Rosemary Nissen-Wade: Texas Poetry Trip

Lamesa, West Texas

2010-07-09T23:57:00.044+10:00

On April 28th 2006, I emailed Andrew asking him to send Reiki to Thom and me for our coughs, and to Forrest Fest, Lamesa for joy and success of the Festval. Forrest Fest is an arts festival, featuring music, poetry and visual arts, started in 2000 by Connie Williams who is herself talented in all those art forms. An extra source of excitement for me was that Connie had invited me to participate in a Beltane ritual with local witches.

'No sweat,' replied Andrew. 'Sent Reiki all last night to you. Will send to you both today.'

I replied:

Great, thank you. Did OK at ritual, need voice for poems especially Saturday.

Last night at Austin saddish. Cafe Caffeine had no audience, but my dear Rhie (22-yr-old performance poet) came just to say goodbye, taking time off work, and we exchanged email addresses. She read from Ginsberg, great stuff. Neil also came to say goodbye; we sat and yarned. Then Thom and I drove from 10pm to 4.30am, me staying awake to keep him awake.

Here we are in the desert with great people.

May be able to email briefly more often. Home so soon now!!!!

These are my kinda witches here; we muddled around a bit, laughed a lot, improvised, changed the plans made over many months, spoke well — and raised power. When we invoked the wind, it roared. At the end, a coyote howled.

On April 30th I said:

Hi darlin'

We just finished Forrest Fest. I am sitting in a loungeroom full of featured poets sitting around drinking (mostly soft) and chatting, at Connie's, where we all came back to. Thom's going to drive to Austin tonight to be back for Neil's birthday party tomorrow.

I won the anthology poetry contest, prize $100. I met more wonderful people, new friends for life. Amazing contact with a highly psychic couple. Heard great poems and music. This morning at Connie's request I conducted the tree dedication/blessing. Everyone said how beautifully I spoke. This surprised me; I just said what came. We danced around the tree (globe willow sapling) afterwards.

The people here at Lamesa (pronounced Lameesa by the locals) are very down to earth; suits my Aussie soul - as I told 'em from the stage tonight. I am sad in some ways to be leaving soon.

Clarence (witch/poet) suggested they should keep me here and not let me go. Instead, he and his wife will come to plane Monday to see me off.

I did an amazing psychic reading yesterday for Tony, the 'cowboy poet' and came up with astonishing shared past life!!! And he already knew about it!

The world is full of wonders. I was so definitely meant to be here, in so many ways. Not all clear yet. Psychic poet today (Alan) says it will all come clear shortly after I go home.

Looking forward to seeing you and friends. But I am different.

I gave away my old Voyager deck and got new one, while still in Austin.

My hair is growing a bit long and is faded ginger now. I bought elastic sided lace-up boots today for $2 at garage sale. The bug is getting better slowly; I managed to go on and be great, and snuffling and coughing rest of time (Thom same).

Getting back to party now. Luv ya
R

and later:

Party over some time ago, luvverly music was played. (Romantic, and my mind wandered pleasantly to you!) Connie & Tony & I bin sitting around yarning, v. ready for bed now. Some poets/musos staying at motel may come for breakfast here tomorrow.

I am very happy here - not on the ecstatic high of Austin area, more down-home. My glamour has pretty much gone, and it doesn't matter, these are down to earth people and I love 'em. Well of course, this is a small town and not a city, so I would be at home here.

Again I have made friends for life, soul brothers and sisters.

Night-night, see you soon.

xxx

*************************************************

Connie and I had been corresponding by email before I left Australia, thanks to Thom putting us in touch, and already 'clicked'. We really felt like soul-sisters when we found out we'd both dyed our hair deep red in the same week.

Her home had several extra bedrooms; Thom and Tony and I were all staying there. It was luxuriously comfortable, and her computer was always on and available for her guests to send emails, and her kitchen table laden with all kinds of hearty, help-yourself food.

In person I discovered her to be a tiny, dynamic woman: warm, down-to-earth and very talented. She had a degree in music, played guitar, sang, and even wrote her own songs as well as being a wonderful poet.

The first morning of Forrest Fest, Connie, Thom and Tony left early to entertain people in an old folks' home. Not being the least bit musical myself, I slept in instead, which I very much needed after our long ride across Texas to get there.

That evening we did our thing in a local café, to the bemusement of some of the locals and the enthusiasm of most. By then we were joined by several other poets from Austin and San Antonio, such as Rod Stryker, Philip , 'Hippie Rick', and musician-poets Kathleen Romana of La Tazza Fresca, Fred Williams, Paula Held and Steve Brooks. Paula's voice in particular was hauntingly beautiful; I could have listened forever.

The park where we held the tree planting coincided with a gathering of people dressed up in medieval garb. We went to say hello to them afterwards and admire their costumes.

Ruta Maya

2010-07-09T23:28:00.002+10:00

The night at Ruta Maya was two events in one. There was a reading inside the large cafe space. I put my name down and got a spot in the 'open section', but mainly I enjoyed hearing another group of excelent poets I hadn't encountered before. One man, Maslow, read a poem about lovemaking which I thought every man who doesn't know how to please a woman should read! I asked him for a copy. He emailed me one after I returned to Australia, and I reciprocated with my famous C*** poem.

After the reading ended, Thom took me out to the veranda, where a group of musos improvised enthusiastically late into the night. Thom improvised poetry against this background; a young woman danced. I was so carried away with it all that at one point I actuallly leapt into the circle and improvised four lines — after which, being me, I sat down and wrote them out. I wandered off by myself to do so, and caught myself feeling melancholy. Suddenly I had had enough of being in a city. I shook it off, went back to the musos, and sat and 'drummed' vigorously all night, tapping my fingers on the tops of my legs and pounding my heels on the floor.

Improv at Ruta Maya
with Thom and musicians, April 25 2006

Poetry pours from his pores.
On the veranda at Ruta Maya
he shouts it out with the music.
I can’t hear particular words,
only a wall of sound, the beat
of drums and guitars. I jump
into the circle, jig and yell
my sudden homesick longing
to be away from the city, any
city, even Austin where poetry
dances at night accompanied
by fast, insistent music. Then I sit
next to a drummer I know and
clap my hands and click my heels
all night in a rhythmic trance.
A girl of sinuous grace enters the
pounding ring of sound, performs
intricate visual poems of dance
and flowing gesture. Sometimes
one or another man, drawn in
to the pull of her rhythms, joins
to partner her briefly, then retires.
She alone sustains the weaving forms.
The music too never stops, though
this musician or that may pause
for a moment’s rest. Thom smiles
and shakes his rattles, watching
it all, perceiving macrocosm
(‘She is the poetry’) and microcosm:
a path needed for a wheelchair here,
a drummer there growing tired,
a new young guitarist to welcome.
And every so often he leaps up,
joins the circle, dances with his hands
and shouts his spontaneous poetry.

POSTSCRIPT

I write the date of these events,
subtitling the poem, and see
it was Anzac Day at home. Far
from home, I spared no thought
for wars and heroes, old or new.
It was air and forest, light and ocean
I missed … as now I miss the joy
of the strong, never-failing beat,
that family of laughing musos
whose warmth included me,
at Ruta Maya in Austin, Texas,
on a soft, unsettling night
in the middle of Spring.

The Festival

2010-07-09T22:12:00.021+10:00

On the 25 of April 2006 I was surprised to receive the following email from Andrew:

Dearest Rosemary,
I apologise for my last email. Maybe it was because of Anzac Day. Also yesterday I found myself under psychic attack twice. And it all got the better of me. And my computer clock is up the creek. It's actually 6.20am. I'm fine today. Have a great Beltane Ritual and Forrest Fest.
Love you XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX A

I responded:

Have no idea what yr last said, as it is no longer in my inbox. They only stay coupla days and I have not been able to log on since Thursday. Am now at Neil and Dorsey's briefly, having had opportunity to do session 2 of Voice Dialogue, and begged use of the spare Mac laptop — before going on to open mic at The Hideout tonight.

Glad you are fine now.

SLIGHTLY LATER: Had another look, found the previous after all. Oh dear, I am sure it must be hard for you. I am over here having all the fun! Won't be long now, luv u too, heaps n heaps. And despite the fun starting to feel a wee bit homesick.

But anyway, must seize chance to tell you all about Festival. Yet more skiting!!!

As you know I was one of the featured poets selected to perform at Opening Ceremony, an audience of renowned poets — rather different from the venues around town. I was on early — with The Dress, naturally. I was SO nervous, and nearly fluffed lines coupla times in the Down Under poem (which I will send copies of to people when I get back). Most of the audience was listening expressionlessly but attentively. Scary! Only one guy was killing himself laughing (silently), and my few pals there — e.g. Neil, Patricia, Christine, and Patricia's friend Agnes Meadows, featured poet from London — were beaming love and encouragement, but otherwise I couldn't tell how I was going. I followed it with Vagabond and The Goddess Without (we only got a 5 min sample reading each). Luckily all got great applause. Neil came up after and said, 'You did good!' and Rod Stryker, my host at one of the San Antonio readings, clapped my arm approvingly. But I really did not know how I had gone — in fact knew it was my worst performance so far — until next morning when Anne and Sally from Kerrville picked me up and went to the registration venue, and a man sitting there told me had written about me on his blog that morning. I asked what he had said, and he told me, 'Oh just that you were the highlight of the Opening Ceremony.' (Not to mention this GORGEOUS — and very young — black slam poet, male of course, who said, 'Hey, dahlin', where you reading next?' Ooh, instant melt!) And all through the Festival various renowned poets expressed delight in my work and/or regret they had not been able to hear more — as after the Opening, venues were scattered all over town at same time and we could not all get to hear everyone else.

After the Opening, Patricia and I and her guest Agnes were all on at a bookshop — and it went very late and was tiring ... and a few more people of all ages and genders fell in love with me. One old man said he had the title of his next poem about me, something about bodaceous bazooms!

To return to Opening Ceremony, a well-known woman musician-poet around town who was introduced to me there, said, 'Oh, Rosemary — you're a legend! Welcome back to Texas.' I said, 'It's my first visit,' and she said that she had heard so much about me and read my name so often that it felt as if I was already part of the Austin family for a long time.

I moved into the Austin Motel a few days as guest of the Festival — very small room after the luxury I've been used to, and I moved back to house-siting Patricia's friend Kate's place Saturday night, more convenient for Patricia to drive me around Sunday (yesterday). But the resaurant next to motel was real good, authentic Mexican which I like so much better than Tex Mex. Great to see Anne and Sally, who took me about on Friday, and Anne and I read together at The Hideout that afternoon as part of the Festival. It was a most exciting reading, some great poetry. I am also outrageous in audience, and stamp and whoop and yell for the good ones, and clap till my hands hurt.

(Just had phone call with you — so great! Glad you rang.)

I found out a while back that witches in Texas do wear their pentacles, and in Austin often visibly, so went and got one — silver, very good price, smaller than the one I left home, and I love it and wear it all the time now, and all the witches around the place (many of them poets) are delighted. Agnes is another. She says The Dress is a Hogwarts gown! She is a wonderful, bawdy, witty lady who writes great poetry. Patrcia kept saying, 'You'll love Agnes!' I didn't know the half of it. We have chummed up like mad, and she wants me to go to England next and be part of her women writers' network. She didn't join me in Kate's house though as she wanted to be in with Patrica, her great pal for years. Suits me; I like the place to myself, and they are close enough, just across the lawn. We three wicked women together are dangerous, I tell ya! Well, would be except the others have been fairly ill with coughs and Reiki only relieving symptoms temporarily.

