Name: Nicole Goodwin
Hometown: Brooklyn, NYC. When I say Brooklyn, I specifically mean Bed-Stuy in the 1980's, a place full of violence, silence, passion, and unforgiving fever. A place that robbed me of trust, while teaching me to survive.
Current City: NY, NY (Harlem in particular). I live in East Harlem. The part of Harlem that gentrification is choking. At the end of the day this is the wasteland where many are homeless and forgotten, and yet there are flashes of love and beauty that remain pure and untouched by the mountains of money you find on the 125th Street strip. This is what I have chosen to witness and catalogue for the last 15 years.
Occupation: At times, I have said that I am one of the following: an artist, writer, performer or poet. In truth, I am just a seeker trying to see what's behind the veil of life.
Age: 37
What does poetry mean to you?
The best that I can say is that poetry for me is the core of the real world. Outside the politics, and the misnomers about it, the idea that it can't reach people because it is out of touch or mundane, or the drama that comes with trying to resurrect an art in a society that barely reads, it's given me the gift and the curse to really say things that matter. Even if I am just having a conversation with myself. I don't think that I could live in a world without poetry. Without being able to voice things that strike me or to speak on things that most people go on without noticing. That's the heartbeat of life for me, and poetry has given me a glimpse into that underbelly. Pealing off layers of lies.
Favorite Poet: Pablo Neruda
Why do you like this poet?
Neruda wasn't afraid to express the pain of loving passionately. In his lifetime Neruda wrote over 500 poems, and not all of them were "good." I admire that, this idea that poetry is practice rather than just something for the "gifted" or "blessed." Poetry can be ugly, loving poetry can be ugly, and not romantic. Neruda found ways of seeing the extraordinary within the lines of ordinary things. I think that's the closest definition of "love" for me, dedication and ritual. Not something unconditional, but something tangible and impacting. You don't have to be good to be a poet, just dedicated. You can see that in Neruda's "Ode to Poetry." The idea that poetry follows you through time as long as you dedicate time to it. That it isn't just about roses or the fantasies of the privileged, but also the grind and crushed dreams of the working class folk. I love that. I truly do. It saved my life way back when I was young and misunderstood in fiery, blood-ridden Bed-Stuy; it saves me now while I am living in this terrifying cold-empire called the USA.
Ode to BAD Poetry
after Neruda
By Nicole Goodwin
You.
You wrap yourself around
My throat,
Like a hungry snake.
I am trapped in your
Endless spiral,
The continuity goes on forever
And ever,
Still going nowhere.
Your words a ball and chain,
Your phrases a hornets’ nest,
Your sentences a silver bullet,
Lodged in my cranium.
Yet you are the needed bridge
Between dreams and
That long stretch home.
Were this a better poem,
I would sing better praises.
However, this subject leaves me
Stammering, shuffling,
Bereft and lacking.