TEXAS POETRY TOUR: Returning to Texas

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."

TEXAS POETRY TOUR: The first week

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.

TEXAS POETRY TOUR: Introduction to Austin

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 (as a passenger) 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

TEXAS POETRY TOUR: The adventure begins

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 brief 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!