They drove me about on Saturday and Agnes and I read at same venue in the arvo. Evening, there was a reception, with the three biggest stars reading. Apart from The Dress, the most successful clothes have been the pieces I got from Ariba. In fact everything I brought has been good, and The Coat of The Dress very versatile. The hair has faded to auburn — very pretty actually. The shampoo Parvati sold me refreshes it when needed and it is still magenta enough to work with poems referring to it. So on this occasion I opted for quietly elegant glamour!

Anyway, one big star was Russian born Ilya Kaminsky, both sweet boy and unique, brilliant poet. I bought his book; he said, 'You're the one who made that wonderful rhyme we've all been talking about.' (vestibule/festival, from the Down Under poem). Now that is high praise! My cup runneth over.

Another nice man was Eddie Tay from Singapore whom I met first of all as I registered. Oh and so many other people; I have lots of email addresses. I particularly bonded with Marian Haddad, very beautiful woman and beautiful poet, Arab-American, living in San Antonio. She writes a lot of woman-centred stuff so of course liked my work, as I hers.

I left out account of Poets' Forum on Saturday arvo before our reading. Five of the big stars discussing a quote from Brecht which implied we should be writing about issues rather than pretty things about trees. All spoke well. When audience comments/questions were called for, I was first up and pointed out that trees are an issue now and how guilty I feel about paper, and asked if they had any ideas, e.g. should we all go to computer only. Most panellists said how they love books; the Chinese lady, Zhang Er, said in China they make paper from grass, which excited me, but later she told me it is not very good quality paper.

One way and another I have become repoliticised as a poet via this Festival; so much discussion of what we as poets might do to help our troubled planet. And so many great political poems aired!

I withdrew from the Dead Poets' Slam Friday night, just did not feel easy about presenting Michael Dransfield's work in that context. Nancy (organiser) eventually said, 'It's meant to be fun, not torture' and accepted my withdrawal — which freed me to go off that evening and play with some witches (non-poets) of which more another time. Patricia sent Rod Stryker to pick me up at motel Saturday morning to get me to a venue she was hosting, poetry and music. I got to just listen, and it was beautiful.

Sorry I am getting this all out of order.

Back to Reception. After the readings it was eat, drink and mingle. An arm came around me, and it was Anne Schneider, teary and saying a final goodbye. Had great time with her and Sally Friday; had gone to Reception mainly in hope of seeing her but didn't until just then. They were not staying for the Sunday poetry brunch, so that was it. I was sad too, despite knowing we'll be in touch for life. It's not the same.

The poetry brunch was not like it sounded — was a reading upstairs of cafe, no food provided, we had to order our own. Staff (volunteers) not properly informed, and snowed under. It worked out in the end. Agnes was reading. She asked at one point did we want sex, trees or anti-war. People dithered and muttered coupla minutes, till this Aussie larrikin at the back of the room put her hands to the sides of her mouth and yelled, 'SEX!' Everyone looked around and laughed; it was what they had all been wanting to say.

At the end, I was sitting with coupla middle-aged men outside waiting for my lift. They were discussing whether another bloke was going to succeed in chatting up this gorgeous young woman poet, whom many ment had been trying to chat up. I had seen her Thurs. night with very nice boyfriend, and had given her some discreet mentoring on not apologising for her verses when reading. So what happens? She flies downstairs, falls into my arms and begs to know where I'm reading next. (Have I got it or have I got it?!) Then I get to hug goodbye the rather nice bloke who was hoping to chat her up, on the grounds of being an older woman who can be allowed such familiarities!

My lift I was waiting for was this lovely Reiki Master who took me off to participate in Reiki shares. Different way of working, but luvverly. Just what I needed by then. I got great foot massage too!

Sunday night (last night) party at Patricia's — Thom and Wendy, Christine, Neil, Patricia's neighbour Kathleen, coupla visiting British poets, and an activist publisher called Susan Bright. I drank too much red wine and ate too much of everything. Great! Poor Agnes went to bed instead but is feeling better today.

And then I got invitation to come here and do second session of Voice Dialogue which was just great.

And now Neil will take me off to the venue, where Patricia and Agnes will be too, and my gorgeous young female fan, then later back home to Kate's place. Don't know when I'll be near a computer again. Can't make Patricia's or Kate's work for Gotalk. Hope to sort out books tomorow; going up to Lamesa with Thom late Wednesday after Cafe Caffeine. Some other friends will be going there too. Ruta Maya tomorrow night; improv venue. I MAY get game to have a go....

Luv & many xxx
R

Book Launch and Cafe Caffeine

2010-07-09T15:26:00.019+10:00

I must be the world's worst procrastinator! It is over four years since my memorable Texas poetry tour, and nearly two years since I posted here! OK, with the intention of wrapping up fast now, a typos-and-all email to Andrew, sent him on 21 April '06:

Hi

Grabbing free access real fast in cafe. All is well. Motel ridic
small. May move back to Patricia's neighbour's soon. Will play by ear. Not
home anywhere much next few days.

Book launch Tues was most enjoyable tho few people and already converted.
After reading answered lots of questions about Oz.

Cafe Caffeine last night pure heaven. Thom said, a conversation in poetry.
I didn't know what he meant. Didn’t wear Dress, saving it for today; nice
to be just me in old black daks anmd T-shirt, jumping round with poets &
musos. It was anyone jump up and do something, if youy have a response to9
it do that - or whateveryou like. Fantatsic young poets, I felt
outclassed. But they all whooped and cheered for me too. First poet did
thing about koalas, so I jumped up next and said I knew it was true cos 'I
am the poet from Down Under...' They ended up nicknaming me 'Down Under'.
Even bettr than Hideout, lots of same crowd, by now I have a community of
friemnds here. Might evenbe game to do improv any time soon.
Wroteexuberant doggerel about being in lovewith all these Texans and did
that to improv music behind me. Loved it like mad.

Sorry typos, in great haste, must go to Opening Ceremony at Festrival real
soon.

Luv R

To expand on that hasty email —

My book launch, hosted by BookWoman on Tuesday 18th April (2006!) was, as the management had feared, attended by very few people even though both Thom and I had tried to drum up an eager audience. In fact it consisted almost entirely of people who had already heard me read and bought my book, who came in order to support me — and very grateful to them I was, because without them there'd have been no event. Even one of the students from my Schreiner University gig turned up. Despite the small attendance, or perhaps because of it, it was a fun night in the tradition of 'the show must go on' followed by a no-holds-barred (though very friendly) question and answer session.

People were always interested to find I grew up in Tasmania, a place some had considered mythical! On this occasion, one gay woman who had once visited Australia said she'd avoided Tasmania because of its reputation for intolerance. I was happy to be able to report that Tassie had come a long way since those bad old days. Its attitudes were certainly nothing to be proud of then, but now things are very different. The leader of one of our political parties, the Greens, is an out-of-the-closet gay Tasmanian man, much admired for his personal qualities in his own State as well as the rest of the country.

Doing my thing at BookWoman
to a small but devoted audience.

One of my most vivid memories of the Cafe Caffeine night is of meeting Shana Young. I didn't know who she was when Thom inttroduced us, saying something to the effect that we'd be wanting to connect. But we both looked at each other a little puzzled, wondering how we knew each other. We didn't — but when Thom added, 'Witchy, witchy!' I said, 'So it's true that we always recognise each other!'

We had little chance to talk then, and never saw each other again, but chummed up later on MySpace, being enormous admirers of each other's poetry and personas. She blew me away at Cafe Caffeine with her signature piece, 'Texas Girl', a no-punches-pulled performance poem. On MySpace, later, she published some chapters of her own version of her own initiative, The Book of I Like. Thom told me that after she created the idea, she then created empty volumes and gave them to writers and artists she knew to fill in their own ways. I loved the idea and have written some chapters of my own. It's an ongoing exercise; there'll be more.

And here's my doggerel referred to in the email to Andrew:

Texas Love Poem

I am in love with a long, tall Texan
with deepset eyes, and he talks like Elvis.
A man of the desert who plays with rattlers,
raises wolves and drives a truck —
right outa my life, just my luck!

I am in love with a Southern gentleman,
whose accents caress me like his soft blue eyes.
A guitar-playing, bearded honey of a man.
Alas for me, he’s in love with his wife.

I am in love with a tough Texas girlfriend
who drives a mean poem to the back of the room.
I am in love with a beautiful singer
who mines true gold from a tiny drum.

I am in love with the town of Austin.
Texas is the place I long to get lost in.

I am in love with all of you.
I’m comin’ back if it’s the last thing I do!

19/4/06

Workshop at Ventana del Soul

2008-11-08T00:30:00.006+11:00

On April 17th (2006) I emailed Andrew:

Dearest A

Here is my latest gig report:

Last night I presented a writing workshop at a place called Ventana del Soul. Several of the people who turned up for it were in their twenties, there was one young, shy girl in her teens (a definite Indigo child, rather similar to X in energy though not so brash and wild), and a few somewhat older women.

Thom was in charge - well I was, but he was hosting it. And the three lovely young men who run the café that sends bagels to the homeless were there too. Some of the youngsters were poets I heard at the Hideout, that very energetic venue I enjoyed so much.

Well, we had great fun! This was not an occasion for The Dress; I turned up in a cherry red Forrest Fest t-shirt received from Connie since coming here ... not that it would have mattered what I wore. Thom had told me to trot out lots of exercises, everything I knew. I didn't quite include everything in only 2 hours, but we did lots. It was joyous and deep and magickal and hilarious. People wrote all sorts of great stuff and were

thrilled with what they got. Raw material for lots of new poems! Many pieces were already poems. I incorporated some of the stuff I'd done the day before at Interplay, slightly altered for a writing context. Everyone hugged me goodbye and gave me lots of thanks. Some who couldn't get there till late because of work and things were very sorry after the event to have missed any of it.

A, who is the mother of the Indigo girl, thanked me for helping her daughter to express herself. The girl did have difficulty at first, but ended up sharing much of what she wrote (in the most beautiful, naturally husky voice).

I sold one book and got $6 in my tip jar. Just as well I am having such a ball! And being looked after in terms of food, transport and accommodation by generous hosts. When I exclaimed to Thom about people's generosity, he said, 'Well, you're our guest. And it's a measure of who you are. People like you.' He added that these will be friends for life; I already know that. He said he's met here the nicest, best people anywhere, and I can believe him (though I myself do know some pretty good ones at home too!).

Since leaving for Texas I have been able to be very much in the moment most of the time. It's interesting. I think that accounts for a lot of my success and the warm encounters.

This afternoon I am participating as her guest in a workshop Dorsey is running on Voice Dialogue. I think it will dovetail rather nicely with our Reiki II lessons which we finished yesterday.

And so the adventure continues. Thom reminds me there is still more to come! Though I am also starting to do the countdown to going home, being about at the halfway point right now.

Well, don't know how often I'll be able to do reports from now on; will do the best I can.

Time for breakfast now!

Jacob's Well

2008-05-15T22:32:00.008+10:00

Ah, I did mean to finish this record of my visit to Texas while it was still only two years ago! Life gallops on apace; see my SnakyPoet blog. But, to resume ...

