This past weekend, I traveled to Tieton, Washington with the intrepid Kathleen Flenniken (who drove) and Susan Rich. There, in a small town amid orchards growing gold in late autumn, we met up with poets from all over the state and even Pennsylvania.
I was staying at my aunt and uncle's house, and my uncle pointed out that I really needed a vehicle instead of walking into town.
On Saturday, I drove my borrowed silver pickup truck toward town, turned on Sharp Road (wasn't the route on the map, but I love Sharp Road), and got lost. Or, shall we say, took a very circuitous route. It was sunny and gold and Mount Clemens rose over the valley and I made it to the workshop in time for coffee. Goodness.
After the opening group meditation, I took a morning class with Kathleen on "Taking the Dross Out"—how to figure out what really needs to be in your poem.
At lunch, we dragged chairs out into the parking area and soaked up the sun. It was warm and the sky stayed blue both days.
In the afternoon, I had my first taste of typesetting in the letterpress section. I was instantly enthralled. Something tactile that even I could do.
Then we attended a panel on (and I paraphrase) the role of the poet in the American Empire.
At dinner's end, Susan spoke of her experiences and read poems. That sounds very light. It wasn't light. It was moving.
We strolled back to the warehouse under a sky of many stars and watched the movie "Voices in Wartime," which discusses the role that poetry holds in conflict.
By then, it was late—and dark. So dark. So dark that I took another circuitous route home. Clearly, I am not a cartographer and certainly not a navigator.
On Sunday morning (after another long road into town), we printed our set type. We stepped on the pedal, placed the paper, and then rolled it over the printer bed. Awesome! I dubbed myself "the printer pig," mostly because everyone else was busy chatting.
Later, I sat in on Cody Walker's session on synesthesia in poetry. We dragged our chairs out to the deck to bask in the sun and discussed Dickinson and Baudelaire and some very astute middle school students.
The weekend wrapped up with an open mike and a closing meditation. After that, we watched the sun drift down as we drove west toward Seattle.
A fine weekend, indeed. If LitFuse is lit next year, be sure to be there.
In the most recent PoetsWest special announcements message, I saw this:POETS OF WASHINGTON, UNITE! Tieton Arts & Humanities announces LitFuse 2007: A Poet's Workshop. This 2-day workshop to be held November 3-4 in Tieton, WA (15 minutes west of Yakima), features hands-on letterpress printing opportunities, Susan Rich (winner of the PEN/USA Poetry Award and Peace Corps Writers' Award, among others), Kathleen Flenniken (winner of the Prairie Schooner Book award), a special narrated screening of Voices in Wartime, which looks at the experience of war through poetry, walking meditation, open mike reading, Cody Walker & Paul Nelson's astonishing teaching, and a murder of your fellow poets itching to channel the MUSE. All in a hilltop rural setting guaranteed to inspire. Check it out at www.mightytieton.com to register, or email litfuse@mightytieton.com for more information.
I was downright giddy—a poetry workshop in Tieton?
My mom grew up in Tieton, which is about 12 miles west of Yakima, and my grandfather was born there. I've been traveling across the mountains to visit my grandparents there since I was about six months old.
That direction I mentioned the other day is all about Tieton!I promptly sent in my check. I am so excited!
In the meantime, here is a Tieton poem:
Over the Umptanum
Always the dawn wind rustles the largeness
awake and fidgets in the chimes.
Dry hills dust an old woman’s blood
the way sap sweetens apples,
gray barns house the devils of starlings
and barbwire blends in the hardpan.
Rusty steel laces the desert tight as water
the years it didn’t come.
She has learned the deeper needs of thirst,
sent roots in search of sustenance
and watched the gruff limbs of apples
grow up around her
through seasons of frost
and blood-orange harvest moon.
She has stayed here,
steady as the skins a snake will shed each summer.
The road sidles toward Naches,
slides through the valley
and up over the Umptanum.
Ridges sweep, sharp against the sky.
She feels the wide light on her shoulders,
smells sagebrush when she closes her eyes.
Reprinted from Weathered Steps.
Art: A barn hanging from the ceiling.
The shrine for El Dia de los Muertos.
A picture of my grandmother on her back porch in Tieton and a poem I wrote for her.
Outside the door where I stayed.
A.K. "Mimi" Allin's Spoon River guerilla poetry installation.
A dry creekbed in a special refuge.
Vicki's cafe, Tieton, as I was leaving town.
