Stapled Poetry: An Observation on Self-Publishing

© 2005 Annabelle A. Udo
(published in "Listen & Be Heard" Weekly - June 1, 2005)

Chevron Gas Prices o' the Day (19th Avenue)
$2.37
$2.47
$2.57

In the growing family tree of self-publishing, there is the ‘zine, the chapbook, and the blog. When I was in high school back in the day, my friend did the interviews and I typed it out (I was the only one with a typewriter), we cut ‘n’ pasted, then photocopied 100 of these makeshift publications. 10 of them we put on the shelf at Tower Records of which we sold 2, giving us 20 cents. Yea, do the math.

That experience lit the fuse to my journalistic and literary career. It was an idea that evolved a decade later when I published my own magazine for 5 years in the early ‘90s called Rewind. It was a forum for all clubs, DJ’s, musicians, photographers, writers, and poets. I once again entered the world of The ‘Zine.

The ‘zine scene was pretty revolutionary when I was growing up—it was a time when Thrasher was still a kid and you could live off of a few cents and still be able to publish it. Nowadays, there’s so much technology to self-publishing that in the overall picture of things, really loses the rough-around-the-edges appeal. However, one self-publisher I’ve admired for years is V. Vale, San Francisco-based founder and original publisher of RE/Search, the essential counterculture library (www.researchpubs.com). He has been producing numerous catalogs of material for more than a decade. I’d say his success is probably keeping the balance of being well-known to those in the know, keeping alive the original meaning of “underground.”

With the advent of on-line publishing, a poem scrambling in your head is much easier to get out these days just as easy as it once was to scribble something on a napkin and handing it to someone. It seems that the struggles of any writer isn’t so much the suffering of the process of finishing a book, but the other side of things: getting someone to publish it with hopes that you will enjoy great success so that you can quit your day job. Sometimes it doesn’t work out that way and you have to take fate into your own hands—publish it yourself.

The famed City Lights Booksellers & Publishers (261 Columbus Avenue) in San Francisco’s North Beach District has a huge collection of self-published works, or chapbooks, ranging from photocopied, stapled collections of rants and ravings to painstakingly sewn, yet creative, pamphlets of sex poems, love poems, and hate poems. What makes them such collectibles are that they’re all pretty much limited editions.

These days, it seems that there are other people who are willing to put a chapbook together for you. In other words—they’ve become publishers. Even well-publicized authors have chapbooks on their resumes lending credibility to these self-generated literary pieces.

So, whether you consider the blog a form of an on-line chapbook, some people do still like sitting on the train and turning the pages of a good read. Putting together a publication of your own is really about writing for the sake of writing and the passion behind it all. There are so many letters in the alphabet but the words and phrases that stir around in the cauldron of the mind are absolutely endless. Remember the 1st Amendment still exists—use it. . . or lose it.

The Robots of Society

© 2005 Annabelle A. Udo

Chevron Gas Prices o' the Day (19th Avenue)
$2.37
$2.47
$2.57

The in and out traffic of a gas station is so robotic--as one drives up to a pump, another one seems to be just getting ready to leave. This happens everyday, at all hours 'round the clock, and if you have a view as I do, the choreography is endless. There used to be a woman who did jumping jacks every Sunday morning by the Chevron marquee--seemed she was healthier back then, but now I pass her up on the street, and she seems angry--medicated. Still, her different-colored plastic bags are always neatly tucked away by her favorite storefront--she is one of two homeless women on my street. Oftentimes, she appears more at home than anyone else in this area. She will peek in the window of one of my favorite restaurants to see when the leftovers will be thrown out at closing time. It's unnerving sitting in the front during late-night dinners at this one place, immediately after the "closed" sign gets turned around at the door, I see her face peering in. . . waiting. . .hungry. . .the hunting and gathering begins.

At the grocery store, no matter what day or time I decide to buy food, the same cashiers are at their registers--methodically sliding food from right to left, stuffing your items in blue plastic bags, collecting your money, and then handing your change and receipt. Oftentimes, you won't even get a 'hello' which is fine with me, I suppose. Since sometimes that interaction opens up the next level of exchange--dialogue. There is a kind of relief not knowing the workers at a place where you are a customer on a daily basis. At least at this place.