Back in Austin, after Anne kindly drove me all the way 'home' again to Neil and Dorsey's, I spent most of the afternoon of Saturday April 15th catching Wendy up with the details of Reiki I, hand positions and things like that which are difficult to teach 'in absence'. I had attuned her and Thom 'in absence' while I was still in Australia. Like many people, they were content to have only Reiki I, which gives the ability for basic hands-on treatments. 'Your medicine kit in your hands,' my Reiki Master used to say.

In the late afternoon Wendy left and I began teaching Dorsey Reiki II, the technique for healing in absence. Neil joined us part of the time, as my assistant and also to refresh his own Reiki II skills, as it was a long time ago that he learnt – about the same time I did, from the same teacher!

Then came Sunday, a fun day. Here's my email to Andrew:

'Well, today turned out to be a play day! Patricia Fiske phoned this morning to invite me to brunch. She said there was also a party up at Jacob's Well that she wanted to take me to. Dorsey said it would be good for her to shift the Reiki II lessons to tomorrow, so off we went. Neil came to brunch, and Thom was awaiting us there too, at Maria's Taco Express, a funky joint which the locals love. They also all love Maria, a feisty Argentinian who alas was not there today.

'Thom brought me Texas boots – slightly too large but I wouldn't want them to be much smaller, and I can wear thicker socks with them.

'Patricia is 79, a lady full of laughter. We were sitting under trees. She was wearing a long white summer dress with open neck and low back. A young man from the table behind us said to her, "There's a leaf falling down your dress," and proceeded to reach down the back neckline to retrieve it. She leaned back in her chair and said, in those caressing Southern tones I have mentioned people having, "Darlin', you just reach as far as you like." How I envied her aplomb! Turned out he was a massage therapist, so she and I both got a great free shoulder rub in response to her flirtatiousness.

'She says she thinks elderly women – who are considered past all that – should try to re-educate people. She mentioned a young man friend of hers whom she finds very attractive, who has no such notions about her and wants to talk to her about his girlfriend. "You should have seen what latched on to me after Celebration Circle," I said, describing a gorgeous young man who did exactly that. "Put his arms around me and told me he loved me – but it was my wisdom he wanted." She said that in circumstances like that, she usually says (and you must imagine this very drawled and sexy, with a hint of laughter), "Watch it darlin', I've got a very short fuse." I'm taking lessons!

Jacob's Well is a way out of town, a natural watering hole set in paddocks and a bit of woodland. The property is available for hire, and this weekend it was hired by Body Choir, to celebrate one member's birthday. Patricia is in the choir, though hasn't been often lately because of knee trouble.There must have been about 150 people there. It's a dance group, and they work with Gabrielle Roth's rhythms. They were essentially hippies, though maybe weekend hippies. Patricia explained that some are really well off, others living in trailers – and it just doesn't matter. Many were in the medical professions, others artists of various kinds. They clearly love dancing. And there was lots of music happening spontaneously all over the place – guitars, drums, singing.

'I had a look at the well – deep and beautiful water in rock walls, with a surrounding creek – but didn't do the tricky climb down for a swim. We talked to interesting, welcoming people, drank wine, feasted, and participated in something called Interplay which was improvisation with movement, sounds, words and stories. Great stuff! I entered into it wholeheartedly and had a real ball. Also, I have been wishing to be able to do improv, so here was the Universe granting my request yet again.

'We tore ourselves away after dinner. Most people were camping overnight – and the owner of the property, David Bear, an old friend of Patricia's, would have given us free rooms in his house – but we both have commitments here [Austin] tomorrow. Went back to Patricia's a while and had a wine by the pool with her neighbour Kate and Kate's boyfriend Noel. Kate has made her home, at the back of Patricia's, available to me and another visiting poet, Agnes Meadows [from England]. I have an embarrassmdent of riches in places to stay, and chauffeurs for the Festival. I am staying at Austin Motel for the Festival nights: Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Anne Schneider, my hostess in Kerrville, will get me to some of my gigs; Patricia to others. Then back to Kate's for the few days between Festival and Lamesa.

'I may not have much access to computer/email after I leave here. But I want to go over there, and to find time to give Patricia some solid Reikis.

'Nearly dropping with tiredness.

'Luv & xxx'

Posting this blog now, I am remembering a lovely young woman in the party at Jacob's Well, who presented me with a heart-shaped grey stone as I was leaving, as a souvenir of the area. I still have it among my treasures, and smile at the recollections whenever I see it.

Kerrville: 2 – Sweet, peaceful days

2008-02-26T18:15:00.023+11:00

My time in Kerrville was the most delightful interlude. I fell in love with this pretty hill town. In my short time there I made some lovely friends whom I'll never forget.

I emailed Andrew: 'I must tell you about this man who has quite stolen my heart. His name is Mark, he is a close friend and neighbour of Harry and Anne, as is his wife Linda, whom I met and fell in love with first. She's a very artistic and also very down to earth lass from Ohio. Mark's a gentle giant with a soft, lazy voice. Oh boy is he loaded with charm!!! And oh boy am I a total sucker for it!!! After his first conversation welcoming me to Texas and saying all sorts of sweet things in that caressing voice, I asked Linda (whom he had an arm around at the same time), "Is this that Southern charm I've heard so much about?" She laughed and said, "It's what the rest of America thinks is the reason Texans wear boots." I looked puzzled. She explained: "Because the shit's so high." Anne and Harry tell me – which I can see – that in Mark's case, he does it laughing at himself, and actually does mean the sentiments of goodwill. ... I lap it all up like a schoolgirl."

Actually they were a devoted couple with eyes only for each other. Mark loved to play guitar and they both sang. 'Awesome voice' I emailed Andrew about Linda. She was also a well-known scrimshaw artist with commissions from all over the country. Scrimshaw is a traditional craft of etching on ivory or bone, carving a drawing and then rubbing paint in. Here are some links to Linda's beautiful work.

Mark and Linda have a building and renovating business. One night they took us to dinner in an old former railway station (no rail line any more), which they had rescued and restored with great authenticity after others had nearly wrecked it by turning it into a very ugly hamburger joint. Then they sold it to the present owners who run it as a beautiful restaurant. I had some lovely visits to their home too, just a few doors down from Anne and Harry's.

Then there was Donna. We clicked when we sat beside each other at the Poetry on the Patio night, and again during the mask workshop. She and her husband took me out one day to visit some of the surrounding places, including Enchanted Rock, the second largest monolith in world, next to Australia's Uluru. This was a magickal place of pink granite, the shape of which put me in mind of the top of Uluru.

As we approached it, it seemed to me large in width rather than height. It's nowhere near as high as Uluru, a sandstone formation which, Wikipedia tells us, 'stands 348 metres (1,142 feet) high (863 m/2,831 ft above sea level) with most of its bulk below the ground, and measures 9.4 km (5.8 miles) in circumference.'

But it's high enough! An official description says: 'The (Enchanted) Rock is a huge, pink granite exfoliation dome, that rises 425 feet above ground, 1825 feet above sea level, and covers 640 acres. It is one of the largest batholiths (underground rock formation uncovered by erosion) in the United States.'

It had a very otherworldly feeling, and indeed there are legends of spooky goings-on there, nevertheless its atmosphere seemed to me peaceful and friendly. We didn't climb it, which would have been strenuous I think, and we didn't allow enough time in any case, but it was very special to stand at the base, in an area of desert-like wilderness (a State Natural Area), drinking in the timeless peace. I loved the colour, too! Uluru turns many wonderful colours in changing light, but when you get up close to it the rock is black. Enchanted Rock is actually pink.

Before I left Kerrville, Donna, who has a deep interest in Native American culture, gave me two wonderful books: Who Speaks for Wolf, a learning story, and The Walking People, an oral history – precious volumes I would not even have known of otherwise, with much to teach people of any culture today.

There was Paula aforementioned, of the herbs and animals, who came for a picnic lunch by the river with Anne and me one day, and brought me more herbs and some tiny roses. We talked as if we had always known each other.

There was 'the other Ann Schneider', Harry's first wife. That was long ago, and now they relate like old friends, comfortably. She invited us to dinner while I was there, and we sat on her balcony watching the sunset and the almost-full moon.

There was Sally, an Englishwoman by birth, Anne's best friend, whom I saw more of during the Austin poetry festival a little later on, and who came to Australia last year to visit her brother who lives not too far away from us! They came to lunch at our place and I felt I was able to return a little of the wonderful hospitality I experienced in Texas.

Among her many talents, Anne is a Tai Chi teacher, and I attended one of her weekly classes that happened while I was there. She's a good teacher, not intimidating like those I had in the far past. I was surprised how quickly I picked it up again, after doing only a few classes 30-odd years before. I got all enthusiastic and told Andrew we must look for somewhere near home to do it – but that hasn't happened, and in fact I don't know of any classes nearby.

The next day Anne took me for a drive to a part of the countryside I hadn't looked at before. We sat and talked by the river, on an area of big, flat stones. I was excited to catch a glimpse of some deer over the other side, drinking. Alas, they hid themselves before I could take this picture:

She also showed me the local 'Stonehenge' built by a friend of the astronaut Alan Shepherd on Shepherd's land, in fulfilment of a vision Shepherd had while vieiwng the earth from space. There are a couple of Easter Island statues too. By no means as big as the originals, and certainly not constructed in the same way or from the same materials, but fun, and impressive in its own way. It made us smile to see tiny birds flitting in and out the structures.

Early Thursday evening I emailed Andrew: 'I just came from Uni talk/reading to small, lovely group of students and their vibrant teacher. Had great time. Some of Anne's friends who wanted to hear me again came too. Now out to dinner with a witch who did the workshop and wants to talk more. Back to Austin early tomorrow.'

The 'vibrant teacher' was Kathleen Hudson of Schreiner University. Kathleen is a fascinating woman with a great interest in Texas history and music, and is involved in innovative educational programs. Her official bio says that 'she founded the Texas Heritage Music Foundation in 1987 out of a commitment that stories and songs make a difference in the world.' She is in the English Dept. at Schreiner. The students were all poets too. It was a pleasantly informal gathering. I read them some pieces, they asked me a lot of questions, and to my great delight they also shared their work with me.

The witch, relatively new to Texas, was amused that in the Lone Star State she kept seeing our sacred symbol, the pentacle (a five-pointed star in a circle)!

She lived on a 6-acre property on what used to be an old ranch. Her place was surrounded by woodlands with lots of deer, and after dinner we stood at her fence watching them in the dark, throwing grain from a bucket to try and coax them near. Some did come fairly close, but they were skittish and shy, made sudden darts and then dashed away.

'We had a great night,' I emailed Andrew next day, 'Eating, as usual, very good food and drinking Australian wines (which are very highly regarded here, and most people try to get them in preference to any other kind).

'As I was going to bed I found myself having a bit of a weep at leaving Kerrville, where I have found true friendships that will last for life.

'This morning I cried a bit more as I packed. I walked down the few doors to Linda and Mark's and found them sitting out in their back yard over breakfast, watching the squirrels. They had just been talking about me, and were going to walk up to Anne and Harry's to say goodbye. Instead, they sat me down and gave me coffee and orange juice even though I'd already breakfasted, and I gave them a couple of goodbye gifts (Aussie coins to Mark, as he is fascinated by our animals). We had fond hugs and tender kisses. Then back to the Schneiders' to load up and give Harry a big hug goodbye. He said he was glad I came.'

