I’ve just finished a semester of teaching documentary poetry to a
group of graduate students. This mixed form proved extremely
generative. Student projects focused on women in prison, a homeless
woman, a forgotten city, a planned town and its secrets, tourism, food
and activism, and a lost grandfather. All of these projects (chapbooks
and one on-line text) worked like accordians, moving back and forth
between material and abstraction, between persons and communities. If a
drawer can said to be an accordian, then Donovan Kūhiō Colleps’s
project, which takes as its central artifact a filing cabinet containing
his late grandfather’s papers, breathes its histories in and out. (See
the project above: “from The Files of Curtis P. Ah You.") Another of
the central images in his chapbook, made out of file folders, is the
Pulmo-Aide Respirator, whose instruction guide he uses in the central
poem. As the respirator is put together, according to the instructions,
we learn about his grandfather’s links (broken and sustained) to his
past, and of his love for — among other things — University of Hawai`i
women’s volleyball. (A cultural marker if there ever was one.) And of
the fate of the ’Ewa plain, not so long ago an agricultural area, now
covered in Gentry Homes, those Colleps writes about in section 9 of the instruction sheet:
9. (`Eiwa) [Before] [a]ttach[ing] tubing to nebulizer air-
inlet connector, See Figure 6, take
a drive down Ft. Weaver Rd. and
when you wipe the red dirt
from the windshield you
wipe away the gentry homes.
Sugar stalks sweet shoot up
from the cleared soil. Wipe
those away, too.
2 comments:
Susan - Are any of the students planning to publish their poems??
Joe
I sure hope so, and I'll likely be angling for many of them at some point!
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