2017 Events

 

March
Seek the Holy Dark Book Release Party/Poetry Reading
March 18th ~ 6-8 pm
Rêve Coffee Roasters
200 Jefferson Street, Lafayette, Louisiana
Free and open to the public. Complimentary wine to guests 21 and over. Food and beverages available for purchase.

Lyrically Inclined
Tuesday, March 21st 6:30 pm
Workshop and Poetry Reading with Clare L. Martin
Black Cafe
518 S Pierce St #100, Lafayette, LA 70501

Your Life, Your Stories: Life-Writing Workshops with Clare L. Martin
Saturday, March 25 at 2 PM – 4 PM
@ The Alleyway House,
122 E Bridge St Breaux Bridge, LA 70517

April

Maple Lear Bar- Everette C. Maddox Commemorative Reading Series
Sunday, April 2nd, 3:00 pm
Maple Leaf Bar
8316 Oak St
New Orleans, LA 70118

Louisiana Series of Cajun and Creole Poetry / La Série de Louisiane de Poésie des Acadiens et Créoles (reading with Darrell Bourque and Jack Bedell)
Saturday, April 15th, 2-4 pm
Hilliard University Art Museum
710 East St. Mary Boulevard
Lafayette, LA 70503

Your Life, Your Stories: Life-Writing Workshops with Clare L. Martin
Saturday, April 22 at 2 – 4 pm
@ The Alleyway House,
122 E Bridge St Breaux Bridge, LA 70517

June

Featured Poet at The Poetry Buffet
Saturday, June 3rd, 2 pm
Latter Branch Public Library, 5120 St Charles Ave
New Orleans, LA

September

Artwalk Reading with Jane V. Blunschi:
Saturday, September 9th – 6-8 pm
James Devin Moncus Theater
Acadiana Center for the Arts
http://acadianacenterforthearts.org/
101 W. Vermilion St.
Lafayette, LA 70501
337.233.7060

October

Louisiana Book Festival

More dates are being arranged.

To book Clare for a workshop, poetry reading or book-signing:
martin.clarel@gmail.com
or (337) 962-5886

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Waterline

Early in their married life, my grandparents and their young family lost everything in a flood in the country outside of Youngsville. My mother told me the story many times of how my Uncle Ray had been raising rabbits and he placed them caged, high on an armoire inside the house to save them when they evacuated to the area here which was where my great grandparents lived. When my grandfather went back to the property to check on it, he tied a rope to his waist and tied the other end of the rope to a bridge rail so that if he drowned, they would be able to find his body. The rabbits had drowned. That was how high the water was. I wrote a play about it titled “Waterline” after Katrina, for Acting Up (in Acadiana), and it was performed in Lafayette, New Orleans, and New York City as part of a larger work, called “Sustained Winds.”  Here I post the play in its entirety. The character of Toby was changed to a female character played by Kara St. Clair. Bambi DeVille Engeran played the Grandmother. I believe the name of the young character was changed to Leslie. This was what was in my old file.

 

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Photo from CNN

 

Written for Sustained Winds: Before During After Now Later

 

 

Waterline (After)

By Clare L. Martin

 

3.31.06

 

 

Grandma—blind, elderly, and shut-in grandmother of Toby. She lives alone and relies on a family and neighborhood support system to live.  She is unable to evacuate and the hurricane dissolves her network of caregivers.

 

Toby—Teenage grandson unwillingly separated from his parents who were evacuated after the hurricane to unknown parts. Toby sought out his grandmother when his parents were bused out.

 

Scene— The setting is Grandma’s house.  Toby’s brushing his grandmother’s hair.

 

Grandma:  Slower.  Do it real gentle now.  Don’t hit my head when you brush me.

 

Toby: (brushing his grandmother’s long hair) Every time I hear a siren, I jump.

 

Grandma:  There’s a car coming up the driveway.

 

Toby: No there isn’t.

 

Grandma: It will.  Give it time. Since I lost my seeing, I see more clearly.

 

Toby:  Every time a car passes I think it is them—or about them.

 

Grandma:  Give it some time.

 

Toby:  I begged the soldier to put me on that bus. I lost my shoes running for them.  She was wearing red.  Dad had his Saints cap on.

