In memoriam, Danny Solis
Danny was a treasured member of the Imaginative Storm Writing Group. In honor of his rich life, we’re sharing with you pieces written by other members of our group, as well as this poignant interview for Twice 5 Miles Radio recorded a few years back at a poetry festival in Asheville. It took place in James Navé’s car, nestled beneath an oak tree at the historic Riverside Cemetery, where literary icons Thomas Wolfe and O. Henry rest.
The Poetics of Living, with poet and novelist Danny Solis ~ click here to listen
By James Navé, co-founder of Imaginative Storm, @jamesnave:
In Memoriam: Danny Solis
The Intrepid Poet Who Was My Friend
On Good Friday, April 7, 2023, the spoken word community was shaken by the sudden loss of Danny Solis, the vibrant poet and trailblazer of the spoken word community, who died in his sleep at 60. Danny's razor-sharp insights into poetry, culture, and art were respected by all who knew him. Danny was also a valued member of our Imaginative Storm Saturday Writing Group.
I met Danny in 1992 during the National Poetry Slam Championships in Boston. Danny was on the winning Boston team that year. My first memory of Danny is watching him start a Poetry Slam performance from the back of the room before walking up on stage, his loud booming voice completely encompassing the auditorium.
Danny and I got to know each other during the week of the national Poetry Slam championships. A few weeks later, my creative partners and I invited Danny to join Poetry Alive!, an Asheville-based educational theater company that fielded teams of poets to tour the country performing traditional poems in dramatic spoken-word fashion for students. Thus Danny moved to Asheville.
Not only did Danny do a terrific job with Poetry Alive!, but he also energized the entire Poetry Slam scene in Asheville, along with Allan Wolf, Lee Lancaster, and Ginger West. Remember, this was in the early 90s; the spoken-word movement was gaining momentum, and Danny was inventing and experimenting with performance poetry across the theatrical spectrum.
Danny thought big. For example, his significant contributions elevated Asheville to one of the top locations in the early spoken-word poetry scene. The Asheville Poetry Slam Team won the 1995 National Poetry Slam championships in Ann Arbor, Michigan, with Danny Solis, Kim Lane, Ted Vacca, and Pat Storm.
Danny's insatiable drive for poetic community building led him from Asheville to Albuquerque, Austin, and beyond, where he cultivated thriving spoken word scenes in each location. His unique ability to foster creativity and connection allowed him to make an indelible mark on each community he touched. A national poet with local sensibilities, Danny's creative process always began like this: one table, one piece of paper, one pencil, and one poem.
Danny Solis's legacy will continue to inspire and unite poets and dreamers for future generations. As we mourn his passing, we also celebrate his extraordinary life and the countless lives he touched with his words and vision. Happy trails, Danny Solis.
By Kathleen Wilson, @kathleenawilsonart:
Ode to El Danny
I woke up with a song in my heart for El Danny.
A son of God, Papa to Teagan, Godfather to many.
Starving, he fed us words that welled up from the earth he trod,
like a volcano erupting in his mouth with the truth.
Words he released to ease the streets tension, pain, and madness.
His bird's eye view saw the sorrow and heard the cry of Chavez.
He danced on the joy of César’s sacrifice for solutions,
like a hummingbird dancing on a waterfall, sipping reassurance.
His words were forged in the refining fires
that changed the shape of our world
into terra cotta tile, cazuelas, and, adobe sanctuaries.
He took the shape of an eagle, spreading his wings to
cast shadows of hope as he winged his way into our hearts
bringing a father’s love, fearlessness, and the sacredness of life.
We heard all of it, at once, in an El Danny poem
He is now the vastness of the boundless universe that whispers in our ear,
keep writing, I’m listening, I love you, I love you always.
Descansa en Paz dear Danny
Kathleen
By Esme Olivia, @esmeoliviamusic:
Dive
Too early in the story for a cliff hanger.
I have not slid into ecstasy
with both shoes off
and a laugh naked as a freshly bitten peach.
I should have asked to pull over
at that look-out.
I meant to meditate
and put papers in order
(I’m not so sorry about most papers)
but evolution
into a laugh so grand
I do not recognize myself,
that glow
is worth returning for,
to learn speech and steps again.
Next time may I forget myself
sooner, heart open as whale song.
Lament, languor, light,
I’ll take all of it.
By June Kinoshita:
Ah, sweet nothingness?
Beyond the light, what is there?
When you go there, she will not be there.
You will be alone.
You will no longer be you.
You will dissolve into a trillion atoms
to dwell among roots and rivulets
flowing up into blades of grass
and leaves atop the tallest oaks.
You will flow down gutters into creeks,
merge into rivers
flow out into the ocean to mingle with water
from melting polar ice caps.
We too, and our children,
and grandchildren if we have any,
will join you in the molecular dance,
our memories of each other dissolved,
all returning to the organic unconscious
where we dwelt before each of us was born.
Someday, our sun will billow out and engulf this Earth
Space-time will pulse and throb and explode
and cast us all into the Cosmos, stardust.
We were blessed by minds that glimpsed
the profound beauty of the universe.
With hearts that beat with love and gratitude
against the infinite void of space and time.
No. No. No.
It is not a place of darkness.
It is filled with light.
By Genevia Hendry:
El Danny
Drenched in yesterday's loss: that relentlessly lost hope on
the last dead-end road. Anyone? No one wants to name
a no-name road to nowhere.
Nowhere near hope, so far from anyone or anything that
matters more than now. Latitude? Longitude?
Never, ever does the anchor hold.
I am a godless woman who spits any chance of moisture:
A grain of sand or white rice stuck just so can prompt a fine
flow, a slick and slimy glob, shootin’ out from the side mouth
so that not everybody sees. But I do and he does.
Thinks I’m spittin’ at him. Takes offense and walks,
more like flies over the two yards, picks up the still
hot blob and hurls it back. Mayhem ensues like the blindness
behind the blindness that cannot see itself. Like water or
air or sound, flowing, pushing, weaving,
all unseen until they are not. I tell it true that I won’t be in the
road anymore, never kick no more dust nor muddy the ruts: I’ll
catch what is slowest, and watch the rest fade.
Lest we forget- Life is a one-way street with shot out lights:
A straight gambol from here to there, dodging all the blood and
guts we can. An hour ago. An hour ago there was something
in the air: A smell of a kiss that never happened. The scent of
regret. A miasma of motion going nowhere but moving
like roadkill gasping for another moment against the vastness.
Everything must rest. Even shifting sand. No sure exit nor any
relief- Yet it all stops, sputters, coughs, gasps for one more
mothers' caress, one more bottomless bowl brimming with forever,
one last sip. No breath allowed, just the sureness of rest. Pushed beyond
the vastness, yet cheek by jowl, close enough to kiss the nothingness, he
cajoles a last hug from a dying star. So precious that stardust
in his forever bones, aching - Floating, not floating. Wonder
wins the day that extends his eternity, rooted in ancient strength,
soaked in purpose. Wisdom prevails and life springs, soars aloft
enveloping everything: Mystery. Magic. His immortal longing for
the ineffable satisfies every last dream-
Look! Look! Look!
