Friday, September 19, 2014
Monday, July 28, 2014
Kaleidoscope Goes Digital
Perhaps, it was inevitable - the country’s oldest magazine of disability literature and art is going digital. As of January, Kaleidoscope will no longer publishes in hard copy. The magazine that for 30 years has given writers with disabilities the opportunity to see their work arrive in an envelope in the mailbox or see it sitting among the periodicals on a library periodical shelf will now, like its companion periodicals, Breath and Shadow and Wordgathering, be completely online.
To those for whom publication means having something concrete to hold in their hands, this is likely to feel like a loss, but in another sense it is likely to be a boon in disguise. From their new venue at www.KaleidoscopeOnline.org, the work of the writers and artists it features, will hit a much larger audience. Gail Willmott, the journal’s editor, has widely kept access to the magazine free on line – subscriptions were $12 a year – making it its contents available not just to search engines but to links in Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest and other sites. It also potentially resolves problems for visually impaired or blind readers who, unable to read a traditional print journal, will now be able to access it through screen readers (though this is an issue still to be worked out.)
Kaleidoscope holds an important place in disability literature, being among the first to publish writers like Anne Finger and John Hockenberry, who are now well established. It was also through Kaleidoscope magazine that a call for poetry was put out that resulted in the publication of Towards Solomon’s Mountain in 1986, the first volume of poetry made up entirely of the work of writers with disabilities. Let’s hope the new twenty-first century incarnation of Kaleidoscope proves just as rewarding.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Anthology by Mothers of Children with Disabilities
Seeking Submissions from Mothers of Children with Special Needs for Anthology Project: We believe in the transitive power of story. Our hope is that your stories will illustrate a realistic tableau of the lives of mothers of children with special needs. This anthology is the vision of mothers, writers, disability advocates, professors, and editors Darolyn “Lyn” Jones and Liz Whiteacre. Mothers of children with special needs, please consider submitting previously unpublished nonfiction essays 6,000 words or less (they may be memoir, graphic/illustrated, or photo essays) and no more than 6 unpublished poems that address the challenges you face, empowerment you’ve felt, joy you’ve experienced, or providence you’ve explored. Multiple submissions are allowed. Email Liz Whiteacre at firstname.lastname@example.org for detailed submission guidelines. Submissions must be received by Monday, April 22, 2012.
Here's an opportunity for women to tell their stories. Take advantage of it.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Larry Eigner Redux
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
Good-bye to a Unique Contest
As April and poetry month begin this year, something will be missing. For the first time in ten years, the Inglis House Poetry Contest will not be putting out calls for submissions. With my own retirement from Inglis House and the unavailability of funding for the contest and its resulting chapbooks, it is time to put this small, unique, important contest to a rest. When the original contest creators and judges, Stuart Sanderson, Dana Hirsch, Steve Parker and I sat down to plan out the first contest, we had no idea just where it would lead. In reflecting back on what I might want to say about the contest here, I came across a “Foreword” written for She Asks for Slippers While Pointing at the Salt, the chapbook from the 2009 contest, that encapsulates the history and spirit of the IH Poetry Contest so well, that rather than try to go it one better, I am simply reprinting it.
In 2002 the Inglis House Poetry Workshop instituted what, at the time, was a rare phenomenon – a national disability poetry contest. The purpose of the contest was twofold, to encourage the work of writers with disabilities and to help to give shape to disability poetry as a genre.
The poetry we received was so diverse that the workshop felt it was unfair merely to recognize the winners and, therefore, we expanded our original contest concept to include an annual chapbook, comprised of the best selections we received. Four years later, we also added essays to the chapbook that deal both with the specific craft of individual writers and with disability poetics more generally, and last year we incorporated art and photography as well.
Once or twice over the seven years of the Inglis House Poetry contest, the editors have been accused of bias and – as with all misrepresentations – there is a mustard seed of truth in this. When we receive a poem by Sheila Black or Ona Gritz, we have high expectations. As when someone learns from experience that at certain restaurants they always find high quality food, we have come to associate certain writers with quality work. This is a direct result of what the Inglis House Workshop through its contests and its online magazine Wordgathering have tried to achieve. One of our primary missions has been to build up a repertoire of poets that come to represent the best of disability poetry. We are proud of the fact that we have done this. Along with Black and Gritz, we have been able to bring to the public a fair selection of the work of Linda Cronin, Ellen LaFleche, Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Arden Eli Hill, Paul Kahn, Kobus Moolman and Trace Estes. If the poems of these writers continue to resurface in our publications, we take this as a compliment and not a criticism.
