A Two-Day Writing Workshop based on The Dissolve with Miriam Sagan

The great Japanese poet Basho said that in poetry it is more difficult to link than to break away. We explore this theme, and its implication on metaphorical thinking and interconnection, within the context of SITE’s Eighth International Biennial.

This writing experience is one in a continuing history of Sagan’s workshops in collaboration with SITE, which allows us to work collaboratively with the exhibition, each other, and our own imaginations.

Sagan is the author of over twenty books, including MAP OF THE LOST, a collection of poetry, University of New Mexico Press. Recent projects include a poetry installation at THE LAND/an art site, Mountainair, New Mexico and “Azimuth: Writing on Walls,” a collaboration with international poets at THE LAND/gallery, Albuquerque. “Roadtrips to the Moon,” with photographer Teresa Neptune, premiered on Canyon Road in 2009. Sagan is the founder and director of the creative writing program at Santa Fe Community College. Her literary and community based blog is Miriam’s Well (http://miriamswell.wordpress.com).


ghost braids o.1
by Israel Francisco Haros Lopez

"SITE Sante Fe Obidian Water Trails or A Black Stuntman Can Save the Day after Removing Black Baton from White Ribs spilling red on the Concrete or
Site Sante Fe Museum Free Two Day Writing Workshop


Rivers of pencils colliding at the SITE Santa Fe museum
Jaguar butterflies giving birth to red crows
I took the dreams of martin luther king and put them in a video game, a comic book and sold them to trader joes
The ocean told me to look for more Tonantzin warriors

Jaguar buttefiles giving birth to red crows
I took my mothers sage and turned it into a Mexican-Tarumara shawl
The ocean told me to look for more Tonantzin warriors
I looked for them along the black obsidian rain water

I took my mothers sage and turned it into a Mexican-Tarumara shawl
Hummingbirds gathered along the sidewalk for Fiesta
I looked for them along the black obsidian rain water
There are ghost braids tangled in la llorona’s skirt


Hummingbirds gathered along the sidewalk for Fiesta
I want my Mexican Obsidian American credentials to collaborate with SB 1070
There are ghost braids tangled in la llorona's skirt
How do sea turtles take oil and fire off their backs

I want my Mexican Obsidian American credentials to collaborate with SB 1070
Can I find a solution for BP along these dissolving New Mexican art walls
How do sea turtles take oil and fire off their backs
Sage dust and the blue light of water given to Sonora coyotes

Can I find a solution for BP along these dissolving New Mexican art walls
The Gestapo came for Homer and all of Illiad's lovers
Sage dust and the blue light of water given to Sonora coyotes
The site museum told them to wait until they made a video installation of it

The Gestapo came for Homer and all of Illiads lovers
I have too much intention in my dangling poetry
The Site museum told them to wait until they made a video installation of it
For the aging white walls of the SITE Museum

I have too much intention in my dangling poetry
I should have told Jimi Hendrix to write another manifesto
For the aging white walls of the SITE Museum
Warehouse 21 and the SITE Museum need to make love more often

I should have told Jimi Hendrex to write another manifesto
His aging rattle snake guitar goes wonderful with Sonora deer dancers
Warehouse 21 and the Site Museum need to make love more often
The black boy lightning the white candle could create lighting in New Mexico

His aging rattle snake guitar goes wonderful with Sonora deer dancers
There is too much pinche Shamanic chauvinism down Canyon Road
The black boy lighting the white candle could create lightning in New Mexico
Where do i buy jaguar butterfly skinned moccasins for the Corn Harvest dance

There is too much pinche Shamanic chauvinism down Canyon Road
There must be a Cherokee around to sell me Hispano-Anglo-Chinese Pottery
Where do I buy jaguar buttefly skinned moccasins for the Corn Harvest Dance
There must be a formula for writing really bad 3 min spoken word Xicano Phantoums

There must be a Cherokee around to sell me Hispano-Anglo-Chinese Pottery
Why is why the worst question in the Universe?
There must be a formula for writing really bad 3 min spoken word Xicano Phantoums
Is why the worst question in the universe?

