deconstructing red clay http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm Mon, 06 May 2013 20:13:08 GMT http://bandzoogle.com Beauty is a Decision. http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=4214732 I didn't grow up hearing that I am beautiful. It was a designation that belonged to women with different features, hair textures, hair lengths, figures and skin tones than me. But somewhere along the line I decided that I can be whatever I deem is so. So I decided to be beautiful. And, strangely enough people started agreeing with me. That's how this thing works. You can be what you want to be. It starts with your thoughts. So today, I celebrate my beauty. Natural. Unfettered. Uniquely mine.


I didn't grow up hearing that I am beautiful. It was a designation that belonged to women with different features, hair textures, hair lengths, figures and skin tones than me. But somewhere along the line I decided that I can be whatever I deem is so. So I decided to be beautiful. And, strangely enough people started agreeing with me. That's how this thing works. You can be what you want to be. It starts with your thoughts.

So today, I celebrate my beauty. Natural. Unfettered. Uniquely mine.]]> Mon, 06 May 2013 20:13:08 GMT 8B72CAD30D518F31EF52D4121408E4DF How I Spent My Summer Vacation http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=2573326   It's Labor Day Weekend and it's the unofficial end to summer. And what a summer it has been. I would love to tell you that it was filled with sonnets and iambic pentameter, but I barely picked up a pen. I have been all about the lazy, hazy days of summer. Taking walks, dating, eating tasty food, experiencing cultural events and enjoying concerts. "Sacrilege," you scream. What about the art? What about the grind? Yeah, I have thought about that, too. Believe me. I am all about being an artist and a cultural advocate. But at the end of the day all work and no play makes Rhonda a hot mess accident waiting to happen. And if I am not mistaken, the same is true for you. As humans, we are wired to need down time. I think that may be even more true of artists. How can we create if we haven't taken the time to live? I believe in smelling the roses as much as possible. It makes me a better person and it helps me to create better. I encourage you to do the same. Take time to enjoy your life! This summer, I did. And the enjoyment will carry on to the fall as I get back to poetry -- my beautiful constant.   
It's Labor Day Weekend and it's the unofficial end to summer. And what a summer it has been. I would love to tell you that it was filled with sonnets and iambic pentameter, but I barely picked up a pen. I have been all about the lazy, hazy days of summer. Taking walks, dating, eating tasty food, experiencing cultural events and enjoying concerts.
"Sacrilege," you scream. What about the art? What about the grind? Yeah, I have thought about that, too. Believe me. I am all about being an artist and a cultural advocate. But at the end of the day all work and no play makes Rhonda a hot mess accident waiting to happen. And if I am not mistaken, the same is true for you.
As humans, we are wired to need down time. I think that may be even more true of artists. How can we create if we haven't taken the time to live?

I believe in smelling the roses as much as possible. It makes me a better person and it helps me to create better. I encourage you to do the same. Take time to enjoy your life! This summer, I did. And the enjoyment will carry on to the fall as I get back to poetry -- my beautiful constant. 

]]> Sat, 01 Sep 2012 16:00:00 GMT 3EC7664A7E64746415104C9B6CBFB6D6 Practicing Gratitude http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=1490380 I am grateful for my new project, <a href="./listeningroom.cfm">Raw Clay! The Holiday Season is upon us! There are some that embrace this time with joy and giddiness. There are still others that see this time of year as a poignant reminder of pain and loss. If you are in the latter category, please allow me to overstep my bounds a little and present you with an alternative. It seems counterintuitive to express gratitude during times of death and loss. When my sister, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=446207144910">Emily, passed away the last thing that I thought about was gratitude. She was my creative soulmate in the family and I always admired her ability to undertake so many creative pursuits simultaneously. But the one thing that I noticed was that she never had the courage to pursue her art seriously. We discussed this a few weeks before she died and we had plans to write a book together. But, she didn't live long enough to make this dream come true. When I released my CD in 2006 and my book in 2010, it was on the wings of her legacy. She left me a legacy of creativity. Gratitude helped me turn it into something tangible. When Dr. Pamela May, lost her mother to Small Cell Lung Cancer. She celebrated her mother's life by developing <a href="http://www.brmay.org">The Bettie R. May Foundation for Small Cell Lung Cancer. She shows her gratitude for her mother by offering support to cancer survivors and funds for cancer research. Recently a friend told me that his mother always modeled love through her live. She was a powerful presence because she forgave and showed love even when people wronged her. Even after her death, he continues to be inspired by her legacy of love. Another friend shared with me how her recently deceased grandmother sent care packages, when she was a child living overseas. Those consistent displays of warmth meant the world to her during a very troubled childhood and they continue to inspire her to be a better adult. I offer these examples in hopes that you will consider embracing gratitude if you are experiencing loss. It's not an easy thing to do. Loss is uncomfortable and undesirable and painful. We don't want it. We resist it at every cost. But it eventually touches most of us. When it touches you, I encourage you to grieve because it's natural to grieve. And it's important to allow yourself to experience those stages. Creativity, love, warmth, and philanthropy are the gifts that loss gave my friends and me when it was filtered through gratitude. When the time comes and you are ready, I pray that you can embrace the lesson that loss can teach you. Who am I to tell you how to live? No one really&hellip; I am just a poet. But I have lived long enough to gain a little wisdom, a whole lot of love and a soupcon of gratitude. So what I have I gratefully and humbly offer to you. May your Thanksgiving and your entire holiday season be filled with deep and abiding joy!
I am grateful for my new project, Raw Clay!

The Holiday Season is upon us! There are some that embrace this time with joy and giddiness. There are still others that see this time of year as a poignant reminder of pain and loss. If you are in the latter category, please allow me to overstep my bounds a little and present you with an alternative.

It seems counterintuitive to express gratitude during times of death and loss. When my sister, Emily, passed away the last thing that I thought about was gratitude. She was my creative soulmate in the family and I always admired her ability to undertake so many creative pursuits simultaneously. But the one thing that I noticed was that she never had the courage to pursue her art seriously. We discussed this a few weeks before she died and we had plans to write a book together. But, she didn't live long enough to make this dream come true. When I released my CD in 2006 and my book in 2010, it was on the wings of her legacy. She left me a legacy of creativity. Gratitude helped me turn it into something tangible.

When Dr. Pamela May, lost her mother to Small Cell Lung Cancer. She celebrated her mother's life by developing The Bettie R. May Foundation for Small Cell Lung Cancer. She shows her gratitude for her mother by offering support to cancer survivors and funds for cancer research. Recently a friend told me that his mother always modeled love through her live. She was a powerful presence because she forgave and showed love even when people wronged her. Even after her death, he continues to be inspired by her legacy of love. Another friend shared with me how her recently deceased grandmother sent care packages, when she was a child living overseas. Those consistent displays of warmth meant the world to her during a very troubled childhood and they continue to inspire her to be a better adult.