And so the sun comes up and then it goes down--just part of the routine. It's everything else in between that makes the change. . .

It's when the petals fall off a flower that you just purchased yesterday.
It's getting the parking space in front of your building for once.
It's when the phone rings and it's a friend to whom you haven't spoken in years.
It's making a raspberry smoothie for the first time.
It's sitting on the beach when the weatherman thought it was going to be a cloudy day.

The Rhapsody of Maria

© 2005 Annabelle A. Udo

Chevron Gas Prices o' the Day (19th Avenue)
$2.48
$2.68
$2.78

Her nocturnal habits seem hard to break—the television is her family, friend, lover, addiction. Every night before I go to sleep, I knock a few times on the wall to signal to her that I’m about to go to sleep and the amazingly penetrating volume of “The 11 o’clock News” needs to be off the air. I'm thankful that she doesn't have even basic cable TV, yet seems there are some programs at 3 in the morning that she manages to tune in to of the 4 stations from which she has to choose.

She has told me that she is blind in one eye and deaf in one ear—an unfortunate case for a woman who has only a twig left on her family tree. On occasion, I will run into her as she drags her walker on its tennis balls across the 6th floor corridor where we are neighbors.

I rarely discuss our “dilemma” and I try to get to know her better in small dialogue. I come to learn that her entire professional life was on the administrative staff with the GSA. She has lived in the apartment building almost the duration of half her lifespan.

Now at 80 years old—she tells me how she envies one of her only human friends—a woman who is the same age as Maria and is able to go dancing almost every night, gets to play with her grandchildren, and has her health.

Maria talks like a New Yorker but was born and raised, and says she will die, in San Francisco. Her tough talk, however, is trapped in a body riddled with age—hunched over and caught in a position as if eternally ducking a low, overhanging branch. And, so, as I glimpsed over to her apartment which is located by the elevator, her door ajar, I can see a dreary light casting, dimly, the area just a pinch outside of her apartment—her blinds drawn on a rare, sunny day in the City. I am depressed by this brief encounter with her darkness and wonder how I can help. How can I better understand a woman who is a reminder of everything I fear as I walk along the same timeline. . .

The shadows walk with her—Maria’s chosen company—meanwhile, I cross busy intersections of this concrete jungle and dodge bullets of the piercing eyes of strange men smoking in between bushes. I ponder upon my own years—of who I am and will become and I am disturbed—as if a fly were roaming inside my head trying to find the open window to get the hell out.

As I walk home I can see her window—shut—and imagine Maria, pale and dry, as if a poof of wind could blow her into a cloud of dust. She is of interest to me because amidst all the knocking on the walls, I feel as if only I should just knock on her door to peek in and say “hello!” although I know all she would say, as she always says is, “Do I know you?” or “This is what happens when you get old.” I tell her that I don’t believe that, which makes her think.

It’s quiet now—then, again, it’s only 9:30 p.m. The news is on in 1 1/2 hours and we know what that means. Volume is up. . .but, hey, gas prices are "down" 5 cents!

(Note: This was updated at 2:51 a.m., Wednesday morning, after the above mentioned occurred at this time. Yes. . . I am awake with only a few hours left until I need to wake up to go to work. Gas prices are still the same.)

In a Chalice of Thoughts: Wine & Its Inspirations on Poetry

Li Po Bar in San Francisco's Chinatown,
originally uploaded by Salon de The.

From Li Po to Edgar Allan Poe, there have been many references to the inspirations that wine has made on some of the best poetry of our time. For centuries, these mystics of lore have used the vocabulary of wine for inspiration and even Robert Louis Stevenson has attributed wine as being "bottled poetry."

When I first moved to San Francisco in the late '80s, the cafes seemed to be more like bars with wine ever-flowing from 11 a.m. to midnight and lone writers at each table frantically scribbling with pens seemingly full of merlot.

Although it seems that such poetry bars as The Place and Gino & Carlo's are a thing of the past, still, there are a few watering holes in the City that keep alive the legacies of wine poetics.

