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38 Minute Sestina

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Every semester, I have my creative writing students experiment with a sestina. I love this form, because it is about playing with language: essentially, you pick six words and weave a poem around them.

Because it’s a challenging assignment requiring a lot of precise rule-following, I challenged myself to write one in a relatively short amount of time.

Here is the product of 38 minutes of wordplay sitting at my kitchen island:

38 Minute Sestina

land (a)
stone (b)
crack (c)
marry/merry/Mary (d)
foreign (e)
walls (f)

Last summer, Padraic and I visited his family’s land (a)
in Connemara, Ireland. Specifically his father’s one-room stone (b)
house, now a stable for a horse, cracked (c)
all over, like dry dirt soil in a Midwestern backyard. Mary, (d)
Cole, Padraic, and I drunk in the foreign (e)
beauty of low rock walls (f)

separating lamb-dotted green turf. Walls (f)
are much discussed today, in my homeland (a)
of the “free,” of the “brave.” Foreigners (c)
being stacked outside our borders like stones. (b)
Love Trumps Hate, some say, to marry (d)
their idea of America with the hate that is seeping through the cracks (c).

On the one hand, it cracks (c)
us up, Alec Baldwin and and Kate McKinnon on SNL, comic walls (f)
to shield us from our fear. Mary, (d)
Cole, Padraic and I also visited Iceland, (a)
a stone’s (b)
throw away from the “emerald isle.” Foreign (e)

is how it felt, to touch ice dusted in volcanic ash, Foreign (e)
is how it now feels, to have a President riddled with cracks (c)
like my father-in-law’s old, stone (b)
house. A byzantine labyrinth of nonsensical walls (f)
is the brain of the surrogate father of my native land. (a)
When Padraic and I got married, (d)

Obama was the president. And the woman he was married (d)
to, was foreign (e)
to some Americans, as they watched the land (a)
of the free granting privilege to one whose descendants were not free. (Cracks (c)
in our country’s constitution, walls (f)
still erected by everyday Americans, offspring of our nation’s shameful cornerstone) (b)

When they go low, we go high, she preaches, stone- (b)
deaf to the marriage (d)
of America with whiteness. I wish Trump could see the walls (f)
in Connemara, how low and cobbled they are, foreign (e)
to sleek city towers and skyscrapers, full of cracks. (c)
Walls meant for walking, and grazing, and relishing the green land (a).

Padraic’s cousin Mattie lived for his land. (a)
For the wet turf, the ripe berries, the limestone (b).
He cracked (c)
up, at me, Cole, Padraic and Mary (d)
trying to cut turf with a sloane. America — its flatness, its size — is foreign (e),
to Mattie. How I long, in this America, to walk among those low, cobbled walls (f).

Thanksgiving Creative Writing Lesson Plan

George Thomas Open book test. Get the point? CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

We have school Monday and Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Those two days can be tricky – on the one hand, the end of the semester is approaching, so it’s important to stay on track with pacing – on the other hand, many students may be absent or less focused than normal, so it makes sense to do something fun and festive.

With that in mind, here is my lesson plan for Creative Writing the Tuesday before Thanksgiving break:

Warm Up (10 min)

(These directions are projected on the board):

Write a brief description of your contest submission to the Walgreens Expressions Contest. This explanation will be included on the form with your submission. Remember to write your name on your description.

Collect warm-ups by passing them to two students at the front of the right and left sides of the room. Teacher counts back from 20 as students pass.

