The Hidden Singer
by Wendell Berry
from The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry (Copyright © 1998)

The gods are less for their love of praise.
Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing
but its own wholeness, its health and ours.
It has made all things by dividing itself.
It will be whole again.
To its joy we come together—
the seer and the seen, the eater and the eaten,
the lover and the loved.
In our joining it knows itself. It is with us then,
not as the gods whose names crest in unearthly fire,
but as a little bird hidden in the leaves
who sings quietly and waits, and sings.

Freida Wheaton gets around. She’s a board member of Dance St. Louis and a member of the Ballet Ball Committee. Freida’s fun and saavy. She assembled a group of friends and supporters to join her at table #33. Freida, Salon 53 and friends provided Bronze Sponsorship to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater.

Reception and dinner at the Spiering Room at the Sheldon Concert Hall launched a memorable evening. We walked over to the Fabulous Fox where we entered a VIP stage door and slipped into our good seats. The performance began with a retrospective film of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater (founded by Alvin Ailey and then turned over to Judith Jamison as artistic director and Masazumi Chaya as associate artistic director).

Then, ah! the performance of: Firebird (1970), The Golden Section (1983), and Revelations (1960). Revelations [watch video here] is considered to be Ailey’s signature piece, and consists of these three movements: Pilgrim of Sorrow, Take Me to the Water, and Move, Members, Move.

Michael Uthoff, artistic and executive director of Dance St. Louis (housed at the Centene Center for Arts & Education) hosted the evening.

The champagne dessert reception with dancing to the Ralph Butler Band capped the evening. For me, the highlight was sharing the parquet floor with a four-year-old nymph who pirouetted as I taught her how to go in and out of “the basket” in the jitterbug move. What fun!

Wow! Go over the Bill Moyers Journal for links to poetry videos and transcripts of your favorite poets.

Hey, Hal Manogue! Here’s a video of Coleman Barks reciting Rumi that will set you up for several days!

I left The Space (see post below) to rush home through our big thunder and lightening storm…headed for Bill Moyers’ Journal on PBS…featuring an interview with Reverend Jeremiah Wright and looking for insights into… Black Churches, Black Theology and American History

James H. Cone’s quotation set the tone of Rev. Wright’s conversation with Moyers:

Black churches are very powerful forces in the African American community and always have been. Because religion has been that one place where you have an imagination that no one can control. And so, as long as you know that you are a human being and nobody can take that away from you, then God is that reality in your life that enables you to know that.

Moyers showed the entire sermon that has created such a firestorm and clipped to death. In context, it means something different from what the soundbiters would have us believe.

People, let’s use our critical intelligence here. Cultural critiques can come in passionate forms, but let us not condemn the messenger nor the message. Let’s examine what’s being said. Let’s examine the rhetorical history of the vehicle that delivers the message. Let’s drop our search for drama, spectacle, and sensationalism.

“Deeper Shade of Blues,” a two-act one-man show written and performed by Joel P. E. King premiers at The Space. And, there’s still time to see it! Tonight is Saturday at 8 p.m. and tomorrow is Sunday at 6 p.m. for only a $10 admission. Just go to THE SPACE in St. Louis on 320-24 N. Vandeventer.

Joel weaves in music with the history of struggle and mining of spirit in the African American male experience throughout our history as a nation. His chameleon-changes of costume, speech, and point of view are fluid and poignant.

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JOEL P. E. KING, a 26-year-old native of East Saint Louis, performs in the St. Louis Metropolitan area. Joel performed in the gospel touring show “A House Divided” where Tyler Perry complimented him on a “job well done”. In the film “Pieces of a Dream” Joel will star as a young leading actor, Chris.

In addition to perfoming, Joel has been writing since he was twelve, and aims at work that heals and reveals. Joel wrote, produced, and directed “A Mother’s Cry” and “Real Life.” He is developing a television series “Through the Eyes” based on a true story.

The Wildflowers Were In Bloom (photo by Sequoyah School)

My goddaughter Jennifer Delaquil’s son R. attends Sequoyah School in Pasadena. On my last trip out to Southern California, I visited them there. Josh Brody, Director Sequoyah School, sent out some wonderful poems and photos from a student outing in their newsletter called “News from Beyond the Log.” He kindly gave me permission to reprint poems and news of their learning adventures here. Here, then, is a Sequoyah Flash. Josh Brody says, “We went down to Anza Borrego. I went with you and you came with me! The Burrow, Backyard, and Bamboo Forest Students had a trip to the desert filled with learning and fun that I share with you in the following images and poetry.”—JGR

Copyright 2008 all poems and two photos by Sequoyah School

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Poetry by Backyard Students

Slish-Spash Frog

BACK INTO THE WATER

I saw my friend
I saw my friend walking
I saw my friend looking
Looking for a frog
Looking for a frog to catch
Then there it was
My friend reached in
Reached in the water
Picked up a frog
But
No thanks thought the frog
These hands are too dry
And it jumped
Back into the water

Desert Moon (photo by Sequoyah School)

DESERT MOON
Opening my eyes
Late at night
Woah—wow
I saw a light
A bright light
Close to the mountain
A bright light
Right in front of my eyes
More than half a circle
It was the desert moon

CATERPILLARS

Caterpillars
On the trail
Caterpillars
on a leaf
Green insects with horns
Eating leaves
Coming and going
Eating leaves
Growing bigger
Eating leaves
One day
They will fly away

OTHER LEARNING PROJECTS AT SEQUOYAH
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He introduced himself as “Crazy Ali”, and he wasn’t thinking about selling something to us. He wanted to share.