I offer these examples in hopes that you will consider embracing gratitude if you are experiencing loss. It's not an easy thing to do. Loss is uncomfortable and undesirable and painful. We don't want it. We resist it at every cost. But it eventually touches most of us. When it touches you, I encourage you to grieve because it's natural to grieve. And it's important to allow yourself to experience those stages. Creativity, love, warmth, and philanthropy are the gifts that loss gave my friends and me when it was filtered through gratitude. When the time comes and you are ready, I pray that you can embrace the lesson that loss can teach you. Who am I to tell you how to live? No one really… I am just a poet. But I have lived long enough to gain a little wisdom, a whole lot of love and a soupcon of gratitude. So what I have I gratefully and humbly offer to you. May your Thanksgiving and your entire holiday season be filled with deep and abiding joy!
]]> Fri, 11 Nov 2011 18:50:00 GMT CEBEAB2B3E69C82061A3C94F4A8601C0 Imitation of Science http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=986537 The character Sarah Jane Johnson was depicted by actress Susan Kohner. Sarah Jane is a beautiful girl. She has dreamy brown eyes, long dark brown hair and a super curvy figure. Her parents are both black people. Her mother, Annie, is dark brown with a similarly curvy figure and pleasant full cheeks. Her father, now deceased, was also black but with very light skin and straight hair. Sarah Jane has her father's complexion and hair texture. She has the type of beauty that most people notice immediately. But Sarah Jane has a problem. She hates being black.&nbsp; One Christmas when she was a child, her mother told her and another little girl the story of Jesus' birth. She promptly asks, &quot;What color is Jesus?&quot; There was discussion back and forth but little Sarah Jane finally settles the matter with, &quot;He was white -- like me.&quot; She could not fathom celebrating a Savior of color. There were other incidents. In a fit of tantrum, she rejected a black doll over a white doll. She publicly denounced her mother in front of classmates and work mates. She openly rejected any social settings that involved black people. Sarah Jane wanted nothing to do with the African blood in her veins. Fast forward to my life and this past Thursday morning. It started like any other morning. I had on a suit. I purchased my usual grande soy chai latte. I concentrated on the press releases that I needed to send out and the event I had to attend later. It was completely unremarkable. That is, until I hear the radio personality talk about some scientist/researcher/knucklehead type who had written a blog about how African-American women are less attractive than women of other races. This was not in the Enquirer or The Star or People Magazine. This was in Psychology Today. A supposedly reputable source&hellip; I spent the rest of the day reeling. African-American women get plenty of reinforcement about their &quot;ugliness&quot; in this society. Especially my type of African-American woman&hellip; You know the type: heavy-set sisters with flat noses and short hair and full lips and dark skin. Our images are rarely shown as beautiful. We are often not the first choice of African-American men or men of other races.&nbsp; When we make it into a mainstream movie, we are most often not the love interest. At best, we get cast as the loud, bodacious, tough-talking friend. Probably all that testosterone&hellip; Oh yeah, didn't I tell you? The article states that African-American people have higher levels of testosterone. It makes the men more attractive and it makes the women less attractive. The underlying subtext is that the less African our features are than the more attractive we are. But isn't it about more than attractiveness? Isn't it more about white as normal and everything else as other? Sarah Jane understood this at a visceral level so she spent a lifetime struggling to fit in with a society that labeled her as unworthy based upon the African blood in her veins. So what's my point? I'm not sure. I think I am just angry. I am tired of this society calling me ugly. I am tired of trying to prove that my ideas and my existence are just as valid as those of my non-black companions on this earth. And yes, Sarah Jane is just a fictitious character from the 1959 movie, Imitation of Life. But her story rings true and tugs at my heart strings. As black women, there is an underlying subtext that we are not valuable. Sarah Jane, as flawed as she was, understood that societal subtext better than most. But if I am wise I will take the advice of Sarah Jane's mother, Annie.&nbsp; While I don't agree with her devotion to caring for her employers at any cost, I recognize her as the true beauty in the movie. And in the words of the very wise Annie Johnson, &quot;It's a sin to be ashamed of who you are.&quot; The one exception is Psychology Today. They should be ashamed for publishing such a dehumanizing, insulting piece of dreck. Read the article for yourself:<a href="http://theangryblackwoman.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/psychologytoday.jpg">http://theangryblackwoman.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/psychologytoday.jpg<a href="http://theangryblackwoman.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/psychologytoday.jpg"> (Thought this poem would be appropriate in the face all this talk about beauty.) &nbsp; For the Girls This poem is for the girls who don't think they're pretty. The girls who didn't date in high school. The awkward sisters who aren't admired for their looks in the streets. Considered inferior because they don't fit a narrow idea of beauty. Not enough bosom. Not enough booty. Hair too short. Skin too dar. TV-fueled Saturday nights barren and stark. This is for that woman. The one who doesn't know her worth. Thinks she was deemed inferior at birth. This is for the girl who doesn't realize she was fearfully and wonderfully created. Beautiful by design. Intrinsically fine. This story was mine. But today, I dedicate it to you and all the other girls who don't think they're pretty. &copy; Rhonda Welsh 2010 &nbsp; excerpted from Red Clay Legacy &nbsp;
The character Sarah Jane Johnson was depicted by actress Susan Kohner.

Sarah Jane is a beautiful girl. She has dreamy brown eyes, long dark brown hair and a super curvy figure. Her parents are both black people. Her mother, Annie, is dark brown with a similarly curvy figure and pleasant full cheeks. Her father, now deceased, was also black but with very light skin and straight hair. Sarah Jane has her father's complexion and hair texture. She has the type of beauty that most people notice immediately. But Sarah Jane has a problem. She hates being black. 


One Christmas when she was a child, her mother told her and another little girl the story of Jesus' birth. She promptly asks, "What color is Jesus?" There was discussion back and forth but little Sarah Jane finally settles the matter with, "He was white -- like me." She could not fathom celebrating a Savior of color. There were other incidents. In a fit of tantrum, she rejected a black doll over a white doll. She publicly denounced her mother in front of classmates and work mates. She openly rejected any social settings that involved black people. Sarah Jane wanted nothing to do with the African blood in her veins.


Fast forward to my life and this past Thursday morning. It started like any other morning. I had on a suit. I purchased my usual grande soy chai latte. I concentrated on the press releases that I needed to send out and the event I had to attend later. It was completely unremarkable.


That is, until I hear the radio personality talk about some scientist/researcher/knucklehead type who had written a blog about how African-American women are less attractive than women of other races. This was not in the Enquirer or The Star or People Magazine. This was in Psychology Today. A supposedly reputable source…


I spent the rest of the day reeling. African-American women get plenty of reinforcement about their "ugliness" in this society. Especially my type of African-American woman… You know the type: heavy-set sisters with flat noses and short hair and full lips and dark skin.


