Sol's December Spotlight

"The Aesthetic of Language"

If I could sing, or paint, or play a musical instrument, I would.  Alas, I'm doomed to words. I love words, I love the intimacy, the self-revelation, the nakedness and the truth that this art form demands. Spiritually, poets can ride the wave of aesthetics through words, rhythm, message, emotional impact. At its best, a poem is a hint of immortality.

How can one be, other than as oneself? Imitation is said to be the highest form of flattery, so please, poets, if you have not found your own poetic voice, at least choose to imitate someone with imagination and originality.  Never be so in love with your words that you cannot hear how they will sound to an audience.

You, the poet, are historian, soothsayer, mender of pain, herald of spring, devil's advocate opposing the status quo, chronicler of passions, enemy to injustice, spokesperson for the mute of spirit, three feet behind the head of the world as it is, the only person who sees what you see through your eyes. You are life's sponge, absorbing everything around you. Poetry is life, sieved through the senses of the poet. Write what life makes you feel.  Write your truth. Write like your words are lie detectors.

This quote by William James, the 19th century psychologist:
"The great use of a life is to spend it for something that outlasts it," is what compels my poetry.

In 1997, A.D. Manion was drumming at a jazz club in Austin, the Elephant Room. He had played with such greats as Mingus, he was dying of cancer, he possessed a depth that I could sense but not entirely fathom. After hearing some of my poetry, he told me it was shallow. I understood what he meant.  Still, it sent me into a blue funk, I cried for days. At that point, my writing changed, I hope for the better.

Poetry is the aesthetic of language. My dream for poetry is parallel to my dream for my fellow man: quality communication given and received.

Poems from Stazja McFadyen
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The Gate

Although there was no gate to pass through,
those who knew the place would always say "The Gate"
when mentioning the entrance to
my beach of childhood summers,
safe and winsome on the Chesapeake.

Worlds away from Washington,
western shores of Maryland,
hour's drive by country miles.
Motorists must pass between a pair of pillars
flanking narrow gravel road to summer havens;
Met by warning sign,
could have read "beware of narrow minds".
Long before I learned to read or know the meanings,
I knew dewy summer morning glory
city-anchored children never dreamed of,
knowingness of being loved.

Family cottage, mother's side.
Old Glory flagpoled in a yard of arbored roses,
dogwood trees and powder puff mimosas.
Inside, the summer house alive
with laughter and canasta games,
baseball afternoons with Pop Pop,
rooting for the Senators
slugging out the innings
against the likes of Pee Wee Reese and Campanella.
Learned my Pop Pop's red-faced navy jargon
spiced with foreign phrases;
would have made those "Boys of Summer"
blush if they spoke Polish.

Summer mornings I'd awake to chase the dawn
and later join my friend, the bay.
Gritty sands of August always found their way
inside my bathing suit and rode me home
splashed with salty bay cologne
of decomposing crab and mollusk shells along the beach.
Summer smells still cling to blistered shoulder memories
caked in cool noxzema.

Winter of my chicken pox and measles,
between the bouts of childhood illness,
bundled up in winter woolens,
off to visit father's parents, Max and Goldye,
(never seemed to see them in the summer).

Something always older world about them
Something happened always holier
than synagogues or tabernacles --
knowingness of being loved.
Why else was I allowed to clear
the leaded crystal candy dish
of sugar sprinkled lemon slices?
Long before I knew my history
I learned a universal language
spoken in their smiling eyes.

Once, accepting Pop Pop's invitation,
Max and Goldye came
the country miles to summer cottage,
turned away within a stone's throw,
driven off by words of hatred --
"Gentiles Only" posted at "The Gate"
fewer words than those it takes to say "I love you"
drove away a pair of gentle souls.

Children by their nature ask the questions:
Where does sky begin?
Why does Uncle Irvin smell of alcohol?
What does "Gentiles Only" mean?

There was a rumor later, never proven;
I believe with knowingness
of being loved the accusation
Pop Pop stole the sign
that barred my Max and Goldye at "The Gate".

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Hardly Know You (for Harold McMillan)

That afternoon in an otherwise
hot and summer day when we
were sharing a lazy moment
on that old wooden porch
I couldn't help but notice
you in profile.
Since I hardly know you,
I refrained from asking at the time:
"Is that your mother's smile you wear
so artfully sculpted?"
Her womb was a master's studio.
Forgive my eyes for stealing a taste
of your chocolate skin.
I read the proud ancestral poem
in your woven ebony crown
and while you spoke,
revealing a measure of music
in your soul,
a quiet chorus of shackled slaves
from the tribe of humans
whispered in the background
beneath the wind chimes,
giving thanks
for human kindness.

When I Am New

When all this toxic sorrow
has been neutralized,
the bad blood leeched
from arteries and memories,

transfused with perfect hemoglobin
equal portions sunshine,
rain forests,
sheet music written for clarinets,

I will be new
with unfamiliar eyes
incapable of cataract vocabulary,
asking the embodiment of "you,"

who understands that tides
obey the moon
and loves them as they are,
to see me now.

Rain Song

He said he loves the sound of rain
and so I listen raptly
to a shower thrumming cadence
on my windowsill, reminding me
we met when spring and poetry
were bursting from
our glands and fingers.

Biography:

Stazja McFadyen is editor/publisher of Map of Austin Poetry  e-newsletter, distributed weekly. She serves on the Board of Directors of Austin International Poetry Festival, and is a member of the Austin Poetry Society. She has been featured at festivals and poetry venues from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C.  Her poetry has appeared in various print and electronic poetry publications, most recently in Texas Poetry Calendar 2001, Spiraeas Literary and Arts Journal, Son of Words, Austin Downtown Arts Magazine, Austin Poetry Society Golden Jubilee Anthology, Di-Verse-City 2000, Will Work for Peace, and One Drop.
 

The Map of Austin Poetry newsletter is accessible online:

Poets Porch www.poetsporch.com
Dream Forge www.pcisys.net/~drmforge/poems.htm
Austin Metro: www.austinmetro.com/poetpage.html
Austin International Poetry Festival www.aipf.org
(web note: AIPF's web address was corrected as shown, but the links to the newsletter are not there yet)

Paula M. Bentley, Cary, N.C.
http://www.crosswinds.net/~catpoet 

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