Suzanne S. Rancourt, who is taking over at the helm of Blue Streak: A Journal of Military Poetry following the publication volume one this fall, was recently asked to write about the workshops she leads for underserved populations.
Poets & Writers was founded in 1970 and “is the nation’s largest nonprofit organization serving creative writers.”
Their mission “is rooted in the belief that literature is vital to sustaining a vibrant culture. We focus on nurturing literature’s source: creative writers. Our mission is to foster the professional development of poets and writers, to promote communication throughout the literary community, and to help create an environment in which literature can be appreciated by the widest possible public.”
In her remarks, Suzanne claims that “writing transports the artist to someplace,” reiterating the very approach she brings to her own poetry and her work to help others:
That’s why many of us write. Writing as an Expressive Arts / Creative Arts therapeutic modality is serious business. You are accessing memories, emotions, activating neural pathways that can lead to change with the appropriate guidance and support. There are specific practices that we follow in our daily living, and our continued passion to seek, learn, experience and become more competent in our profession; to be a better human. Be Authentic.
Read what Suzanne had to say for P&W in its entirety here.
Suzanne’s work also appeared in our second Journal of Military Experience. Here are some of her poems from that volume:
In November, when we release the inaugural volume of Blue Streak, you’ll be able to read more of her work, including this poem:
Why I Don’t Meditate
—Suzanne S. Rancourt
they said, “close your eyes” “relax” “let your mind see”
roads, I see roads, keep my head down, don’t look left don’t look right.
narrow, dirt roads, summer mountain meadow roads where there are goat paths, where the faeries live, or so the locals say,
I see roads lined with tamarack, yellow stone pine, fine sand dusty roads
that ruin camera lenses and jam automatic weapons.
I see white sand beaches that are not alpine and they take me to New Mexico, White Sands, Alamogordo, Three Rivers, St. John, North West Scotland, there is warmth and I travel through Guantanamo, Si Bonne, (Castro’s favorite)
and there in Santiago on the steps at the plaza, the men play dominos
when the women aren’t around
or revolutions aren’t being waged
or eyes gouged
no retina scrapes clean.
Montgomery, Alabama – I’m pumpin’ gas ‘round midnight
with the ghosts still blowin’ down Rosa Parks Boulevard.