Why is why the worst question in the Universe?
Hummingbird pencil water marks
Is why the worst question in the universe?
Dragon fly cusps the claws of a Polar bear and thanks her for all the water from her home


Hummingbird pencil water marks
Rivers of pencils still colliding erasing deny art at the SITE Museum
Dragon fly cusps the claws of a polar bear and thanks her for all the water from her home
I took Martin Luther Kings Dreams and turned them into a video game, a comic book and sold them to Trade Joes

Then posted them on Ebay and sold them to SITE Santa Fe

***

Tasteless crumbs
fill my mouh
looking forward to dinner CH

cicadas sing, kick the can, time to eat
summer illuminated shimmers
in the humidiy of a southern night JM

red velvet cake
moist teethmarks
ask: who do you love? MS

the one who walks by
with starlight at her ?
dancing heart of gold. MM

Cold metal
warms with light CH

crystaline structure
of hope MS

Deferred, what’s up with this waiting
game of hide and seek and never found. JM

Pile of clothes heaped and quiet.
No telling secrets. CH

Mums the word on the QT–DL–
Entre Nous, no really, just between
You and me! JM

***

Crismson bird lands
in silhouette–
the captured girl
bathes nude MS

in the red courtyard
watching bright clouds
singing birds in her mind MM

Her mind sings
wings with black feathers
makng a whoosh CH

Its giant wings block the crescent
moon, what real or imagined
creature bearing the future JM

Feathered palm tree
dreams
and fronds, my
favorite word MS

sounds like a game
and moves too
by his words
what does he know
little about her MM

Princess, bird, canyon
updraft MS

SITE SF
Sept 11, 2010
Juliet Myers
Caroline Huggins
Maria Mazzara
Miriam Sagan

***

LUMINOUS DANCE
response to "After Ghostcatching 2010"

Entering dark unfathomable space
Disorienting spectacles provided
Dimensions bombard
Intensity of the virtual

Disorienting spectacles provide
Visceral understanding
Intensity of the virtual
Enveloping illusory light

Understanding viscerally
Darts of light coalesce
Illusory light envelops
Figure of dancing light.

Coalescing darts of light
Lines connoting figure
Dancing figure of lines
Transparent lyrical body

Illusory light envelops
Unworldly lyrical motion
Ephemeral dimensions bombard
On entering unfathomable dark space

Jane Mitchell 9/11/10

***

Channel Surfing

Let's go to your Sense
Let's begin a Stanza
That – This – who cares?
That – This – who cares? B R

Repeat, be red. walking the water side
Where water sheets through water
An erasure of sidewalks.
The edge redeemed, fast ripples, found

Found and lost, lost or found,
What difference, she thought
Her toes flicking in & out
The water like steel bullets under her skin C W

Like snow again
Freeze my mind
Your mind loves me
Your heart loves her R Y

Multiple spontaneous dreams
The way her screens flicker on and off
At the slightest switch
Through a crack in the empty wall C W

Light slivered and buckled the floorboards:
The rats packed up
The roaches shuffled their cards B R
Knowing they always survive
Unfazed by mutations J M

Contributors: Barbara Rockman
Cynthia West
Jane Mitchell
Raquel Yossiffon

***

Let the Good Times Roll

The leaders are assembled.
See their royal costumes:
scarlet, gold and purple.
Soon the door will open.

See their royal costumes:
the military is on show.
Soon the door will open.
Now the stage is set.

The military is on show.
Our roulette wheel is spinning.
Now the stage is set.
That juggler is no jester.

Our roulette wheel is spinning.
Let's join our hands together.
That juggler is no jester:
roll up the map of the world.

Let's join our hands together:
hand grenades are spinning;
roll up the map of the world.
Let’s be entertained.