Our images are rarely shown as beautiful. We are often not the first choice of African-American men or men of other races.  When we make it into a mainstream movie, we are most often not the love interest. At best, we get cast as the loud, bodacious, tough-talking friend. Probably all that testosterone…


Oh yeah, didn't I tell you? The article states that African-American people have higher levels of testosterone. It makes the men more attractive and it makes the women less attractive. The underlying subtext is that the less African our features are than the more attractive we are. But isn't it about more than attractiveness? Isn't it more about white as normal and everything else as other? Sarah Jane understood this at a visceral level so she spent a lifetime struggling to fit in with a society that labeled her as unworthy based upon the African blood in her veins.


So what's my point? I'm not sure. I think I am just angry. I am tired of this society calling me ugly. I am tired of trying to prove that my ideas and my existence are just as valid as those of my non-black companions on this earth. And yes, Sarah Jane is just a fictitious character from the 1959 movie, Imitation of Life. But her story rings true and tugs at my heart strings. As black women, there is an underlying subtext that we are not valuable. Sarah Jane, as flawed as she was, understood that societal subtext better than most.


But if I am wise I will take the advice of Sarah Jane's mother, Annie.  While I don't agree with her devotion to caring for her employers at any cost, I recognize her as the true beauty in the movie. And in the words of the very wise Annie Johnson, "It's a sin to be ashamed of who you are." The one exception is Psychology Today. They should be ashamed for publishing such a dehumanizing, insulting piece of dreck.


Read the article for yourself:http://theangryblackwoman.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/psychologytoday.jpg



(Thought this poem would be appropriate in the face all this talk about beauty.)



 

For the Girls


This poem is for the girls

who don't think they're pretty.


The girls who didn't date in high school.


The awkward sisters


who aren't admired for their looks

in the streets.


Considered inferior

because they don't fit a narrow idea of beauty.


Not enough bosom.

Not enough booty.


Hair too short.

Skin too dar.


TV-fueled Saturday nights

barren and stark.


This is for that woman.


The one who doesn't know her worth.

Thinks she was deemed inferior at birth.


This is for the girl who doesn't realize

she was fearfully and wonderfully created.


Beautiful by design. Intrinsically fine.

This story was mine.


But today,

I dedicate it to you

and all the other girls who

don't think they're pretty.



© Rhonda Welsh 2010

 

excerpted from Red Clay Legacy


 

]]> Sun, 22 May 2011 08:10:00 GMT 55E780B56F0B2219F42928D51D26DFAA poetry, etc. - vernal equinox | bagels and lox | out of the box http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=863425 Hey dudes and dudettes. The vernal equinox is upon us. It is finally Spring again. Warmer temps, flowers, lighter clothing, right? Well, theoretically... In Michigan, there is currently an ice storm. Ha! It's all good. We have our love and creativity to keep us warm. Are you looking for ways to expand your creativity? April is National Poetry Month. Seems like a natural time to try your skills as a poet. If you are a beginner, you can start with something simple like Haiku. If you are a bit more advanced check out a website like the one run by Poetry Magazine for ideas. (At the end of last year, they threw a little love my way via &ldquo;Harriet the Blog.&rdquo;) This is an excerpt from my latest newsletter. Follow this <a href="./files/poetryetcmarch2011.pdf">link to read more.

Hey dudes and dudettes. The vernal equinox is upon us. It is finally Spring again. Warmer temps, flowers, lighter clothing, right? Well, theoretically... In Michigan, there is currently an ice storm. Ha! It's all good. We have our love and creativity to keep us warm.

Are you looking for ways to expand your creativity? April is National Poetry Month. Seems like a natural time to try your skills as a poet. If you are a beginner, you can start with something simple like Haiku. If you are a bit more advanced check out a website like the one run by Poetry Magazine for ideas. (At the end of last year, they threw a little love my way via “Harriet the Blog.”)

This is an excerpt from my latest newsletter. Follow this link to read more.

]]> Sun, 27 Mar 2011 21:50:00 GMT F8975FDC6AC676618DC0DCB7BDE12864 It's not just a new year. It's a new season. http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=688957 &nbsp; A few years ago, Israel Houghton came out with this dope song, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFozWMFDNGU&amp;feature=related">&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a New Season.&rdquo; I sang it and sang it until I moved into my new season. What ensued was my poetry CD, <a href="./store.cfm">I Saw Myself. Then I moved into another season and I started teaching, started a small press, Crimson Kairos, and released a book, <a href="./store.cfm">Red Clay Legacy. Well, guess what ya&rsquo;ll? It&rsquo;s about time for another new season. I am working on the CD companion to Red Clay Legacy. It will allow me to record the poems from the book that have become stage favorites. You know... The ones that people always want me to perform at gigs. I am also learning more about my craft, poetry, and I am looking into other genres of expression. Still too shy to elaborate about the other genres... ;o) And finally, I am working on my second book of poetry. It is a deeper look and far more revealing than my previous work. It seems like the perfect time. It&rsquo;s a new season and I want to explore and reach and stretch and push the boundaries as much as I possibly can. I wish the same for you as we embark on this next year. Much love to you as you recreate yourselves and move into your new season!

 
A few years ago, Israel Houghton came out with this dope song, “It’s a New Season.” I sang it and sang it until I moved into my new season. What ensued was my poetry CD, I Saw Myself. Then I moved into another season and I started teaching, started a small press, Crimson Kairos, and released a book, Red Clay Legacy.

Well, guess what ya’ll? It’s about time for another new season. I am working on the CD companion to Red Clay Legacy. It will allow me to record the poems from the book that have become stage favorites. You know... The ones that people always want me to perform at gigs. I am also learning more about my craft, poetry, and I am looking into other genres of expression. Still too shy to elaborate about the other genres... ;o)

And finally, I am working on my second book of poetry. It is a deeper look and far more revealing than my previous work. It seems like the perfect time. It’s a new season and I want to explore and reach and stretch and push the boundaries as much as I possibly can.

I wish the same for you as we embark on this next year. Much love to you as you recreate yourselves and move into your new season!

]]> Sun, 09 Jan 2011 23:05:00 GMT 6C59DC0EE24D0D0759583FA0CC46A387 Beauty and blessings... http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=624765 &quot;...had a very shiny nose. and if you ever saw it...&quot; I started a maudlin blog chock full of self-pity and angst. It was so depressing that I had to scrap it. I decided not to write anything. But then I decided to step outside my mood and look at the facts. I am one extremely blessed woman. So here are ten blessings that I personally experience (in no particular order): 1. I live in a beautiful home. 2. I eat well every day. 3. I have a warm bed. 4. I have nice clothing and dope shoes. 5. All my limbs are in working order. 6. I breathe in and out without aid all day long. 7. I don&rsquo;t experience any pain in my body. I am healthy. 8. I am literate and I regularly have the opportunity to create. 9. I am not in debt. 10. I have a car (a cool one). I didn&rsquo;t even get into the friends and family stuff. I could find a few blessings there, too. But the point of this exercise was to remind myself that I am blessed on a basic, fundamental level. There are many treasures in my life. Today I choose not to succumb to ultra hip artistic cynicism and sarcasm. I choose to see the beauty and blessings in my life. I hope you will choose to do the same.
"...had a very shiny nose. and if you ever saw it..."

