EROS & RUST Vol. 2, Issue 3, 15 December, 2004
A Newsletter/Ezine of Good Fiction and Writing Resources
This ezine is distributed by subscription only. To unsubscribe, check the details at the end of this email. If you were sent this ezine by a friend and wish to subscribe just send me an email at sueateros@yahoo.ca I do this all by hand - no autoresponder, no mailing lists, so shoot me over an email and I??™ll add you to the list.
Susan Snively, Editor (sueateros@yahoo.ca)
IN THIS ISSUE ...SPECIAL POETRY EDITION
* Editorial ??“ NaNoWriMo is Over and a Merry Christmas to All!
* Eros & Rust??™s Contest Winner
?? Remembering Teresa by Robert F. Marazas
* Original Poetry
?“ Untitled Sonnet and Flowered Night by Emari Standish
?“ Requiem for the Man of Steel by Liam W
?“ 5 Haikus from Anntelope
?“ Virgin Mary on Grilled Cheese a limerick by Diane MacKenzie
?“ 3 More limericks from Diane MacKenzie
?“ Modern Masquerade by Eze Eze Ogali
* Author Showcase ??“ Akintiunde Kofi Camara
?“ Original eintous and poetry of Akintiunde
* Original Fiction Stories:
?? Christmas at Granny??™s Farm by Teresa Drake
* Bragging Writes
* Agents
* Articles
?· Akber Ayub shares Change From Within
* Writer??™s Jokes and Other Miscellanea
* Prompts for December: Use in Journaling or Free Fall Writing Exercises
?? The Writer??™s 2005 Calendar from Shery Russ
* Classes & Services offered by M Kenyon Charboneaux
* Advertisements
* Info for Advertisers
* The Legal Stuff
* About Me
* Subscribe/Unsubscribe information
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Editorial: NaNoWriMo is Over and Merry Christmas to All!
National Novel Writing Month is over. I won again this year with a word count of 54,883. Anyone else that also finished, please let me know ??“ I??™ll put it in the Bragging Writes section for January 2005.
This is a special poetry edition that all began when I first encountered the wonderful and wise Akintiunde Kofi Camara. It was during my short time as Kenyon??™s assistant editor, looking for original and good poetry, that I found Akintiunde??™s website The Eintouist. I sent The Brother Speaks of Langston to Kenyon (Vol. 1, Issue 6) and she loved it. The rest is history, so to speak.
I??™m not a real fan of poetry, but I do enjoy different poetry styles, so that??™s what I??™m trying to bring to you in this issue. I have some really great poetry here and I hope everyone enjoys it as much as I have.
For the January 2005 issue, I will be interviewing James P. Girard, author of several books, and his interview will be focused on the publishing industry. If you have any questions that you??™d like me to ask Mr. Girard, please send them to sueateros@yahoo.ca, and I??™ll be sure to include them in the interview. This is your chance to find out whatever you??™d like about the big and frightening world of publishing.
And on a final note, I want to wish each and every one of you a very Merry Christmas and a bright and wonderful New Year. I hope that 2005 is a great year for us all.
All the Best,
Susan Snively
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ABOUT THE EROS & RUST CONTEST:
Every month we hold a contest here at Eros & Rust. Submissions are taken between the 15th of the current month and the 15th of the following month. The winner is announced in the next month??™s issue and his or her story also appears in that issue. All stories must be original by the author submitting them and unpublished prior to the date of publication in Eros & Rust, to win the contest.
Three outside judges will be doing the judging so that there can??™t be any appearance or allegations of nepotism or favoritism. I would like to thank Marlene for agreeing to be my third judge. Marlene is an English teacher, with fresh and new outlooks on writing and always eager to read a story from aspiring authors. Welcome aboard, Marlene!
There is NO FEE for the contest and the PRIZE is $20.
All stories should be 2500 to 5000 words (please try not to go over this 5,000 word count) and unless a topic is announced for the month, your subject can be anything you like EXCEPT PORNOGRAPHY or HATE LITERATURE OF ANY KIND
THE SUBJECT FOR JANUARY??™S CONTEST IS THE ???NEW YEAR???. Anything at all about new beginnings, good or bad, in any genre.