Hand grenades are spinning.
Won't we place our bets?
Let's be entertained.
Who are all those puppets?

Won't we place our bets?
We'll sit around the table.
Who are all those puppets?
Time is running out.

We'll sit around the table.
War will go on spinning.
Time is running out.
Now we must applaud.

War will go on spinning.
The media give us orders.
Now we must applaud.
The show is going on.

Frances Hunter

***

Blowing on Embers

a renga by Frances Hunter, F, James McGrath, J, and Cynthia West, C
Miriam Sagan, poetry workshop at SITE SF, 9/12/10

After stretching for
five years, morning glories meet
over the front door. C

All that growing time -
now glorious. F

Now without sweet scent
flowers beckon to rainclouds
dreaming winter sleep. J

Racing its shadow
the skink speeds over gravel. C

Knowing that summer fades,
the mole experiences
nostalgia. F

Only crickets sing half moon songs.
Stars dance new constellations. J

The sky of fallen
pears climbs black branches, viewing
the waste below. C

Oh moon, disregard all.
Look with favor on tomatoes. F

My garden opens eyes.
This is where hands are hearts
beating against time. J

The wild sunflowers cast purple
shadows, telling birds’ secrets. C

Whence comes the wind?
From whose mouth is it blowing?
Such a close secret. F

Morning stones are soft.
This is where I dream your voice. J

Giant red dahlias
unfurl, trumpeting louder
than fiesta parades. C

Green lingers on the trees.
Emerald soon fades to gold. F

Mountain trees spin silver.
The road home speaks white lies.
We will sleep together. J

Weighted to the ground, the peach
tree groans with unpicked passion. C

That damned SITE rain keeps falling.
When will it ever stop?
Patience grows tired, Eyes close. F

Mattress springs pinch rings on our legs.
Sirens scream outside the window. J

Pouring seeds, honking horns,
How can I concentrate on
kissing your mouth awake? C

There is no such thing
as a good day for book learning. F

The last fire is dead.
The only coals live in our hearts
where spring hides behind shadows. J

Blowing on embers, we kindle
the sap in green eggs. C

***


Fleeting Carousel

Velvet plush holding its tiny really.
An imaginary road of misery-en-scene-
Reality film, you think?
Death met on a parisian turning,a carousel maybe.

An imaginary road of misery-en scene-
Wagon full of cows, Puegots, dumped they are,
Death met on a parisian turning- a carousel maybe.
The memory of illusion, catalogues really.

A wagon full of cows, Peugots, dumped they are.
Musings round and round, the pole icy stand.
The memory of illusion, catalogs really.
Red seats of little people.

Velvet plush cradling its tiny, really.
Parisian meeting death on a phonograph plahing
Wagons full oil truck, policey,all stuck they are
On a churning memory nowhere but round.

Thelma Mathias
Sept. 2010

***

Color/ No Color

The shape of my mother-
Her dicke mitte, no sense only gesture.
Lots of body parts not moving up & down the scaffolding,
Not polishing, maybe erasing through jittery eyes,
Small eyes see through.
She has no color- ah yes, the parlor colors-
The facade of rigid gesture, shaping faces not moving.

Only smiling, moving red lips
Cartoon of dense, intense playing card primaries-
Red smiling lips, yellow tones of mottled skin, blue soldiers.
Maybe only the black and white of charcoal of death,
The barbed wire of Soweto/Auschwitz and even us.
No color takes away emotion
Leaving vestiges flickering.

Thelma Mathias
Sept. 2010

***

It’s a Blast! by Margaret Wood

What dim maze of museum halls is this?
Everybody’s running as the wheel turns around.
Who’s in the bed behind the curtain?
Wow-that guy’s head blasting off his shoulders!

Everybody’s running as the wheel turns around.
3-D line creatures shifting in the winds.
Wow-that guy’s head blasting off his shoulders!
Burnt sienna sand, rocks, cloud.