I started a maudlin blog chock full of self-pity and angst. It was so depressing that I had to scrap it. I decided not to write anything. But then I decided to step outside my mood and look at the facts. I am one extremely blessed woman. So here are ten blessings that I personally experience (in no particular order):

1. I live in a beautiful home.
2. I eat well every day.
3. I have a warm bed.
4. I have nice clothing and dope shoes.
5. All my limbs are in working order.
6. I breathe in and out without aid all day long.
7. I don’t experience any pain in my body. I am healthy.
8. I am literate and I regularly have the opportunity to create.
9. I am not in debt.
10. I have a car (a cool one).

I didn’t even get into the friends and family stuff. I could find a few blessings there, too. But the point of this exercise was to remind myself that I am blessed on a basic, fundamental level. There are many treasures in my life.

Today I choose not to succumb to ultra hip artistic cynicism and sarcasm. I choose to see the beauty and blessings in my life. I hope you will choose to do the same.
]]> Wed, 08 Dec 2010 07:35:00 GMT 0816939D6E438E9483E96BDCACF95A4C Poetry seeps up from the cracks http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=505556 Posing with Nikki Giovanni. I am geeked! I want to blog about something profound. I want you to read deep words. Deep words that touch your soul and leave you forever changed. But this morning, I don't have any. Frankly, I have been too busy to go deep. Wait I take that back. Yesterday, I&nbsp;pulled over to the side of the&nbsp;road and thumb texted a poem based upon the phrase, &quot;Butterfly Mutations.&quot; It arose&nbsp;out of a&nbsp;text conversation that I was having about pelvic bones and pigeons. Pigeon toes, that is... Wow. That previous paragraph almost looks like gibberish. But, it's not. It's the process. It's how it really happens. I don't have long weeks to&nbsp;write in a log cabin in the woods. I have to work and clean and go to the post office. Sometimes poetry has to seep up from between the cracks. I carry a fancy leather notebook, but sometimes I have to write on the back of napkins and receipts. The poetry comes when it wills. It is a gift. When it presents itself, I remain ready. So if there is a point to this blog,&nbsp;I suppose it is to compel you to write. Don't wait for the appropriate setting or until you know the right technique. Those things are cool, but it is most important that you write. You can learn the other stuff. But, for now, just write. Even if it is something inspired in the grocery store parking lot and ultimately scribbled on the side of the road between your errands. Poetry will seep up&nbsp;from the cracks in your life. It's your responsibility to capture it. (P.S. Oh yeah, I should probably tell you that I finally met Nikki Giovanni. She reviewed my book earlier this year but I had never met her. And I communed with some really cool artists at TEDx Detroit.&nbsp; Oh yeah, and Time Magazine's <a href="http://detroit.blogs.time.com/2010/10/04/a-detroit-poet-and-her-city-as-muse/">on-line blog and <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2010/10/theres-no-place-like-home/">The Poetry Foundation recently wrote about me. And <a href="http://www.detroithomemag.com/Detroit-Home/Fall-2010/Simply-Irresistible/index.php?cp=2&amp;si=16">Detroit Home caught me out and about being dressed up and stuff. It's offically on and popping.)
Posing with Nikki Giovanni. I am geeked!
I want to blog about something profound. I want you to read deep words. Deep words that touch your soul and leave you forever changed. But this morning, I don't have any. Frankly, I have been too busy to go deep. Wait I take that back. Yesterday, I pulled over to the side of the road and thumb texted a poem based upon the phrase, "Butterfly Mutations." It arose out of a text conversation that I was having about pelvic bones and pigeons. Pigeon toes, that is...

Wow. That previous paragraph almost looks like gibberish. But, it's not. It's the process. It's how it really happens. I don't have long weeks to write in a log cabin in the woods. I have to work and clean and go to the post office. Sometimes poetry has to seep up from between the cracks. I carry a fancy leather notebook, but sometimes I have to write on the back of napkins and receipts. The poetry comes when it wills. It is a gift. When it presents itself, I remain ready.

So if there is a point to this blog, I suppose it is to compel you to write. Don't wait for the appropriate setting or until you know the right technique. Those things are cool, but it is most important that you write. You can learn the other stuff. But, for now, just write. Even if it is something inspired in the grocery store parking lot and ultimately scribbled on the side of the road between your errands. Poetry will seep up from the cracks in your life. It's your responsibility to capture it.

(P.S. Oh yeah, I should probably tell you that I finally met Nikki Giovanni. She reviewed my book earlier this year but I had never met her. And I communed with some really cool artists at TEDx Detroit.  Oh yeah, and Time Magazine's on-line blog and The Poetry Foundation recently wrote about me. And Detroit Home caught me out and about being dressed up and stuff. It's offically on and popping.)

]]> Sat, 16 Oct 2010 18:15:00 GMT D6F4FB09D1C6B16C1711CA7EDEBE99FF Etoufee Beignet: Regarding Hurricane Katrina http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=423429 Hurricane Kartina hit five years ago. I still don't know what to say about it. So, I am posting the poem I wrote while the disaster was happening. I don't think that I have ever shared it before today. Etoufee Beignet By Rhonda Welsh Etouffe beignet Mere mortal children created from clay. Washed away by the flood. Screeching, screaming, curdling blood. Shooting in the Astrodome Home to those who would not, could not get away. Etoufee beignet crawfish Dish after dish of seafood and pork. The Big Easy was sleazy and gritty and all about the good time. And now horror and destruction find people stranded and crazed. Dazed by destruction. An eruption of waste and thirst and not even a hearse to cart the dead. Writers wax inane about their nightmare. Attempt to stare into the collective chasm of their collective soul. But CNN isn&rsquo;t the real thing and any words we bring clang with the inauthenticity of those who see but do not know. Helpless we still try. Otherwise we&rsquo;d cry and admit our intellectual defeat. Some things we just don&rsquo;t understand. And just like the levees and the sand wouldn&rsquo;t hold back the ensuing surge we cannot hold back the ink&rsquo;s pain one more day. Etouffe beignet washed away Mere mortal children created from clay. COPYRIGHT RHONDA WELSH 2005 Hurricane Kartina hit five years ago. I still don't know what to say about it. So, I am posting the poem I wrote while the disaster was happening. I don't think that I have ever shared it before today.

