Bakersfield
My hematite-edged days
scorched between cinderblock and thuja
the screen door and the iron rungs of the jungle gym
air conditioners hang from the first story windows
dripping imploding stars
retracting irises on the sidewalk
I wear red canvas sneakers
tattered over the toes
a shorts overalls with metal clasps
that burn my skin
like cigarettes flung in gesture
like whispers
I drink the blue Kool-Aid
I eat peanut butter on white bread
I stomach the bile of a strong man
the embankment is covered with sour fig
succulent lubricant for cardboard sledding
green everywhere flower blood insect
I push the door open and shiver blind
metallic musty settles over me
stale flour falling through a colander
the old apartment is newly
sprayed white floor to ceiling
a yellowing plastic covers the carpet
stained with cat piss
residual hate
like ugly maroon slippers
In the innermost room in the darkest
walk-in closet
I know the doorframe is notched
four-foot one three eleven
a mercury barometer
my slow lift off
This was my point of departure
an airstrip stretching clear
to the highway
(From An Intimate Retribution. Wigestrand Publishing, 2009)
My book An Intimate Retribution was published just as the academic environment began taking appropriation seriously (a good thing), so seriously that people were “called out” publicly, and discussion was nearly impossible (never a good thing).
I’d ridden a wave of intellectual and artistic inquiry smack into a newly-built wall. During a presentation at Goldsmith College, I was chastised loudly by a handful of undergraduate white women.
I’m always open to reevaluating what I think is ethical and right. But I wish I didn’t retreat into shame so often, and so quickly.
I was talking about my exposure to Arab poetry forms while working with PEN International. How the aesthetics intrigued me, and challenged me. I was finishing up the collection I read from then: poems that drew on two years’ of studying poetic devises used in a couple of Arab poetry forms. I wasn’t replicating the forms, but borrowing devices that I found rich and exciting.
Every question was an accusation stemming from the worst possible assumptions. I’d never experienced anything like it.
After the session at the university, and just before I left, a quiet woman in a hijab came to thank me for being respectful and curious about what I could learn from the Arab poetry forms. She hoped it would open a discussion for more intercultural sharing in the arts communities.
I couldn’t exactly go back to the white girls and say, “See, there!” Sometimes the best thing for me to do is to just step back… and keep writing the poetry without positing theories.
But for years… I wouldn’t even write a damn haiku without feeling shameful.
Thank you for taking the time to read/listen.
I hope you have a great week!
Warmly,
Ren Powell’s Acts of a Recovering Drama Queen
Writing against Melodrama by Engaging with the Natural World
Give some love. It only takes a little ❤️.
"Sometimes the best thing for me to do is to just step back… and keep writing the poetry without positing theories." I hear you on this one Ren! 😊. Keep being you.