 

Grandma: When your daddy was nine, your grandpa bought him four rabbits to breed.  When those floodwaters were rising, your grandpa tied a rope to his waist and the other end to the bridge over the coulee.  He tied himself like that so we’d find his body if the waters took him.

 

Toby: (stops brushing) Please don’t. Please don’t tell me that story, Grandma.

 

Grandma: The rabbits—your daddy put them in a cage on the top of the armoire, but they still drowned. That’s how high the waterline was.

 

Toby:  Maybe they’re in Texas. The soldier said the bus was going to Houston.  Dad has a friend in Houston.  I can’t remember his name.  They used to work together.  He used to live here.

 

Grandma:  Toby, do you look like your mama or your daddy? I’ve never seen you since you were a baby.

 

Toby: Mom says I look like dad and dad says I look like mom.

 

Grandma: (reaching for Toby) Let me feel you. (Grandma feels Toby’s facial features) You have your mama’s bones and your daddy’s flat nose. That’s the Guidry in you—that nose. I pray you don’t have the Guidry ears.  You could fly with those ears. Fix us something to eat, son.

 

Toby: (opens the powerless refrigerator) I—I don’t know what we have left.

 

Grandma:  What do we have left?

 

Toby: (peering into the refrigerator) I think we have to throw away the chicken. Cheese.

 

Grandma: (bolts up from her sitting position) Fool!  Are you standing with the icebox open?  You don’t stand there with the door open. You’re losing all the cold. Did you forget what was in there since the last time you looked?

 

Toby:  (closes the refrigerator door) There’s no cold left. The cheese is soft, Grandma, and the chicken stinks.

 

Grandma:  Then throw it to the cats in the street. They got two that holler all night. That mess will shut them up.

 

Toby: What can we eat?

 

Grandma: Open a can of something and bring us each a fork. We’ll take turns taking bites.

 

Toby: (opens the cabinet) A can of what?

 

Grandma:  Now, it really doesn’t matter, does it?  Open a can of food. Whatever’s in there. Don’t let the hot out of the cabinet.

 

Toby: What?

 

Grandma: That was a joke, boy.

 

Toby: Oh.

 

Grandma: (rocking herself) I miss TV.  Of course I can’t see people on it but I like the voices.  It is a good thing you made your way to my house, because I can’t stand quiet.  You’re a good boy. Did you find my medicine?

 

Toby:  (looking at bottles) Which ones do you need to take?

 

Grandma: I don’t know because I can’t see the labels.  Tilda next door reads them for me.  You can read, can’t you?  Read one and tell me what it says.

 

Toby: (looking at a bottle) Gly-bu-ride.  Take once a day in the morning.

 

Grandma:  That’s it.  That’s the one for my diabetes.  How many are left?

 

Toby: There’s ten left, Grandma.

 

Grandma:  Toby that’s ten days I’m going to feel good. I take two pills a day.  What’s the other one?

 

Toby: That bottle’s empty. Do you have another bottle in the bathroom?

 

Grandma: No—no matter.  Check the jug of ice in the freezer and see if it’s water.

 

Toby: (Toby hands Grandma a glass of water and then picks up the phone receiver) The phone still doesn’t work.  They should fix that first.

 

Grandma: They usually fix the first things last and the last things you need first.  But I wouldn’t be surprised if that phone rings any minute with your mama calling. Now brush my hair again, softly.  (Toby starts brushing his grandmother’s hair again)

 

Grandma:  You opened that icebox and now that chicken is stinking up the whole house.  Get rid of it, Toby. Give them nasty cats a nasty treat.

 

Toby: (returns from stepping out the back door) Those cats sure love that rotten chicken. They’re tearing it up.

 

Grandma:  Lock the door! Do it now!  There’re strange people on the streets. They’ll take the nothing we have and the nothing we don’t have.  It is a good thing I’m blind because I’d hate to see the hell that’s come.  Lock the doors. Do it quick. And talk low. Don’t light any candles tonight.  I heard them knocking when I was in my bed.  Did you hear it?

 

Toby: (hurriedly locks the door) No.  I didn’t.