Li Po, a dank, dark, classic dive bar in San Francisco's Chinatown (916 Grant Street at Washington), names itself after the famed Chinese T'ang Poet whose poetry makes for good toasts at weddings and graduations. Established in 1937, Li Po is replete with cheap vinyl seats and loud happenings of dice games at the bar.

Framed like decaying business certificates by the bar are two framed documents explaining the history of the venue and a second page featuring three English translations of Li Po's poems expressing, of course, his love for wine. In a unique way, this place seems to commemorate Li Po's legacy merely by its booze-instilled clientele.

According to Frommer's, Li Po was once an opium den and notes that "the bartenders love to creep out patrons with tales of opium junkies haunting the joint" If anything, it is certainly one of the best places to be inspired and do some paper napkin writing while under the influence.

When I first went to Vesuvio (255 Columbus Avenue at Jack Kerouac Alley) in North Beach there was a man clad in stereotypical poet-wear, that is, all black and sporting a beret and turtleneck. A classic beatnik, I thought. In the 2-hour or so duration that I was there, instead of turning out to be a writing kind of beatnik, he was a drinking kind of beatnik who became obnoxiously drunk by himself and ended up getting tossed out. True story. Established in 1948, this local haunt serves its literary community well. Adjacent to City Lights Bookstore, it is an obvious beehive for artists, musicians, writers, and poets--certainly, a bastion for intelligent conversation, good wine, and sweet inspirations.

So whether you prefer a glass of "2 Buck Chuck" to inspire economic writing or a private reserve bottle of David Bruce, as Shakespeare said, "Good wine is a good familiar creature if it be well used."

21-Line Salute for Eileen Tabios

© 2005 Annabelle A. Udo

Chevron Gas Prices o' the Day (19th Avenue)
$2.53
$2.63
$2.73

Hear Ye! Hear Ye! I unroll this scroll made of organic fibers of flax and hemp and hereby make this decree as my toes hang on the edge of 11:59:59 p.m. on this final moment of the 19th day in May in the year of the Rooster, that these words are to be delivered over land and sea to La Poetessa, Eileen Tabios, for her inexhaustible commitment to the spoken and written word and for resurrecting those dead poets, like me. I dedicate the following:

i salute you
for your stories
that transcend time,
that twist the mind,
that take us
into the sublime.
i thank you
for helping me
step out of my cave
to turn the tables around
so that i'm not a slave
to Corporate America.
so i say to you
amidst poems
and midnight blogs,
and e-mails
and other logs
on the fire:
SALAMAT PO,
you have helped me out
more than you know.

For Love of a Friend

Love does not have to be risky--never at the cost of your well-being. Love is bold and leaves you and others around you feeling that way. Love is an unchoreographed dance that leaves you feeling silly. Love just is--seamless as the moon arriving at night to the sun awaking in the day. Love gives you a different vocabulary and a different cadence in your breath. And when you just let it be, you will just know because you will feel the buzz of delight from it all.

MUNI Madness Tangents

© 2005 Annabelle A. Udo

Chevron Gas Prices o' the Day (19th Avenue)
$2.53
$2.63
$2.73

And as I waited for the N Judah to move. . .even just a few inches. . .I stared at a drawing of a horse scrawled over an advertisement on the train. Scribbled next to it was “Did you know that the McDonald’s on Haight Street used to be a stable?” At first, I thought I should hop on the 71 Noriega and head over there to see if I could get that equestrian feeling. Then my mind went off the beaten track and I began to reflect on my childhood and how I got to where I was—crushed against the center doors of this Tyco train set known as public transportation in San Francisco—then, I started thinking that I needed to bring my Jeep into the shop. . .and then I started thinking that I needed to get my eyes checked. . .