Send all contest submissions to erossubmissions@yahoo.ca and be sure to put Contest Entry in the subject line so I??™ll know. GOOD LUCK!!
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DECEMBER??™S CONTEST WINNERS
And the envelope, please!
This month??™s winner is the incredible R.F. Marazas from Belvidere, New Jersey, with a haunting story entitled Remembering Teresa. Robert has been retired for 2 years and has a marvellous time conjuring up stories that have been rattling around his head during all his rat-race years. He??™s even finished a novel and looking forward to writing more in his golden years. I can only hope
that Robert continues to share his dark side with us.
Remembering Teresa.
There was a four-lane highway where the old two-lane road should have been. His sudden confusion got him hopelessly lost. For a time he drove aimlessly in the rental, past an enormous mall, then saw the sign that had him going in the right direction. He recognized nothing.
Forty years, what did he expect? Slate gray sky hovered, pressing shabbiness on the town frozen in time. A railroad town with no railroad, a ghost town. Few people on the streets, fewer cars. He fumbled his reading glasses on to see the street signs. Alfalfa Avenue came up too quickly. He left turned wide, heard the tires squeal, careened into the wrong lane, jerked the wheel back and banged
into the curb. Luckily there was no traffic. He turned the ignition off, sat there breathing quick little
gasps.
When his vision cleared he looked down Alfalfa and saw the building, the small parking lot tucked in at its side. It was really there, five floors of ugly Gothic Victorian looming above its unfamiliar surroundings. The rest had been real too, the operator announcing yes she had a listing, the voice announcing Forest Hotel, may I help you.
The lobby was deserted. Lounge to the left, elevators to the right, massive front desk dwarfing the young man behind it. Nothing had changed.
"Mr. Dalton?" Welcoming smile, almost relieved. "Good to see you, I hope you had a pleasant trip, and I have good news, you're in room 500 as you requested, we normally keep the fifth floor closed, not enough business, but Miss Twinings said..."
"Twinings?" He froze with the credit card half way to the desk.
"The owner." He was suddenly dizzy. "Are you alright, sir?"
"Fine, just a little tired."
"If you'll just fill this out, I'll take your bag up."
"I know the way."
* * *
He stood in the doorway trying to sense her presence. The old furnishings were gone, replaced long ago by flimsy dressers and narrow beds and cable television, faded carpeting and paper-thin drapes. For a moment he could see her long straw blonde hair fanned out across the pillow, pale arms beckoning, secret hungry smile drawing him. The image faded. Just a hotel room.
He sat on the bed to call Daniel, closed his eyes waiting for the new wave of complaints. He pictured David tugging at his twin brother's sleeve, mouthing tell him that mom would have thrown a fit about it. Driving three hundred miles to some stupid town for what? But Daniel seemed cautious with his questions, and he was cautious with his answers. Another temporary stalemate.
Thinking of his sons as jailers made him uneasy. In the year since Gwen's death they had crowded his life with daily phone calls and watchful stares and constant challenges and questions.
The Hero At Sixty could not be trusted to navigate his own life alone. He resented them. They had not been close for years; he'd lost them sometime during their teens, just as he had lost Gwen years before something burst in her head and collapsed her at his feet like an unfurled sail.
He hung up, wanting sleep, lie back on the bed and let the dream come. His March fifth dream. How many years now? He thought back to his last semester at Axton College, a blur. The three years finishing school in Iowa, another blur. He couldn't recall waking in terror, soaked in sweat, wide eyes
fixed on the after image. It started sometime after his marriage, maybe that first year, and then every year after, not thankfully on March fifth, he didn't think he could have endured that, but always close to that date. Gwen wondered at first but he dismissed it, told her nothing, made light of it. Eventually she stopped asking.
After Gwen died the dream took control, sometimes night after night, then nothing for days, then again. He would see them clearly, standing facing each other on the little triangle of curb where Alfalfa Avenue and Courthouse Lane met. The bus to Buffalo had just pulled away. Two benches, a small plot of flowers beginning to bloom, the enclosed bus shelter. March wind whipped around them, tossing her hair back and forth across her shoulders. She was bent forward as if he had punched her in the stomach, arms across her chest clutching herself, sobbing in great unending gasps. He was scared, couldn't touch her, frozen with shame and disgust. All he wanted to do was to get away from her. He wrenched himself into motion down along Alfalfa toward Main Street, her wracking sobs following.
