[Cwgrad-announcements] FW: dacenter.org free reading/open mic

[Amanda]

Dear Friends and Fellow Poets, 

 

Please join us! A sample of Lynne's poetry is below.

 

(flyer attached)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  dA Center for the Arts proudly presents a 


 

FREE POETRY READING* 

 

and RECEPTION, and OPEN MIC($6)

 

 

 

Sunday, February 10 at 2 p.m.

 

Open Mic at 3:30 p.m.

 

 

 

 

 

by Lynne Thompson

 

 

 

Winner of the 2007 Perugia Press Prize for her poetry collection Beg No
Pardon, Lynne Thompson was born and raised in Los Angeles, California by
parents born in the Windward Islands, West Indies. She received her B.A.
from Scripps College and a J.D. from Southwestern University School of Law.
A Pushcart Prize nominee, she was named finalist for the Philip Levine, Crab
Orchard, Backwaters Press, and Blue Lynx Poetry Prizes. Ms. Thompson
currently serves as the Director of Labor Relations at U.C.L.A. 

 

 

 

[Open Mic follows at 3:30; sign-ups at 1:45, $6]

 

 

 

 


The reading is free and open to the public. Open Mic: $6. Sign up at 1:45.
dA Center for the Arts 

252-D S. Main Street Pomona, Ca. 91766  (909) 397-9716 (www.dacenter.org
<http://www.dacenter.org/>  ) 

                     *This event is supported by Poets and Writers, Inc.
through a grant it has received from 

                                                                 The James
Irvine Foundation.

 

 

 

RATTLE e.3 22

Lynne Thompson

 

I AM GRENADINE

having been born of elite black masses.

I am a slaver washed up on Spring.

I am Lower Bay and its blackbird.

I am the great-grand-niece of Chatoyer;

chipped fretwork on his chattel-house.

I am sharpening stones from Queensbury;

mist sheltering sugar plantations at Farm,

a dwelling house joined to the cane,

to the windmills, to the waterwheels,

a hodgepodge of Karaÿbe footnotes

in Father Breton’s diary; he say—

from the very beginning, they were

filled with hatred, not just for slavery,

but any form of injunction, authority

or submission


This is why I run to the sea.

Being well-supplied with rivers,

I oscillate windward and leeward,

dangle a bracelet of fishing cays,

tattoo of Bordel petroglyphs

on each palm, Yambou Pass carving

the bones where my elbows curve.

In 1780, I was harried by hurricanes,

under heavy fire from all enemies.

But I stride with considerable numbers—

led the insurrection at the Massarica River.

Some say I am one-half Anglican Church,

but I am thorny and cut down.

I am never six furlongs from Kingstown.

There, I am after-ash of Soufrière, 1902—

or so my daddy tells—

all internal wars,

pregnant with destruction,

fled in different directions.

Today,

I am golden guava, Young Island, Grenadine,

and my name will not be confused or improved.

  _____  

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