"WHICH ONE OF YOU BASTARDS IS DEATH?"

Oh. Momentary drama in Ghana. Let me just say that last night a kind faced rasta named Lion gave us some of what rastas have to give and the rest of the night was spent dodging the over-the-top compliments of one Kenyan young man who thinks he just might be in love with me. I'm not sure if this is cultural, but after one kiss there seems to be these grandiose expectations. "Come live with my family in Kenya... then I can come visit you in New York and face your family." Whoa, boy. Slow down. Lion's gift must have been awfully potent because this is all too much and I think I have mistakenly become some pillar of the exotic white woman. No thanks! I decide I am strictly here to write and hang out with my girls. The next morning, I do just that. Tonya, Chelsea and I browse the Kowala markets and share our secrets.

So let us talk about these workshops with Yusef, shall we? Getting good feedback in invaluable. Are you really surprised that Yusef is a brilliant editor? I didn't think so. Interestingly, there is a cultural dynamic in the class. Many of the African poets rhyme, while all of the American poets do not. I've never been a fan of rhyming poetry (and if so, it must be incredibly intentional and done near-perfectly), and apparently, neither is the rest of us. When it is repeatedly suggested that the given poet break out of the rhyme to allow room for a more interesting poem to emerge, the poet argues that she feels the poem is successful in that it accomplishes its message. At breakfast Tonya and I discuss this. What is the purpose of a poem? If it is just to relay a message, why not write a letter or a speech? Why a poem? What are poems supposed to accomplish or represent? I urge Tonya to bring this up in the workshop setting. She is a natural teacher and though worries about being too "teacherly" in class, everyone in the room clearly values her opinion and leadership. (Sticks out tongue at Tonya.)

The next day, the workshop comes alive. We move through each poem with ease, everyone settling into the idea of each other and our work. I am astounded at Yusef's ability to pull the treasure out of a poem I might have otherwise thought hopeless. Each teacher has their own special piece of advice that defines them. Yusef's is "the surprise." I love this expression. The poet must surprise the reader, surprise themselves. It is the most succinct and nail-on-the-head way to allude to the mystery and magic of a poem, that indescribable ring that makes it sing. I nod in time with all of Yusef's suggestions and find myself opening my mouth to contribute in ways I didn't realize I possessed. I am struck by my deep love of language. Getting to the heart of a poem invigorates, the closest I've ever come to meditation. My mind seldom wanders off task and I am fully present in the pursuit of extracting the greatest truth from the work. The time flies and by the end, belly's are rumbling.

Malaika and I skip the reading, eat the crappiest American food I've ever allowed into my body at the looming plastic "Churcheese" restaurant (I know, I know, the name alone!) Just promise me, if you are ever in Ghana, don't even bother. Digesting, we lay on the twin beds in my dorm and go in. Our thankfulness for this experience, excitement at our words and power. I tell her my crazy past love stories to rival her own. We finish off the gift from Lion and she sits wide eyed for the unraveling tales. I am amazed at how long ago it all seems in the retelling. As if these stories are not actually mine, but those of someone I once knew.


I put Malaika in a cab to the Afia, and not quite ready to retire, join Parul, Chris and Chris Michael out front. The strange wonderfulness of the night continues. Chris Michael, a Nigerian writer and religious man of pure heart, squats to meet me eye level. I tell him, briefly, of the sadness waiting for me at home in New York. He looks me straight in the gaze and says, "I can see you have such a strong harmony surrounding you. I can see it so clearly." I am touched. He continues and the patio transforms into an unlikely church. An Indian-American, a Zimbabwean, a Kenyan and a New York girl sit captive while Chris Michael, the Nigerian preacher, comes to life. Pacing and gesturing against the purple sky lined with cassava trees, his passion fills the air like thick smoke and we cock our heads in silence. Chris Michael recounts stories from the bible. I believe every word that exits his mouth. He is the sort of man who is so pure of heart, that it is, in fact, quite disarming. He always wears an inviting, plastered on goofy grin and attends his workshops in business casual. Often, out of the blue, he will utter, "Oh, Cait-rin, Goh' bless you, Goh' bless you, Cait-rin!"

Chris Michael

Chris and Parul on the patio

The patio crew

Though it is nearly impossible to interrupt the impromptu sermon, Parul manages to ask how such a God can account for the world's incredible suffering (she is Hindu, Buddhist and... skeptical.) He answers in metaphor. Mining gold: "a black dirty mound is pulled from 'de earth and put into 'de furnace, to transform into someting' shiny and golden, do you know?" If church was this patio everyday, I'd be a regular congregant. He goes on for a half an hour. I share my tired Yusef story and he nods as if he already knew. Chris asks where Chris Michael's poems arrive from. Is it God, then? "Yes!" Chris Michael exclaims. "And my heart. I feel it in my whole body, it passes by and I must grab it. Then, it is so strong I must vomit it out. Like I'm pregnant and it will not leave me until its born."

Chris jumps up, "There is an interview in this book about that!"

"Poetry is an attempt to put into words what is inside a person emotionally, intellectually, imaginatively. The poet's job is to find the equivalent, the verbal correlative of a particular feeling. This idea is from TS Eliot. The only difficulty is that there are no words for what you are feeling."

- Dambadzo Marechura (From an interview with Flora Veit-Wild, December 1984, "Dambadzo Marechura speaks about Poetry")

Chris Michael reads the passage aloud. "Yes," he says, "yes, this is how I feel." (Me too.)

Even though I am not even remotely Christian, I find immense beauty and comfort in Chris Michael's words. I ask him to wake me at 6am for prayer, though when the time comes, I decline, full of sleep and fuzzy brained. Just having the desire in my heart is what counts, he assures me. It must also be told that somewhere embedded in the sermon he orchestrated what was possibly the worst group sing a long in all histories of group sing a longs to Michael Jackson's "We Are the World." We all hesitantly and reluctantly mumbled the pieces of the verses we recalled from our 1980s memories while he waved his hands like a conductor, proclaiming what gospel the song truely was. I am so serious.

For fun, some of Dambadzo Marechura's amazing poem titles (He is a famous Zimbabwean poet):

- In the Hospital of the Angels
- Sunset's Bloodshot Eye
- They Are Boiling My Bones in the Kitchen
- The Future a Mad Poem
- There's a Dissident in the Election Soup!
- A Strong Case for Crap Artists By One Against Them
- Comrade Dracula Joins the Revolution: A Wedding of Minds?
- Even Poets Enjoy Incidents
- Writing This Means I'm Not Complaining
- In Jail the Only Telephone is the Washbasin Hole: Blow and We'll Hear It
- Which One of You Bastards is Death?