because of the many free form shapes they take while still being luminescent. But that is a different conversation, except as far as it reflects my eschewing of poetry forms most of the time, as well as the cultured constructs of upper and lower case script and typical punctuation conventions.

Of course, there is a reason why this poem is first and that one second and then that other one closes the book. Many people do not, at least initially, read each, or possibly any book of poetry in the order it was constructed. A poet friend of mine always reads the first poem and then the last and then returns to the beginning and reads the book in the poet’s created order. I cut a book open (think of cutting a bible) and read whatever poem reveals itself to me. I move to the poem after it and the one before. I then also read the first and last poems and from there decide if I will follow the pre-planned road or roam around the book as I will. I have no idea when or why I created this way of getting to know a volume of poetry. I do think that my reading style has shaped my process in wanting to create a good read that will naturally, seamlessly carry the poem from each poem to the next.

I started with my intention, which was to create a (more) personal book which revealed more of myself than I typically do

That said, when deconstructing my process of creating califia’s daughter  I started with my intention, which was to create a (more) personal book which revealed more of myself than I typically do and also continually placed the me, placed the we who is called humanity in a context which stretches, like us, to and from the stars.  Although it has sections, they are untitled. I wanted to create the sense of a road turning more than different rooms in one house. Thus,  creating and defining  the earth, cosmos, us, me  is followed by poems about family and connections to the land, the past, followed by language, silences and death, and culminating in love. Yet the poems overlap these divisions and create other pathways.

We are each born in a place and that gives shape and substance to who we are and may make us see who and what we are and are not. I was born, raised and have lived my life in California, a land replete with myth, mystery, history hidden and denied and a plethora of cultures and languages, rhythms and environments that seem to encourage one to look in and out.

While Turtle Island may loosely define the United States of America land mass, California has no one indigenous name. The Spanish, however, were steadily giving out names to counties, coastlines and the state as a whole. I found it fascinating to learn that California itself was named after a (possibly) mythical African queen named Califia. Although I knew from my own history classes and readings, chief among them They Came Before Columbus by esteemed historian Ivan Van Sertima, that people of African descent had arrived on this continent before Europeans. In fact, the Mandinka, the people from who the Califia story comes, had reached the Americas in the 14th century and Southern California in the 16^th century, I did not know that California’s name had African roots, as do I. Also, my recent, one hundred fifty plus years, family are (Caribbean) island people. Thus, in multiple ways I am a daughter of Califia.

califia’s song

my heart does not sing songs

of hate, fear, or regret

for my name will be braided

into the lightening of time

califia, daughter

of sea‑faring mandinka

queen of amazon defenders

tamer of wild beasts     

i have ridden the backs of griffins

to come to these rocks

where clothed in sea crystals

draped gold and the evening’s wind

i savor freedom’s harvest

Defining and creating these strands of overlapping and inter-laced poems was fairly organic.

Defining and creating these strands of overlapping and inter-laced poems was fairly organic. Putting califia’s daughter together was for me not unlike what I understand as considerations in the making of a quilt. I did not have a preset pattern but did want to create more than a random patchwork, which admittedly does have its own beauty. As with a quilt, the textures and colors had to be considered, the rhythms that were created by putting this swatch next to that had to be evaluated. I  picked  a number of poems which my gut told me went together and then  printed them and read them, often aloud, looking for  patterns, correspondence and conflicts. I read and sorted creating three poem stacks and piled poems into a “yes” pile into where I saw a concordance, near a pile of maybes, and then finally a pile of nos. I then used the yes poems to establish streams or paths and went through the maybes to see if any fit those streams.  Then I returned to my computer files and sometimes journals to mine more appropriate poems. Throughout all of this I am editing and re-editing not just the poems’ flow but each individual poem. When placed in proximity to another I can often see the rough edges of a poem with more clarity, become aware of the over-used word, the flaccid ending or trite opening. After all of that I look for gaps in the through line and find poems to fill those spaces. Overlapping the sections, as mentioned above, were cross threads, not unlike weft and warp of a woven cloth. As you can see, textiles, made of multiple parts and often colors informed my thinking on the construction of this book of poetry.