The choreography was much like playing a game of Twister with body parts criss-crossing while taller passengers blocked my view and grabbed for whatever they could to keep from violating other people's personal space. A woman's voice broke the silence and commented that it was a good thing it wasn’t a hot day. Time passed without explanation as to why we weren’t moving until on the muffled, crackling loudspeaker the conductor said, “The relief driver has still not arrived.” People rolled their eyes, another woman joked that the relief driver was probably late because he’s probably taking MUNI to get there. I stared at her the way an oral surgeon tries to soothe a patient and said, "It will all be over very soon." Others just kept quiet and shifted from one foot to the other. Meanwhile, as I counted to 4 (inhale) then counted to 8 (exhale), I attempted to meditate. But, in the corner of my eye I see a guy completely unfazed by the MUNI delay, with earplugs and iPod shuffler around his neck. Suddenly, my mind just looped with thoughts of “I need to get an iPod, I need to get an iPod, I need to get an iPod. . .”

Outside, I envied pedestrians fighting the elements of heavy drizzle and inverted umbrellas from strong southern winds. Well, I finally made it back home from this herky-jerky, $45 a month ride. Just ate a big dinner and gas prices are “down” 4 cents.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

© 2005 Annabelle A. Udo

Chevron Gas Prices o' the Day (19th Avenue)
$2.57
$2.67
$2.77

Children certainly speak as if channeling the voices of angels. They have a special way of communicating with these heavenly luminaries just as in the Wim Wenders’ film “Wings of Desire.” My 4-year-old niece has a way of reminding me where life’s source is and that within all of us jaded adults, there is still a lot of innocence left. She told me yesterday afternoon:

“Dreaming isn’t just for sleeping—it’s also for when you’re awake. I dream when the sun is setting. I dream when I’m eating and I dream of all the things inside the house including Lucy and William (her cats).”

And so, as I was driving home, I remembered to look towards the clouds for comfort when that ubiquitous driver comes out of nowhere on the freeway and tailgates me at 80 miles per hour. I allowed my eyes to roam and savor the roads that I have traveled numerous times since I moved to San Francisco in 1988—and I assessed the antithetical patterns of the water and oil puddle that splattered on my shoes when I jumped out of my Jeep (an unfortunate gas guzzler). It’s all good—life, that is.

Voices Engraved: The Chinese Poets of Angel Island

© 2005 Annabelle A. Udo

Chevron Gas Prices o' the Day (19th Avenue)
$2.59
$2.69
$2.79

On a winter weekend, a ferry leaves Pier 41 in San Francisco at 10:40 a.m., makes two more stops at Sausalito and Tiburon, and then arrives at Angel Island approximately 1 hour later. There’s a devouring serenity that immediately becomes apparent once the ferry departs. From that point, you’re on your own for about 5 ½ hours.

Angel Island—its pristine 760 acres of silent earth emerges from the ghostly veil of fog that sets upon the bay and with a certain kind of melancholy, welcomes its guests as if it hasn’t been visited in a long time. On one of these lonely days, the benches seem to yearn for someone to sit on its lap as it enviously watches its neighbors across the water bustle with activity.

This lingering feeling of sadness may be perhaps because of its lackluster history which includes having served as a quarantine station during the Spanish-American War, a POW camp during World War II, and an Immigration Station often referred to as "The Ellis Island of the West" from 1910 through 1940.

Unlike Ellis Island, however, the Chinese were detained for weeks or even months as The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 turned would-be immigrants into detainees. It is here on Angel Island, where one of the greatest literary discoveries is found. What little was known of the grieving words scrawled deeply within the wooden walls of an old barracks, one of the buildings where Chinese immigrants were confined.

From this struggle, many found poetry to be their lamentation. Primarily carved into the walls of the men's barracks, the poems were discounted as irrelevant for over thirty years. As legend has it, the building was set for demolition, but a State of California park ranger, Alexander Weiss, inquired about their significance. He decided to bring to the barracks, his San Francisco State Biology Professor, a Japanese-American named Dr. George Araki, who identified the carvings as poems.

And, so, there, beneath layers of paint and wood putty, were hundreds of poems that revealed profound themes of labor, immigration, alienation, and race relations in America. Many of these stories emblazoned by imprisoned poets of past still remain visible within the walls at the Angel Island Immigration Station.

