October 22, 2024 • 10 mins
What is the role of the writer when the world feels like it’s on fire? In this episode, poet and professor bridgette bianca shares how she rediscovered her creative spark during challenging times. Drawing on wisdom from Baldwin, Giovanni, and Sanchez, she offers insights on how writers can turn hardship into inspiration and keep creating, even when it's tough.
Visit thepoetrylab.com to find the Show Notes for this episode. The Poetry Lab Podcast is produced by Lori Walker and Danielle Mitchell. Hosted by Danielle Mitchell, Lori Walker, and bridgette bianca.
Theme song: "Simply Upbeat" by Christian Telford, Kenneth Edward Belcher, and Saki Furuya.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
(00:00):
What is the role of the writer
in times such as these?
Of course,
the times vary with each passing day, as so
many personal,
professional, sociopolitical, scientific,
philosophical, economical, and educational
changes
and shifts happen
(00:21):
in so many cases, the various issues.
They just layer upon each other like a very
strange lasagna.
And no matter how you slice it,
what comes tumbling out is less than
appetizing.
Welcome to the Poetry Lab Podcast.
(00:43):
The Poetry Lab started 11 years ago to help
dedicated, self-taught, and formerly
trained writers find a place in their
community to write,
Read,
learn,
and collaborate.
We help writers tap into their craft with
radical self-compassion,
unlike anything you've ever seen in a
creative writing classroom before.
(01:06):
If you're a creative person trying to
establish a writing practice in the real world,
this podcast is designed to help you carve
out the time,
the courage,
and the inspiration to keep writing your
new shit.
Are you ready, poet?
Let's get into it.
(01:31):
Welcome back to the Poetry Lab podcast.
I'm Bridget Bianca,
and I have to be honest, friends.
I'm going through a tough time right now,
but we all are in some ways.
For the past few years, I've actually
grappled with the same question
over and over again.
Sometime in the early summer of 2020,
(01:52):
sandwiched between the killings of Brianna Taylor
and George Floyd, and not long after I lost
my great aunt to COVID-19,
I started getting booking requests for
poetry readings again.
Poetry. Yeah,
readings.
All virtual, but still it was something.
Poetry like mine that spoke to social
issues had become
all the rage.
(02:12):
People said they needed to hear them.
I was honored because things had gotten
kind of quiet.
You see, in the early weeks of the
pandemic, many of my writer friends were in
a panic over lost bookings and earnings
that came along with it.
Not to mention person to person book sales
that slowed to a stop when printers shut
down for safety.
I was one of them.
My book was just a month old and barely out
(02:34):
into the world. And
besides all of the business things we
weren't creating.
When the first lockdowns happened, everyone
said, Now is your chance to finish that book,
write that story, start that business,
develop that project.
I had all this time and no poems came.
Poetry had been my outlet since I was 12
(02:55):
years old,
and now it eluded me.
At every event, the question came up again
and again, what is the role of the writer
in times such as these?
And I, brazen in my defeat, would answer,
the world is on fire and we're just poets,
with a shrug and annoying look.
(03:15):
I even titled an event that and did so
without hesitation.
It was the truth, after all.
The world was on fire.
We were just
poets.
But I'd forgotten momentarily what poetry
is and has been for us.
For help,
I thought about the writers I love and
(03:37):
study from the Black Arts Movement,
the artistic sister movement to the Black
Power movement
of the 1960s and 70s.
I thought about how they managed to create
in the midst of times much like these, and
in some cases worse.
I thought about how the work they produced
during those times still stands as a
testament to resilience and the power of
(03:58):
protest,
of defining and redefining oneself, and of
anchoring a people set asunder by times
much like these, once again, or worse.
What could their legacies teach me?
Turn to people like James Baldwin, for
example.
In his 1962 essay,
The Creative Process,
(04:18):
he said,
The precise role of the artist then is to
illuminate that darkness,
blaze roads through that vast forest
so that we will not, in all our doing,
lose sight of its purpose, which is,
after all, to make the world a more human
dwelling place.
I read this essay again and again and again
(04:41):
and thought, right,
that is my goal, illuminate the darkness, keep
writing,
easier said than done.
Next year, in the May issue of Life
magazine,
Baldwin wrote.