* * *
At the front desk he asked to see the owner. The clerk frowned. "Something wrong with the room?"
"No, I just wanted to thank her."
A smile. "She might drop by this evening; I'll tell her if I'm still on duty."
He asked for a street map. Another frown, rummaging under the desk, back in the office. "This is pretty old, I wasn't sure we still had any."
In the parking lot he studied the creased map, let the memories flood. He knew this town, how much could it have changed? Towns like this didn't change; they waited patiently for those who left to come back. Come home now, you've seen the outside world and it wasn't what you wanted, it bruised and battered you, made your life surreal, tore your heart out, spit on your dreams. Come back where you belong.
He drove slowly down Alfalfa. The triangle was still there, paved over, no bus shelter or benches or flowers. Right turn onto Main Street, past the area once known as Doctor's Row. Now the once lovely Victorians were abandoned, windows broken, porch railings askew, shutters hanging. At the end of Main he crossed the short bridge over the river whose name he couldn't remember, right turned onto East
Main, slammed on the brakes. For a moment he thought he had made a mistake. His house, all the houses gone. The cracked sidewalk blended into one vast rubble strewn, weed choked lot as far down the street as he could see. On his right the river hissed by.
He turned the car around and accelerated past the bridge onto Straight Street, reckless, up and up the winding hill, faster, tires screeching, gripping the wheel white knuckled. At the top he braked, lurched forward, bent his head and sat there, numb.
When he looked up darkness had settled but he could see the house stark against the twilight sky. He had been inside only once. He remembered only the eerie quiet, the wing backed chair where he sat rigid, looking straight ahead. Clarence Twinings across from him, massive bulk, hot eyes boring into his, hypnotizing, oily voice insinuating, offering, threatening. The fear in his belly, his bowels, along every nerve ending. He never wanted to feel that way again.
* * *
The lounge was deserted. Bored waitress, bored bartender, two businessmen at the bar, low hushed tones used at wakes. He sat to the left of the entrance, empty tables surrounding him. The menu was sparse but he ordered and absently pushed food around on his plate. He drank scotch knowing he'd regret it. The sharp bite roused him from his stupor.
He was on his second drink, table cleared of his uneaten meal, when he glanced up at the entrance. She stood there peering across the room, found him, stared intently. He felt a sudden chill. She was reedy thin, long gray dress draping down to the tops of her shoes. She leaned heavily on a cane. Her steady gaze held him.
At last she seemed to decide, limped down the two steps toward him. Her hair was a cap fitted close to her skull, limp and dull gray, wispy on her brow. She wore no makeup. The left side of her face was ruined. A burn blotch puckered her skin from hairline to jaw. Her left eye drooped as if dragged by the weight of the thin scar snaking from her lid to her pronounced cheekbone.
She slid onto the banquet, presented her good side. "I almost went home, then I remembered. God, my memory is terrible, thoughts come in, then they're gone, poof." Her voice was smoky, an effort. "I'm Mercedes Twinings, do you like your room?"
He had never met her. She'd been away somewhere at school. Teresa adored her, older sister who would understand about their feelings for each other, who would champion their love. When he called just before he left for Iowa she shrieked bastard stop calling here haven't you tortured her enough leave her alone you broke her heart you killed her...
"Uh yes, thank you for letting me have it."
She gestured at the bar. "Yes, I remember, how many times did you two sneak up there, god she was the sly one stealing the key, drove everybody crazy."
Tightness in his chest, tingling in his fingers. He tried to breathe. The waitress came with another scotch and a glass of wine. She took a large greedy gulp.
"What else, oh yes, I'm sorry calling you a bastard like that, I didn't know about daddy, we found out though, oh yes we all found out. What was your name?"
His left arm ached. "Douglas Dalton."
"Douglas, of course. You know, everybody called her Terry, she hated that name, you were the only one called her Teresa, she loved that, god how she loved you."
He drank. A low buzzing started in his ears. "Where is she?"
Mercedes leaned closer, frowning, perplexed. "Wait." She laughed, gestured with her glass, drained the wine. "Thoughts keep come in, go right back out, very annoying."