 

Grandma:  If you weren’t here I’d be scared out of my wits.  I hear the streets.   Last night I smelled gas and smoke and somebody was knocking.   You didn’t hear the knocking?

 

Toby: No.  I slept hard for the first time since the hurricane. I dreamed I was in my house in my own bed and that music was on in another room. I smelled bacon and coffee. I didn’t wake up for anything, until the heat woke me.  The sun beat in on me from the window and I heard your cane on the wood floor. You were praying.

 

Grandma:  I know my house.  Every morning I walk and say a Rosary. Sometimes I walk and say two.  Depends on how my knees feel. If it’s raining I sit in my rocker and pray. My knees can’t take wet weather.  When I’m finished I kiss the head of that Mary. Tilda brought her in from my garden before the storm. She didn’t want her broke. When the winds hit, I said an hour straight of Hail Marys and I prayed to St. Joseph for my house to stand up and it did.  He was a builder.  He taught Jesus a trade.  What trade you learning?  You should know by now.  Your daddy still doesn’t know what he’s gonna be when he grows up.  He’s never grown up.  He plays at everything. (Grandma turns her face to her grandson) So you listened? Did you pray too?

 

Toby: I prayed the phone would ring this morning.  I prayed that bus would wait for me. I got in line for water and dad was holding my place in the bus line. I got hit and someone took all the bottles.  I ran but it was too late. I prayed I could get to your house without being killed or worse. I’m still praying but I don’t know the right words, I guess.

 

Grandma:  Just talk. Or don’t talk or think.  Listen. See? (Grandma brushes her own hair) Long strokes.   Fifty strokes, and then start all over again.

(Grandma and Toby bow heads and the scene ends)

 

***

Toby leaves Grandma to get help and search for food and water.  He is forced by circumstances to join a group of looters and steals a loaf of bread.  A voice calls out “Stop!” and Toby is shot.  He dies in the street.

 

 

 

Two days have passed since Toby left. Unaware that Toby is dead, Grandma waits in her home, praying the Rosary. She is waiting for Toby to return. Some services are restored.

 

Grandma: (Opens her bottle of pills, feels them with her fingers. Takes one and sips water.) Eight left.  Toby’s been gone two days. What else could he do?  What else could we do? I couldn’t do nothing for him, or myself. He’s a good boy. Toby’s a good boy.   Dear Lord, keep him safe in the streets.  I stayed up all night again to wait for him. (She gets angry) I’m talking to you, Lord! He’s my good boy!

 

(Phone rings.)

 

 

Grandma:  (excitedly speaking on the phone) Oh, Bobby, thank God! Y’all are safe?  Yes. I couldn’t reach you. He’s not here.  He was here but we needed—.  We’ve got water and phone now, no power and no food.  Y’all come soon, please. Good. Hurry. Two days he’s been gone. He’s a good boy, Bobby.  You’ve raised him right. Y’all come soon. He’s my good boy….

 

Grandma hangs up the phone and clutches the Rosary to her heart.  She bows her head.  Prays tearfully. Becomes silent.

 

****

Copyright Clare L. Martin 2016

“You need to write another damn book!”

I am thrilled to announce that Yellow Flag Press will publish Seek the Holy Dark as the 2017 selection of The Louisiana Series of Cajun and Creole Poetry. Great thanks to J. Bruce Fuller for this honor. Yellow Flag Press is a Louisiana-born publishing house that is growing its national presence. I have had a long relationship with it, and I can’t think of any other affiliation that would make me as happy.

 

A little backstory:

 

For a long period of time since my mother’s death in May of 2014, I felt aimless. I was writing, but I did not have a meaningful writing project in front of me to keep me focused on the bigger picture of my Writing Life. I had material for a new manuscript, tentatively titled “Broken Jesus,” that I began to assemble after Eating the Heart First was published. Over the course of a couple of years, I abandoned hope for it and just kept writing new.

 

Several months ago, while having coffee with The Bayou Mystic, Bessie Senette, I expressed my feelings of a lack of purpose beyond my personal responsibilities and our writing group’s objectives. She knew that I had relinquished my roles in many of the projects I had been involved with before my mother’s death. She also knew that was very hard for me, because of my giving and ambitious nature. The deep dissatisfaction I had been living with was causing depression beyond normal grief.