Instruct students to look at handout with independent work instructions and review the handout (15 min)

  1. Put the finishing touches on your submission to the Walgreens Expressions contest.
  • If you are doing a piece of creative writing, make sure your share your document with O’Donnell’s e-mail (on the board) by the end of class.
  • If you are doing a video, make sure you e-mail it to O’Donnell (e-mail address on the board) by the end of class.
  • If you are doing a piece of visual art, make sure you put it in the inbox (the lefthand bin on the front table) by the end of class.
  • Remember that your Walgreens Expressions entry is a summative assessment, worth 100 points of your grade toward the 60 percent category.
  1. Option 1: in the spirit of Thanksgiving, write a poem thanking someone in your life for something.
  • Make your poem chock full of images.
  • Show, don’t tell your thanks
  • Here is an example from The Poetry Foundation 

Thanking My Mother for Piano Lessons
by Diane Wakoski

The relief of putting your fingers on the keyboard,
as if you were walking on the beach
and found a diamond
as big as a shoe;

as if
you had just built a wooden table
and the smell of sawdust was in the air,
your hands dry and woody;

as if
you had eluded
the man in the dark hat who had been following you
all week;

the relief
of putting your fingers on the keyboard,
playing the chords of
Beethoven,
Bach,
Chopin
in an afternoon when I had no one to talk to,
when the magazine advertisement forms of soft sweaters
and clean shining Republican middle-class hair
walked into carpeted houses
and left me alone
with bare floors and a few books

I want to thank my mother
for working every day
in a drab office
in garages and water companies
cutting the cream out of her coffee at 40
to lose weight, her heavy body
writing its delicate bookkeeper’s ledgers
alone, with no man to look at her face,
her body, her prematurely white hair
in love
I want to thank
my mother for working and always paying for
my piano lessons
before she paid the Bank of America loan
or bought the groceries
or had our old rattling Ford repaired.

I was a quiet child,
afraid of walking into a store alone,
afraid of the water,
the sun,
the dirty weeds in back yards,
afraid of my mother’s bad breath,
and afraid of my father’s occasional visits home,
knowing he would leave again;
afraid of not having any money,
afraid of my clumsy body,
that I knew

no one would ever love

But I played my way
on the old upright piano
obtained for $10,
played my way through fear,
through ugliness,
through growing up in a world of dime-store purchases,
and a desire to love
a loveless world.

I played my way through an ugly face
and lonely afternoons, days, evenings, nights,
mornings even, empty
as a rusty coffee can,
played my way through the rustles of spring
and wanted everything around me to shimmer like the narrow tide
on a flat beach at sunset in Southern California,
I played my way through
an empty father’s hat in my mother’s closet
and a bed she slept on only one side of,
never wrinkling an inch of
the other side,
waiting,
waiting,

I played my way through honors in school,
The only place I could
talk

the classroom,
or at my piano lessons, Mrs. Hillhouse’s canary always
singing the most for my talents,
as if I had thrown some part of my body away upon entering
her house
and was no searching every ivory case
of the keyboard, slipping my fingers over black
ridges and around smooth rocks,
wondering where I had lost my bloody organs,

or my mouth which sometimes opened
like a California poppy,
wide and with contrasts
beautiful in sweeping fields,
entirely closed morning and night,

I played my way from age to age,
but they all seemed ageless
or perhaps always
old and lonely,
wanting only one thing, surrounded by the dusty bitter-smelling
leaves of orange trees,
wanting only to be touched by a man who loved me,
who would be there every night
to put his large strong hand over my shoulder,
whose hips I would wake up against in the morning,
whose mustaches might brush a face asleep,
dreaming of pianos that made the sound of Mozart
and Schubert without demanding
that life suck everything
out of you each day,
without demanding the emptiness
of a timid little life.

I want to thank my mother
for letting me wake her up sometimes at 6 in the morning
when I practiced my lessons
and for making sure I had a piano
to lay my school books down on, every afternoon.
I haven’t touched the piano in 10 years,
perhaps in fear that what little love I’ve been able to
pick, like lint, out of the corners of pockets,
will get lost,
slide away,
into the terribly empty cavern of me
if I ever open it all the way up again.
Love is a man
With a mustache
gently holding me every night,
always being there when I need to touch him;
he could not know the painfully loud
music from the past that
his loving stops from pounding, banging,
battering through my brain,
which does its best to destroy the precarious gray matter when I
am alone;
he does not hear Mrs. Hillhouse’s canary singing for me,
liking the sound of my lesson this week,
telling me,
confirming what my teacher says,
that I have a gift for the piano
few of her other pupils had.
When I touch the man
I love,
I want to thank my mother for giving me
piano lessons
all those years,
keeping the memory of Beethoven,
a deaf tortured man,
in mind;

of the beauty that can come

from even an ugly
past.