The way is far for the traveler
Ten-thousand miles of difficult journey
May I advise you not to sneak across the border
The difficult and dangerous conditions
are not worth your curiosity
These are not idle words.
--excerpt from poem at Angel Island

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Experience the poetry and learn more about the Angel Island Immigration Station at the following:

Angel Island – includes information on visiting the site, educational projects and historic perspectives.
www.aiisf.org

Angel Island Photo Gallery http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/a_f/angel/gallery.htm

Carved in Silence (45 min.) – Video documentary recounting the experience of Chinese immigrants at Angel Island Immigration Station. (Lowedown Productions: 415.824.4555 or lowedown@aol.com

Island: Poetry & History of Chinese Immigrants on Angel Island, 1910-1940
Him Mark Lai, Genny Lim, and Judy Yung. [San Francisco HOC DOI (History of Chinese Detained on Island)], 1980 – The collection of the poems inscribed in the walls.

Strangers from a Different Shore
Ronald Takaki (Boston: Little Brown & Co.), 1989

Dream a little dream

Chevron Gas Prices o' the Day (19th Avenue)
$2.59
$2.69
$2.79

There are times when I wake up and wonder if everything that I left behind in my slumbering hours will still be there if I return to that same dream. At this very moment I have survived the dreaded Friday the 13th. As a matter of fact, it has been one of my better days—got up, stretched, did some deep breathing and onward to work—had lunch with friends, had dinner with friends, and noticed that the gas prices have actually gone “down” again by another 2 cents. This still does not signify progress, just the possibility that I may be able to fill my gas tank with $25 as opposed to $30.

Reports of bad dreams were conveyed to me today—episodes of violence and faint memories of apocalyptic times—of red, exploding skies and of ubiquitous chases and floatings above the sea. Blink a few times upon awakening and it all seems to be over in a flash. But your heart is still racing and your clothes are dampened from the chaotic sweat of a war dream--nevertheless, it is. .. .just a dream. Blondie says that “dreaming is free” meanwhile The Cranberries claim that “salvation is free” so there is no cost at gaining salvation by thinking on a cloud.

Anyway, we are living in tough times and dreams cost nothing. They liberate us beyond our imagination. These dreams can only be lived when we experience them rather than just sleep through them. Hop aboard the mothership of your connecting flight from earth to heaven—it’s all out of mind, it’s all out of sight.

Livin' the '80s Loca

Chevron Gas Prices o' the Day (19th Avenue)
$2.61 - Regular Unleaded
$2.71 - Premium
$2.81 - Supreme

Gas is down by 2 cents today.

The mall scene these days is as if walking into a club--with music blaring from all four corners, girls and guys cruising the corridors the way we used to do it in our cars down the boulevard, and everyone all dressed up and somewhere to go: the mall. As a child of the '80s, I have to say that I envy the styles that are available to teenagers these days. If you are one of those folks who sported a Thompson Twins or Flock of Seagulls look, you can empathize with what I'm talking about. I come from a generation when hair mousse was probably just being invented. I remember getting a perm along with a "lesson" on how to scrunch my hair with mousse so my hair had that wet, crunchy look. It was a look that, well, seems to have transcended time as it still rears its helmet head in some of the smaller towns such as the one in which I grew up. Additionally, a complementary style for any Scunci wearers.

We weren't too far away from the close of the '70s and the '80s was a great time to be alive--things were cheap. You could work part-time in a moviehouse and still be able to pay rent. You could fill the tank of a VW Bug with $8. You could finish reading a book without distractions because things seemed so carefree. It was a time when the only way to be with your friends was to actually meet up with them--no text messaging, no e-mail, no cell phones. We were wide-eyed, bushy-tailed and youthful--victims of shorts, halter tops and tube socks--and it was all OK.

And so life goes on. . .we are in 2005--the Year of the iPod. It makes portable CD players look like 8-track cassettes players--even a Walkman is much smaller. Gas prices are "down" although they really haven't changed much. But what does it matter when everything costs a lot anyway. It can put you in a panic if you think about it enough. So, don't think about it. Just live as if it were the '80s--listen to the music, see your friends, close your eyes and feel the sun warm your eyelids. It's a nice feeling and always a comforting place to go.