Etoufee Beignet
By Rhonda Welsh

Etouffe beignet
Mere mortal children
created from clay.

Washed away
by the flood.
Screeching,
screaming,
curdling blood.

Shooting in the Astrodome
Home to those
who would not,
could not get away.

Etoufee beignet crawfish
Dish after dish of
seafood and pork.

The Big Easy was
sleazy and gritty and
all about the good time.

And now horror and destruction
find people stranded and crazed.
Dazed by destruction.
An eruption of waste and thirst
and not even a hearse to cart the dead.

Writers wax inane about their nightmare.
Attempt to stare into the collective chasm
of their collective soul.

But CNN isn’t the real thing
and any words we bring clang
with the inauthenticity of those who
see but do not know.

Helpless we still try.
Otherwise we’d cry and
admit our intellectual defeat.

Some things we just don’t understand.
And just like the levees and the sand
wouldn’t hold back the ensuing surge
we cannot hold back the ink’s pain one more day.

Etouffe beignet washed away
Mere mortal children
created from clay.

COPYRIGHT RHONDA WELSH 2005]]> Wed, 01 Sep 2010 10:42:44 GMT 7140A27FC7A576BC956029225B835045 Lover's Hands Revisited http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=411523 &nbsp; My cousin Linda at 15 &nbsp; Lover&rsquo;s Hands Revisited Recently, over 200 Detroiters took to the streets. They were outraged about the rape of a&nbsp;90 year old woman. <a href="http://www.myfoxdetroit.com/dpp/news/local/detroiters-trying-to-track-down-rapists-20100817-wpms">(Read news story here.) From door to door, they questioned and probed. They decided to take a stand against an unthinkable act. And rightly so... The elderly should be honored and revered in our community. The crimes against senior citizens have become heinous and progressively more brazen. So to the people who took to the streets, I say, &ldquo;Bravo.&rdquo; It seems the victim&rsquo;s age created the community&rsquo;s outrage. And again, I say, it should elicit outrage. It was an&nbsp;awful crime. But what about the other women, young, middle-aged and old, who experience violence every day? Where is the community outrage? So often, we cast a blind eye. In my book, I write about my own experience with rape in the poem, &quot;Naked.&quot; Most of my neighbors ignored my screams and the police were accusatory. Unfortunately, my experience is the more common one. Last year, I wrote a piece about my cousin Linda&rsquo;s death at the hand of an abuser. Today, I&rsquo;m reposting it. I hope it saddens you. I hope it outrages you. I hope it causes you to act like those valiant 200 last week. Violence against women, any woman, should not be tolerated. Here&rsquo;s the essay &quot;Lover&rsquo;s Hands&quot; below: &nbsp; Lover's Hands &nbsp; &nbsp; &ldquo;He said if I ever leave him he&rsquo;ll kill me. He said if he can&rsquo;t have me nobody can.&rdquo; My thirteen year old eyes bucked in amazement and jealousy. He loved her so much and I wanted someone to want me that much, too. &ldquo;He was just talking,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;He wouldn&rsquo;t do that, he loves you.&rdquo; And I believed it. I believed he loved her. My fifteen year old cousin Linda was tall, vivacious and full of life. She was two grades ahead of me in the Performing Arts Curriculum at Cass Technical High School. She was later kicked out because her grades slipped after she met Eric and she skipped school all the time. We weren&rsquo;t as close in high school as we had been as younger children. When we were really young, she taught me the words to Barry Manilow&rsquo;s &ldquo;I Write the Songs.&rdquo; In fact, we sang and danced all the time &ndash; Fame, Grease, Sparkle, West Side Story. We were quirky soul mates and we were going to take the world by storm with our brilliance. We even had matching burgundy leotards and pink tights. You know, for modern dance routines and stuff. We&rsquo;d walk down the streets singing at the top of our lungs. We were stars and we didn&rsquo;t care who knew! After she met Eric, I didn&rsquo;t see her as much. But, she would come by to borrow money. I always suspected it was for Eric. He was an eerily silent, handsome, body builder with a silver TransAm. He would say hello but never much more. He would also watch like a hawk while I doled out my meager babysitting earnings. She&rsquo;d become reticent and anxious. Eric started to creep me out and I voiced an opinion. I changed my now fourteen year old mind. Suddenly, his &ldquo;love&rdquo; seemed crazy to me. I suspect she told him how I felt. We lost touch for two years. Until, our cousin Maxine called on a gorgeous summer evening. I answered the phone and she blurted out, &ldquo;Linda is dead.&rdquo; Linda had had enough of him and she finally left. She&rsquo;d earned her G.E.D. and was planning on college. He begged her to go out one last time. When they got to Belle Isle, he strangled her and dumped her body in the Detroit River. She was eighteen. It didn&rsquo;t even make the newspapers. He was promptly arrested and convicted, but it&rsquo;s little consolation. Linda is gone. She never became a full, grown woman. She never realized her big dreams. She never realized love doesn&rsquo;t beat you, call you out of your name or control you. Today, I&rsquo;m remembering my cousin. And together, we&rsquo;ll remember your cousins, nieces, aunts, mothers, friends who are murdered by lover&rsquo;s hands each year. COPYRIGHT RHONDA WELSH 2009
 
My cousin Linda at 15


Lover’s Hands Revisited

Recently, over 200 Detroiters took to the streets. They were outraged about the rape of a 90 year old woman. (Read news story here.) From door to door, they questioned and probed. They decided to take a stand against an unthinkable act. And rightly so... The elderly should be honored and revered in our community. The crimes against senior citizens have become heinous and progressively more brazen. So to the people who took to the streets, I say, “Bravo.”

It seems the victim’s age created the community’s outrage. And again, I say, it should elicit outrage. It was an awful crime. But what about the other women, young, middle-aged and old, who experience violence every day? Where is the community outrage? So often, we cast a blind eye.

In my book, I write about my own experience with rape in the poem, "Naked." Most of my neighbors ignored my screams and the police were accusatory. Unfortunately, my experience is the more common one.

Last year, I wrote a piece about my cousin Linda’s death at the hand of an abuser. Today, I’m reposting it. I hope it saddens you. I hope it outrages you. I hope it causes you to act like those valiant 200 last week.

Violence against women, any woman, should not be tolerated. Here’s the essay "Lover’s Hands" below:
 

Lover's Hands
 
 

“He said if I ever leave him he’ll kill me. He said if he can’t have me nobody can.” My thirteen year old eyes bucked in amazement and jealousy. He loved her so much and I wanted someone to want me that much, too. “He was just talking,” I said. “He wouldn’t do that, he loves you.”

And I believed it. I believed he loved her. My fifteen year old cousin Linda was tall, vivacious and full of life. She was two grades ahead of me in the Performing Arts Curriculum at Cass Technical High School. She was later kicked out because her grades slipped after she met Eric and she skipped school all the time. We weren’t as close in high school as we had been as younger children.