To briefly analyze “Thanking My Mother for Piano Lessons,” come up with five different similes for what the piano means to the speaker in this poem. Be prepared to defend your similes.

  • The piano is like ______________________________________
  • The piano is like ______________________________________
  • The piano is like ______________________________________
  • The piano is like ______________________________________
  • The piano is like ______________________________________
  1. Option 2: in the spirit of Thanksgiving, write a poem that uses the imagery from Thanksgiving foods to write about something other than Thanksgiving. For example, you might use “stuffing” imagery as a metaphor for how busy your life is. You might use sweet potato pie imagery to contrast your hard-edged attitude when someone crosses you. Be creative. Here’s an example that I wrote in about 10 minutes. Be playful:

I Sing Anyway

How I long to hold a note
that is smooth and decadent
as melted butter.

To dissect a melody with the swift precision
of my mother’s hands
dicing an onion.

Instead my voice is
crumbled cornbread.
Sticky, cloying,
pumpkin pie,
with a crack down the middle.

I want to lay out a table
with a white linen cloth
and be the centerpiece,
performing an aria
that is as complete and rounded
as one spoonful
of perfectly salted mashed potatoes.

I want to lay out a table
with a white linen cloth
and lull my company
with a trembling lullaby
that makes every spinach leaf
in my grandmother’s heirloom china
gently
wilt.

I want to lay out a table
with a white linen cloth
and belt out some Beyoncé
that is bright and poppin
as some simmered cranberries.

Instead I’ll have to make do
with my dry turkey
of a throat
and sing anyway,
because I’m happy…
and his eyes are on the sparrow…
and I know he’s watching over me.

And because I sing,
anyway,
I am happy,
feeling simple as a green bean.

  1. You are welcome to do both options 1 & 2, receiving extra credit for your second poem. Both poems are worth up to 20 points toward your class work grade.

Independent work time as the teacher circulates and works with students one-on-one (65 min)

A Poem for Salman Rushdie’s New Novel

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I just finished Salman Rushdie’s latest, Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights. Here’s a brief summary of the book’s premise, borrowed from The New York Times book review:

The central character of Rushdie’s new novel… is…a man who gets cursed and gets blamed for it. Geronimo Manezes, a Mumbai-born gardener now living in New York, has begun to levitate. This isn’t the wish fulfillment of a flying dream; it threatens his livelihood and brings the increasing hostility of strangers. “Why do you imagine I consider my condition an improvement? He wanted to cry out. Why, when it has ruined my life and I fear it may bring about my early death?”

But Geronimo’s predicament is not an isolated case. It foreshadows an era of “strangenesses,” where the “laws which had long been accepted as the governing principles of reality had collapsed.” The strangenesses — some meteorological, some natural disasters, some simply miraculous — are the prelude to a full-blown invasion of the human world by malevolent spirits from another dimension.

It turns out that all four evil jinn, Zabardast, Zumurrud, Ra’im Blood-Drinker and Shining Ruby, have broken through the wormholes separating the world from Fairyland and are bent on causing havoc in the 21st century. The only power that can stop them is a nice female jinnia called Dunia and her human descendants: Geronimo Manezes, the British composer Hugo Casterbridge, the young Indian-American graphic novelist Jimmy Kapoor and a femme fatale called Teresa Saca. If Dunia can gather them up in time and awaken them to the power of their jinni nature, humanity might have a chance against the forces of darkness. “The seals between the Two Worlds are broken and dark jinn ride,” she tells Geronimo. “Your world is in danger and because my children are everywhere I am protecting it. I’m bringing them together, and together we will fight back.”