From Dr. Seuss to Dr. Dre: Youth Culture and Poetry in San Francisco

(published in "Listen & Be Heard" Weekly / May 4, 2005)
© 2005 Annabelle A. Udo

With the evolution of hip hop artistry and the lyrical mastery that has become slam poetics, this revitalized interest in poetry among the next generation has had an impact on the educational system in San Francisco.

According to an April 6 op-ed piece entitled “Kids Need Poetry in School (see following Resources for link to this article), “Last year, 170 of the [California Poets in the Schools] program's poet-teachers assisted more than 30,396 California students—3,697 in San Francisco alone.”

Additionally, such San Francisco-based organizations as WritersCorp and YouthSpeaks which cater to its younger audiences has made significant measures in the poetry community as a teaching tool in the schools. With major events such as last month’s “Brave New Voices 2005: The 8th Annual International Youth Poetry Slam Festival”, more than 250 teen poets had a grand opportunity to participate in one of the largest events of this kind in San Francisco—bringing to the table, and the turntable, their various styles of poetic expressions.

Back in the day when I was a kid, poetry was a different animal—with beats and rhymes embroidered within patty cake slaps and double dutch jumps. Nevertheless, the very first poem ever read to me as a child was Edgar Allan Poe’s “Annabel Lee.” Not only did it quell my emotions charged by my fellow kindergarten peers who made fun of my name but it offered a sense of refuge which subconsciously set in motion my fate to become a writer.

Today, and everyday, is a good day to inspire our younger audiences with the jewels of poetry—the following are not merely just resources available for the next generation, but, as well, these are points of inspiration for all dream-filled poets still to be born and amongst those young poets with whom we already roam.

SAN FRANCISCO YOUTH & POETRY RESOURCES
California Poets in the Schools, 1333 Balboa Street, #3, San Francisco, CA 94118, (415)221-4201, http://www.cpits.org/
Since 1964, this organization has helped students throughout California recognize and celebrate their own creativity, intuition and intellectual curiosity through the creative writing process. California Poets in the Schools provides students with a multicultural community of trained, published poets who bring their experience and love for their craft into the classroom.

826 Valencia Studios, 826 Valencia Street, San Francisco, CA 94110, (415)642-5905
www.826valencia.org
An inspiring place which helps students ages 8-18 with their writing skills, in the realm of creative writing, expository writing, or English as a Second Language.

New Traditions Creative Arts Elementary School, 2049 Grove Street, San Francisco, CA 94117, (415)750-8490,
http://www.sfusd.k12.ca.us/schwww/sch735/index.html
Students have the opportunity to learn through several modalities. For example, the required California Academic Standards are not only taught in the traditional way, but with projects integrating visual arts, music, poetry, and drama, taught by professional artists of our community.

San Francisco Homeschoolers, www.sfhomeschoolers.org
A loosely organized, inclusive group of homeschooling families which offers various classes and programs including Poetry Writing Workshops that provides children workshops in writing, appreciating and performing poetry.

South San Francisco Cultural Arts Commission, 33 Arroyo Drive, South San Francisco, CA 94080, (650)829-3800
http://www.ci.ssf.ca.us/news/displaynews.asp?NewsID=255
Arts education program offers an annual Teen Poetry Contest for San Mateo County high school students co-sponsored with the Friends of the Library

Writers Corp/San Francisco Arts Commission , 25 Van Ness Avenue, Suite 240
San Francisco, CA 94102, (415)252-4655, http://www.sfartscommission.org/WC/
WritersCorps, a project of the The San Francisco Arts Commission, works to transform and strengthen individuals and communities through the written and spoken word.

YouthSpeaks, 2169 Folsom Street, S-100, San Francisco, CA 94110, (415)255-9035, www.youthspeaks.org
Host of this year’s “Brave New Voices 2005: The 8th Annual International Youth Poetry Slam Festival”, YouthSpeaks is one of the premier youth poetry, spoken word, and creative writing programs in the country.
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Recent op-ed piece about children and poetry:
Open Forum: Kids Need Poetry in School (April 6, 2005): http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2005/04/06/EDGANC36QD1.DTL