Environmental magick

2007-10-15T09:25:00.002+10:00

It's Blog Action Day, Monday 15th October 2007 (my time), when bloggers all around the world – 14,000 or so, last I heard – are posting about the environment. What has that to do with my tour of Texas last year? Well, it wasn't only poetry that happened on that trip.

At Kerrville in particular, I felt a strong, mystical connection with the land itself. At home I have a conscious connection with nature spirits – those beings often called faeries – who are definitely not merely imaginary! In various ways my husband Andrew and I have worked with them for years. Some of this is recounted in our blog The Truth About Fairies.

My guest room at Anne and Harry's place (see previous post) had a balcony overlooking their back garden and a section of untended bush around the side of the house. I would sometimes sit out there alone and write or meditate, or simply enjoy the view.

I was surprised to notice that the nature spirits there made their presence known to me, showing themselves to my inner vision and communicating telepathically, not in words so much as feelings and the particular flavour of their energy. I realised I'd had some sort of unconscious expectation that only the nature spirits associated with my home locality would connect with me, not those in a place which I was only briefly visiting. I tuned in and asked why, and they told me that (a) it was an acknowledgment of all the work I had done in cooperation with nature spirits in Australia and (b) the world is all one, it is only we humans who see different parts of it as separate; the nature spirits all over the world are connected and in communication with each other.

It was a joy to be greeted by these special beings, who were indeed associated with that place in Kerrville. And it didn't stop there. They began imparting wisdom and insights. Some of the people I met in Kerrville, knowing that I also work as a psychic reader, consulted me in that capacity. I didn't cart my huge crystal ball overseas with me, but I did take a special crystal which is attuned to it, and I took my Voyager™ Tarot. For these readings, which took place on "my" balcony, I was also aware of the local nature spirits speaking to me, and through me. They were very special readings indeed! It's not an overstatement to say they had a sacred quality. Not only that, but certain Native American spirits also communicated with me – not nature spirits, but the spirits of people long dead. In one reading, I received information for my client concerning a Native American tribal leader I had no knowledge of. I described his face, and other details which made her think it must be a historically famous person of whom there was a local statue. A few days later she took me to see it. There were statues of other, less famous men there too, and I recognised one of them as the man I had seen in my vision.

"Why me?" I kept wondering. I gradually got in touch with a long ago past life when I was intimately connected with that land. I saw myself planting crops there. I understood that I was planting blue corn – a thing I didn't even know existed until I started sharing these visions with friends. To me the notion of blue corn seemed preposterous, but apparently it is commonplace in America. So I guess it was a kind of homecoming for me!

I also connected with witches in Texas, being one myself. Witchcraft is very much about care for the environment. We revere all life – theoretically at least. I guess it depends what you think is alive. At one ritual event I participated in (after I left Kerrville) I became excited to perceive that a nature spirit had entered into a small rock. I pointed this out to a man with whom I was setting up the ritual space, explaining that we should place this rock in the circle. He didn't get it. He made some remark about it looking a bit like a gnome, and humoured me about including it, but he obviously thought it was just a rock. (Though as to that "just", even rocks are themselves sentient beings ... in my understanding.) After the ritual, when we were dismantling the circle, I wasn't quick enough to stop this same man from kicking that rock carelessly aside. I was shocked at his disrespect, but he only shrugged. A little while later, he went to retrieve his thongs (I think they're called flip-flops in America) after doing the ritual barefoot. He was puzzled to find one had vanished inexplicably and didn't turn up no matter how we hunted.

Next thing, he exclaimed that he'd lost his pentacle, which he'd been using to try and pendulum the whereabouts of his footwear. This was more serious! The ground was fairly bare and the pentacle, though small, was shiny silver, yet no-one could see it anywhere. At this point I went aside and spoke telepathically to the local nature spirits, saying, "Hey guys, his shoe is one thing, but his pentacle is his sacred tool. That's not fair; he really needs it." Suddenly he said, "Here it is!" looking down at his feet – and there it was, to be sure, yet we hadn't seen it there a minute before.

Often even the most spiritually conscious people simply don't take into account the nature spirits who inhabit our world alongside us. Perhaps it's because most believe – as I did for many years – that such beings aren't real. I have learned a lot about them in the course of my psychic work over the years. I have learned that they have a role in looking after our earth and all its life forms. But now that the environment has suffered so much at human hands, they are retreating to what few areas of wilderness they can still find.

A remarkable woman called Machaelle Small Wright, who works closely with Nature on her property at Perelandra, has passed on, in her Garden Workbook, their request that we create sanctuaries for them if possible.

She suggests we find a suitable area, preferably near our garden (but it could be the top of a cupboard if that's all you've got) and rope it off or mark the boundary some way, then invite the nature spirits in. If you know how to test with pendulum or kinesiology, you can ask if they accept; or you can request a sign. [Wright gives detailed instructions and drawings in several of her books, to show you how to do kinesiology testing with your fingers. Not having that facility here, the pendulum and asking for a sign are my own suggestions, which also work.] This sanctuary should be a place where you guarantee no humans will physically intrude (though animals are fine). So if it's on your land, you'll have to let the weeds grow! If ever you need to dismantle the sanctuary, e.g. if moving house, please let the nature spirits know beforehand when this will take place, and perhaps invite them in advance to join you again when you get a new one set up.

You can use this sanctuary to build your relationship with Nature. Knowing the spirits are there, you can focus in your mind on that area when you wish to communicate with them, or even stand or sit near it. It's important for us to work in cooperation with the forces of Nature, for our own sakes and that of other life forms and the planet itself. There are many ways of doing so, and of caring for our environment. A conscious cooperation with the nature spirits is an often overlooked way which is remarkably easy to implement.

The pictures in this post are of Anne and Harry's back yard in Kerrville,

and the beautiful back gate of their magickal property.

Kerrville: 1

2007-10-12T23:56:00.003+10:00

First posted 8 October 2007

"Poetry on the Patio" and "Facing the Shadow"

Anne Schneider – poet, mask maker, doll maker and Tai Chi teacher – had been corresponding with me by email for some months ahead of my visit and we'd designed a workshop incorporating writing, mask-making and dance, for us to teach together. We had such easy rapport, we already felt as if we'd known each other always.

She picked me up from Neil and Dorsey's on Thursday the 6th, and drove me to her home in Kerrville, a pretty town in the hill country near Austin and San Antonio. Until I made the journey I had no idea what a long trip it was for her. Yet another example of generous Texas hospitality, and a mere foretaste of what was to come! It's hard to pick any one highlight of my Texas tour, which was so full of them, but my time in Kerrville was a very special interlude.

I emailed Andrew on the Friday:

"More lovely hosts and luxury accommodation here! Spanish style house and guest cottage in treed garden with rock pool and waterfall, in a suburb rather like the leafy parts of Eltham." [Eltham is a hill suburb of Melbourne, Australia.]

A section of Anne and Harry's garden

"As I type, Harry (Anne's husband) is practising his classical guitar downstairs; a mellow sound.

I have a big poetry reading tonight on Anne's capacious patio."

Anne had organized a reading featuring a number of local poets with me, the international visitor, as star turn, and plenty of non-reading audience members too, to enjoy the show. We had a buffet dinner first at a number of outdoor tables, then assembled in a courtyard area for the reading.

Then on the Saturday we had our one-day workshop.

Again, I'll quote from a detailed email to Andrew, written on Monday the 10th (interspersing a couple of poems mentioned):

" Well, what can I say? Anne and I are the soul-sisters we already knew we were from email communications. Harry is a simply lovely man, a retired lawyer who now plays classical guitar, practises daily, performs professionally at times, and wishes he had given his whole life to it instead of discovering it so late. He is a courteous, gentle person whose bookshelf contains items you have too and others you'd like. He and I like each other very much, have a quietly affectionate relationship, and yesterday he brought me home a lovely ornamental frog after hearing my green tree-frog poem the night before."

Celebration of the Green Tree-Frog

The small frog squats at night
in the track of the sliding door,
hunched below the level of the glass.
Lamplight turns him brown;
his eyes are amber beads.
He is carved stone
watching the moths.
They flutter above him,
little brown leaves
falling against the flywire
and twirling off.

In daylight the frog is green,
sticky and shiny with big webbed feet,
transparent as a leaf.
On top of the water tank
in the gap between pipe and filter,
just where the rain spills in,
he rests and celebrates.
When storms lash and the pipe gushes,
we hear from his tiny throat
a pulsing, continuous drum-beat
heavy and huge and deep.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1996

"Before the poetry night Anne and I went to visit her friend Paula who gave us lavender, flowering sage and irises to decorate the venue. She keeps cats, dogs, chickens, prairie dogs (a kind of squirrel without the bushy tail) and a miniature horse. We also saw this part of the Guadalupe River, which is truly a turquoise colour; you would not believe it if you saw it on a postcard. (Neil had prepared me for it already.) And at the health food shop I got an unscented roll-on deodorant. EVERYONE in Texas (it sometimes seems) has huge allergy problems including sensitivity to smells, and eventually Dorsey told me gently that my perfume was rather strong and perhaps I should try using essential oils instead. As that is what I do use, I identified the problem as the spray deodorant I brought from Oz, largely chemical-free but quite scented. Now I am fine and can go amongst people without causing distress!

The poetry reading on Friday was a great night, beautiful balmy weather on Anne & Harry's patio. A good crowd turned up, maybe two dozen, we weren't counting. Four other poets read for 10 minutes each, all good, one wonderful. (I swapped books with her later.) One woman read an amazing prize-winning poem by her 11-year-old grandson, profound stuff. The Dress – or should I say The Gown? – featured of course, to great acclaim. They liked me too. Some of my funnier pieces stopped the show, people laughed so hard and long. It got dark sooner than expected, so we ended up reading by torchlight but that was fine. Luckily I have memorised the more performancy pieces. I had wonderful conversations, and met one woman who is such a kindred spirit that we agree we have to keep in touch.

Seven of the same women, and one who had been unable to attend, turned up for the writing and mask workshop yesterday (Saturday). That too was a huge success. It is pretty amazing considering Anne and I mostly planned it by email with only a quick get-together about it Friday afternoon in between preparing for the reading. Afterwards people expressed surprise to have accomplished so much in one day. It was called Facing the Shadow. I introduced it, speaking about parts of the psyche, explaining the concept of the shadow, and reading a couple of my poems that came from some strange, unfamiliar aspect of my persona. Only later I discovered one of the group was a professional psychologist! But she was gracious, saying she had long noticed that writers already know a lot of this stuff she trained in.

Anne used me as demonstration model for casting a mask, then I got to watch as the participants paired up and cast each other under her supervision. With fast drying plaster it took only half an hour to make a cast.

We broke for lunch, came back and I guided them through a meditation about meeting their shadow, then they did some timed writings. Anne participated in this. I re-read my Carlina poem (which I also did the night before) seeing it as being about reclaiming the shadow."

Carlina

‘Yes, Rod Craig,’ I said,
ripping off my mask —
‘I AM Carlina!’
and I smiled: a wicked smirk
of curling crimson lips.

My little brother
and his friend,
the kid from next door,
got a bit scared.
They knew I was quoting, but,
‘You really changed!’
they said later.

My slanty green eyes flashed.
I tilted my hips
in the black sheath dress
and casually sharpened my nails —
my long, red, pointed nails —
on the slim dagger
I kept in my boot.

I met Carlina in a comic book:
the evil beauty,
a seductress who killed.
I was not repelled.

Her hair was black and sleek,
rippling down her back.
No mere gangster’s moll,
she was the brains of the gang.
She schemed. She gave orders.