It certainly wasn’t my favorite Rushdie novel. The NY Times review is pretty critical, and I agree with its perspective. Reviewer Marcel Theroux notes that Rushdie’s “capcaiousness” and “breadth” as a writer/enchanter is a distinctive feature of his style and something to be celebrated… when “there’s been some compelling principle at work.” As Theroux puts it,

“Complaining that Rushdie’s not a naturalistic writer is like criticizing kimchi for its cabbagey funk.”

And I love Rushdie’s funk. It’s why I gravitate toward everything he writes. As for this novel, though, I’ll quote Theroux again:

“Behind its glittery encrustations, the plot resembles a bare outline for a movie about superheroes. There’s a war between worlds, lightning comes out of people’s fingertips and it all culminates in a blockbuster showdown between the forces of good and evil.”

Still, I am drawn to the “nice” jinnia, Dunia, who is enamored with the human world. I am fascinated with the contrast between capricious beings made of smoke and fire versus plodding, helpless humans. In the book, Dunia produces a line of half-jinn, half-human descendants, and the line they walk between their human natures and their jinn natures is fodder for us all. It inspired me to think about the “smoke and fire” lurking in myself, and my human company. I jot this poem down this morning. When I refer to “smoke and fire,” I think I’m referring to the ways in which our human limitations give way, the ways in which we surprise ourselves, transcending our human natures and tapping into something more powerful.

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Smoke and Fire

Smoke and fire:
You address me, “Beauty,”
You nick-named my stomach years ago
At a wedding, my arms are wrapped around you
“Python arms” you dub the photo
Then you say, “Hey Beauty, come here”
Insults, terms of endearment,
From You,
They both land lightly,
Almost to lift me up.

Smoke and fire:
I chased you out of the building
Clear sky, hot pavement
You were running for your life
Now we meet again in August
Your trusting smile,
signing your letter “yours truly”
“I’m ready to step up my game this year”

Smoke and fire:
Skin so thin that a hang nail
Threatens hospital beds and IVs
Skin so thick all the same
You weather your version of chronic pain
Far more graciously than me
And so I confide in you, and worry with you
Even when you’re the one hurting

Smoke and fire:
How many times have I rubbed
salt in your wounds
And you’ve called me back
Invited me over
Given me something from your closet,
Your fridge
“I’m so happy to see you,” you always say.

Smoke and fire:
You used to bribe me to type your papers
Your eyes were bloodshot as you
teased me about my first boyfriend
I bought you beer when I visited you at school
even though I was the younger one
Now you grip your newborn
like a football, easy
You’re well-versed in car seats
and choking hazards
And sleep schedules

Smoke and fire:
This life is muddy for you
Thick, brown, halting
Leaves traces of dirt on your shoes
Wherever you go
And yet you keep going,
So kind
Along your way

If only I could rub the magic lamp
Get a fat, blue little jinn
To fight your demons for you
Smoke and fire-like

Instead, I hold onto the traces
Of smoke
Of fire
inside these
soft,
beating
human hearts.

 

Making Plans

I’ve been making a lot of plans lately. Lesson plans, life plans. Today I’m taking a step back, using poetry to muse about control, spirituality, and the inspiration of the natural world, with a few shots of my Iceland vacation thrown in.

Making Plans

Remember in July,
when we stood still in our hiking boots,
waiting for the geyser to gush?

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Even that was a plan you made
and clothes I carefully laid
and bills we carefully paid
so we could dig our heels in the brown ground,
say “Wow”
When the earth flaunted its do-as-it-likes

Carefully stepping around wet stones and
“hugging the mountain” when the altitude felt too high

Screen Shot 2016-08-07 at 4.08.49 PMand reaching for a stray horse’s snout on a muted, windy slope,
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We breathed in Earth’s overflow
witnessed Her grace

But over a Gull, or lobster soup,
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we mused over plans for home,
or lunch,
stealthily strategizing.