You think your pain and your heartbreak
are unprecedented in the history of the
world, but then you read.
(05:01):
It was books that taught me
that the things that tormented me most were
the very things
that connected me with the people who were
alive, who had ever been alive.
And again, I thought, that's it.
Write the things that people need to read
to know they are not alone in the world.
And then in 1968, Nikki Giovanni, the great
(05:23):
poet she is,
ends her poem for Sandra
with the line.
So I
thought again, and it occurred to me, maybe
I shouldn't write at all, but clean my gun
and check my kerosene supply.
Perhaps these are not poetic times at all.
And yet there she was, writing poetry, even
(05:44):
in those less than poetic times.
So why couldn't I?
And then I watched this incredibly
terrifying and satisfying TV show
called Lovecraft Country,
an adaptation of a novel that itself was
inspired by a world of monsters created by
the notoriously racist HP Lovecraft,
(06:05):
which is important because it follows a
troupe of black people navigating a 1950s
America,
the real life behemoth of racism and HP
Lovecraft's monsters.
Without spoiling the show, in the
penultimate episode, we get a scene in
which everything is literally and
metaphorically
on fire,
and instead of the classic horror music
backing the scene,
(06:26):
there's a poem
Catch the Fire by Sonia Sanchez, published
first in 2004 as part of her collection
Wounded in the House of a Friend.
After the poem ends, we get an operatic
rendition of the poem sung by
Janae Brugger.
I knew this poem.
It was somewhere deep in my bones, as so
many poems are, and still
(06:47):
it called to me.
If you've ever been questioned by an auntie
or knew that you were in trouble and also
loved from the tone of her voice,
then you know how it felt to hear Queen
Mother Sanchez say these words.
I say,
where is your fire?
I say, where is your fire?
It felt like she was speaking directly to me.
(07:09):
The world is on fire and where is your fire?
I didn't know where it was and I was afraid
to look.
There was so much to fear.
You got to find it and pass it on.
You got to find it and pass it on.
The answer to the question, what is the
role of the writer in times such as these?
(07:30):
became quite evident as she ended
the poem.
Catch the fire and
live,
live, live, live, live, live, live, live,
live, live.
And then I understood
the role of the writer in times such as these
is as it has always been,
to do more than survive the fire,
(07:51):
to capture the fire with your own words
and live,
live,
live,
live.
So that was 2020, and
it helped take the pressure off.
It really did.
Eventually, I started writing poems again,
and poetry returned to its rightful place
in my heart.
But now it's 2024, and I'm in a rough patch
(08:13):
again,
and I don't really feel like writing.
Here's what I'm reminding myself to do
and what I suggest for you
if you find yourself in the midst of a
tough time.
One
first, give yourself some grace.
I mean it, OK?
No matter the demands around you for
productivity or how everyone else seems to
(08:34):
be responding to the moment, you are
allowed to take some time and check in with
yourself.
Two,
turn to your community.
Let folks know if you are having a hard time
and reciprocate if you have the capacity.
Three,
create soft places to land.
For me,
that meant doing something that felt like
it was the complete opposite
(08:56):
of my poetry,
reading romance novels,
which I read by the caseload and still do today.
Gotta love a happy ending.
But maybe for you it means hobbies,
other artistic pursuits, or community
service.
Just because you're not in a great
headspace to write,
it doesn't mean you can't create or
contribute elsewhere
(09:16):
4.
In the words of the iconic Reading Rainbow
theme song, take a look.
It's in a book.
Return to your literary heroes and
antecedents.
How did they handle times such as these?
What lessons can we learn from their work
and their writing lives?
Read,
listen, watch, experience what history has
to teach us
(09:36):
about humanity and the arts.
And five, my last tip.
Well,
it's something you should already know, but
maybe you've forgotten it.
Even when you aren't writing new pieces,
you are still a writer.
And writing isn't just the process of tip
tapping at your keyboard or scritch
scratching at the page or yippy yapping at
your talk to text.
(09:57):
Writing is also tea and
quiet reflection,
laughing at the same episodes of that old
sitcom over and over again,
meandering down the aisles of Target and
eavesdropping
on your very loud neighbors.
Well, Bridget, that just sounds like
living, yes,
because it is.
The writing will come.
You just got to live,
(10:19):
live,
live,
live.