Always, I was the one
who scripted our games.
The day Carlina entered in,
the script went wild;
I followed where she led.

Dangerous battles happened.
We fought with improvised guns.
(Guns were forbidden; we didn’t care.)
We scaled high back yard fences
or writhed like snakes through scrub.

I got to know a lot about her
that wasn’t in the book.

Once she’d been a pirate,
captain of her own fleet.
She began as a dancer, a gypsy.
She could pass for an aristocrat.

When our mothers called us indoors,
Carlina disappeared smartly.
I knew she had to be secret.
She threatened the little boys
so they wouldn’t tell.
They never did.

The mask melds with my flesh.
For years I live inside
its comfortable normality.
I raise my kids ... I go to work ...

Suddenly in late middle age
I dye my hair wild magenta,
wear low cut gowns,
and a bold pendant
shaped like a sword.
My lips are painted purple.

Yes, Rod Craig,
I AM Carlina!

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2006

"Then we decorated our masks, and I got to participate. It was wonderful indeed to see what transformations were wrought on the plain white forms. We had all sorts of materials to use: paper, fabric, beads, shells, leather, feathers, crystals ... and great little glue guns, and of course lots of paints.

Having done that meditation in the past, I expected my shadow to be a tribal warrior, young and male. No matter what I did, however, the face looked like my mother! Eventually I gave up and just went where the spirit guided me. It was a process: she became my martyred mother, and later the one who tried to pretty everything up and present a nice face to the world. Finally the sadness metamorphosed into strength, and behold – a tribal warrior emerged of his own accord, out of all that!

Everyone got to say what they felt their mask expressed or represented. I pronounced on what I saw as the essential quality in each one. They wrote some more. We danced with our masks, holding them to face us, and we each gradually, spontaneously, unexpectedly fell in love with our own shadow. Then we turned them around and danced AS our shadows. Anne, who didn't make a mask of her own on this occasion, found she had created a psychic mask to dance with!

I spoke about the muse and read them my muse poem. They wrote some more.

Few people shared any of these writings; I took this to mean they were going deep. (There were some passing comments which delighted me, suggesting the meditation had sparked many new insights.)The few pieces that were aired were wonderful, and at the end a woman shared two beautiful poems she wrote in response to the final exercise. Then we all lined up for photos with our masks, and suddenly it was all over!

All tired afterwards, Harry and Anne took me out to dinner at a restaurant a couple of minutes drive away. We sat outside, overlooking the river, which ran right beside the restaurant patio, and watched the sun set on the peaceful water. I had a fresh water fish called Tapilia, very tender and tasty. Harry put his arm round me and said, 'Rosemary, how can we let you leave?' and Anne chimed in, concurring. I said I wasn't mad keen to go, but then we decided I might find the summers here a bit much: over 100 degrees F quite often. We turned in as soon as we came back home, but I was restless until midnight, processing after the workshop. Anne said she woke at 4 to do the same. I didn't rise until 9.30 today; Anne and Harry not till 10. We are having a nice, lazy time.

I can sure see why Thom likes Texas! The people are so warm and kind, and there is so much poetry around.

And I have finally seen a few deer. They roam these hills and are considered pests that people try to keep out of their gardens. The ones I saw when we drove out at dusk yesterday were hornless, small and pretty."

***********************************

I thought at the time I would write a series of poems about the workshop, but it's taken me until only a few days ago to get started! The Texas tour changed my life in many ways, leading me in new directions in writing which have kept me busy, and it seems I needed many months to process it all! At last this recent piece begins the series:

Mask-Making
(Kerrville, Texas, April 2006)

For Anne Schneider

1. Beginning

I perch on the high stool
out the front, looking down
from this vantage-point
on the group of women
newly-met,
my fellow-students.

I close my eyes.
She covers them with cloth.
Now I must trust her.
I wobble. She brings something firm –
box or shelf or upturned bucket –
on which I rest my feet.

She blots out first my brow
then cheeks, nose, chin
with thick petroleum jelly.
She describes to the group
the inch-by-inch procedure,
with every new step
telling them why.
Telling me too.

Her fingers are gentle.
Inside my blindness
I begin to feel protected.
She touches my shoulder,
showing me she is there
right by me,
I won't go spinning
over the cliff of thought
to the floor.

Without this reassurance,
I might not sit so quiet
for the application of texture –
wet, cold, smothering my skin,
even covering my nostrils briefly.
I hold myself stiff
in order to not shriek.
I forgot to tell her
I suffer, though ever-so-slightly,
from claustrophobia.

Her sweet voice continues
to prevent me flying off
into terror.
Her deft touch keeps me
grounded, present, still.

Quite soon, the whole concoction
is lifted off me.
I rediscover sight.
My sense of self
settles into familiar territory.
I feel my centre,
I know my edges.

White, lifeless, removed,
my facial likeness lying over there,
my other, newborn self
embodies the term "blank-faced".

I grow interested in her.
I could invest in this different me
hidden things, invented things,
visions of who I might be
in other worlds / times / truths.

I collect my materials,
selecting bits of coloured silk,
buttons, liquid glitter, shells …
I become explorer.
Let the journey begin!

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2007

Returning to Texas

2007-10-12T23:51:00.001+10:00

First posted 5 August 2007

No I don't mean geographically. If only! I nourish dreams of getting back there in 2009, but meanwhile I would like to finish recording here my wonderful experiences in 2006.

"Everyone is very good to me. Don't worry," I emailed Andrew on my third day there. I look back now and am amazed at how very well people treated me. For instance everyone insisted on driving me all over the place instead of letting me get cabs – which I was quite prepared to do, but no-one would hear of it. In that and many ways the hospitality was extraordinary.

I left off my account with English poet Rupert Hopkins and me about to appear as featured readers at an Italian café called Vinny's. The poetry performances were on a verandah area where we could dine and listen. Neil and Dorsey drove me there and Patricia Fiske joined us for dinner.

Neil and Dorsey at Vinny's

I couldn't eat much, too nervous before the performance. I ended up sitting with Rupert at a different table from the rest of our party, because we had our piles of books to sell, and our tip jars for people to give us donations if they liked our work. I ordered a small plate of something, and a drink, thinking to pay for it myself, but I didn't get away with that. Neil was watching and made sure the waiter put it on his bill.

The poetry hostess at Vinny's was Kathleen Romana, poet and artist, with whom I'd had some email correspondence while I was still in Australia. She turned out to be a beautiful blonde with very long hair, who loved retro dressing. At last, someone with a gown comparable to mine, but hers was black lace. "How beautiful you look!" we told each other in delight.

Rupert and Kathleen

Kathleen performed delicate, mystical poetry to a background of two musicians weaving melodious improvisations softly around her words. That would have been impossible with my more animated pieces, and when I began my set they sat silent a while; but then I did a quieter one and they chimed in. I did a few more quiet, lyrical pieces so they could continue. It was a lovely experience to recite to music like that.

It was at Vinny's that I first encountered Jazz, in the open section. I didn't know him by that name then. When he approached the stage, a big, serious-looking young man in a striking black and white Thelonius Monk T-shirt, everyone was chanting, "Jason! Jason!" I found out later he is also a DJ and "Jazz One" (or Jazz 1) is his DJ name – which by now everyone calls him. He performed from memory a sombre but brilliant poem with a lot of repetition, "I'm in love with the cutter," i. e. a girl who self-mutilates. I was stunned. I'd never heard anything like it. I joined enthusiastically in the loud applause.

Patricia Fiske told a funny story instead of a poem, and wowed everyone I was beginning to realise that Patricia, who loved theatre, was always one of the star turns on any occasion. Later she talked to me about her interest in blending various components in art, e.g. poetry with music and dance.

Rupert and I said goodbye, as I was off to Kerrville for eight days and he was going to New York and then home to England. I spontaneously hugged him, which I think was a little unexpected but he did his best to respond despite English reserve.

"Texans of course," I wrote to Andrew, "give even better bear hugs than Aussies."

The first week

2007-10-12T23:46:00.001+10:00

First posted 23 April 2007

After Celebration Circle on Sunday morning (see previous post) we rushed back to Austin where I called in to make myself known to the staff at BookWoman, the wonderful feminist bookshop that had agreed to launch my book. It was hard to tear myself away from its treasures! I bought a sticker that now adorns my fridge, saying, 'Well-behaved women seldom make history' and was delighted to note that Angela Davis, whom I had not heard of for decades, is alive and well and writing books. Yes, she is still dedicated to social reform!

Thom picked up a supply of bagels to take to the homeless, his regular afternoon task, from two young poets who run a cafe near BookWoman. He was expected; a young woman met the van at a park where the homeless people hang out, and thanked him smilingly as she shouldered the huge bags of bagels. Thom explained that there is no government assistance available; it falls on individuals or businesses so inclined to try and help. One of the guys from the cafe had been taking the bagels to the people by pushbike every day, until Thom discovered what he was doing and said, 'Hey, I've got a vehicle; let me do the delivery.'

I finally met Dorsey, my hostess, who had been away in connection with her work as a psychologist. I'd seen her photos around the place, and thought she looked warm and dynamic. I discovered she is also gentle and thoughtful. I taught her Reiki I over the next two days with Neil acting as assistant, fitting it around their work and my gigs. On the Monday (April 3) they took me to lunch at La Casa, a restaurant attached to a primary school. We ate outdoors, enjoying authentic Mexican food, the happy sounds of children playing just over the fence, and the good company of some of Neil's friends – journalists and poets.

I don't know how the al fresco dining would be going this year. Roger West and Clive Price, the musos I met at my first gig in 2006, returned for this year's poetry month. Clive, now back home in Edinurgh, says Austin was very cold this year following a severe winter – in fact colder than the UK. This news was a great comfort to me for not being there this time! When I was there, the weather was balmy.

That night Rupert and I were featured at The Hide-Out. It was where the young crowd went, though there were some older poets too. All were outspoken, including me. Thom presented us with trophies for being 'the only Rupert Hopkins and Rosemary Nissen Wade in the world'. To which I added, 'And the only one to drop her poems all over the floor' having just dropped my red folder of uncollected pieces. The rings came apart and pages went everywhere – which I took as a signal to abandon the planned reading (a good decision). I made a joke about it, kicked the pages out of the way till later, and careered blithely on.

My award, which now sits proudly on my computer desk in Australia, is like a sporting trophy. It is in the shape of a castle, and as far as I can see behind the label with my name, had an earlier incarnation as a prize in a chess competition. Rupert's was similar but not identical.

Thom had also created and disseminated poems about Rupert and me as an announcement ahead of the event. For Rupert:

HIS FATHER'S HAT

He wears his father's hat-
a style statement from some sixty years ago
when men wore hats like his brown fur
and sported jaunty Trilby's and Bowler's
His is different-
carefully folded in a triangle crease
Dark brown and somewhat conservative
(Like what we would see in early police TV)
he wears his father's hat to poetry..
His father still alive-though on a thin string
he survives by willed intention-his son
carries him with him-above his brain
his father always on his mind
whenever his brown hat comes to hand
FOR RUPERT HOPKINS April 3,2006
(featured at THE HIDEOUT 617 Congress tonight)

... and to promote me (for which you need to know that Jenny Joseph is the poet who wrote, 'When I am old I shall wear purple'):

DREAMS FROM DISTANT COUNTRIES

Recently,we have been importing clouds
to assist with these green Spring rains-
they cross borders with smiling genius
and give us the gift of their inspiration
She channels Jenny Joseph-purple hair
and flamboyance,announcing herself
as THE POET FROM THE LAND DOWN UNDER!
where(with laughter)she deals with healing
and beams forth Reiki to all who receive
Here,she revisits her SELECTED POEMS-
a SECRET LEOPARD that still stalks responses
across borders of consciousness
She will find you soon-tow you to your moon
and sit with stories around older campfires
She is Spring-come to remind you
of your green energies-your golden reasons..