He held his breath as she concentrated, drumming her fingers on the table, absently sipping from the fresh glass of wine. "Oh she drove poor daddy crazy, she did, got kicked out of school, drinking, there were boys, god the scandals, cost daddy a lot of money..." She peered at him. "He didn't stop paying for your college, did he?"
He swallowed. "No."
"Good. A deal is a deal, he was always going back on his word."
She closed her eyes. For a long while he sat there willing her to come back to him. Just as he reached out to touch her arm she spoke sharply.
"I had to keep an eye on her, that was my new job. And she drove like crazy so I went with her, she drank too much, you know. And I remember we were laughing, god we always found something to laugh about, she thought everything was funny. It was foggy that night, yes that's right, we flew off the road, we sailed through the air, laughing..."
She rapped the cane against her leg, clack clack clack. Turned her face to him full on. "Nothing to laugh about I guess."
"What happened to Teresa?"
"Oh I never forget that." She smiled through the tears. "Well, sometimes I do, but we talk almost every day, it's nice there, and I pull the weeds and bring flowers, not like those other graves, nobody comes there anymore it's a shame..."
* * *
That night he didn't dream. Blackness filled his mind, weighed him down, pressed on his chest. He woke to a gray pall blanketing the town. Dressed and packed in slow motion, as if swimming in vain toward the surface just out of reach. He checked out with a new desk clerk. The town sat limp, drained of life. He didn't need the map, turned left just before Route 59 widened at the eastern edge. Cemetery Hill Road.
The cemetery was old, crowded, weathered headstones askew. He parked just outside the arch. The gate was open, rusted, off its hinges leaning against the sagging fence. His parents were here, he had no idea where. He moved slowly up the gently sloping path, stopping to look left and right at faded names, dates. Too many, he'd never find her.
The sound of engine whine turned him around. The car careened through the arch, fishtailing, accelerating. It kicked up a cloud of dust, swerving from side to side. He had time to see Mercedes hunched forward at the wheel, face grim, staring straight ahead, before he had to jump back. He fell sprawling, slamming his back against a tombstone. It collapsed under his weight. The car screeched to
a stop at the top of the rise. His vision was blurred. He saw the figure limp from the car, stark against
the gray sky, and disappear down the other side.
It took some time for him to make his way to the car, brushing off his clothes, moving slowly, his back and left leg sore. The driver's side door was open. He saw her inside a fenced in plot with three headstones, leaning on her cane. The stones were straight, the plot well tended. He gripped the outside of the fence, his back thrumming pain, squinted past her at the names.
Horace Twinings. Abigail Twinings. Mercedes Twinings.
Everything went black, then bright blinding white. He blinked back the grayness of the morning, her gray dress, gray hair, ruined face turning toward him. "Teresa."
She smiled. "God, no one's called me that for years, who was it called me that, a boy, some boy, a long time ago, my memory is very bad." She stumbled back, leaning against the fence, very close to him. "I was late again today, I really try, she expects me to be here but sometimes I forget, do you ever forget things?"
"No." He touched her arm. "I didn't forget you."
She looked at him, frowning. "I killed her, you know, so I have to come here and talk to her, tell her how stupid I was and how sorry. I think she's forgiven me, you know, she understands I wasn't myself, I was just crazy because of what they did to me, daddy and..."
"She did, she forgave you. Teresa, I'm sorry, I was a coward, I was scared, I was going to come back I swear but...oh god Teresa I loved you!"
She frowned again, reached up to touch his tears. "What was your name again?"
"Douglas," he whispered. "Douglas Dalton."
She wiped her fingers on her sleeve and limped forward. "I have to tend the graves now, before I forget, I must have missed daddy's last time, look at those weeds." She moved slowly to the plots and bent, cane digging into the earth. Her voice was low, casual, as she spoke to her sister. He watched her until his crying stopped and started down the slope, her voice drifting after him.
"Douglas?"
She stood straight, clumps of dead grass in her hand. Facing him, yet looking through him at something else. "I forgive you. Whatever you did I forgive you. Mercedes forgave me and I forgive you."