 

Bessie listened as I shared my feelings. After a silence, Bessie stood, pointed her finger between my eyes, and said, “You need to write another damn book!” As soon as she said it, I was taken aback. I went home with a charge of energy to do exactly what she said to do. I got to work with real determination.

 

In December 2015, in a casual conversation, I brought up the work I was doing to J. Bruce Fuller at a writing event we were attending in Arnaudville, LA. He offered to read the manuscript. When I sent it, I had a sense that if I had to face a “no” I would reluctantly consider other options. Honestly, from that moment in Arnaudville when the opportunity opened, I desired for Seek the Holy Dark to be a YFP book.  I have always had great faith in J Bruce’s integrity and the good health of his press.

 

[Surprisingly, in less than three days of receiving the publishing news, the cover art was selected and rights acquired. That is another story that involves my dear Bessie!!]

 

I am thrilled, ready, excited, and focused to bring this new work to the world. I again express thanks to J Bruce Fuller and Yellow Flag Press for this amazing opportunity.

 

And great thanks to Bessie for seeing my need and calling forth my energy to fulfill it.

 

More soon…

 

“Hands like flushed doves”

Washing my hands this morning, I thought of  Noami Vincent, who was like a great aunt to me. She was my grandmother’s neighbor from the time that my grandparents (along with my mother and her siblings) moved from the country after a terrible flood that took everything they owned, to the house where they lived 50 years, where I live now.

Noami lived into her 90s, became my closest friend for many years until she passed in 2007, the same year as my father. She was a lively, seemingly impervious Cajun woman who had so many losses in her life.  She was one of the strongest women I have ever known. She lost seven children. She miscarried six times and the only child that she birthed, a girl, died in childbirth. This woman saved me so many times in our great friendship. She was family to us and is dearly missed.

I looked out of the bathroom window this morning and could see her house, empty still.  When she lived, her door was always open to me and to so many loved ones.  She was brave, funny, stubborn and deeply faithful. Here are a couple of facts about her:  she kept a bayonet in her closet to defend herself, if needed,  and she traveled alone to California from Louisiana without knowing how to drive during World War II. 

Noami’s story is complex. Both of her parents were deaf and mute and her mother went blind, too, after contracting diabetes. The poem below is collected in Eating the Heart First, and was written with inspiration from events in her life. She was very close to my mother, too, and I incorporated something of my mother’s narrative in it.

I will leave it at that.

I don’t want to use copyrighted images in this post, but please look at this painting, “Hands #1,” oil on canvas, 24″x24″, 2011, previously shown at Saatchi: Gallery Mess, London by Daniel Maidman that really struck me today.

 

MUTE

 

Hands like flushed doves

flutter to say: dry the dishes—

 

sweep the floor, but never be quiet.

When she went blind, too,

 

we spelled goodnight and I love you tenderly,

tracing each alphabet

 

on the scattered leaves of her palms.

I married and she touched

 

my hips, spreading her hands wide

to note I was getting fat. She patted

 

my growing belly

but never cradled my offspring.

 

When the infant died,

pantomime cries

 

fell like trees

in storms from her mouth.

 

 

“Mute” first appeared in Blue Fifth Reviewthe blue collection 1, anthology series, 2010 and is collected in Eating the Heart First (Press 53, 2012)

Copyright 2012, Clare L. Martin. All rights reserved.

River Dream

214

 

I slip from the edge of a muddy cane field into the Mississippi River with a baby in my arms.  It is my daughter and she is one or two years old. We glide over the water, my bare feet causing small wakes. Sometimes we move by vaulting with a large limb of a tree that carries us farther and faster than our own energies.  We are like wind over the water. We move far and fast; away, away but always the river hungers.

My little girl keeps falling asleep; limps out of my grip into treacheries of the river. She sinks quickly, or sometimes floats just at the surface. I pull her out by her hair. In one part of the dream, we fly through a deep-green stand of trees along the riverbank. The leaves and branches do not ribbon our skin, but I fear flying into their hardwood bodies. I tighten my grip on my girl. Sometimes she laughs, enjoying herself on this great adventure. I don’t know why we don’t smack right into a trunk. Why don’t the trees kill us?

