Ken Continue reading
I always enjoy giving the museum a good look-over after an event. I find the words and lines and poems that people have left behind. The museum encourages wordplay and almost everything in the space can be written on. Here are some of the treasures I found after our last event Nov. 16. Continue reading
Down Perkins Road, nestled in the trees is a quaint little red barn, welcoming the quiet reader as well as the playful poet. A museum of poetry, this is going to be a new experience. Not knowing what to expect demands an open minded approach; who will be there, what will first be encountered, will on the spot reciting be expected? As it turns out, there are no expectations of unprepared performances; only a relaxing atmosphere that begs the curious reader to look deeper for the next interesting piece left behind by a former guest. Blocks of wood with witty phrases litter the shelves; telling the unskilled poet that it is okay to experiment a little. The ROMP casually opens a new door to creativity that was closed prior to visiting the museum.
Thanks, Alvin. Come back any time.
Last night, I was entertained by words. They were Joy Harjo‘s. She was at the NSU Ballroom in Tahlequah, and she read poetry, played songs on both the saxophone and flute, read from her memoir Crazy Brave, and shared her wisdom about writing, stories, poetry, and living the journey of life.
I just finished reading Crazy Brave last weekend. It is a short, fluent, plainly-spoken yet lyrical overview of her childhood and schooling and the path that brought her to poetry. When I finished the book, my first thought was: Well, this is Part 1 surely. I wanted to ask her that last night, but there was no time. However, she did confirm that the memoir ended where she had originally intended to begin it. Continue reading
In the museum, there is a place called the Secret Corner. There are poems about secrets and a book of secret poetry. There is a large comfy chair covered in red velvet there, and you need to sit in it and just look around and think and then write if you want to. There are pictures and drawings and sayings all around. There is also a box for secrets. Continue reading
Red. Yellow. Green. Hint of blush and falling leaf,
Necessary as bread, sweetness of life lived
Out of time and in the stolen, hidden moments
We forget even as we breathe them in. Red.
Yellow. Green. You see them from a distance
In the orchards between farmhouses, bruised
In the stiffening grass, marked by months
On limbs, marked by limbs branched over secrets
The seasons tell. Hard to hold, skin a sheen
Of untouching, one’s own skin aged in comparison. Continue reading