Austin International Poetry Festival

          I’ve been to poetry conferences, symposiums, workshops and readings but I had never attended a poetry festival before. I got an email from Terri Glass at CPITS the day before registration ended for the Austin International Poetry Festival. I thought I’d pay the $35 and drive over one of the days, attend some readings and/or workshops, and drive back.  The entry fee also allowed attendees to submit three poems, and one would be included in the anthology.

          About a week later I got an email congratulating me on being chosen to be one of five State Featured Poets. The festival also features five International Featured Poets (from Singapore, Brisbane, Alberta, Suffolk and Nigeria), five US Featured Poets (from Pennsylvania, Maryland, Georgia, New York and Massachusetts) as well as six Austin Featured Poets.

          The responsibilities of the Features is to participate in a reading of their group, read every day at open mics, host an open mic, and put on a workshop.   For this we get our $35 back!

          The festival ran Thursday through Sunday, but I decided four days of poetry in the Big City would be too much for me, plus I teach on Thursdays, so I said I would arrive Friday and depart Sunday and worked out when I would read, host open mic and teach a workshop.

          The two-hour drive was lovely, in spite of the fact that the famous Blue Bonnets and other wildflowers have not come up, due to the lack of rain. Only in Johnson City did I see an abundance of yellow and orange flowers, but those are planted by the city.   Once in Austin, with the non-stop schedule, adrenaline kicked in. Only after I got home and referred back to the program did I know who the names of some of the people I met!

          Check-in was at Ruta Maya coffee house, which has a huge open space with stage and microphone. Darling Ashley, coordinator of the festival was there with other volunteers, giving us our program, anthology, tee-shirt.  The poets who milled around were the typical bunch: barefoot college guys; a college-age girl with multiple piercings and a huge tattoo across her shoulder blades of  two cartoon characters I don’t recognize; several gray-haired women; middle aged men with ponytails. I was too late for the Spoken Word Comedy workshop but did participate in the open mic Comedy hosted by “Austin Poetry Slam”.  I’m beginning to appreciate Slam Poets, who are really delivering soliloquies. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to memorize my work and perform it.  It might actually be easier than reading.  Jena Kirkpatrick did a long piece in the voice of a Louisiana grandmother that was very entertaining. An east Indian woman read a poem about growing older that was funny and sweet. 

          I left the coffee house at 2:00, intending to head to my hotel, change, maybe relax a little – swim? – before returning for an afternoon workshop.  What I did not figure was bumper-to-bumper traffic all the way up I-35.  I really did feel like I was in L.A.!   I had just fifteen minutes to change and get back in the car.  Then, because I was following a huge truck, I wasn’t sure if I got off at the right exit. Luckily I have good instincts so found the street I was looking for, but still could not navigate parking for the Long Center.  Suffice it to say I was twenty minutes late for the workshop “Writing Narrative Poems that Sing” hosted by Ogaga Ifowodo, the Nigerian Poet who teaches at Texas State University, San Marcos.  I hate coming in late and it was even worse because even though the sign-up sheet – back at Ruta Maya -  had only eighteen people on it, there were at least twenty-five people already seated at the big square formed by four tables.  I found a seat on a corner,  and was asked to introduce myself. After I did, the young woman next to me whispered “I’m from California, too.” I asked where - Thousand Oaks, but she lives in Austin now. A woman with curly white hair in a silky caftan, big black beads the size of jaw breakers around her neck and a slab of polished stone on her wrist also told me she was from California but did not identify the city.  Across from me a woman with a thick New York accent had volunteered to read one of the example poems,  “Refugee Blues” by W.H. Auden.  She was asked to identify the number of beats per line. She wasn’t sure it was three or four.  We also heard “Digging” by Seamus Heany.  When a Pablo Neruda poem was shared I asked if it would be read en Espanol or English.  The instructor  seemed to like the idea of hearing it in the original language, so a young man with two big black earrings in his ears read the Spanish version. Then we heard the English and all decided the Spanish was more beautiful.  When it came time to write the instructor said, “Let’s write for . . .” and I blurted out, “ten minutes?”   He said, no, thirty!  So, while others labored over their poems, I pushed my chair back and wrote about my move to Texas:

I load up the car with my dog and my cat

I’m in the front, the dog’s in the back

panting and happy to be on the road

while the cat glares in anger

her cries break my heart . . . [yeah this line needs work]

Down through the valley

Down past the river

Down toward the ocean

that silently quivers

this quivering, shivering, mysterious trip

where will it lead?

Up through the mountains

my little car chugs

then sails like a sparrow

and gets splattered with bugs

each one a death witnessed and mourned

each a reminder I need to stay calm.

Ah, Arizona!  with your Joshua trees

your mountains like fists gripping old memories

we sail, we slide, we glide, we roar

my curious heart hungry for more.

Behind me the past grows faint as a whisper

the tap of a bongo from an wizened old hipster.

Ahead is our future, completely unknown.

I embrace it, I race it, I can taste it,

I’m home.

          Now I had twenty minutes to kill. I went out into the lobby saw a bar which would service the attendees of Tap-estry a tap dance show the same evening. Rats! How I’d love to go to that!!  I asked the fat usher about nearby restaurants: across the street – Hooters; around the corner – Whataburger. Not exactly what I had in mind for dinner.

          Back in the workshop about half the participants read and that woman from New York still didn’t seem to grasp the concept of rhythm. The lesbian (I wasn’t sure if she was a guy or a girl until they said her first name) had written a poem about child molestation. Most of the others are a blur.

          So, the workshop ends. I have one hour to eat and return to the same room for our State Featured Poets reading.  A black woman with half of her hair dyed bright yellow seemed friendly so I asked her if she was hungry. She said “I have to move my car but I can give you a ride.” I suggested we start walking but after five minutes of her gathering her books, papers, notebook, I told her I’d just dash out and find something, which I did. 

          At the huge intersection I could see restaurants down the street. I waited for the light to change so long that I decided I’d cross wherever  the lights were green, and sure enough I found  Threadgill’s whose outdoor patio was being set up for a party.  I opened the door for a man behind me carrying his suit jacket.

          “Oops! Sorry, I’m from California, I keep forgetting that men in Texas are supposed to open doors for women!”

          “That’s okay,” he said, “I’m from New York.”  We ended up sitting next to each other at the bar, because he was returning for the Tap-estry show, he’s a board member, an attorney, who has lived in Austin fifteen years. He had a beer, I had a shot of Cuervo Gold and we ate our sandwiches and chatted.

          We talked about how different Texas is from other places, the sense of pride Texans have. They’re Texans first, then black, white, Hispanic, etc., unlike New York and California where people generally identify with their race. or religion, or political party, or even home state for than they do as Californians. I don’t remember ever seeing a California flag flown on private property. But here it’s quite usual for people to fly the Texas flag, or have cut-outs of the state decorating their houses, yards. There are even Texas-shaped pretzels!

          When my dinner companion found I’m a huge fan of dance, he offered to comp me for Saturday’s 2 p.m. show!  We walked back to the Long Center together and in the lobby, went our separate ways.

          The room had been reconfigured: gone were the tables. Four more rows of chairs were set up, and a lectern. The MC was a large one-armed man, dressed in a black shirt, and Birkenstocks. Was he a priest? No, it was a medallion around his neck, not a cross.  At home I find out he’s Dillon McKinsey, a founder of Austin Poetry Slam, whose credits include hosting a radio show, reading in Singapore and being a trustee of the Institute for Neuroscience and Consciousness Studies.

          I’d say there were about seventy-five people in the room.  The first poet was a cute young guy, Daniel C. Ramos, from Midland, founder of the Amarillo Poetry Slam, who stood before the lectern and performed several slam pieces that I found very moving.