As with all our previous chapbooks, the poems include a wide variety of viewpoints and topics. One of the more significant themes that emerges is that of inspiration. As John Lee Clark, a poet who is deaf and blind writes:
Can’t I even pick my nose
Without it being a miracle?
This is a point the Kathi Wolfe picks up in her essay “The Disability Pedestal”, which begins, “Since time began, different cultures have placed people with disabilities on ‘inspirational’ pedestals. They’ve viewed us as ‘seers,’ visionaries, oracles, saintly, innocent ‘holy fools.’ That is if they, on the other side of the coin, haven’t wanted to kill us because we are evil or pity us because we’re such ‘poor helpless creatures.’” Wolfe’s point is that whether it is inspiration, fear or pity, such labels are a way a speaker uses to distance themselves from the person with the disability. It is a way of not admitting them as an equal. In addition, as Wolfe points out, “More often, the poets who use such ‘inspirational’ images of person with disabilities write bad poems. So in addition to the yuck factor of inspiration you have annoying, often cloying, badly crafted poetry.”
She Asks for Slippers attempts to counter this image of inspiration by providing the variety that shows disability is too multi-faceted to reduced to easy metaphors. In this volume, for example, you see Ona Gritz with her son:
My son works his way
from the far end of the kitchen,
New to walking, his halting
steps, mostly on tip-toe
resemble my own palsied gait.
Judith Grogan-Shorbs’ depiction of an ex-gang member:
When teeth grasp paint brush,
Carlos transforms the world. No room
for gangs of sorrow, or regrets
John Mannone’s soldier says:
Doctors said I’d be all right,
but no one warned me
of the demons hanging on
the ends of nerves.
Kathi Wolfe notes:
Susan, a red-haired girl, gave me my first kiss.
I live on the Sapphic
side of the street.
And Nancy Scott recalls of a friend:
We pulled possible from the air
that looked empty
to people who could see.
Poems like these do not reduce people with disability to easy images. They are not meant to inspire. They do not ask for pity. Instead, they give a taste of what disability literature has to offer.
At this point, to my knowledge, there is still not another annual contest that devotes itself to disability-related poetry. Fortunately, the original intent of the contest’s originators is still being carried on in Wordgathering and Beauty is a Verb: The New Poetry of Disability, the best selling anthology whose pages contain among them some of the poems that readers first encountered in the contest chapbooks. Knowing this, the small group that sat in a room at Inglis House ten years ago wondering what they could do to try to kick start disability poetry and bring it to the general public can’t be too unhappy.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
From Poetry to Action
Last month, however, Dan’s reading was of quite a different kind. In a rally in the parkway in front of the central branch of the Philadelphia Free Library, he spoke out against the state of Pennsylvania’s plan to drastically shear the services of the Library for the Blind and Physically Handicapped by cutting the staff to a minimum and shipping all of the cassettes tapes used by its Philadelphia patrons to a much smaller library in Pittsburgh. Dan’s speech was an impassioned one, and for good reason. Not only have he and his twin brother David (also blind and a poet) used the library for over 50 years, but he helps to provide technical assistance for the blind to the library itself. Dan followed his speech with a written article in the Philadelphia Inquirer.
There are, of course, poets who still consider their work ethereal, a product of the mind that has no connection with the physical body nor with any obligation to take action. If their work is to mean anything, writers with disabilities still cannot afford that luxury. We’re lucky to have poets like Dan Simpson, who puts his actions where his words are.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
At the beginning of In Fire, the poet sets the stage and context for the standards against which beginning in childhood, she will be measured:
Works at her mahogany table,
Sketching brows and painting eyes;
After years as a practicing beauty,
Her mother, though doing what she has to do to provide for her daughter, is conscious of her own disappointment in her daughter’s appearance, justifying her elf at the dinner table by saying, “I could have let you die when you were born.” In her poem “Mother Love” Kaier writes:
I could not please you
I could not make my arm…
Clean, soft, pretty.
Among many other issues, Kaier also explores the role of that medical field plays in making people with disabilities objects of what Irving Goffman called, “the gaze.”
Like Susanna with the elders,
I tell my story,
Swinging my legs against the metal table.
In childhood, standing in Dr. Shelby’s office,
I stretched my arms to his soft, scientific gaze.
My body came along with me who looked and saw and did not see
But now on this day,
I sit on the edge of the examining table, nakedly me.
The ridges in my skin stick
To my arms and I am one with them
I sit whole on the table edge, Case #18.
Kaier is Harvard graduate, has written and had poems published on many subjects, and teaches at several colleges, so she could simply distance herself – as some writers do – from identification with disabilities poetry on the basis that she does not want to be categorized as a niche writer. Fortunately, she has not. As she herself says,
I have broken the old taboo,
Named my affliction,
Called it mine.