Star Island and the Magick of Poetry and Music

Yesterday, I came home from a poetry and songwriting workshop on Star Island, one of the Isles of Shoals off the coast of Portsmouth, NH. I hadn’t been to Star since I was 16 years old, almost 20 years ago, and I haven’t written a poem since grad school in 2012. I don’t know exactly what pulled me back to this place or what gave me the audacity to think I could write a poem again after all this time, but boy am I glad to have had this experience.

Star Island is a pretty special place all on its own. It’s home to a hotel and various other buildings with their own fascinating histories, like the chapel that used to also house the drying  salted cod fished off-shore, but what it’s known for now is hosting conferences. Star Island quite intentionally is a gathering place people go to learn, to build communities, and to fill their souls up before heading back to the mainland and the daily grind. The last time I went to Star, I was there for a youth conference for the Unitarian Universalist church. The UU church definitely has its own presence on Star, but if church and organized religion make you nervous, rest easy knowing that this particular faith is nondogmatic, inclusive, and open to anyone, and so is Star Island. As a teenager, Star made a lasting impression on me – I felt the little buzz of independence being there without my parents, but I also felt an immediate sense of belonging – on this island, I felt fully present (there are no televisions and there is minimal use of screens in general), full of awe at the beauty of the ocean on all sides and sky full of stars, and loved by the people I shared it all with.

This time around, I attended the Writers in the Round workshop, which has been happening on Star since 2005 (coincidentally around the same time I was here last), and at least a couple of folks from this weekend had been going since the very start. This could have been incredibly intimidating – the veterans could have made newbies feel like outsiders or like we had to earn our place by writing some dazzling work, but they welcomed me in immediately, working on faith that I would reciprocate the kindness, and without any expectation that I had to earn their respect by writing impressive work. In fact, Craig, one of the original crew, made a point of saying that everything about the workshop is “challenge by choice,” no pressure to share anything at all if you choose not to, no need to apologize if you elect to skip a part of the workshop – we’re all here to support everyone’s unique journey, whatever it looks like.

The folks at this workshop were not just compassionate and warm, though… they were creative powerhouses. From the very first night when we shared a little something we had written in the past, I was blown away. Among us were touring musicians who made a living on their incredible music, retired music teachers who had dazzled their students for decades with their own songs, university-level English professors whose poems were poignant and elegantly crafted, a chaplain who not only spent his time at work helping folks with traumatic brain injuries write music for healing, but also came up with one of the funniest satirical monologues about dirty high chairs you’ll ever hear, and other equally impressive and beautiful souls. Every time we came together as a group to share our work, I felt like I had the privilege of being at the most intimate concert, an event for which no price would have been high enough for a ticket.

The imposter syndrome was real. I am aware enough to know that I was out of my depth creatively, but no one ever made me feel this way. Instead, at the end of each sharing session, people made a point of approaching each other and describing what they loved about each other’s work. It was the best example of a pretty mirror I can think of– everyone set out to find the best with the intention to reflect this positivity back. There was only love.

In this context, people poured forth the gush of their souls. We took risks. We put into words our losses, our fears, our pain, but also our humor. This vulnerability allowed us to connect with our art, with our souls, with each other’s souls. Before this weekend, I couldn’t have imagined standing in front of a group of strangers and reading a poem I wrote out loud, but the magick of this community brought that to be. Buoyed by this supportive community, I even ate a lobster.

I’m so grateful to have had the chance to meet the Writers in the Round, and to have been reconnected with my art and my tender little soul– it’s a gift I’ll treasure forever.

Here is a poem I wrote, originally delivered through sobs in our last hour together.

I’ve started love poems in my head

For everyone I’ve ever met

Pulpy gush in my chest

Unanswered request

All this bleeding and seeping

Lovesick and weeping

Soft banks receding

A river far-reaching

If I flow into you,

Will you flow to me too?

If we pool our deep blue,

Will our souls have some rest?

Here’s to many more years of Writers in the Round.