Meanwhile, glowing chunks of blue-white ice floated idly toward the Atlantic
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Aggressive waterfalls thundered down cliffs
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the gray Atlantic met with pebbled beaches
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And we took pictures, eager to clap
For this jazz.

Then

Surrender came in a flash
when I stripped off my coat and scarf and laid in the moss-grass of a mountain
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suddenly remembering that memorial service photo of Carrie’s mom,
basking in the sky on Colorado grass
Before ALS hit.

Today I wonder if I’m a fool
to think that the plans I’m making
bear a contrast, rather than a pale resemblance to
the sprinkling of volcanic ash on a glacier
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Perhaps I’ve been duped
by the strangeness of ash on ice
the drama of cascading water
the glow of blue lagoons

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Yes, I think I’ve been duped.
I’m “a theatre person”; I should understand
the planning that goes into the artifice.

“Whipped cream on a brick,”
a dance teacher once said,
of a ballerina’s lithe posturing
to look like she does as she likes.

Still, it’s a nice thought,
And one that I think I’ll hold onto,
That when the geyser errupts,
She’s just letting it go,
on a whim.

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Hello Again, Here’s a Poem

Screen Shot 2013-05-07 at 8.56.58 AMMuch appreciated readers of Swirl to Coat, I’ve missed sharing my thoughts with you. I have been deep in the world of my English classroom, and otherwise adjusting to a new home and a new city. I’ve been writing a lot of curriculum, and an article on dance history. As for the blogging scene, my sincere apologies for being MIA.

So I’m creating a new category called Life in Lists. Aside from the fact that it’s an easier, perhaps lazier way to blog my thoughts, teaching creative writing has reinforced to me how powerful lists can be for wrapping your head around your own complex consciousness and arriving at meaningful observations about your life. Our textbook, The Practice of Creative Writing by Heather Sellers (which I highly recommend to anyone interested in pursuing creative writing for their own purposes, it’s brilliant, recommended to me by one who knows her stuff) is structured according to broad principles of writing, applicable to any genre: images, energy, tension, pattern, insight… And one of the things she includes in the insight chapter is that one “way to be wise” is to make lists: “Lists force a writer to stay focused on a single subject for longer and build the wisdom muscle.

Today I won’t be sharing a list, but a poem from The Practice of Creative Writing. For me, this poem has an implicit connection to food….and in my wrapped up world of female white privilege, it also makes me think of dieting — “cursing what hurt me, and praising what gives me joy,” and leaving a popcorn trail…  You know, “how everyone eats popcorn,” according to Amy Schumer…

Personal
by Tony Hoagland

Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal –

the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the piece of grapefruit and stamps,

the wet hair of women in the rain –
And I cursed what hurt me

and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.

The government reminded me of my father,
With its deafness and its laws,

and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.

Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk

Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts

but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;

I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,

I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back

and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries

like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.

Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?

You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.

I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:

trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.

The iconic food-lovers — think Julia Child — are always hearty, voracious people, feeling people, with a rich and abundant emotional life, and a corresponding appetite. If you’re reading this, I leave you with the injunction I’m giving myself — which is to take life personally in the sense that there’s power and abundance to be found in vulnerability, in pouring yourself into your work and relationships, so as far as that goes, go ahead and make a scene.

On Writing and Feeling

If there are mountains, I look at the mountains By Santoka Taneda English version by John Stevens If there are mountains, I look at the mountains; On rainy days I listen to the rain. Spring, summer, autumn, winter. Tomorrow too will be good. Tonight too will be good.