          Second was Del Cain (Saginaw, TX) who has been coming to the AIPF for twelve years, has written non-fiction, including “Lawmen of the Old West” and is a member of the DFW writers workshop.  He, too, stood in front of the lectern and read short, pithy poems.

          Third was India-Rassner Donovan, dressed in a long mauve sundress and coral shawl with a gray braid down to her waist. She only began writing poems when her son was in Iraq.  She is a lives in Bastrop, a suburb of Austin, on Dancing Turkey Sanctuary, where she and her husband “compose, garden, sing and weave together.” She is in the “healing community” and a VP of the Austin Poetry Society. 

          I was next. I went behind the lectern, where I could set up my books and loose pages. I’d worn my black top with rhinestone trim that looks (to me) like an angel.  I chose to read a variety of different styles and different voices, settling on eight of the forty poems I’d culled from the hundreds I’ve written in the last forty-five years.  I think I did okay. I didn’t drop dead from a heart attack and when I took my seat, the woman next to me said, “good job.”

          Last was Mary Margaret Carlisle, who also went behind the podium. She has straight white hair, bangs, and wore a black blazer encrusted with various pins, which I late saw were from different poetry organizations. She lives in Webster and is very much an agitator for poetry, getting Barnes & Noble at two Houston locations to offer their space for twice-a-month critique groups and readings.

          I felt happy and full and was ready to leave when the MC announced there would now be open mic!  Some of the audience left but as I was seated in the middle of a row I stayed as long as I could until I had to pee.  In the restroom I ran into Mary Margaret where she told me about herself.   

          I went back into the room and endured through the rest of the readings.  A previous poet Laureate of TX was quite good – damn if I know his name, I’ll have to wade through the program to find it; last was a gangly young black man with pulled-back dreadlocks. He put his laptop on the lectern and read some deep, dark emotional poems from his experiences in the Marines.

          By now it was 10:00 PM and I was pooped. Outside music was booming from several locations and sky scrapers were lit up in red, yellow and gold. Ack! It just made me want to crawl into a hole! I found the freeway entrance right away and cursed Google that the directions to the venue had been so round-about. 

          Cars were flying on the freeway, the ten miles to my hotel. I squinted against the bright lights and gripped the steering wheel, trying to take deep breaths and remain calm.  Oh no! Almost got off at exit 244A instead of 245A!  My good little car waited then accelerated so I could squeeze back in. By the time I got out of the car my hands were shaking.

          I was too wired to go to sleep right away. I’d turned the A/C down to 72 when I left and turned it up to 75 when I went to bed, so the room was relatively quiet as I read Half Broke Horses on my Kindle until 12:30.  I turned out the light, laid on my side and closed my eyes. I was just about to fall asleep when I heard two clicks. What’s that? I wondered, and then WHOOSH the air conditioner – along the floor below the window, about three feet from my bed came on, blasting cold, noisy air into the room. Even with it running I was hot. I threw off the coverlet, and had just a sheet over me. I tried lying on my stomach but could not navigate the dips and bumps of the “pillow top” mattress. Turning on to my stomach, I could get one breast in one of the holes but the other was mashed beneath me.  And what was the bright light illuminating the room? The clock!  I threw a pillow over it and other over my head and tried to sleep. But I didn’t. Finally, at 6:00 am I got up and turned the A/C completely off. Slept for an hour. When I woke up, the room was 77 and I felt queasy. (Back home, John told me when he’s in this situation he turns the A/C down to 68, so that it will just run all night – not cycle on and off – and heaps blankets on himself.)

          I decided I should take advantage of the pool so I went downstairs and took a dip in extremely warm water.   I made the water seem relatively cool by going in the hot Jacuzzi then returning to the pool for a few more laps.  It did help clear my brain, a bit.