In open air, we meet a woman who can also fly and knows the river. She promises us safety.  She flies with a baby in a carriage chained to her backside. At one point she slips the baby, much younger, much smaller than my own, into a pocket, and unhooks the chain, dropping the carriage into the mud. We fly great distances. The river grows angrier that it cannot have us. We glide close to the bank, sometimes we change course.  In the very middle of the river, the deepest part, I see a half-sunken iron statue of Evangeline; her rusted breasts emerge from water. The flying woman solemnly, weeping, gives us up. She flies to a silent grove to breastfeed her infant.

A man with a boat that is shaped like a deep gumbo bowl with an outboard motor finds us, or rather we find him via a hand-painted wooden sign offering boat tours.  I ask him where we are, tell him I want to go to Youngsville, and that there is a new sports complex with tall, bright lights that might serve as a landmark. He says we are only three miles away. This gives me hope.

Once we are isolated on the water, with no one watching, wind forces its tongue down my throat. Thrice, my only child falls in, and I have to go deeper each time to get her and bring her back to life. She is exhausted, sick from coughing the Mississippi. I keep telling her to hold me tightly, but she doesn’t comprehend enough language, so I grip her with the one goddamn-willing muscle I have left.

The man with the boat starts to ask questions, says he doesn’t have a woman and I seem to be a good one.  From the belly of the boat where I am seated, I see the longed-for lights of the sports complex, not too far away. The man operating the boat continues on the river swiftly, jamming his wrist with a hard twist to increase the motor’s speed. At some point he abandons us wordlessly, waist-deep in a forgettable tributary.

I wake up wanting home, being home and grab a notebook. Write down the bones.

 

4.21.14

All rights reserved

See you in Seattle!

Events at AWP at which Clare will appear.  See you in Seattle!

 

AWP 1

 

MadHat & Plume Present: an off-site reading at the AWP

Friday, February 28th, 2014 @ 6 pm to 9 pm
Taphouse Bar & Grill Seattle
1506 6th ave, Seattle, Washington 98101

Featured poets:

Robin Behn
Wendy Taylor Carlisle
Jim Daniels
Mark Irwin
Katia Kapovich
Amy King
Clare L. Martin
Philip Nikolayev
Nava Renek
David Rivard
Jill Rosser
Bernd Sauermann
Tod Thilleman
Yuriy Tarnawsky
Rosanna Warren

and appearances by your hosts, Marc Vincenz, Jonathan Penton, and Daniel Lawless

Book-signings by Clare L. Martin

Eating_the_Heart_First_Cover FB

On Thursday, February 27th and Friday, February 28th from 3-4:00 pm (both days) poet Clare L. Martin will sign copies of Eating the Heart First (Press 53, 2012) at the Press 53/Prime Number Magazine table (CC 35-36). Copies of Eating the Heart First will be available at the Press 53 table in limited quantity.

And on Saturday, March 1st from 11 am – 12:00 pm, Clare will sign copies of Eating the Heart First and Vision/Verse 2009-2013: An Anthology of Poetry (Yellow Flag Press) at the Yellow Flag Press table (K 21) Copies of Eating the Heart First will be available at the Yellow Flag Press table in limited quantity.

VV

Vision/Verse 2009-2013: An Anthology of Poetry

Featured poets:

Lou Amyx
Maya Beerbower
Jacob Blevins
Darrell Bourque
Steven Brown
Elizabeth Burk
Kolleen Carney
William Lusk Coppage
Rita D. Costello
Kevin Dwyer
S. B. Ferguson
Amy Fleury
J. Bruce Fuller
Trèe George
Rodney Gomez
Ashley Mace Havird
David Havird
Ava Leavell Haymon
Mary Hughes
Hillary Joubert
Julie Kane
Clare L. Martin
Erica McCreedy
Andrew McSorley
Patrice Melnick
Stella Ann Nesanovich
Jan Rider Newman
Angelina Oberdan
Philana Omorotionmwan
M. Rather, Jr.
Michael Shewmaker
M. E. Silverman
Kevin Thomason

 

The 2014 AWP Bookfair is located on Level 4 of the Washington State Convention Center, 800 Convention Place in Seattle.