When we were really young, she taught me the words to Barry Manilow’s “I Write the Songs.” In fact, we sang and danced all the time – Fame, Grease, Sparkle, West Side Story. We were quirky soul mates and we were going to take the world by storm with our brilliance. We even had matching burgundy leotards and pink tights. You know, for modern dance routines and stuff. We’d walk down the streets singing at the top of our lungs. We were stars and we didn’t care who knew!

After she met Eric, I didn’t see her as much. But, she would come by to borrow money. I always suspected it was for Eric. He was an eerily silent, handsome, body builder with a silver TransAm. He would say hello but never much more. He would also watch like a hawk while I doled out my meager babysitting earnings. She’d become reticent and anxious.

Eric started to creep me out and I voiced an opinion. I changed my now fourteen year old mind. Suddenly, his “love” seemed crazy to me. I suspect she told him how I felt. We lost touch for two years. Until, our cousin Maxine called on a gorgeous summer evening.

I answered the phone and she blurted out, “Linda is dead.” Linda had had enough of him and she finally left. She’d earned her G.E.D. and was planning on college. He begged her to go out one last time. When they got to Belle Isle, he strangled her and dumped her body in the Detroit River. She was eighteen. It didn’t even make the newspapers.

He was promptly arrested and convicted, but it’s little consolation. Linda is gone. She never became a full, grown woman. She never realized her big dreams. She never realized love doesn’t beat you, call you out of your name or control you. Today, I’m remembering my cousin. And together, we’ll remember your cousins, nieces, aunts, mothers, friends who are murdered by lover’s hands each year.

COPYRIGHT RHONDA WELSH 2009
]]> Wed, 25 Aug 2010 07:10:00 GMT C86CD0474BEFF48262FDEB3E3F00C7C5 Speak gratitude. http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=389705 &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; SOME FOLKS WHO SUPPORTED THE RED CLAY LEGACY BOOK SIGNING CELEBRATION TOP PHOTO: Performing w/Los Angeles based Soul-Blues-Jazz artist Kevin Sandbloom and DJ Andre Royster&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; MIDDLE PHOTO: Poets Chantay &quot;Legacy&quot; Leonard and jessica Care moore&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; BOTTOM PHOTO: Posing w/Detroit City Councilman James Tate &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;Poets don't support other poets.&quot; &quot;They just don't get my work.&quot; &quot;Why isn't anybody helping me?&quot; Wah-wah-wah... I hear the whining all the time. In fact, I am often the HWIC (Head Whiner in Charge). But as a friend reminded me lately, we speak things into existence. That alone, is enough to make me speak responsibly. A&nbsp;recent sequence of events has further strengthened my resolve to speak beautiful truths. It has unleased a chain of gratitude in my life. I have just finished the first round of <a href="./store.cfm">Red Clay Legacy book signings. From down the block to sunny Los Angeles, the love and support overwhelmed me. The venues were diverse: private suburban homes, downtown literary spots, neighborhood cultural centers, etc. The people were well-known, unknown, black, white, young, old, degreed, unschooled, political, artistic, churchy, heathenesque, calm, and ecstactic. People bought books. People donated food. People organized details. People donated time. People hugged me, kissed me and showed me all kinds of love. People came out and supported the project. People showed me their absolute joy for me. It was, it is, humbling. In the face of all that postive energy, how can I be anything but grateful? &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;  
   

SOME FOLKS WHO SUPPORTED THE RED CLAY LEGACY BOOK SIGNING CELEBRATION

TOP PHOTO: Performing w/Los Angeles based Soul-Blues-Jazz artist Kevin Sandbloom and DJ Andre Royster                      
MIDDLE PHOTO: Poets Chantay "Legacy" Leonard and jessica Care moore            
BOTTOM PHOTO: Posing w/Detroit City Councilman James Tate
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"Poets don't support other poets."
"They just don't get my work."
"Why isn't anybody helping me?"

Wah-wah-wah... I hear the whining all the time. In fact, I am often the HWIC (Head Whiner in Charge). But as a friend reminded me lately, we speak things into existence. That alone, is enough to make me speak responsibly.

A recent sequence of events has further strengthened my resolve to speak beautiful truths. It has unleased a chain of gratitude in my life. I have just finished the first round of Red Clay Legacy book signings. From down the block to sunny Los Angeles, the love and support overwhelmed me. The venues were diverse: private suburban homes, downtown literary spots, neighborhood cultural centers, etc. The people were well-known, unknown, black, white, young, old, degreed, unschooled, political, artistic, churchy, heathenesque, calm, and ecstactic.

People bought books. People donated food. People organized details. People donated time. People hugged me, kissed me and showed me all kinds of love. People came out and supported the project. People showed me their absolute joy for me.

It was, it is, humbling. In the face of all that postive energy, how can I be anything but grateful?
 
 
 

]]> Tue, 10 Aug 2010 06:20:00 GMT 723503D810DDDA7A31EC70A905D47663 Hustler with a penchant for words http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=367748 My mama did it with her stove. My husband does it with his sewing machine. One of my sisters does it with training programs and another does it with gift baskets. I know people who do it with Mary Kay and Avon. Barbeque dinners out of the back of car trunks... Bed sheets at the gas station... Flowers on the side of the road... Michael Jackson did it with everything that is within him. It is hustle. I am from Detroit. We hustle. It's our birthright. Our heritage... The world labels us poor and disenfranchised. Yet, we still manage to &quot;get our hair did,&quot; rock magnificent mani/pedis and dress better than many of our Suburban counterparts. Statistics point out our very real social problems. Dateline paints us all as uneducated racoon eating folks living in substandard housing. (It should be noted that selling racoon meat was ONE man's hustle.)&nbsp;Our critics and analysts don't&nbsp;realize the beauty and savvy we employ in the hustle. So many Detroiters rise to the occassion like Moses being called by God to lead the children of Israel. We simply pay attention to what's in our hand. Then we use it to supplement or provide income. We don't wait for the approval of an employer. We employ what's at our disposal. I am pondering this idea as I attempt to define myself as a writer. I've been talking to a lot of smart&nbsp;artists and educators&nbsp;lately. Some of them are learned intellectuals with&nbsp; impressive credentials. Others are performers with a loyal following. Still others are obscure genuises who express their art whenever and wherever they can. I've tried to figure out where I fit. Am I a stage poet? Am I a page poet? Should I read more &quot;serious poets&quot; and pay attention to critical reviews? Should I take a cue from my Slam colleagues and perfect my stage presence? I'm not sure. Maybe I should do all of that or none of it. Perhaps I am ignoring the true issue. Because maybe, I'm just like many of my Detroit compadres. I might just be&nbsp;a hustler with a penchant for words. Everytime my world falls apart, I look at what's in my hand. It is always my pen. So like any other hustler in my town, I use what's at my disposal. I write. Then I package it, promote it and lay it at the feet of all who might appreciate it. Because that's what hustlers do. To coin a phrase, &quot;You can take the girl out of the hustle, but you can't take the hustle out of the girl.&quot; So let's scratch all the yin-yang baby, I got that good-good. Words baby. Check out my <a href="./store.cfm">store. Find out how you can get more.