He turned left at the bottom of the hill onto Route 59. The town behind him was still trapped in gray and he wondered if the sun ever shone here anymore. The farmland he remembered was gone, covered now with squat empty buildings and a sprawling mall with few cars in the parking lot. East of him the sun was shining. He was tired. The three hundred mile trip seemed endless. Perhaps he'd stop
at a motel. He had time now, time for the memory of a young girl with long blonde hair and laughing eyes
?© R.F. Marazas
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ORIGINAL FICTION & POETRY
This is, remember, a paying market - it??™s nominal pay, $10 per story or poem, but my piggybank is small and it is proud to be able to contribute anything at all to that great feeling it is to a writer to not only see their work in print, but to be able to say to their friends, relatives and nay-sayers (and sometimes the same person can be all three - a friend, a relative and a nay-sayer), "See? I even got paid!" Of course, I do hope that people will agree to submit their wonderful work for the fun of having it published. Since this comes out of my own pocket, any break I can get is appreciated!
There is a new address to send your submissions for the Fiction and Poetry submissions Please send your submissions to erossubmissions@yahoo.ca with Fiction Submission in the subject line.
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This month, I have some more original poetry from Emari Standish, one of newest subscribers. I couldn??™t get much about her, but she did say that she had travelled quite far in this wonderful world and loved to write. She also loves to write romance stories with a horror flavour. Thanks, Emari, for sharing your work with the readers.
UNTITLED SONNET
I am no flower
to be picked and enjoyed
until I wither;
nor yet a song
to be sung until you know it's every phrase,
it's every turn of melody and you tire ...
I will not be so easily discarded.
And I am no Vincent Millay to say :
"You loved me not at all - let it pass...
Here is my hand, fare you well, fare you very well ..."
For even I know that love is mortal,
dying in its season, as she knew,
still I will not be gone before it's due; that time
when the piper comes demanding payment.
But I am a woman,
and though I may be tantalized by the heavy
dark danger of you,
I am not in a mood to be hurt,
nor desirous of giving without sharing...
So when we have finally to fall apart from our passion,
exhausted lovers, seeking separate sides of the bed;
by mutual consent let it be over
and with the natural changing
of summer into fall,
when that Piper shall come to call.
FLOWERED NIGHT
Lilacs & Lilies
and the sky singing
the earth humming;
Moonlight at last
and your kiss silvered by it.
How long yet have I to wait
Till you come back to me?
When the sky is deterred
And the Sun is held back, then
Then, the spring rains come
And the flowers bloom,
Because of the battles we have lost.
Because of the battle just won.
?© Emari Standish
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This next treat is an ode to Superman, the real Superman, Christopher Reeves, who passed away not too long ago. I have always been such an admirer of Mr. Reeves, whose courage and determination, and good cheer, was an inspiration to everyone in the world. I was shocked when I heard he had passed away; couldn??™t believe it. When I read Liam??™s heartfelt poem, I knew I just had to ask him if I could share it with the rest of you.
Liam Wallace is a 53 year old Physician Active Duty Army Officer, currently stationed in Texas. He??™s one year away from retirement, when he then plans on walking the Appalachian Trail, and then pursuing a writing pastime as a retirement activity/avocation. Part Scot, he??™s also a member of the Western Branch of the Cherokee Nation, (he??™s related to the Bear Clan via his father) and spoke Cherokee before he even spoke English. He is a member And while he says he could talk about himself for hours, I think he would rather you read his Requiem for the Man of Steel??¦
Requiem
For the Man of Steel,
Who yet in death, Death mocks.
Your cape lays folded
On your chest,
As you lie inside a box.
But no container made by man
Could 'ere contain the soul,
Of one
whose spirit never fell
When his body lost control.
A chair's not fit to trap a man
Who could leap into the sky,
And you lifted every one of us
Up to
the day you died.
But on this day we lift you up,
To bear you to your rest.
Your soul now free to soar, once more
From a world that you have
blessed.
?© Liam 2004
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The haiku is a contemplative poetry that valorizes nature, season, and colour. Usually it??™s 3 lines and 17 syllables distributed in 5, 7, and 5. It is similar to a photo of some specific moment of nature or in nature. Such as the following:
"Old pond...
a frog leaps in
water's sound."
- Matsuo Basho.
The following are five haikus from the author Anntelope, who has always considered herself a songwriter before all else. She likes to write poetry and short stories, nothing published yet, but her website http://www.eastvillagepoetry.com has an active guestbook section called ???The Wall of Living Graffiti??? where she says ???people come and argue
all day and night about everything in the world.???
