Handing off the Baton

Dispoet had already been running for several years when poets from the Inglis House Poetry Workshop put out the first issue of https://wordgathering.com/, a journal dedicated to publishing the poetry of poets with disabilities.   While it originated as a democratic endeavor, the reigns of oversight and default title of editor-in-chief soon fell to me.  Over the next thirteen years the journal evolved to be a true literary journal including not only poetry, but fiction, literary essays, book reviews, interviews and a number of special features.

In December 2019, Wordgathering found a new home with Syracuse University and I ended my run as the journal's editor.  It can now be found at https://wordgathering.com/.  With that change and more time to concentrating on writing rather than editing, I'm going to try making an occasional return to this blog, that provided me with the space to express so many of my opinions in my early work in disability literature.  The posts coming from Dispoet can not be expected to occur with any regularity and no doubt, from time to time, I will also throw in opinions that have nothing at all to do with disability literature.  I think I will lead off with a poem about Daniel Simpson, a terrific poet, friend and contributor to Wordgathering.

Dan Simpson, Reading

Water laps at the edge of Cooper River

sun just  warm enough to compromise

the breeze  coming off the water.

Rain-blanched  leaves, broken bits of glass,

Twigs stripe of bark, splayed feathers -

winters final graffiti  - rim the banks,

notes-in-the bottle assuring us

that warmth is not far off.

Dan  stands  behind the podium

fingers skimming Braille letters

as though to unlock the poetry held there

or perhaps it’s an organ from which

his own song rises transformed into words.

At the first clap of hands he cautions:

No applause until the end.

He is taking us down a different  river

through bends and cadences he knows well

our noise like gunfire on the bank

jolts us from the journey.

His voice flowing, honest

opens into expanses of coneflower and larkspur,

not our homeland, but familiar.

It’s where we’ve all collaged our memories from

a childhood prank, a father’s words, 

a glimpse of heaven.

Dan  retrieves the  bottle bobbing  beside us,

his  forecast reads:

The yellow sun shines lemonade

Which means the sky must be blue.