My mama did it with her stove. My husband does it with his sewing machine. One of my sisters does it with training programs and another does it with gift baskets. I know people who do it with Mary Kay and Avon. Barbeque dinners out of the back of car trunks... Bed sheets at the gas station... Flowers on the side of the road... Michael Jackson did it with everything that is within him. It is hustle.

I am from Detroit. We hustle. It's our birthright. Our heritage...

The world labels us poor and disenfranchised. Yet, we still manage to "get our hair did," rock magnificent mani/pedis and dress better than many of our Suburban counterparts.

Statistics point out our very real social problems. Dateline paints us all as uneducated racoon eating folks living in substandard housing. (It should be noted that selling racoon meat was ONE man's hustle.) Our critics and analysts don't realize the beauty and savvy we employ in the hustle.

So many Detroiters rise to the occassion like Moses being called by God to lead the children of Israel. We simply pay attention to what's in our hand. Then we use it to supplement or provide income. We don't wait for the approval of an employer. We employ what's at our disposal.

I am pondering this idea as I attempt to define myself as a writer. I've been talking to a lot of smart artists and educators lately. Some of them are learned intellectuals with  impressive credentials. Others are performers with a loyal following. Still others are obscure genuises who express their art whenever and wherever they can.

I've tried to figure out where I fit. Am I a stage poet? Am I a page poet? Should I read more "serious poets" and pay attention to critical reviews? Should I take a cue from my Slam colleagues and perfect my stage presence? I'm not sure. Maybe I should do all of that or none of it.

Perhaps I am ignoring the true issue. Because maybe, I'm just like many of my Detroit compadres. I might just be a hustler with a penchant for words. Everytime my world falls apart, I look at what's in my hand. It is always my pen.

So like any other hustler in my town, I use what's at my disposal. I write. Then I package it, promote it and lay it at the feet of all who might appreciate it. Because that's what hustlers do. To coin a phrase, "You can take the girl out of the hustle, but you can't take the hustle out of the girl."

So let's scratch all the yin-yang baby, I got that good-good. Words baby. Check out my store. Find out how you can get more.]]> Sat, 24 Jul 2010 09:45:00 GMT 26DE9379D3D138262E8EC215A3BCF5EA How this writing a book thing started.... http://rhondawelsh.com/home.cfm?feature=1561138&postid=351347 I took this picture with my cell phone at the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids. I&nbsp;started reading at an unnaturally early age -- three years old. From the time I can remember, my nose was stuck in a book. I was particularly fond of Laura Ingalls Wilder. I related to that little prairie dwelling nomad. Her petty jealousies, her girlish ambitions... Half-pint was my girl! Most Saturdays you could find me in the main branch of the Detroit Public Library or in the Detroit Historical Museum. If I wasn't making corn-cob dolls, I was trying to see how many books I could finish for the week. But, it was at the school library that I discovered Nikki Giovanni. I remember that I was ten years old. So it was probably the library at Tappan Elementary School or the one at Custer Elementary School. (I was at three schools during fifth grade so I can't remember clearly. It was a rough year.) I found the book, My House. It's not even a kid's book, so I am not sure how it ended up there. But, I was awestruck by the poem, &quot;A Certain Peace.&quot; I was a kid, but those words spoke to me. They moved me. I checked that book out of the library all the time. I wanted to do what she did. In third grade, I'd already written my first poem: &quot;I love like I love./I hate like I hate./It makes no difference what you think of me,/for my freedom trails behind me.// Fast forward to high school, I went to Cass Tech. I thrived in the Performing Arts curriculum after years of being a misfit. Don't get me wrong! I was still a misfit. I just found other like-minded misfits to commiserate with and I studied Oedipus Rex and Waiting for Godot and Purlie Victorius. Ah good times... All of those great plays and the emphasis on the spoken word, turned me on big time. My acting skills, however, did not turn Mr. Otulakowski on. For some reason, I would always use poetry as an audition piece. I was&nbsp;NEVER cast in any of the school's Spring or Fall productions. But I managed to become a puppeteer and get a recurring role as &quot;The Queen&quot; in a kid show production. I also found out that I had no fear in front of audiences. I went to Michigan State University (MSU)&nbsp;my first year and&nbsp;I had an ill-fated radio show. The whole thing was pretty ill-fated because&nbsp;MSU got rid of me&nbsp;due to&nbsp;lack of funding. Eventually I decided to become an English major and I landed at Wayne State University (WSU). I was heavy into British Regency Era lit and African-American lit. At WSU, I learned the word marginal. All of my literary choices and my own poetry/writing were considered marginal. But, to me, my stuff had the spirit of Langston Hughes and Gil Scott-Heron and the songs from Phoebe Snow's Second Childhood album and of course, my hero, Nikki Giovanni. My professors did not agree. By the time I graduated from WSU, I was convinced that I was a marginal writer. So I delved into public relations and business writing. It was all good for a lot of years. I wrote short stories and I would attend the occassional writing seminar. I had a knack for PR/Communications. I even got a master's degree in PR. And of course, I always journalled. But it was after my sister died&nbsp;-- nearly fifteen years&nbsp;after my graduation --&nbsp;that my old friend poetry resurfaced. I was tremendously grief stricken. Every morning during devotions, I journalled and wrote poetry. I started sharing. (Before that I almost never shared my work.) People started requesting it. People started booking me to read stuff. Soon, I became a working poet. I produced a CD, I Saw Myself. I visited open mics. I was asked to read at the DIA, the Museum of African-American History, the Detroit Opera House, etc.&nbsp;I was even laid off from a lucrative PR job and asked to teach poetry in the classroom. Poetry became my&nbsp;constant.&nbsp;I still struggled with whether I was a good writer or not. But, I decided not to care. After all the people wanted to hear it. So one day, I ran into jessica Care moore. (jessica is the founder of Moore Black Press. She won five, consecutive times on Showtime at the Apollo with poetry. She published Saul William's first book. Yeah, THAT jessica...) She made an off-handed remark about&nbsp;[paraphrase]&nbsp;old people needing to write books and focus less on slamming. I am a veritable spring chicken (LOLOL) and I don't even slam, but the idea was sparked in my head to write a book. So I did. And when it was all written, I emailed my childhood hero, Ms. Nikki Giovanni. And, she called me back. She CALLED me back. (In fact, the message is still on my cell phone.) She asked me to send her the book. So while many refused to review the book, some promised to review but never did and still others gave me the silent, marginal treatment, she took me seriously. She was the FIRST ONE to review the book. She wrote the review on a lovely piece of card stock and mailed it to my home. She treated me like a colleague and a friend. I had no connection to her. I had no hook-up. I am convinced that it was God's favor. A blessing landed on my wooly, little head. Through another delicious set of circumstances, jessica Care moore wrote the Foreword. You remember jessica? The one who made the comment... Spoken word poet Cherrie Woods (aka Cherrie Amour), Minister Rhonda J. Smith, and Detroit poetry icon, M.L. Liebler all reviewed the book. Stack Parker Aab (now LeMelle), author of Government Girl, really didn't know me from Adam. I asked her to review the book and she did. They all gave it rave reviews.&nbsp; The misfit, book worm wrote a book and people actually liked it. And what's more, I like it. <a href="./store.cfm">Red Clay Legacy contains poems about my life. My messy, spiritual, insecure, fantastic, weird, quirky, boy-crazy, strong, wrong, right, ethereal life. It's the first offering from my press, Crimson Kairos. It's available now. If you are reading this, you have discovered my new blog, &quot;Deconstructing Red Clay.&quot; It is about writing, politics, the book Red Clay Legacy, boys, girls, make-up, shoes, pop culture, scripture, relationships, music... You get the picture. I'll just write what I feel, like I always do. (It should be noted that I am overly fond of conjunctions and prepositional phrases.) Until later. Be blessed and purposeful, Rhonda
I took this picture with my cell phone at the
Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids.