Well, that's all for now, folks.
If you enjoyed what you heard today and
want to keep the fire burning, check out
past episodes and be sure to like
and follow us for more.
If you really want to earn a gold star in
our hearts, share this with a friend to
(10:39):
help us grow our community.
For more information about the Poetry Lab
Podcast, check us out at
www.thepoetrylab.com/podcast.
(00:00):
What is the role of the writer
in times such as these?
Of course,
the times vary with each passing day, as so
many personal,
professional, sociopolitical, scientific,
philosophical, economical, and educational
changes
and shifts happen
(00:21):
in so many cases, the various issues.
They just layer upon each other like a very
strange lasagna.
And no matter how you slice it,
what comes tumbling out is less than
appetizing.
Welcome to the Poetry Lab Podcast.
(00:43):
The Poetry Lab started 11 years ago to help
dedicated, self-taught, and formerly
trained writers find a place in their
community to write,
Read,
learn,
and collaborate.
We help writers tap into their craft with
radical self-compassion,
unlike anything you've ever seen in a
creative writing classroom before.
(01:06):
If you're a creative person trying to
establish a writing practice in the real world,
this podcast is designed to help you carve
out the time,
the courage,
and the inspiration to keep writing your
new shit.
Are you ready, poet?
Let's get into it.
(01:31):
Welcome back to the Poetry Lab podcast.
I'm Bridget Bianca,
and I have to be honest, friends.
I'm going through a tough time right now,
but we all are in some ways.
For the past few years, I've actually
grappled with the same question
over and over again.
Sometime in the early summer of 2020,
(01:52):
sandwiched between the killings of Brianna Taylor
and George Floyd, and not long after I lost
my great aunt to COVID-19,
I started getting booking requests for
poetry readings again.
Poetry. Yeah,
readings.
All virtual, but still it was something.
Poetry like mine that spoke to social
issues had become
all the rage.
(02:12):
People said they needed to hear them.
I was honored because things had gotten
kind of quiet.
You see, in the early weeks of the
pandemic, many of my writer friends were in
a panic over lost bookings and earnings
that came along with it.
Not to mention person to person book sales
that slowed to a stop when printers shut
down for safety.
I was one of them.
My book was just a month old and barely out
(02:34):
into the world. And
besides all of the business things we
weren't creating.
When the first lockdowns happened, everyone
said, Now is your chance to finish that book,
write that story, start that business,
develop that project.
I had all this time and no poems came.
Poetry had been my outlet since I was 12
(02:55):
years old,
and now it eluded me.
At every event, the question came up again
and again, what is the role of the writer
in times such as these?
And I, brazen in my defeat, would answer,
the world is on fire and we're just poets,
with a shrug and annoying look.
(03:15):
I even titled an event that and did so
without hesitation.
It was the truth, after all.
The world was on fire.
We were just
poets.
But I'd forgotten momentarily what poetry
is and has been for us.
For help,
I thought about the writers I love and
(03:37):
study from the Black Arts Movement,
the artistic sister movement to the Black
Power movement
of the 1960s and 70s.
I thought about how they managed to create
in the midst of times much like these, and
in some cases worse.
I thought about how the work they produced
during those times still stands as a
testament to resilience and the power of
(03:58):
protest,
of defining and redefining oneself, and of
anchoring a people set asunder by times
much like these, once again, or worse.
What could their legacies teach me?
Turn to people like James Baldwin, for
example.
In his 1962 essay,
The Creative Process,
(04:18):
he said,
The precise role of the artist then is to
illuminate that darkness,
blaze roads through that vast forest
so that we will not, in all our doing,
lose sight of its purpose, which is,
after all, to make the world a more human
dwelling place.
I read this essay again and again and again
(04:41):
and thought, right,
that is my goal, illuminate the darkness, keep
writing,
easier said than done.
Next year, in the May issue of Life
magazine,
Baldwin wrote.
You think your pain and your heartbreak
are unprecedented in the history of the
world, but then you read.
(05:01):
It was books that taught me
that the things that tormented me most were
the very things
that connected me with the people who were
alive, who had ever been alive.
And again, I thought, that's it.
Write the things that people need to read
to know they are not alone in the world.
And then in 1968, Nikki Giovanni, the great
(05:23):
poet she is,
ends her poem for Sandra
with the line.