THOM APRIL 3,2006
For ROSEMARY NISSEN-WADE
featuring@THE HIDEOUT tonight from 7pm

I wrote to Andrew:

'Tonight The Dress and I appeared at The HideOut, an 'open mic' venue run by Bevin, who is just a young thing. (And who runs it very well.) The poets were mostly young – though the first guy on when I arrived was white-bearded, and was saying some things I really liked, about the Void. [I later came to know this poet – pictured below – as Johnny Zianni. The photo also shows the big "tip jars" for people to give donations to the featured poets.]

It's a coffee lounge and was pretty informal. It's a real performance-poet venue, some rappy things, lots of passion, much irreverence, huge energy from all concerned, and some terrific poetry and also wonderful unaccompanied singing. I loved it, I loved it, I loved it! My kinda place. Uncensored too,so I got to do some of the wilder stuff.

One young black man, after hearing the famous C*** poem, presented me with a copy of a long and sensual poem of his own! I felt honoured, and made him sign it. [This is he, pictured, during his performance that night.] And a young Spanish man came up to introduce himself, shake my hand and tell me how much he liked my C*** poem – without any embarrassment whatsoever in saying the word.

I got great audience response, laughter and applause in all the right places – and shouts and whistles and stomping too. It was such a joy.

It was also a place where I was able to avow being a witch and read some wild, witchy stuff, and it was cheered.

You would think the Dress would be inappropriate in such a setting, but I am feeling more and more at ease in it and would now wear it anywhere. It is so unique that it does not appear inappropriate in any setting. In fact this was the one place where nobody even remarked on it.

This was a venue where anything goes, people REALLY dig the poetry, and while there is lots of angry political poetry read, there is lots of warmth and love amongst the poets. Takes me back to the old Poets Union days!

And guess what? The young love me!'

That night was my first encounter with Rhie, a dynamic young performance poet with a big voice and wonderful words, whose power and passion fair blew me away.

Next day I completed Dorsey's Reiki I training, then she and Neil drove me back to San Antonio for a gig at the Barnes and Noble bookshop there. Fortuitously, they had a dinner engagement at an Italian restaurant nearby. The gig was one of the regular Sun Poets readings hosted by Rod Stryker, with an appreciative crowd – but no whistling and stomping; we were in a bookshop not a cafe – and some excellent performances including one clown-like, acrobatic young man who had me mesmerised.

My email to Andrew next day said:

'Last night Rupert and I appeared as featured poets at a regular reading in Barnes & Noble bookstore in San Antonio – one of about 6 Barnes & Nobles there, I'm told, and if they are all like this one San Antonio is indeed well supplied with books; it was huge.

I thought I might have a change of costume – I did bring other clothes – but nothing I tried on measured up to The Dress, so on it went again. It turned out to be a new audience so that was all right. Neil has this theory that it is The Dress that takes me to the gigs, and simply would not let me off the hook on this occasion. (Of course, it is not merely The Dress but also The Coat, making The Outfit. However, everyone remembers it as The Purple Dress.)

Rupert is having to cut short his tour as he has been asked to step in for someone else who got ill back in England, to teach media studies to kids coming up for exams. So in a few days he will go from here to New York, stay with friends and do some gigs there, and miss the Austin International Poetry Festival.

He is quite the intrepid traveller; has trekked mountains in Nepal, the Australian outback and many other places, on his own. He tells tales of emerging from the scrub on to one of those long, empty roads in central Australia, to the amazement of a lone aboriginal driving past; and of being on a snow-covered mountain in Nepal with no food or water but a haversack full of interesting rocks he was collecting – sustaining himself with mouthfuls of snow – and deciding with night coming on to trek back to his hotel instead of staying the night out there. He has wonderful blown-up photos with him of some of his travels, made up into big posters with haiku he wrote about the scenes depicted. He showed us on the photo of the mountain how far it was to trek back to his hotel that night – but probably the wiser decision all the same! He is a small, unassuming fellow of whom one would not at all expect such feats. Getting around Texas is of course no great challenge to him, and he went down to San Antonio by bus before our reading to have a good look around.

Afterwards one of the organisers dropped Rupert and me off at the restaurant where Neil and Dorsey were dining with Neil's lawyer and his wife. She was another of these Southern belles. She was in a denim jacket, and had spiky blonded hair – but it is the manner: they have a way of enfolding you with their graciousness and charm, and taking care of your comfort, your ego, whatever. We have seen it lampooned in movies, but the real thing is quite enchanting and disarming.

Now I am about to go out with a witchy woman called Jade.'

Jade Beaty, author and counsellor, was one of the people Thom had put me in touch with before my tour. She arrived bearing gifts to welcome me, including a large piece of Celestite – a type of crystal I had long been yearning for, though she didn't know that. It has been on my bedside table ever since I brought it home. Jade took me to see the nearby Zilker Park, noted for its gardens. At that time Austin had experienced drought, but the flowers were doing their best. The roses seemed small to me, but colourful. I was intrigued by unfamiliar birds – tiny cardinals deep red all over, and big blue-black grackles that reminded me of our Aussie bower birds. I thought the grackles beautiful but learned they are considered a pest in Texas, for their harsh cries, scavenging ways and huge numbers.

Wednesday night Rupert and I were featured at Vinny's, which had a different flavour again.

National Poetry Month, Texas, then and now: San Antonio

2007-10-12T23:30:00.003+10:00

First posted 10 April 2007

Here are two very recent video clips of Thom the World Poet performing for students and staff at Schreiner University in Texas. Watch both - the introduction is much the same but the poems are different.

The woman introducing Thom is Dr Kathleen Hudson who conducts the writing course there. She's a formidable writer herself and a devoted chronicler of Texas music and musicians. Round about this time last year I was her guest, gave a performance for her students, discussed writing with them, and heard some of their own exciting work. That was while I was visiting nearby Kerrville. Before that, however, came more adventures in Austin and San Antonio, beginning with Gini's Tea Rooms in San Antonio the night after the Expressions gig.

On the way to dropping me off for the trip to the Tea Rooms, Neil took me to a reading called Poetry in the Arts. It was run by Peggy Lynch, a real Southern belle - at 83! Full of charisma, wit and joy, she welcomed me warmly and gave me two spots on her program as well as promoting my book launch. One of the musos from Expressions the night before was there, and when I was announced he called out loudly, 'She's a wonderful poet!' (I got to know him later: Chip Ross, the drummer who always plays with Roger and Clive when they visit Austin.)

Meeting Peggy showed me that the famous Southern charm is actually all about caring for people. I was to come across many more examples during my time in Texas.

Christine, whom I'd met at Expressions the night before, gave Patricia Fiske and me a lift to San Antonio - quite a hike from Austin. I don't do jet lag? Ha! It was late afternoon and I kept nodding off. Patricia was puzzled that I didn't want to look at scenery I'd never seen before, but I simply couldn't stay awake. It was Christine who realised it must be jet lag. Probably a good thing I gave in to it. I emailed Andrew later that I 'managed to put on a performance that had people remarking afterwards what a bundle of energy I am!'

Gini's Tea Rooms was like an English tea rooms with dark wood, white tablecloths, a big antique sideboard. I told Andrew: 'We all had tea or coffee, and amazing cakes. I was the final of 4 featured poets, high standard and hard acts to follow. Then there was an open section, all good. People enjoyed my stuff and said so later.'

I didn't wear The Dress; it was rinsed out and hanging up in the shower back at Neil and Dorsey's. Mim Scharlack, who was hosting the performance, had already heard about it and was disappointed not to see it. I'd been corresponding with Mim by email from Australia after Thom put us in touch. She was a slight, vibrant, pretty little woman with snow-white hair, who sang and drummed with gusto during her own performance. The drum strapped around her waist looked big enough to pull her over! But Mim is far more powerful than she looks, in all sorts of ways. I could have listened to her all night. Rupert was on the program too, and I was delighted that Roger and Clive were performing as well. It was a wonderful audience; the place was full and everyone was attentive and appreciative. For the first time, I heard the wonderful Patricia perform in public. At 79, she was glamorous, confident, talented and funny. I found out later she was a very seasoned performer with a theatrical background, who sometimes blends music, poetry, drama and dance.

It happened that that was the last night ever of the regular monthly poetry evenings at Gini's. It can be hard to sustain a poetry venue over time. The people clearly felt sad as they formally thanked both Gini and Mim, and no wonder – it had been going for nine years. I had a sense of occasion, a historic moment to have been a part of. The poets and musos finished the night with a party at Mim's house. I met her beloved old dog which wasn't well, and gave it some Reiki. It was late when we got back to Austin.

Next morning I was up early to return to San Antonio. Neil was due to pick up Dorsey from the airport, and I took a taxi to Thom's house to ride down with him and Rupert. This time I managed to take in the sights on the way. I couldn't get over it when Thom said, 'There's the Alamo,' and I glimpsed a tiny, pretty little white building overpowered by huge, glass-fronted shops and offices.

We were featured at Celebration Circle, a Sunday gathering for people of all religions. I wrote to Andrew later:

'I had the most amazing morning. We went to Celebration Circle in San Antonio: me, Rupert Hopkins from Bristol, and Thom. I wore The Dress, particularly for Mim who ran the Tearooms reading and had hoped to see it the night before. (Its fame had preceded me!)

Thom introduced me to Rudi who runs the Circle; he was younger than I'd expected. He gave me a namaste hand gesture which I returned, and a hug likewise. The venue was a theatre with tiered rows of chairs and a stage with two mikes and a couple of sound engineers testing levels. One of them greeted me "Hare Om," and after a moment of surprise, I replied, "Hare Bol."

Rudi showed us order of program, how to adjust mike, and so forth. I sat down and watched him rehearse. He is muso and poet, plays guitar and sings, and dances a bit. As I watched I went into total deja vu. He was now completely familiar to me, well known in fact, and so were the other musos who came on stage to join the rehearsal. It wasn't a dramatic thing, but very strong, and continued the rest of the time. I remarked on it to Rudi, who just laughed and was fairly matter of fact about it.

Celebration Circle is Sunday worship, of a very eclectic kind. One song he rehearsed starts: 'Come to the light. Come to Christ, come to Krishna, come to Buddha, come to the Father and the Mother Goddess too, come to Allah, come to Jesus, the Spirit that frees us ...' and goes on to ask us to remember who we are and that we are all one. I lapped it up! Partly because Rudi's energy is pure love and joy (not at all ostentatiously).

Although apparently many people had forgotten about changing to daylight saving and didn't turn up, the theatre soon became quite full. A man from India, who bought my book at Expressions the other night, brought his wife up to introduce to me. Before we began, Rudi took the musos and poets out the back for a quick prayer circle, standing holding hands and asking to be of service and to know that we are all one. It all felt soft, gentle, and nice – and genuine.

