yet another random conversation with a poet…

Randomness: I must say, I loved your book; the one from your book reading.  It was so enlightening and intellectual.

Poet: Thank you so, much; you know, I’ve written two books since then; they’re quite the different wallpaper, but yes.  In fact here is a copy of The Finding Place; yes, the second one, let me know what you think.

Randomness: Oh my goodness, thank you; I am sure I will learn something like I did your first one…when do you find the time to be so prolific?

Poet: mostly when I should be getting my education.

What Would You Say…

excerpt from an interview with Radio Show Neo-Lystically Speaking (circa 2010)

Host: Tshombe, if you were given a 30-second slot to stand on a grandstand and have the world hear what you have to say, what would be your message?

Tshombe: I would recite to them Proverbs 7:4-5 – Say to wisdom, “You are my sister,” and to insight, “You are my relative.” They will keep you from the adulterous woman, from the wayward.

Host: Wow!

Random Question via Email | 011514

Q: Tshombe, why and how did you become a poet?

A: First, I thought being a poet meant that I was a part of something, a movement or activism bigger than myself; before long I realized that if I was going to be a poet a part of some kind of movement, I needed to write poems that moved more than just myself.  Becoming a poet, first meant that I had to be an active part of myself, this was the first movement; then and only then could I consider getting involved in any larger movement and activism.  Often we join things unprepared ourselves to contribute to anything, so we do more harm than good; I know that movements sometimes are just looking for people who will do the work, but like anything you have to be well prepared for what you are getting involved in; poetry has an activist spirit about it, so it was easy for me to accept it as my responsibility.

Thank you for the question.

Random Conversation: Is Your Poetry Validation?

Question: Are you ever seeking validation when you post your work in open forum

Answer: Well, my expressions of poetry have been more a confirmation than a validation; the validation is for the reader to determine within themselves, for themselves…though I suppose I could argue that they are a valid confirmation, but no I am never in search of validation—no poet should ever have to seek validation.


For fear or love…

Question: What evokes you to write: fear or love?

Answer: I’ve ruminated this very subject in recent days; I suppose that I surmised that I am moved in both love and fear…while it is mostly in the vein of love, there is fear present. It is in the fear of not expressing, the fear of not possessing, thus I love and it inspires that I love what I fear, for in loving it…I understand it. Thank you for this profound question.


Odd Conversation at Work | 12.06.13

My new boss: Are you into poetry at all?

Me: Perhaps I read a few poems here and there, when I can!

Him: You mind reading something I recently wrote?

Me: Sure, couldn’t hurt; I might enjoy it!

Him: I hope it isn’t too weird, I had a few people say it was ok; a few others said it wasn’t finished…

Me: Perhaps, the poem isn’t finished with them; poems do that to me sometimes, expose themselves to me without finalizing moment…sort of like an open ended film or story…if that makes sense at all.

Him: Maybe, you’re right!

Me: Hmph, this is a good write here; it sort of reminds me of a poem written by Robert Frost and a cross of Krishnamurti philosophy (it was a profound poem on love that he thinks I wasn’t going to catch)

Him: If you like that, I have a few more if you’re interested in poetry at all…

Me: that would be cool, perhaps you can teach me a thing or two through your work

Him: that’s cool you’re open to this…

Me thinking…he has no idea, should I tell him or just keep the mystery…

We Can Time Travel

A man handed me a phone card and said, thank you for your service; I responded thank you for the years. See the moment he handed me the cards, I was 21yrs old again, sitting on the hot deck of the USS Lake Erie off the coast of Jebel Ali dreaming of home or a cold beer to wet my thirsting throat. The days of turning-two in the high-noon, before cellular and email, when letters came few and between months, when everyline was followed by “over!” We only wish that it was and prayed that it wasn’t. He smiled and said, “you’re welcome!”