I started reading at an unnaturally early age -- three years old. From the time I can remember, my nose was stuck in a book. I was particularly fond of Laura Ingalls Wilder. I related to that little prairie dwelling nomad. Her petty jealousies, her girlish ambitions... Half-pint was my girl! Most Saturdays you could find me in the main branch of the Detroit Public Library or in the Detroit Historical Museum. If I wasn't making corn-cob dolls, I was trying to see how many books I could finish for the week.

But, it was at the school library that I discovered Nikki Giovanni. I remember that I was ten years old. So it was probably the library at Tappan Elementary School or the one at Custer Elementary School. (I was at three schools during fifth grade so I can't remember clearly. It was a rough year.) I found the book, My House. It's not even a kid's book, so I am not sure how it ended up there. But, I was awestruck by the poem, "A Certain Peace." I was a kid, but those words spoke to me. They moved me. I checked that book out of the library all the time. I wanted to do what she did. In third grade, I'd already written my first poem: "I love like I love./I hate like I hate./It makes no difference what you think of me,/for my freedom trails behind me.//

Fast forward to high school, I went to Cass Tech. I thrived in the Performing Arts curriculum after years of being a misfit. Don't get me wrong! I was still a misfit. I just found other like-minded misfits to commiserate with and I studied Oedipus Rex and Waiting for Godot and Purlie Victorius. Ah good times... All of those great plays and the emphasis on the spoken word, turned me on big time. My acting skills, however, did not turn Mr. Otulakowski on. For some reason, I would always use poetry as an audition piece. I was NEVER cast in any of the school's Spring or Fall productions. But I managed to become a puppeteer and get a recurring role as "The Queen" in a kid show production. I also found out that I had no fear in front of audiences.

I went to Michigan State University (MSU) my first year and I had an ill-fated radio show. The whole thing was pretty ill-fated because MSU got rid of me due to lack of funding. Eventually I decided to become an English major and I landed at Wayne State University (WSU). I was heavy into British Regency Era lit and African-American lit. At WSU, I learned the word marginal. All of my literary choices and my own poetry/writing were considered marginal. But, to me, my stuff had the spirit of Langston Hughes and Gil Scott-Heron and the songs from Phoebe Snow's Second Childhood album and of course, my hero, Nikki Giovanni. My professors did not agree.

By the time I graduated from WSU, I was convinced that I was a marginal writer. So I delved into public relations and business writing. It was all good for a lot of years. I wrote short stories and I would attend the occassional writing seminar. I had a knack for PR/Communications. I even got a master's degree in PR. And of course, I always journalled.

But it was after my sister died -- nearly fifteen years after my graduation -- that my old friend poetry resurfaced. I was tremendously grief stricken. Every morning during devotions, I journalled and wrote poetry. I started sharing. (Before that I almost never shared my work.) People started requesting it. People started booking me to read stuff. Soon, I became a working poet.

I produced a CD, I Saw Myself. I visited open mics. I was asked to read at the DIA, the Museum of African-American History, the Detroit Opera House, etc. I was even laid off from a lucrative PR job and asked to teach poetry in the classroom. Poetry became my constant. I still struggled with whether I was a good writer or not. But, I decided not to care. After all the people wanted to hear it.

So one day, I ran into jessica Care moore. (jessica is the founder of Moore Black Press. She won five, consecutive times on Showtime at the Apollo with poetry. She published Saul William's first book. Yeah, THAT jessica...) She made an off-handed remark about [paraphrase] old people needing to write books and focus less on slamming. I am a veritable spring chicken (LOLOL) and I don't even slam, but the idea was sparked in my head to write a book. So I did. And when it was all written, I emailed my childhood hero, Ms. Nikki Giovanni. And, she called me back.

She CALLED me back. (In fact, the message is still on my cell phone.) She asked me to send her the book. So while many refused to review the book, some promised to review but never did and still others gave me the silent, marginal treatment, she took me seriously. She was the FIRST ONE to review the book. She wrote the review on a lovely piece of card stock and mailed it to my home. She treated me like a colleague and a friend.

I had no connection to her. I had no hook-up. I am convinced that it was God's favor. A blessing landed on my wooly, little head.

Through another delicious set of circumstances, jessica Care moore wrote the Foreword. You remember jessica? The one who made the comment... Spoken word poet Cherrie Woods (aka Cherrie Amour), Minister Rhonda J. Smith, and Detroit poetry icon, M.L. Liebler all reviewed the book. Stack Parker Aab (now LeMelle), author of Government Girl, really didn't know me from Adam. I asked her to review the book and she did. They all gave it rave reviews.  The misfit, book worm wrote a book and people actually liked it.

And what's more, I like it. Red Clay Legacy contains poems about my life. My messy, spiritual, insecure, fantastic, weird, quirky, boy-crazy, strong, wrong, right, ethereal life. It's the first offering from my press, Crimson Kairos. It's available now.

If you are reading this, you have discovered my new blog, "Deconstructing Red Clay." It is about writing, politics, the book Red Clay Legacy, boys, girls, make-up, shoes, pop culture, scripture, relationships, music... You get the picture. I'll just write what I feel, like I always do. (It should be noted that I am overly fond of conjunctions and prepositional phrases.)

Until later. Be blessed and purposeful,

Rhonda
]]> Sat, 10 Jul 2010 15:25:00 GMT 0E9D059A8A82179309DC788E4946E610