So there was music and singing. Beautiful slides of nature were shown on a screen all the time, without anything being said about them. Rudi's wife Zet invited us to honour the directions by standing and facing each direction in turn, while singing,'O Great Spirit' etc. - the chant I have so often played at my Reiki classes. At one point the several young children present were invited down on to the stage and stood there a few minutes while we all spoke love and blessings to them, very simply. Rudi gave a lovely discourse on one of Thic Na Than's questions. He and Thom did some 'word stew' combining poetry, music and discourse. And at three different places during the program the poets did a round: first me, then Rupert, then Thom. On Thom's advice I did again, as it was mainly a different audience, the 'down under' poem that has become my opener. It was a hit as usual. In fact, after that, Rudi played some music before putting Rupert and Thom on. The others I did were The Sword of Archangel Michael and Dancing for the Goddess.

At times there was a slightly gospel feel to the event, with people clapping and singing along – myself included – to things like 'This Little Light of Mine'. The whole feeling was friendly and joyous, but softer and sweeter than a gospel meeting. It had some flavour of a Hare Krishna celebration, but livelier and freer. I found it so totally nourishing I cannot tell you! I experienced it like some lovely acknowledgment bestowed on me for the path I have been following. I felt greatly blessed by the Goddess. When I gave Rudi a hug in thanks later, and told him how nourished I felt, he smiled and said, "Welcome home!" to which I responded, "Oh, absolutely!"

I am surely starting to get a sense of why this journey was so meant to be, and so serendipitously arranged despite seeming at first so impossible!'

The Sword of Archangel Michael

The sword glows
in my right hand.
My arm swings from the shoulder
wielding blue flame:
sharp light, the cut of truth.

Precise moves.
Economy. Bite.
These are the qualities.
These and blue light –
a laser that heals where it touches.

In the beginning
the word.
The word true,
the word precise,
the word deliberately aimed.

It cuts to the heart,
my sword in flight.
From the heart of God
to the point of now
exactly aimed,
quick light.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1995
First published Divan (e-zine) issue 4, Dec. 2001.
Also in Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005

Rudi onstage, and with Mim after the performance

The first gig

2007-10-12T23:06:00.001+10:00

Originally posted 9 July 2006

My first gig was Friday 31st March, two nights after my arrival, at Expressions — a monthly event at the B’hai Centre, hosted by Thom.

I spent most of that day rehearsing. ‘Don’t worry if you hear strange noises from next door,’ I told Neil.

I was worried about my performance as I seemed to have a bit of a cold and be lacking breath for my longer lines. I said some prayers; no backing out now! I decided to wear my purple Goddess gown. I wanted to perform a new poem that referred to it, which would work better with the visual component. When Neil knocked on my door to take me to the venue, I asked, ‘Can I wear this?’

‘This is Austin.’ he said. ‘You can wear anything.’ He remarked what a lovely outfit it was — the first of many such compliments I received. I thought I would have to say something throw-away from the stage about how I was keeping Austin weird — which is a slogan and bumper sticker there — but everyone was so complimentary about my dress before I even got on stage that it simply wasn't relevant.

I loved performing in it and wore it to nearly every gig thereafter ! Sometimes a group of us would go out for a meal afterwards.

‘Can I go into the restaurant like this?’ I asked nervously at first.

‘It’s AUSTIN,’ they would reiterate patiently, as to a backward child.

When we arrived at Expressions, a woman sitting behind the reception table introduced herself : ‘I’m Wendy.’ Wendy is Thom’s American wife, whom I’d previously met only by email. I was unprepared for her beauty! She was slender and pale, with huge blue eyes, full lips, clear skin, and long, wavy blonde hair that was obviously natural. Then I was surprised all over again by her calm, direct manner and the absence of that self-consciousness most beauties can’t seem to help.

Thom came bustling up for a hug. It was the first time we'd seen each other in many years; he looked happy and self-assured. Patricia, Kathleen and John had come to hear the show. It was encouraging to see all these friendly faces. They introduced me to Christine Gilbert, another local poet, who was hosting the visiting English poet Rupert Hopkins. Rupert was also on the program that night, and so were some English musicians called Roger West and the Ones to Watch.

I loved the musicians. There were three of them: Roger himself, another Englishman called Clive Price, and a drummer who turned out to be American, Chip Ross. He lives in Austin and accompanies Roger and Clive whenever they visit. The songs had catchy tunes and witty lyrics. I particularly enjoyed a composition of Roger’s about an earth man who fell for an extraterrestrial, ‘My lady alien, reptilian or mammalian.…’

Roger West and the Ones to Watch. From left: Chip Ross, Roger West, Clive Price.

Rupert was next. A small, modest man, he proved to be an intrepid solo traveller, often to places off the beaten track, and a talented photographer. Many of his poems were about places he’d travelled, with accompanying enlargements he showed from the stage. He had books of both his photos and poems on sale.

Finally, my turn. I hoped my breath would hold out; I hoped I’d remember the lines of my opening poem, ‘I am the poet from Down Under …’ a rappy piece written especially for Texas; I hoped I wouldn’t let down my new friends and particularly my old friend Thom, who, as MC, gave me a great introduction.

Perhaps The Dress had magickal qualities! Suddenly it was as if I owned the stage. My breathing was perfectly fine, I was in good voice, I remembered my lines, I moved and gestured confidently. My opener brought the house down, so did the next piece referring to The Dress, and after that I could do no wrong.

Later that night I emailed Andrew:

‘People came up afterwards to say how much they liked my poetry. One exuberant old man called me “cousin” (“Oh I sure enjoyed YEW, cousin!”) and gave me a big bear hug. Neil said I was brilliant. Thom said “Well done!” and “It worked”. Wendy said, “You are a very animated poet”. (I love that! Henceforth I answer to the title of The Animated Poet.) Patricia and others said they could see why Thom and I were friends: “The same expansive energy.”

‘It is now 11.45pm. After the gig Neil invited Patricia, Kathleen and John back here for a glass of wine, and to see the beautiful Buddha statue I live with…. They are all old friends. They feel like my friends too, already. Neil has to pick up his partner, Dorsey, from the airport tomorrow, so Patricia has arranged for Christine to drive us all down to San Antonio for my tomorrow night's gig.’

I was too high on excitement to go to sleep easily. Neil and Dorsey live on the side of a gully, part of the Austin green belt. I enjoyed the backdrop of moonlit branches filling the window as I lay in bed happily replaying my evening.

The animated poet!

I am the poet from Down Under.
My heart calls to yours with a peal of thunder,
my mind is full of delighted wonder,
my spirit aches with a splendid hunger:
I want to feast on poetry —
I speak to you, you speak to me,
we all go together into mystery,
we all dream together with ecstasy —
not the drug, man, not the pill, lady;
who needs that for rhapsody?
We have words to set us free.
Words as bright as lightning,
words as clear as dew,
words that are frightening,
words that are true,
words that deliver us
from so-called reality
then drop us back, but without finality.

Tripping through the wild, the vast unseen —
Poetry, Poetry, what do you mean?
Poetry, Poetry, what do you say?
Come out, come out, come out and play!

I am the poet from the land of Oz.
That Great South Land is where I was:
the land where I grew, the land where I age,
the land of power, beauty and rage —
bushfires and flood, cyclones and drought,
all the extremes. Now I am out
into the wider world, into here.
Texas is real! I see and hear
excitement and vitality:
the Lone Star State is the place to be.
Give me your verses, give me your truth,
give me your wisdom, give me your youth!
Don’t hang back in the vestibule:
we’re here to create a Festival!
Give me your lightness, give me your dark!
In a coffee lounge or in the park,
let us with music, let us with voice
gather to celebrate, gather to rejoice.

Where have we been? What have we done?
Nothing new under the sun
excepting poetry makes it that way.
Poetry, Poetry — come out to play!

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2006

Introduction to Austin

2007-10-12T22:55:00.002+10:00

First posted June 2006

I woke at 6.30am, my usual waking time at home, but lay in bed luxuriously until 8.30. ‘I don’t do jetlag,’ I told people in response to solicitous enquiries over the next couple of days.

Halfway through the morning, Neil — snapped here at a poetry reading a few nights later — knocked on the door and suggested we go to a local restaurant for lunch. Dorsey was away a few days in connection with her work. I saw her photo in ‘my’ quarters and warmed to her wide smile, which lit her eyes as well.

They had originally offered me the use of one of their cars but when I saw their big four-wheel-drives I declined. The thought of managing something that big in a strange city, driving on what was for me the wrong side of the road, was too daunting — though I kept forgetting I was in America and heading for the driver’s side of people’s cars. I thought I would get around in buses and taxis. I hadn't counted on the splendid Texan sense of hospitality, which meant that the poets I met there all regarded themselves as my hosts, and between them arranged to drive me everywhere. They were so gracious about it, it was only later that it sank in how pampered I was.

On our way to lunch, Neil pointed out the Umlauf Sculpture Garden and Museum, with over 130 sculptures, drawings & paintings by Charles Umlauf (1911-1944). I glimpsed a number of the garden sculptures. Neil, who was originally from Canada, had never been inside. We agreed we’d go check it out some time before I went home. I was so busy with other engagements that this never happened, but after I got home I found the website with detailed photos of every sculpture — works ranging in style ‘from realistic and abstract expressionism to lyrical abstraction’. Now I want more than ever to visit it if I return to Austin, to see these wonderful pieces in three dimensions.

Lunch was good — the first of many excellent Texas meals. There may be Texans who live on junk food, but everywhere I went the food was both healthy and tasty. There’s a strong Mexican influence, and many places serve Tex Mex, the popular local adaptation.

Neil was easy to talk to and soon felt like an old friend. He told me about Dorsey’s Voice Dialogue work, which involves interacting with various parts of the self. Neil has also trained in this and assists with her teaching.

That evening we were invited to drinks and nibbles at Patricia Fiske’s, another Austin poet to whom Thom had introduced me via email. There I also met poets John Hawke and Eric Fredlund, and Patricia’s neighbour Kathleen. Patricia wanted to hear people’s latest poems, and graciously suggested that, as the guest, I should go first. I was taken by surprise as I didn’t have my book with me, but thought I could do something from memory. ‘Do you want a rude one or a polite one?’ I asked. They opted for rude, naturally, and I launched into my famous C*** poem — a four-letter word meaning female genitalia, just in case you haven't figured it out — only to forget what came after the third line. How embarrassing! I’d had two glasses of wine by then, which was enough to make me go blank. (Always a cheap drunk.)

I did my Volkswagen piece instead, which I could probably recite in my sleep. In Australia it’s been done to death but in Texas there was a whole new audience for it and it went over well.

C***

It’s just like one of those weeds
that swallows insects.
And it’s hungry! It seeks to feed.
I’ll swear it reaches out with its big side-flaps
and stretches and sucks —
you can hear the air retreat
in front of its jet funnel,
its ruching of in-drawn petals.
It puckers to an arch kiss,
pouts, plops like a fish,
flops to a loose pocket.
It gapes, it salivates, it wants your juices.
You tickle its hairy leaves and it gasps —
you are so pretty.
You are a winged thing,
and here is this coarse slobberer —
stop, take pity!
Only stroke it. Watch how it widens.
Oh yes — it’s sticky! It grasps, fastens,
clamps: magnet.
And the fierce little eye in the middle
goes red, goes wild, throbs blindly, sizzles.

Bites, tightens till you shrivel.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1974
from Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985
First published (earlier version) Compass

The Day We Lost The Volkswagen

During a momentary lull in her head,
the poor old thing lost her grip.
The boat she was towing towed her instead
ponderously down the slip.
backwards into the water.

