Letter to Duane BigEagle, re CPITS (no date) ca. 1992

A first draft of a letter to Duane BigEagle, re CPITS (no date) ca. 1992

Dear Duane,

I thought we'd come to an agreement, and resolved our differences last Sunday. I'm puzzled: if we came to an agreement, why did you revisit the problem? To hurt/attack me? I had already assured you we'd fairly divide territory at our SOCPITS meeting, that relying upon last year's lists was a mistake. 

OK, now I know we need to hammer it out in stone each season. I apologize for the failed experiment. Now I worry that you'll continue to release your anger (or is it hatred?) towards me; that it will manifest itself like a recurring nightmare. (I am reminded of the time when you ranted at me because you were mad at John Oliver Simon. At least you called back to apologize, saying I was not the target.) He was wrong to be rude and cold at a meeting with Susan Kennedy and Mike Tuggle.

And, no, you still shouldn't go into any of the "open" schools without consulting me first—because that’s my job and other poets have an equal right to approach those schools, and may have already done so. This is not an issue of control, but of etiquette—check out the section of the handbook which spells out AC duties. I'm sorry if the way I manage the program isn't exactly the way you'd do it. But the pluralistic model is what CPITS is all about.

I found the method you chose to communicate your thoughts at our SOCPITS meeting distressing and unprofessional—especially since one of the reasons you were upset, was because of my communication skills (or lack of) with Roberto. 

Yes, I blew it in my tone, when as AC, I told Roberto he had to finish his training—this, after conferring with you who suggested that he needed more training. My straightforward approach was a mistake for which I'm willing to rectify—including undergoing conflict resolution with him—I also hope he can learn to work with women who are direct, and not feel personally threatened or offended. Men speak bluntly all the time. I was not raised to speak submissively. It’s a double standard to expect women to be apologetic, and not plainly state opinions in order save men’s feelings.

However, I feel your tone was both vindictive and deliberate—and I resent your name-calling; especially in public. Incidentally, one school specifically requested that Roberto NOT return—they were dissatisfied with his technique. So my fear that he wasn't ready, was accurate. 

Ironically, you chose a word (hysterical) that could also be used to describe your own actions. If my communication to Roberto was in the same vein as your communication was to me, he'd really take offense (or deck you, and have nothing to do with you, or the organization, ever again.) So, I ask you, why the double-standard? You want me to be more culturally sensitive, but you use male aggression on me? You have a right to your own feelings, or to dislike me; but not to dump on me like that. Ever.

Whatever happened to positive role models to facilitate change—and especially kindness and empathy? In the future, I suggest that we use alternative forms of communication that are less destructive, such as conflict resolution. I do not wish to communicate with you again and then have you take pot shots at me. 

It will take some time before I will feel comfortable working with you again, because I still feel hurt, angry, publicly embarrassed, and humiliated. I imagine you don't feel too good about this either. We do need a way to relate to each other on a caring, professional level; the question is, where do we go from here?

CPITS student poetry reading, Barnes & Noble

The Paper’s Summer arts issue: Attuned to the Land

The West County Muse

Attuned to the land

POETRY

BY SUSAN KENNEDY

Photo by Maureen Hurley

POETS AMUSING THEMSELVES at the 13th annual Hart Crane Birthday Party (Crane was born 101 years ago, July 21. Left to right: west County writers Ann Erickson, Betty Garrett, Gail King, Hunce Voelcker, Pat Nolan and Paul Mariah.

Forestville poet Maureen Hurley describes her writing as ‘Formed by the bending of land along the fault line where I’ve lived all my life, where, if you put your ribs to the ground in the yellow summer grass, you can almost hear the earth shifting.”

Maureen Hurley, Forestville ("I am a landscape poet; I paint images with words"):

IN MARY BIANCHI'S GARDEN

RACIAL MEMORY

RACIAL MEMORY  

        —for Duane BigEagle

A lover seeking racial memory 

struggling with my blouse

prefers the old way of skins

Fox, rabbit, coyote, buffalo.

We hide too much from the elements

remembering other paths.

The feet never forget the scars 

they leave on the earth.  

He reaches for the breast in greeting,

concealing a weapon in his hand. 

The first kiss, even between old lovers

is cautious, not passionate. 

A hearthstone, the fire.

On this hillside, this grass, 

where are 

the men coming to terms with the earth  

spilling nothing more than seed?

Spring 1987

Petaluma

1990 Poetry USA

1988 Women's Voices

SHEPHERD'S SLEEP

SHEPHERD'S SLEEP

Sometimes when shadows are right
my hand traces along some curve,
something of the animal stirs
& I am savage for your flesh.
I see you dressed in leather & we talk
of buffalo & the streets of Paris.

Your cock curls down to fill a lost place
beneath the gibbous moon.
I check the wideness of my hips
& darkened aurioles.
Like betrayal, my breasts rise
when I hear my name called
& I am calling out yours in the same breath.

As we slip into the silvered orchards of sleep
we are nameless after all.
We need a buffalo robe under us
as an offering for the seed
we farm in the night.
Who is taking all the dreams
wrapped in brown silk bags?
What shepherds gather sleep?

10/12/84
radical editing job

MONET AT DUSK

MONET AT DUSK

‘An artist!’ replied the man, ‘How I have captured you

galloping across the bridge like a wild pony.’

—from THE LOST PONY

—for Duane BigEagle

In a book I found a photograph of a small child—

Was it you? Beyond the edge of the page,

horses dragged wet wings across the night sky,

in search of other continents, with you hidden in their folds—

as color from a tube, as a brush to canvas—like a Monet at dusk.

Beneath our hooves, the grey cobblestone clattered;

the streets of Paris glistened with rain

as we scattered buildings reflected in puddles.

Last time I saw you, you were painting the Seine.

I remember how the color blue

slowly became the most important thing in the room

when she asked who you were sleeping with.

We balanced on the worn enamel tub;

the incessant dripping of water wore us down.

Sometimes I dream of another country,

I was homesick—the barking dogs reminded me of home.

I was homesick for my native tongue.

Do you remember the clouds?

You rode across my body;

I thought of the chipped porcelain of her breasts.

All this longing for home.

What of the mother of your son?

Once our ponies stamped a platform in the snow;

their frozen breath rang like small bells

falling in the fragile air.

On the Oklahoma plain,

the dark comma of a buffalo in snow

hyphenates death in winter,

and abbreviates the distance

of lean bellies toward spring.

I’ve kept a lock of hair all these winters

in case you needed strength,

but you were gone like a wild pony.

I remember the places we’ve never been,

and the vastness of the prairie, because Paris

opened up its sky, lost snow turned to rain—

the puddles captured and reflected buildings

scattering like horses rising on the wing.

9/26/84
Petaluma

Duane BigEagle (drawing ca 1983)

Not sure when this drawing was made. 83? 84? I'm surprised I didn't destroy it. He was such a dishonest shit at the end. Breaking up with me at a CPITS conference. I was humiliated. I had no idea he was playing the field. We'd been seeing each other for at least a year.