I received this poem in my inbox today and feel compelled to share it. Like many, I aspire to and struggle to live more purely in the present moment. With that struggle in mind, what a serene thought it is that “tomorrow will be good,” and so will today, and tonight, simply because what exists exists, and we are here to enjoy it. I find the poet’s simple, sparse language to be startingly articulate; in its simplicity, it deepens and subtly shifts my thinking about what it means to live in the moment, reassuring me that however scattered or anxious my state of mind, there is an inherent simplicity in having presence of mind. We simply need to be receptive to what surrounds us — “if there are mountains, look at the mountains.” The world does its work for us and we are here, simply enough, to receive the world.

There’s a mantra that I cling to, although I can’t remember where I encountered it, that “There is no pain in the present moment.” When I find myself rushing mentally, I am reminded that so much of human pain is sheer anticipation, cognitive chaos, the firing of neurons generating fear and angst, pain that does not exist apart from the ruminator’s overactive thought process. Which leads me to consider the discipline of writing. I’m sure that the same synapses that cause unnecessary, self-generated pain are the impetus behind beautiful and insightful streams of words. From that perspective, it’s not ideal to strictly limit one’s focus to what is immediate and concrete, but rather to pay close attention to feelings and thoughts that deviate from the moment and channel them into something concrete of their own, such as an outpouring of language.

If writing is a way of embracing our stray feelings and thoughts, allowing us to attend to the present moment of our own, individual, internal worlds, then I could do a better job of it. When a friend of mine recently challenged me to think about how much raw feeling is connected to my writing pursuits, I realized that I could better fuse the part of me that loves the creative act of laying out words on paper with the part of me that is sensitive, susceptible to a surplus of feeling. Sometimes I forget that writing is a tremendous receptacle for pain and joy and a whole range of feelings in between, and when I’m feeling down or up or somewhere in between I don’t think to turn to the page. How great it would be if instead of dumping, or sighing out our feelings of pain into something escapist, we could energize and invigorate ourselves, and validate the feelings we are having, by giving our feelings a voice. Here’s to writing from the heart.

“Rumi: Love, Madness & Ecstasy”

Screen Shot 2014-02-12 at 9.16.20 PM“There is an animal called an ushghur, a porcupine
If you hit it with a stick, it extends its quills and gets bigger.
The soul is a porcupine,
made strong by stick-beating.”

This past weekend I saw “Rumi: Love, Madness, and Ecstasy,” a staged reading written by Sheri Winkelmann and directed by Helen Young, presented by Silk Road Rising Theatre. Based on the playwright’s own experience with domestic violence, the play follows the character, Sadia, an independent, open young woman who unexpectedly falls in love with a Tibetan doctor while volunteering in India. Setting aside her practical, modern sensibilities, she agrees to marry Dorjee when he moves his practice to the U.S. After a brief honeymoon period, Dorjee reveals a disturbing jealous streak and a capacity for sudden mood swings. Meanwhile, Sadia does her best to believe in him, attributing his split personality to culture shock while experiencing her own version in the form of isolation from her single, female friends and growing discomfort inside her own home. When the violence reaches a breaking point, the poetry of the famous Persian writer and Sufi mystic, Rumi gives Sadia the courage and spiritual clarity to get out.

The language of Rumi is woven into the play from the beginning — from Sadia’s initial, exuberant feelings toward Dorjee to her eventual escape. It’s a form of punctuation, sometimes initiatied by “Old Sadia,” a sort of spiritually evolved, omniscient narrator version of young Sadia, played by Amira Sabbagh, sometimes chanted by the ensemble as a form of transition music between scenes. It infuses the script with a strong musical energy, a palpable beat that brings Sadia’s spiritual journey to life while illustrating the essential nature of all human suffering, whatever the context. Lines from the poem, “Checkmate” like

“The soul is a newly skinned hide, bloody and gross.
Work on it with manual discipline,
and the bitter tanning acid of grief,
and you’ll become lovely, and very strong.”

and

“Those that make you return, for whatever reason, to God’s solitude, be grateful to them.
Worry about the others, who give you
delicious comforts that keep you from prayer.
Friends are enemies sometimes,
and enemies friends.”

are especially memorable, chanted near the end when Sadia attempts to reconcile her circumstances with her belief in God, and somehow make sense of her suffering.