Crazy Ali, The Turkish Poet (Photo by Marcelline Burns)

I asked, “Who gave you that name?” to which he responded with obvious pride, “I gave it to myself more than a quarter century ago. I am Crazy Ali, the poet.” In my mind, I scoffed, “A poet! In this poor and remote place?” Exactly, and what Ali wanted to share was his poetry. Three American women had wandered near his shop, and he wanted us to come inside his shop. Politely, he begged our permission to recite one of his poems. I shall be forever grateful that we entered and that we listened.

On that day, Crazy Ali was a handsome man with kind eyes and lines that bespoke many years of joys and sorrows. His recitation was memorable, intensely and beautifully spoken. As we stood amid ancient wares in his dim shop, he recited these lines in a rich, emotion-laden voice.

DO YOU KNOW?

Do you understand how large the world is?

Even the sun will rise there.

The experience was unexpectedly, profoundly moving, and when he finished the four of stood for a long moment in a kind of reverential silence. Finally, I quietly said, “Ali, the world needs more men like you.” He nodded and then rather timidly showed us a thick ring binder. “Four hundred poems. I wrote all of them.”

copyright 2008 by Marcelline Burns

Marcelline (Marcy) Burns is an author-friend I made through her response to “Sightlines: A Poet’s Diary” and continued penpal correspondence with both my father and myself. She is one of my role models I use when answering the question, “What kind of old woman do I want to be?” This was a question posed to me in the 1990s by a close West African friend and I find it has much resonance for me. I visited Marcy in Oxnard on my latest trip to Southern California. We shared a good meal, even better conversations, and a walk on the beach near her home. Clearly, she’s a globe-trotting mama—er, grandmama. —JGR

Ali with grammophone (Photo by Marcelline Burns)

Outside a small shop, we stopped when we saw a speaker for an ancient record player. Somehow it had survived many years in remarkably good shape, and we amused ourselves by wondering aloud whether Buster Brown and his dog Tighe might be nearby. We were ready to move along when the shopkeeper emerged and spoke to us in English.
—Marcelline Burns’ “The Village Poet”

It is a small village of no particular note. Perhaps we were told the name, but it is now forgotten. The year was 2007, and the month was September. We were traveling through southeastern Turkey, a driver, a guide and 19 American tourists in a large coach. Our cameras had been idle on this afternoon, and we had drifted off into silence and into our private thoughts as we traveled in a dusty, rocky landscape.

Now and then there were small ancient stone houses, brown weeds crowning their flat rooftops. The neatly stacked piles near the houses—what on earth were they? “Dung”, we were told. “The dung is fuel to heat their houses and cook their food.”

There were no trees, nothing green, but lively goats led flocks of sheep and somewhere in the distance a shepherd followed. We murmured one to the other, “What do the sheep eat? Or drink…and the shepherd…where does he live?” We were looking with the eyes of urban America. We of an abundant lifestyle were puzzled by this barren place.

The bus lumbered slowly along a single lane. When the dirt road ended at a cluster of small buildings, the driver slowed and stopped the bus, and the guide said, “Time to stretch. Walk around. The villagers are friendly.”

The nice lady from Milwaukee asked, “Anything special here?” On another day in a distant city she had purchased two large, beautiful, costly Kulim carpets. She frowned just a little when the guide said, “No, just a village.” There would be no shopping on this stop.

When I stepped down from the bus, a small boy blocked my way. All in a breath, he said, “My name is Muhammed. I am nine years old. What’s your name?” His dark hair was neatly combed, his clothes were clean, and his eyes were mischievous in the way of little boys. He spoke clearly with barely a trace of an accent.

When I answered his question and asked him how he had learned English, his smile grew bigger, but he stared at me without a trace of recognition. He was pleased to have my attention, but he understood none of my words. He had spoken all the English he knew, and he couldn’t tell me how he had learned those few words.

We meandered along the one street. It was equal to two city blocks in length, maybe a little more, and at the end there was a boulder as big as a house in American suburbia. It was far bigger than any structure in the village. We marveled at its size, and admired one of the many handsome cats that lolled about everywhere. We nodded and smiled at a few men who squatted around a game, and then we began to retrace our steps to the bus.
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Put a Poem in Your Pocket and share it. What a great idea…on this day, or any day.

Poets. Org lists 30 things to do to celebrate poetry month (April, right?).

31) But, here’s one they haven’t thought of. My father, Erwin A. Thompson, encloses a poem along with his bill to the Great Central Lumber Company. The women down there enjoy this so much that when once he arrived to pay his bill in person–without a poem–they were mightily disappointed.

32) Pop also takes his poems along to share in person when he goes in to see his chiropractor. Dr. Chris says he looks up at just the right moment to see his response. Pop calls these the “punch lines,” just as comics do. Sometimes the punch in the lines is comic and sometimes it is more to the heart of the matter.

33) Pop also writes poems dedicated specifically to people and occasions and then gives these poems to the people involved. Reading them outloud to them first, of course.

So, you see, you can keep on adding to Poets.org’s wonderful list. And, if we do that, maybe we can have poetry month all year long. What an idea, hey?

There’s lots of great poet participation going on over at Poetic Asides blog. Robert provides a poem and poetry prompt each day in April for National Poetry Month.