califia’s daughter, in its own way, travels from birthing as place

****

earth memories

color

everywhere

wings

fur

flesh

roots

gossamer and rope

seed      sea

loam and sand

an infinite ability

to birth

to heal

to kill

to die

the shape of wind

its sound

and birthing as act

****

creation paradox

we hold the great-great

grandparents of our ancestors’

grandparents

in our bloodstreams

in our stomachs

in our hearts

thousands of years

rest inside our souls

in those years lives the record

of our beginning

it is the sweetest marrow in our spine      

the cleanest shine in our eyes      

the open side of our laughter

you can read it in the lines

on the soles of our feet

when we retell the stories

of where we came from

we draw back tree branches

to find hidden fruits which we savor

pointed thorns which make us bleed

the yesterdays that led to here

the here that leads to tomorrow

when we go back to the beginning

we find the stars

in the beginning there was a time

we all say

when we were not

after that time we became

we were created

we were molded

we were spat out

we were sung into

until we learned

how to make

what to form

where to spit

why to sing

but once

long ago

in the beginning

there was only one

and from the one

others were born

and out of those many

came us

that is the story

we all tell

but

before that beginning

before the in the beginning

beginning when we were born

there must have been

another beginning

before the spider crafting web

laying sixteen eggs

before the mountain birthing lovers

birthing children

before the sky settling low

to mate with earth

before light

before darkness

before breath even

there must have been

another beginning

a beginning that lives

in a place we call

unknowable

yet is braided

into our genealogies

and it is said that

it is in this beginning

the beginning before our beginning

it is there that you must go

if you want to find

the faces of god

thousands of years

thousands and thousands of years

rest inside our souls

to growth and ancestry

****

returning home

a boy in  khaki shorts and sandals,

loped down the packed dirt road

black skin sweating years of sun kisses

a large package balanced on his head

as we rode to aunt margaret’s new providence house

with her avocado trees weighted with ripe fruit

africa i queried my father, who drove the tree-lined narrow street

bahamas he answered, but yes in many ways the same, home

2.

eleuthera rocky and green, dressed in smooth white and pink beaches

adorned with empty conch shells humming deeply, home

the ancestors accepted this long thin island as their home

despite hurricane whirl and growl, our family was planted

and we grew thick and lush, spreading branches

bearing fruit under her skirts  until she gently urged us out 

through deaths

****

only in dreams

for my father

only in dreams

your voice the silence of a dark cave

your skin walnut brown wrinkled around smiling eyes

your voice the silence of a dark cave

who you are/were is the lesson of stars, distant galaxies

the jar of spices- paprika, rubbed sage, garlic granules needs replenishing

who you are/were is the lesson of stars, distant galaxies

i am caught up in tears odd moments, feeling absence as chasm

knowing my shape twisted and sublime is a constant reflection of you

i am caught up in tears odd moments, feeling absence as chasm

yet you still bring me the orange of nasturtiums, the sweetness of plum

it’s like when I was a child and everything was forever new

you still bring me the orange of nasturtiums, the sweetness of plum

your skin walnut brown wrinkled around smiling eyes

only in dreams

to conversations surrounding life and lives ending with love which, for me, is the glue of it all.

****

with arms open

i embrace you love

though i have at times

hidden from your touch

because i thought you smothered me

required that i be the air

for others to breathe

the water for others to drink

i embrace you love

though i have at times

denied your advances

knowing that for me to accept your gifts

i must offer those of my own

i embrace you love

having known you

as ladder and crutch  

when i wanted to dance,

to walk, to sit in stillness

i embrace the dreams you send me

and the tears that spill in moments

when you crack open my heart

to remind me how full it is

of star shine and silk 

i embrace you love

who will not catch me when i fall

but instead advise me to swim

in your surging waters

i embrace you love

though you know no forgetting

and insist i continue to feed

on your fruit of forever

ever more powerful

you make me claim you

as intimate companion

To conclude, my process for writing  this book was organic, intentional and intuitive, was a form of  weaving, of quilting, of braiding, was walking down connected roads to see where they met, was trusting that the poems would lead me where I needed to go.