Screen Shot 2014-02-13 at 7.55.36 AMI also appreciated the play’s attention to what are, perhaps, more puzzling, ambiguous factors in a domestic abuse situation, such as Sadia’s status as a highly educated, independent minded woman who made a bad judgment call. There is a striking line when Sadia says, “Everything in my culture tells me I should blame myself, but I won’t.” It had me wondering, is this where her education comes into play? If education and financial independence don’t necessarily insulate women from situations of domestic abuse, do they allow women to recover with their psyches more intact, with a greater degree of emotional clarity? This question was addressed during the post-show discussion when Ms. Winkelmann commented on the heightened secrecy surrounding affluent, educated women in abusive relationships, noting an increase in the number of personal acquaintances who have recently shared their stories with her. As for the redemptive power of education, the seed for this project was the playwright’s attraction to a book of Rumi poems in a Barnes and Noble, so her story certainly speaks to the way in which reading and writing allow us to explore and expose our own seemingly shameful experiences and pay them forward, facilitating the healing of others.

Screen Shot 2014-02-13 at 7.22.13 AMAnother aspect that Ms. Winkelmann’s script exposes in detail is the intense, predictable pattern of the abuse itself. There are several scenes in which we feel a tide turning, the couple slipping down a familiar rabbit hole of escalating insecurity and increasingly inadequate responses until the fight blows over. Then it happens again, like clockwork. This is powerful, if painful, to watch, exposing the cyclical patterns without trying to explain them. I can only imagine that survivors of abuse would find it somehow validating, as if to say, this is what it is, this is what it looks like, over and over again — and despite the insanity, it is real, recognizable, and not the victim’s fault.

A third and final point of discussion is the depiction of Sadia’s friends, and the role they play in perpetuating her feelings of shame and alienation. This tension is introduced early on, beginning with their skepticism toward Sadia’s decision to get married, as if acting boldly based on faith is an inherently sketchy choice to make. As the marriage deteriorates, they are gradually turned off by Sadia’s resolve to make it work, and eventually disassociate themselves. Are they horrible friends, or just limited ones? If they hadn’t deserted their friend in the middle of her desperation, forcing her to “return to God’s solitude,” would she have eventually decided to leave? What is the role of women in perpetuating a culture of shame? Can ordinary women help empower victims simply by withholding judgment?

Screen Shot 2014-02-12 at 9.22.32 PMIntense, serious questions, perhaps, but interesting and provocative ones, ones that can hardly be dismissed. And it’s not all serious — Sadia’s friends, played by Suzanne Sole and Michelle Weissgerber, provide frequent, welcome comic relief, and the Rumi lines are like little gems, sparkling turns of phrase — they get lodged in your brain, resurfacing for a while after. “Rumi: Love, Madness, and Ecstasy” gives us a different, deeper, more profound kind of love to think about for Valentine’s Day: one the one hand, the people or experiences that break us, transforming us into something better and wiser; and on the other hand, the “beloved,” or God, who pulls us through everything, far better stated in the first stanza of “Checkmate”:

“Borrow the beloved’s eyes.
Look through them and you’ll see the beloved’s face
everywhere. No tiredness, no jaded boredom.
‘I shall be your eye and your hand and your loving.
Let that happen, and things
you have hated will become helpers.”

[Photo credits: “The Heart,” petalouda62’s photostream, CC BY-NC-ND 2.0, “The Reed Flute Sings in Silence,” deborahaddington.com, “Molana.jpg,” Wikimedia Commons, “Which Sheds Its Rays Upon a Frozen Heart,” Poetry, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0]

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