          After a shower I ventured into the breakfast room which was packed with teenagers participating in the state final track meets.  I took Raisin Bran back to the room and ate at the desk.  I knew I could not go through one more night like this so I checked out.

          I found the location for my workshop relatively easily: a nice big upstairs banquet room with round tables. Six people were there! Their faces immediately cheered me.  Anne, my friend Diane’s high school friend, had come from about 45 minutes away. (I’d contacted her and asked if she’d come so that if no one else showed up I’d have someone to talk to!)   I only needed an hour for my lesson so I asked if the group would mind if we did two exercises. When I heard the Response Poems they wrote my heart filled. There is practically nothing I love more than teaching, especially poetry, because the writers are so willing to bare their souls. Plus, their writing was good!

          A few more poets had straggled in, so we had eight for the Poems for Two Voices (four teams), plus Anne, and the husband of one of the participants.  I was thrilled to meet Wendy from Minnesota, who is staying in a hostel and taking the bus to the various events, and Rosemarie who came from Ohio.  I was so happy to see everyone dive right in to the two-part assignment and perform their poems for us. We ran a bit late, so their reading ran into the Open Mic where more poets showed up, including Tantra Zawadi, one of the National Readers, from New York, was resplendent in an orange African blouse and skirt. Her honey-colored dreadlocks fell around her forehead and shoulders like a fur cape.  On her wrists many bangles clinked and jangled as she recited a poem about an African lesbian who was raped by a man who though it would “straighten her out.” 

          Many of us exchanged cards and talked about websites for poets and writers.  The Open mic morphed into City Readings, where more people arrived but by now it was 1:30 and I was hungry so Anne and I went downstairs to eat and chat.  Thank for you lunch Anne!  We plan to get together again. She’s lived in Texas twenty years and wants me to see New Braunfels and other places I know nothing about. 

          I’d missed the Tap-estry show, which was a shame, but the morning was fulfilling.  I didn’t regret not sticking around for the evening reading because I was just too damn tired!  I was a little sad to miss Jena Kirkpatrick’s Sunday workshop on Poetry in Schools, but I had chatted with her a little at Ruta Maya and will keep in touch. Texas does not have a statewide organization like California Poets in the Schools. Jean works through Badgerdog an Austin arts organization. I’m pretty much on my own over here in Kerrville, but I’m not discouraged. Just this week the local paper ran the photo and article Tom Daniels elementary submitted about my 4^th grade class there, and ran the article I submitted about me being a State Featured Poet at the AIPF.  I’m getting my name out there!  Plus, I’ll be teaching this summer at the Krok Center. Eventually I’ll get Poetry Out Loud going. I know I will!

          It wasn’t easy staying awake on the drive home, what with the pretty hills lulling me and my sleep deprived brain wanting to turn off. I listened to some funny Garrison Keillor and David Sedaris and pulled into the driveway exactly two hours after I’d left.

          Walter was ecstatic to see me, licking and licking me. Audrey let me see her but kept her distance until later when we could have a private reunion in the bedroom.  John let me talk! for about half an hour – suddenly I got a burst of energy when I started recounting my trip.  He

informed me our 25-year old refrigerator had finally died. He had it before we met and it spent the last ten years as the patio fridge in Coarsegold, so it served us well.  

          We went out to dinner at Billy Gene’s. I was so happy to be on roads that had only half-a-dozen cars on them! I felt like I could finally let down my vigilance.  After dinner we went to Lowe’s and priced refrigerators, settling on a low-cost Whirlpool. Supposedly we’ll save $200 a year on our electricity bill because these new models are so much more efficient.  

          John wanted to go to the market for ice but I was fading fast so he dropped me off before he went out again.  I don’t think my bed as ever felt so good! The air conditioning was positively genteel when it came on a few times in the night, whispering cool air across my face. I slept well, woke up refreshed and watched a charming CBS Sunday Morning, all about animals, with my canine, feline and human companions within touching distance. Ah, home!