Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Welcome to WordPlay's Blog.

We'll be posting here to provide listeners of WordPlay, WPVM's program by and about poets and writers, with additional materials to expand and enhance their listening experience.

1 comment:

Gee said...

Poetic Piece Work

Mad respect for WordPlay. Here is a Big Ups to this station for providing a poetic airway in these mountains. Yet, extending its reach beyond the Blue Ridge to a varied assortment of poets and inviting their particular verbal flavor and unique blend of words. No matter from where on the map these poets spring, they understand their voice, rhythm and musicality rings out a soul embedded yes.

I am born to a rich Afro-Carolinian oral tradition and I come from a long line of griots, storytellers, yarn-spinners and singers. My poetic work involves learning how to sing a poem into being, while including a driven personal narrative. In other words I do piece-work like my mama, grandma and great-grandma did back in the day, when putting together a quilt out of need to keep the family warm in winter. My work keeps me and helps me make meaning of the world and my place in it.

Poets on WordPlay help in our time of greatest need, not only by providing warmth but by keeping the listener alive with a conscious flame and stirred. This is our work. I not only recognize but embrace WordPlay for restoring ancient rituals but for providing a door, an opportunity for listeners to dial in and sit down and listen to folk Play in old and new ways. Listen as poets lend the blankets of their varied voices strutting, shouting, whispering, wailing, crying, proclaiming, rocking and soothing all with words fanning like a brilliant spread across the air.

Poetic Piece for Peace,
Glenis Redmond


Women in my family harness, harbor and hold.
Women in my family carry, clutch and clench.
In our cinching we breed stones.
Our bodies create our own version of rocks.
Chips, mounds and mountains of regret
built from swallowing anger whole.
Anger with many mouths but no voice.
We bury cement fists in soft pink bowls
nestling bullets as we stand at the lip of our longing.
At these cliffs, boulders block yearning
barricade crimson blood gates
cramping freedom.

I've been told stones are sacred beings.
I've been told each holds a story at the core.
Each rock possesses a song
that can soften the struggles of this life.
I collect these rocks too.
Hold their weight willing them to warm my world .
But for the stones within I resist their terrible songs
tremble upon hearing their truth
tending to what was not taught
to me in my youth,
truth and tenderness.
I always wanted tender words
at a tender age.

I've been told each rock has a dream
that can whisper purpose,
a reason for being.
We, me, women in my family
Redmonds, Todds, Baileys and Latimores
live lives in hope whispered purpose and dreams
that our rock gardens will give birth to blooms
awaken to colors beyond stone
so we can wear shades other than gray
in each and every deliberate step we take.