Pamela Plummer is speaking…
“…some days it takes all of what we have
or dream to be inside
to lift the air
to braid a path bright
with our own custody
the wonder of sunlight steeped in the clearing…”
1. What was the first thing that you wrote that you really liked?
In third grade, I wrote a very simple poem.
It wasn’t so much the poem that I really liked, it was the feeling I had when I realized I could ply words between my fingers…
and make images and sound…
2. Does your writing construct or deconstruct?
I’ll leave that for the critics to decide.
My work simply demands to be
free to be what it is.
3. If the world was less violent, would your writing be different from what it is today?
Yes.
I would paint even more…
and dance.
4. What do you refuse to ignore?
I ask myself if the work is true, as far as my understanding of self and life.
What I understand changes with time, of course, but I have to know that
my words are true at the time I am writing.
I want music, texture, color, sound, rhythm, and sometimes… play.
5. Why do you think you are a writer?
I don’t know…
I’m a visual artist and poet.
I respect the journey through words.
Tell us about the excerpt you’ve contributed.
This poem, Engagement of the Fire Signs is in my book, Skin of Palms, Abebi Publishing, 2004
Engagement of the Fire Signs
long time now
we speak of flame
and coming to the heart of matters
which has meant crackles and popping
limbs stretched
wanting waiting for ink or wings
some days it takes all of what we have
or dream to be inside
to lift the air
to braid a path bright
with our own custody
the wonder of sunlight steeped in the clearing
crisscrossing tracks and landings
crumbled stone bleached wood
you emerge
djembe and juju
tambourine and shekere
a kora to cool the tongue
burn the kindling of this dry flat palm
make this spare space
insistent upon sound
rise a togetherness
The Butterflies was written while I was living back home in Buffalo, NY—probably during the winter months.
The Butterflies
When we burst from those cocoons
Beyond the heat and passages blooming
Past the dung, waste
And half-dreams clinging like salt
To what would be an eye
Splintering silk moving toward what
we felt–
understood somewhere
in the history
of this reaching and becoming
and setting free—
In the final pulse and push
To make sight
To know air and sun along
wings grown from disbelief
In the midst of all heat and flames demanding
In the name of so many ascensions
After we made that metamorphosis
From soft and hard to free
With the wind as our mother
How could we not fly?
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Genre: Poetry and Visual Art
Place on the Globe: Southeast U.S.
Where you can find Pamela’s writing: Amazon.com and Booksellers like Coal Rare Books and Gifts.
Femficatio 
wonderful article….