Too Damn Hot"
The desert cactus
Shows God its middle finger
To tell him "Thank you."
?© Anntelope 2001
"Growing Old"
each day my mirror
looks back at me through the eyes
of many strangers
?© Anntelope 2001
"Sidewalk Sorrow"
poor gray dying bird
sad partner watching helpless
pigeons mate for life
?© Anntelope 2001
"Guilt"
be careful of those
who would do bad things to you
they'll hate you for it
?© Anntelope 2000
"The Park"
and the pigeon dances
by the skeleton benches
in the dark green wind
?© Anntelope 2003
And just a little poem, not a haiku, however, she sent me as an added bonus:
"Always"
Something always comes to save me at the last minute
and I know it always will
except once.
?© Anntelope 1990
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This cute little limerick comes from a woman named Diane, who was born on Halloween, is a mother of three, and lives in Memphis. She has a dog named Willow and three cats. Proud to announce that she has several
articles on the web to her credit, she really wants to be the lead singer of a rock band. She started writing limericks as a place to start for the unusual sonnets she wants to write. Besides, limericks are fun to write and easily bent to her sarcastic nature.
Her proudest moment came, as a writer, when Drs. Janice and Demitri Papolos contacted her about a poem she wrote to include in their book,
The Bipolar Child. The day she picked up her autographed copy at her local Barnes and Noble store, started her down the writer??™s
road.
Thanks so much, Diane, for sharing these fun limericks. And yes, this half of a 10-year-old sandwich sold on eBay for I believe the preposterous amount of $28,000! Surely, there are better things to spend $28,000 on.
Virgin Mary on
Grilled Cheese
There once was a sandwich so holy,
It simply refused to get moldy,
The blessed virgin's head
Appeared on the bread
So they posted on E-bay and sold it.
?© Diane MacKenzie
==============
These three limericks are Diane??™s favourites. She says that to understand and fully appreciate the first one, you have to understand that Memphis is a wonderful city, but it??™s full of crime and heavy traffic. The other two are ???just down-right silly and fun.???
There once was a young man from Memphis,
Who finally came to his senses,
He woke up one day
Then he moved far away,
To a place that he found less offensive.
There once was a girl with a stutter,
Not one single word could she mutter,
She spuh-spat and spuh-spit,
Then she threw a fuh-fit,
Much to the chagrin of her mother.
There once was a man in a trailer,
Who wanted to live like a sailor,
So he took off the wheels,
Got his rods and his reels,
And he turned his home into a whaler.
====================
This next piece is by Eze Eze Ogali,
one of our subscribers.
Modern Masquerade
Skin perforated with chemicals
face painted with discordant colors
stiletto shoes playing uncoordinated staccato
on the tarred foot of God
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AUTHOR SHOWCASE
Interview with Akintiunde Kofi Camara. This wonderful man and writer is worth reading, both his philosophies and his eintous. Please enjoy what he has to say; I know I have.
Interview Questions
Q: When did your passion for writing begin? When did you know that you were going to be a writer?
A: I can??™t really say when writing became my ???passion.??? I have been writing in various forms since I was about 14 or 15. I remember thinking it would be cool to keep a journal and go back after x number of years to see how my views and thoughts had changed. And I think it is in my journals that I began jotting down little poems - mostly concerning young ladies I was enamoured with at the time.
I think I was in my early to mid twenties when poetry became something serious for me, and even then it took a back seat to chess, which I have been playing since the age of eight. During my high school, college, and early military career, I played tournament level chess.
It was not until I left the military that poetry became prominent in my life. That was in 1996. It remained the most important thing in my life until my son was born in 1998 and my daughter in 2000. Since then it has remained a distant second to them.
I never ???knew??? I was going to be a writer. I guess it just crept up on me. Even now, I can??™t say I consider myself a writer. I think I just agree with people when they call me that. I consider myself more a student of poetry.
Q: You created the style of poetry called eintous. What does eintou mean? Where does the background for it come from?