So I
thought again, and it occurred to me, maybe
I shouldn't write at all, but clean my gun
and check my kerosene supply.
Perhaps these are not poetic times at all.
And yet there she was, writing poetry, even
(05:44):
in those less than poetic times.
So why couldn't I?
And then I watched this incredibly
terrifying and satisfying TV show
called Lovecraft Country,
an adaptation of a novel that itself was
inspired by a world of monsters created by
the notoriously racist HP Lovecraft,
(06:05):
which is important because it follows a
troupe of black people navigating a 1950s
America,
the real life behemoth of racism and HP
Lovecraft's monsters.
Without spoiling the show, in the
penultimate episode, we get a scene in
which everything is literally and
metaphorically
on fire,
and instead of the classic horror music
backing the scene,
(06:26):
there's a poem
Catch the Fire by Sonia Sanchez, published
first in 2004 as part of her collection
Wounded in the House of a Friend.
After the poem ends, we get an operatic
rendition of the poem sung by
Janae Brugger.
I knew this poem.
It was somewhere deep in my bones, as so
many poems are, and still
(06:47):
it called to me.
If you've ever been questioned by an auntie
or knew that you were in trouble and also
loved from the tone of her voice,
then you know how it felt to hear Queen
Mother Sanchez say these words.
I say,
where is your fire?
I say, where is your fire?
It felt like she was speaking directly to me.
(07:09):
The world is on fire and where is your fire?
I didn't know where it was and I was afraid
to look.
There was so much to fear.
You got to find it and pass it on.
You got to find it and pass it on.
The answer to the question, what is the
role of the writer in times such as these?
(07:30):
became quite evident as she ended
the poem.
Catch the fire and
live,
live, live, live, live, live, live, live,
live, live.
And then I understood
the role of the writer in times such as these
is as it has always been,
to do more than survive the fire,
(07:51):
to capture the fire with your own words
and live,
live,
live,
live.
So that was 2020, and
it helped take the pressure off.
It really did.
Eventually, I started writing poems again,
and poetry returned to its rightful place
in my heart.
But now it's 2024, and I'm in a rough patch
(08:13):
again,
and I don't really feel like writing.
Here's what I'm reminding myself to do
and what I suggest for you
if you find yourself in the midst of a
tough time.
One
first, give yourself some grace.
I mean it, OK?
No matter the demands around you for
productivity or how everyone else seems to
(08:34):
be responding to the moment, you are
allowed to take some time and check in with
yourself.
Two,
turn to your community.
Let folks know if you are having a hard time
and reciprocate if you have the capacity.
Three,
create soft places to land.
For me,
that meant doing something that felt like
it was the complete opposite
(08:56):
of my poetry,
reading romance novels,
which I read by the caseload and still do today.
Gotta love a happy ending.
But maybe for you it means hobbies,
other artistic pursuits, or community
service.
Just because you're not in a great
headspace to write,
it doesn't mean you can't create or
contribute elsewhere
(09:16):
4.
In the words of the iconic Reading Rainbow
theme song, take a look.
It's in a book.
Return to your literary heroes and
antecedents.
How did they handle times such as these?
What lessons can we learn from their work
and their writing lives?
Read,
listen, watch, experience what history has
to teach us
(09:36):
about humanity and the arts.
And five, my last tip.
Well,
it's something you should already know, but
maybe you've forgotten it.
Even when you aren't writing new pieces,
you are still a writer.
And writing isn't just the process of tip
tapping at your keyboard or scritch
scratching at the page or yippy yapping at
your talk to text.
(09:57):
Writing is also tea and
quiet reflection,
laughing at the same episodes of that old
sitcom over and over again,
meandering down the aisles of Target and
eavesdropping
on your very loud neighbors.
Well, Bridget, that just sounds like
living, yes,
because it is.
The writing will come.
You just got to live,
(10:19):
live,
live,
live.
Well, that's all for now, folks.
If you enjoyed what you heard today and
want to keep the fire burning, check out
past episodes and be sure to like
and follow us for more.
If you really want to earn a gold star in
our hearts, share this with a friend to
(10:39):
help us grow our community.
For more information about the Poetry Lab
Podcast, check us out at
www.thepoetrylab.com/podcast.
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