For a swirling moment she almost floated,
she thought of setting sail.
But her bum tilted, her britches bloated —
she was heavy in the tail —
and the sly seaweed caught her.

I thought even then she might make a try
(she seemed to be righting her flank)
but she spun gravely, one eye on the sky,
gave a dignified splutter and sank.
The sea frothed briefly.

I don’t know — she wasn’t the kind to drift,
much less come apart at the seams.
But the sails and the clouds that day had a lift,
and perhaps she had some dreams.
It was a damn nuisance, chiefly.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1974
from Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985
First published Nation Review.
Also in:
A Second Australian Poetry Book for Children, Oxford
Secondary English Book 3, Macmillan
Off the Record, Penguin
Penguin Book of Australian Women Poets.
Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005,
Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005

The adventure begins

2007-10-12T22:50:00.003+10:00

First posted June 2006

I asked our friend Amanda to drive Andrew and me to Brisbane airport, so he’d have company going home instead of feeling lonely and deserted. (This photo is of Andrew, the man I left behind.) They couldn't come into the departure lounge with me, but waved from upstairs as they sat and had a coffee, while I changed some cash to American dollars.

The first leg was Brisbane to Auckland on Air New Zealand. My brother is a University lecturer in Auckland. He was unable to get away from work during my stopovers, but urged me get a window seat and have a good look at the view on arrival and departure. ‘Seriously!’ he said. He was right. I was astonished by the approaches to the city — the beautiful expanse of hills and water; soft curves quite different from an Australian landscape.

Next stop Los Angeles. People told me beforehand that LA airport was huge and confusing and ‘no bugger will help you’. But everything was well signposted, and the airport staff were as helpful and pleasant as could be. I just smiled and asked politely; no problem. It was certainly big, though; I got to do some walking. All to the good, I thought: no deep vein thrombosis for me!

When I did become a bit uncertain, walking between buildings, some lovely people collecting for charity offered to help me. After going out of their way to point me in the right direction, they politely asked if I’d care to make a donation to help homeless kids. They showed me the boards they carried, legitimising the request — but I got scared when I saw $20 suggested as minimum donation. I didn’t know how well my money would last over five weeks. ‘I’d love to,’ I said, ‘But I’m on a really tight budget. Perhaps on my way out of America.’ I felt guilty for being so frugal with my funds, and added — as if by way of excuse — that my friend in Austin (Thom) was involved in feeding the homeless. They were sweet about it. ‘That’s OK,’ they said, ‘God bless you!’

Later, inside the airport, I heard repeated announcements telling passengers we were not obliged to give money to solicitors. A bit harsh, I thought, a bit officious. They were such nice people, it was a very good cause, and they weren’t doing a hard sell. On the plane, I wrote a poem about the experience. When I aired it in Austin a few days later, I was surprised by the audience's cynical laughter. Someone explained later that these collectors are notorious religious scammers, collecting not for the homeless but for the coffers of their church.

The departure lounge for my Austin flight was empty and unlit. I was early, and glad to have it to myself. I took off my shoes, walked up and down, did some stretching exercises, refilled my water bottle from the fountain, and finally arranged my cabin luggage as a pillow and lay down to rest on a row of empty seats. I felt smugly efficient and resourceful. Gradually half a dozen other people turned up. The lights still didn’t go on. We started to wonder. Finally someone went off to find out, and came back with the news that the departure lounge had been changed; all the other passengers were queuing at the top of that escalator over there. We gathered up our stuff and joined the long, slow queue.

This lounge was crowded. A young woman was working on her wireless laptop; people were discussing business on their mobiles (as we say in Australia; I soon learned to call them cell phones). There were computer terminals dotted conveniently around the airport for passengers' use. Ah, the 21st century!

Then came the announcement that the flight was delayed two hours. The aircraft was faulty and they had to find us another. People were anxious and irritated. But from the moment of separating from Andrew and Amanda at Brisbane, I’d stepped into a state of being in the moment, which lasted the next five weeks. It was all an adventure. I bought a phone card and rang my host in Austin, Neil Meili, a poet friend of Thom’s. He and his partner Dorsey would be putting me up in their office. Neil had intended to meet my plane, but he said the delay could drag on; I should get a cab from the airport and he’d pay for it.

Outside Austin airport I panicked a bit. It was dark, and I couldn’t see anything that looked like a taxi rank. I parked myself at a bus stop where I tried in vain to flag down passing taxis, feeling very inept. Definitely not the way it’s done in the movies, where the first car hailed pulls smoothly into the kerb at once! Then a uniformed man told me I was in the wrong place and showed me where to go: half a block away on the other side of the road. My suitcase started feeling very heavy. (I always TRY to travel light, but I’m not very good at it!) When I arrived at the right spot there was an efficient operation in progress, plenty of cars pulling in, and officials directing people to the next in line. My luggage was taken care of, and I was away. I was going to hop into the front seat, but the driver had his belongings all over it; clearly that wasn’t done in America, so I ‘played ladies’ and got in the back, and then spent the whole time leaning forward to talk with the driver, who was interested to find out what I was doing in Austin.

He turned out to be a poet! He was a Pakistani, writing in Urdu and published in his home country. He had been in America several years, to make money, but all his family was back home and he visited when he could. He said his adult son in Pakistan was a poet too. I was very excited. It seemed like a good omen.

I knocked on the door of Unit B. A big, cuddly man with a beaming smile opened it and greeted me with a hug. I felt absolutely welcomed! He ushered me into his living room for a drink and a chat. It was well after midnight and I assumed Dorsey was sleeping. I was soon ready for bed too; the last leg of the journey had started to seem long. Neil took me past the double carport to the front door of Unit A. I'd expected to be put up in a one-room office, but I discovered I would have a whole duplex to myself. Dorsey is a psychologist specialising in a technique called Voice Dialogue, which she also teaches. The upstairs (street level) of Unit A was where she ran her classes. There was a kitchen too, with fridge and pantry stocked — to my delight — with organic food. ('Americans live on junk food,' I had been told. Not in Texas they don't! Or not where I was.) Downstairs was Dorsey’s consulting room, and the guest bedroom and ensuite. There was even a laptop on the table in the bedroom, which Neil told me to help myself to — and it was a Macintosh. Perfect!

Serendipity

2007-10-12T22:43:00.002+10:00

First posted June 2006

'Does Texas have poetry?' people in Australia ask with big grins, as if the idea is hilarious. Yes, it certainly does! In Austin anyway, and places nearby, there is a very vibrant poetry scene. I was there from March 29 to May 1 2006. I sent home exuberant emails which my husband Andrew forwarded to friends and relatives. This is for those who haven't yet heard the whole miraculous story.

I'd kept a low poetic profile since moving to northern New South Wales in 1994, from Melbourne where I was well known as a poet and writing teacher. In my present home I'm better known as a professional psychic and Reiki Master.

In January 2005 I broke my ankle. It took seven months to heal. This gave me the opportunity to create new poems and polish old ones. I started a mutual mentoring program by email with my friend, Melbourne poet and fiction writer Helen Patrice.

One day, trawling the net, I came across a photo of an old Melbourne colleague, Tom the Street Poet. He founded the Street Poets about the same time I and others started the Poets' Union in the late seventies. I discovered he had left Melbourne around the same time as me, to move to Austin, Texas where he became Thom the World Poet, touring Britain and Australia and bringing poets from those countries back to America. On impulse I emailed him to say Hi, and next thing he was inviting me to visit Austin in April 2006 for National Poetry Month.

It seemed impossible. Andrew and I are Age Pensioners, which is an exercise in frugal living. Then Andrew received a small inheritance from his late brother's estate. After we paid off some debts, and bought a badly needed new bed, he said, 'You know, you could go to Texas!'

Thom and others suggested it would be good to have a new book for my tour. A retired publisher friend of my son Steve's offered the use of his old imprint. He suggested a 'new and selected' volume. Luckily the broken ankle meant I had plenty of new. I chose the title, Secret Leopard, from one of the poems. My friend Linda put me in touch with a Melbourne artist called Wendi Saphin who produced several illustrations, including this one, which we chose — although in the end it was executed in black, on a beautiful stark white cover stock.

The ex-publisher wrote me a glowing preface, and found me a good printer in Austin. But it all cost more than anticipated. I ended up with a handsome book which ate up all my going-to-Texas money. With luck, I would just have enough to ship the books to Australia. I sadly emailed Thom to cancel the tour.

My friend Maureen declared I must not miss this opportunity and formed a committee to help me fund-raise. Thus encouraged, I explored all possibilities for grants, but not many applied to my circumstances, and I was out of the application time for those that did. So it fell to my friends. Maureen set up a trust fund and I asked people not to give me birthday presents or xmas cards that year but put $5 into the account instead. No-one put in so little as $5! People were immensely generous in giving as much as they could possibly afford. Other friends held an auction of goods and services, and many donated their time and skills as items for auction. Yet another good friend, Letitia, ran a raffle for me, and people donated wonderful prizes — designer jewellery, original artwork, a night at a resort.... Andrew and I also contributed as much as we could to the fund. My son David and his wife Kellie paid for my travel insurance. I had estimated what I would need for the fare, living expenses, and shipping any unsold books back home. I got it all!

Meanwhile Thom worked tirelessly to promote me, getting me featured reader spots at venues all over Austin and in San Antonio. He encouraged me to apply to be featured in the Austin International Poetry Festival. I was nearly too late to get in! But on the strength of my book and his high praise, they found room for me. (Thom and three other poets started the AIPF 14 years ago, though they are no longer on the Board.) He linked me by email to other poets and venue hosts, with an excellent intuition as to who I'd click with; several of them became friends even before I left Australia. I was invited to participate in Forrest Fest, an annual poetry and music festival at Lamesa, West Texas, at the end of April. Anne Schneider, a poet and mask maker from Kerrville, invited me to stay with her for a week and do a poetry reading as well as collaborate in a mask-making and creative writing workshop, which we planned by email. I said yes to all invitations!

The day before my fundraising auction, I needed a haircut but couldn't get my usual hairdresser at short notice, so went somewhere else. I didn't realise until it was done that the girl had severely mangled it, particularly at the back. She cut it so short that people asked if I'd had a buzz cut — which might have been OK if it hadn't been so unevenly done. I woke up next morning, looked in the mirror and cried. I emailed Helen, who said, 'Have you got any purple hair dye in the house?' — not something I normally had lying around, but I dashed down to the chemist and got some shampoo-in colour in a shade called mulberry, a wonderful magenta. When people turned up to the auction that night, instead of saying, 'What the hell happened to you?' they said, 'WOW!' It faded to a pinkish auburn over the next few weeks, and the mulberry shade was discontinued by the manufacturers. Just before I left for Texas, I went to my hairdresser and got her to reproduce it professionally and tidy up the cut. She also gave me a magenta coloured shampoo to refresh the colour as the weeks went on. The bad hairdresser did me a favour; I'm going to be a redhead for years to come!

I have a friend called Marieah (MAH-ree-ah) who makes beautiful Goddess gowns and pendants — 'wearable art' which has been displayed in her local art gallery. She said I must have a Goddess gown for Texas! That's it, in the picture with my profile, in which I am also wearing one of her pendants.

So off I set, with purple gown and purple hair, and 19 boxes of my book awaiting me in Thom's living room, leaving Andrew behind to mind the house and the cats.