A: It seems like a million years have gone by since 3 January 2000. I had been working on the eintou for a little over a year- researching, experimenting with different variations on the form, trying to find a name befitting a form that would encompass what I understood about African American culture and philosophy. I remember feeling anxious about finalizing the form because I really wanted it done
prior to my daughter??™s birth, which was to happen 15 days later. I don??™t think I viewed the form as a birthday present to her, but I certainly wanted
to have it completed by then. Everything was done except finalizing what to call it.
I had been researching several African words, but none of them seemed to completely fit the form. I remember sitting in my office, my then 1-?? year old son sitting on my lap, in front of the computer. All around us were sprawled books on African and African American culture, philosophy, religion, and musical innovations. I remember saying half out loud to myself and partly to my son, ???Jabari, Jabari, why is it so hard to name this thing? Why can??™t I find a name for it like I did for you???? I remember, after about the fourth
time repeating this, my son said ???name,??? which for some reason made me think of the several books on African names I had on my shelves. I grabbed one
that had been written by Dr. Molefi Asante, and began thumbing through it. My son did something to distract me- I can??™t remember whether he reached for something or what, but the book fell from my hands. I bent him over my leg to allow him to reach and retrieve the book from the floor, and when I brought him back up, his hand was positioned such that the book was closed around it. It just so happened that his hand was wedged on the page upon which the word ???eintou??? and its definition were written.
I read that eintou was West African (later I would learn that it was Yoruba) for pearl. I considered the shape of a pearl and the form I was trying to finalize. The form had (and has) a 2-4-6-8-6-4-2 structure (the numbers representing the number of syllables or words per line), which seemed to me cyclic, and I thought a pearl is spherical or circular, and it all just clicked! It seemed once I found the right name for the form, everything else fell into place. For example, I had already discovered through research that in African and African American philosophy, life
is like a cycle- we return to that from which we originate; the eintou??™s structure captures that within its form.
I had also discovered, in African American music, syncopation, innovation, and repetition are very prominent (compare blues and jazz compositions). Often our music is imbued with what James Snead, writing in Black Literature & Literary Theory (edited by Henry Louis Gates, Jr.), called ???cuts.??? In his essay, ???Repetition As a Figure of Black Culture,??? he relays: ???African music normally emphasizes??¦organizing melody within juxtaposed lines of beats grouped into differing meters.??? (Pg. 68) This is how I arrived at the varying meters within the structure of the eintou, because it seemed a poignant way to marry the
eintou and African (American) musical formulations.
The seven lines of the eintou has several origins: first, it symbolically represents the Nguzo Saba, or seven principles of African American culture; second in certain African cosmologies (Dogon, for example), seven represents wholeness or perfection, commensurate with the emblem of the Lord of the Word. In Christian cosmology also, the number seven represents completion. These ideas of perfection and completion, to me were apart of the eintou??™s structure.
Thus, when one writes and eintou, one is exploring African and African American historico-cultural philosophies and musical innovations and practices. And I credit my son Jabari for coming up with the name of the form because had it not been for him, I may never have found it.
Q: You said that other poets have lent their talent to the form. Can you give some names and examples?
A: Yes, over the years, and this pleases me to the point of speechlessness, there have been some very impressive poets who have lent their talent to the Eintou. Some who come readily to mind are: Jan Haag, Tonya Wiley, Britton Stockstill, and most recently and notably, Carol Elizabeth Owens, who will soon be publishing a book of Eintous called Diamonds in Black-Eintou in Mind through Desert Sand Press. She was kind enough to forward me a copy of the book and grant me permission to site examples of her work in this interview; for examples of the
others, go to: www.geocities.com/theeintouist
I made Ms. Owens??™ acquaintance through an online workshop. Her eintous immediately impressed me because of their range, depth and play. For example, her eintou ???casting lots??? is one of my favourites:
Party~
???republicrat???/
???demoblican??? chatter
lines are indistinguishable-
you wonder who is who
quizzical at
the polls
??Carol Elizabeth Owens, 2004
Her ???justice 101??? is also a favourite:
justice
unsecured~free-
zing at the point of sale
no wonder so many go blind
teary eyes frozen shut
no warmth in truth
just ice
??Carol Elizabeth Owens, 2004
Q: How do you get the ideas for your poetry?
A: I think the answer to this question is basically the same for all writers. I get my ideas from my surroundings, the things I see, hear, smell, taste, read. There is a lot going on in the world around me. I try to tap into some of it, and record how it impresses me.