3-D line creatures shifting in the winds.
Dust storms dull my memory.
Burnt sienna sand, rocks, cloud.
I like sitting under the crystal chandelier.

Dust storms dull my memory.
Hold hands, clap your hands, point your fingers!
I like sitting under the crystal chandelier.
War planes fly through the pages of time.

Hold hands, clap your hands, point your fingers!
Rain petals scamper on the street.
War planes fly through the pages of time.
Hey blow the candle out, put out that fire!

Rain petals scamper on the street.
She brought her lips to the chicken’s beak.
Hey, blow the candle out, put out that fire!
Scarlet curtains draping, waiting, fading.

She brought her lips to the chicken’s beak.
Who’s in the bed behind the curtain?
Scarlet curtains draping, waiting, fading.
What dim maze of museum halls is this?
=

***

Herald The Wild Ride

after What Visions Burn, Ezra Johnson
(with lines by Neil Young)

Ours, a city of flat brows and hooded windows,
city of blank boroughs and dark brushstroke:
neon, just in the knick of time.
Barbed coils furrow and refract black water.

City of blank boroughs and dark brushstroke:
night’s criss-cross, a crucifixion.
Barbed coils furrow and refract black water.
Prayer is both sordid and pedestrian.

City of blank boroughs and dark brushstroke.
One hand blocks the sun; one holds the lover’s face.
Prayer is both sordid and pedestrian.
The museum of pews overflows.

One hand blocks the sun; one holds the lover’s face.
Behind every cupped hand, a corner.
The museum of pews overflows.
Behind every corner, a hallway of radiance.

Behind every cupped hand, a corner.
Do not break for traffic.
Behind every corner, a hallway of radiance.
Herald the wild ride, the sirened night.

Do not break for traffic.
It is a primary thing– the electricity of stained glass.
Herald the wild ride, the sirened night.
Your tools, should you accept them, are brushstroke and whim.

It is a primary thing– the electricity of stained glass,
the storied layers a city makes.
Your tools, should you accept them, are brushstroke and whim,
long pull of a bow across the violin.

The storied layers a city makes:
cross sting and cash back, who’s to say:
long pull of a bow across the violin
as the light go out.

Cross sting and cash back, who’s to say.
Nero played despite the flames
as the lights went out:
charcoal night, an innocence.

Nero played despite the flames.
Four strong winds that blow lonely.
Charcoal night, an innocence.
Seven seas that run dry.

Four strong winds that blow lonely–
motors cut and ebb black water:
seven seas that run dry.
Who’s to say I’ll be back this way?

Motors cut and ebb black water:
neon, just in the knick of time.
Who’s to say I’ll be back this way?
Ours, a city of flat brows and hooded windows.

Barbara Rockman

***

Disappearance in Two Parts

Painting the outlines of your face
they disappear behind my brush.
Memory doesn’t hold long,
keeps erasing your details.
Elusive lines
like the faces that appear before sleep
morphing one into another.

Who was that?
So real, so fleeting,
trying to hold on,
running, scribbling,
scribbled runners, brush running to keep up
with the face that never draws the same,
disappearing behind me,
streaming toward me,
Beautiful,
can’t hold it.

Chris Kain, 9. 2010

***

Memory Won’t Hold

With the face that never stays the same
memory won’t hold long,
straining toward me,
running, scribbling what sense may come.

Memory won’t hold long,
disappearing behind me,
running, scribbling what sense may come-
Who was that?

Disappearing behind me
your laugh like hard rain -
Who was that
in shadows bleeding quietly?

Your laugh like hard rain,
like the sound of one egg frying,
shadows bleeding quietly,
form the fleeting memory of your face.

Like the sound of one egg frying
flickering white lines, transient water,
shadows bleeding quietly
splashed for an instant by white paisleys.

Flickering white lines, transient water,
the face that never stays the same,
splashed for an instant by white paisleys
straining toward me.

Pantoum, 9/10 Chris Kain