Blog Post 27 Poetry Writing Workshop

Blog Post 26
Poetry Writing Workshop
May 10, 2018



Gentle Reader,

How I wish I could share with you the beautiful faces of the seven residents of Kara Tepe who came to the poetry workshop yesterday.  We created together, as well as individually.  We shared what we had written so far.  There was applause, joy.  This amidst the longing for "home" and all that is familiar that surfaced in all of the writings today.

We began with some call and response singing, in a language that none of us knew.  We sang Jay Jay Koolay, with my using the table top as a drum.  We also talked about nonsense words in songs, and demonstrated by teaching Skidamarink.  This increased our energy and focus, as the class began at 7:00 at night in the Digital Learning Lab.

A special thanks to Anne from Denmark, one half of the clown duo, who invited me to conduct this poetry workshop as part of her Digital Storytelling Workshop. Tomorrow, writers in this workshop will have the opportunity to add images to their poems...

We first talked about what a "poet" is, what a poet does, how a poet "sees" the world.  We mentioned poets Rumi and Kahil Gibran.  A few of the residents were familiar with these writers.  We talked about how poets often focus on the senses, followed by a discussion of our five basic senses.  Then, to have a shared and unifying experience, we wrote about Kara Tepe, the one place all of us share in common. Please keep in mind that English is a second, third, or fourth language for many of the writers.   I typed on the computer as the residents gave me lines to type...  Here's our draft:

I Know Kara Tepe

I see...
Isoboxes that look like a jail

My special house, where I keep my daughter

A lot of innocent people with their smiles and their knowing they are homeless, some not with their parents

The children everywhere, playing, fixing something, playing with the water, playing everything

Some of the children are clean, some are dirty.  Some mothers not caring about their baby.

Some women sit down in a place to talk talk talk.  Without useful.

I see Marianna.  Everybody here help me.  I like this.

I see the party, with legs down, dancing and be happy. 

I see eyes that make me crazy.  In a good way.

I hear...
Maybe somebody screams because he feels very sad

When I am sad sad sad I cannot go to public place.  I speak with a loud sound to make myself feel happy.  To release my past and to feel somehow good about it and focus on other things.

We hear loud sounds because the boys play all the time.

I hear the songs from the party when they come to caravan.

I hear the sounds of the cars when they go outside Kara Tepe.

I hear the electric generator that sounds miserable.

I hear the cry of children and am very sad to hear that

I hear many languages fro Dutch to Greek to Arabic to Farsi to Kurdish to Urdu to Danish to English

I hear the sound of the wind

I hear the dog when children bring him breakfast, with the children hitting the dog to make him crazy

I smell...
I smell the garbage and the trash and the bad smell of all that

I smell the beer when I am drinking and am in a caravan outside of Kara Tepe

I smell the good smell of the clothes when I put soap on them

I smell the fire and the smoke because many use the fire to cook

I smell cigarettes, and a water pipe with a good smell.  Apple sometimes, flowers sometimes, the smell of lemon and orange.

I smell the smell of love.  Very good, with love of friends.  It's indescribable, but very sweet like from my friends

I taste...
I taste the not good food.  I don't like fish or chicken, and Kara Tepe.

I taste the head of the sheep, which I do not like.

I taste the dust and dryness of the many stones around kara tepe, and I am always thirsty.

I taste the pasta I like

I touch...
My face, from morning till night.

I touch a little kid when I am walking around Kara Tepe

Of course I touch others sometime, hitting them, showing my love in many ways

I touch the computer keybourd and my phone all the time.

I touch my phone and I hold the door in the shop

I touch cigarettes and smoke when I am angry and tired and fighting

I touch other people's hearts everyday, which is my style.

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After working on this group poem collaboration, we worked on a guided imagery poem.  Here's what one of the women wrote:

My Window in Iraq

I see my daughter in Iraq
they need me
and my place is not good to bring them
and their father refuse to give them to me.
And he cannot take care about them.

I want to have a job.

I hear my daughter sound
and I love this sound.
I hear the sound of my big daugher
when she played with her baby.

I want to touch my daughter's face in Iraq.
I want to keep my daughter in my hands.
When she be very happy
and safe.

When I want to describe this feeling
I feel my heart broken.
And I go to my God
to tell him what happen to me.

I feel just dying person
because this window means my life. 

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The woman who wrote the above poem volunteered to share first.  The room was completely silent as she shared what she had written.  She looked at me as she read, tears streaming down her face.  I cried with her, holding her. 

The power of poetry to communicate, to share, to heal...

At the end of the workshop, she embraced me, saying, "Thank you, my teacher."

I learned far more from her today.  Far more.  And I am grateful for her open heart, her willingness to speak of that which hurts her heart. 

I dedicate this blog to Bill Richardson, my mentor in Guizhou, China, who fully understand the power of poetry.  I also dedicate this blog post to Joyce Benvenuto, MaryAnna , Laura Apol, Aram Kabodian, Jack Johnson,  and Therese Dawe ... all poets who have mentored, encouraged, and embraced the poet in  me for many years. 

May your day be filled with moments of open hearts, a willingness to share, a vulnerability that can connect you to others who reach out to you...

Namaste,
Marianne