Q: What other poetry do you like? Which poets have inspired you?
A: I like all poetry from the late 19th century on, but most especially the work of the 20th century. I think this is the period when such groups as the Imagists, Objectivists, New Negro poets (most affiliated with the Harlem Renaissance), The Beats, The Black Mountain group, and the poets of the Black Arts Movement widened poetry??™s boundaries. It was the movements that these groups (and many others) spawned that reinvigorated poetry, freeing it from the Romantic and Victorian sensibilities that had it in
such a chokehold. It was during this period that poetry came to show all its diversity, passion, and ability to express the full range of the human
condition all over the world. It was during this period that poets began to experiment with form and syntax (Cubists, Surrealists, Dadaists, H.D., Gertrude Stein, e.e. cummings, Langston Hughes) and obliterate the idea of centrality in poetic texts (L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E- poets).
I am inspired by any poet who dares, who takes risks and pushes the boundaries of language and sense: e.e. cummings, Russell Atkins, and so many others. They teach me about language and its pliability; they teach me about the polysemy of all poetic texts- that poems never ever ???mean??? just one thing, and there is no one meaning to any text that takes precedence over any other.
Q: You??™ve written 19 chapbooks of poetry, as well as a book called Black Moon Within Me. Tell us about it.
A: Black Moon Within Me is a book I completed in 2001. It took me three years to compile, and its 90 poems represent my humble attempt to acknowledge the contributions of African American women to African American history and cultural existence and most specifically to me. I feel that women all over the world, despite ethnicity or race, are undervalued; however, I believe (especially in America) no group of women has been more maligned sexually, physically, or spiritually than African American women. Despite this multileveled and
multifaceted abuse, African American women (like all women) persevere. They continue to uphold the values of the culture, they continue to give birth to amazing human beings, they continue to support and raise their families, and produce in the workplace; they continue to be the most beautiful of all of nature??™s creations; they continue to be the light and core within African American survival:
???Black Moon Within Me???
She comes
into my heart, slowly
settling upon me a darkness that
when complete, reflects my soul: alive in its
Blackness with her light at its
core, like a night??™s
full moon
Q: What do you think is your greatest strength as a writer?
A: I really can??™t say what my greatest strength as a writer is. I think the most moving and powerful writers I have read seem to have a great passion for writing and the subjects they write about. I think the best of all writers try to remain faithful to their particular truths within their works. I think they take risks with language and form. These are the writers whose works I seek; whose work ethic and passion I try to emulate. If I have any strength at all as a writer, it is that I am an ardent student of poetry; I listen to the masters of the past and to those willing to teach me
today.
Q: Do you feel you have found your voice? Or do you think there is more than one voice?
A: The instant I think I have found ???a voice??? it changes. I think this is necessary to growth and development. I am never the same person from instant to instant, year to year. As I grow and evolve, so too does my psychology, spirituality, personality, and approach to writing. I cannot conceive of my ???voice??? remaining static when everything else about me is dynamic.
Whether there is one voice that melds with or adapts to its environment, or multiple voices I cannot say. I think the best any writer can hope for is: remaining as attuned to one??™s environment and writings as possible. We must also, I believe, allow for, recognize, and embrace our growth as individuals within our work
Q: What would you say is your greatest contribution to the world?
A: Without a doubt, my children, without whose mother they would never have come into existence as their beautiful selves! To her I am deeply and forever indebted. They represent the hope that all the maliciousness and pain we perpetrate in the world as adults will be undone through their sheer innocence and love of life.
Q: I know that you don??™t seek monetary compensation for your poetry, but have you ever published with a traditional publisher?
A: No, I have never sought to publish with a traditional publisher, and I have received a great deal of criticism for it. One elderly lady, during a workshop here in Milwaukee some years ago, even told me I had no right to withhold from the world my ???voice.??? (mind you, she was not familiar with the full range of my work, and I doubt that were she, her view on my voice and its exposure to the world would have been so forceful!). It is something I struggle with. I have found some resolution in publishing in some anthologies and small journals. I also have my personal WEB page, ???The Poetry of Akintiunde??? and the Eintouist.
Q: You have an online journal of poetry called The Eintouist. Tell us about it.
