Some in the creative family would have you think Los Angeles writers are not serious because we craft in the shadow of a neon sign that backlights caricatures for the world to see. Others dismiss us for our casual evening wear: our sandals at the literary salon. These critics aren't around to hear our alarm clocks calling us to the desk at 4:45 A.M. Others mock our quick smile, our open hand and hemorrhaging heart. We just lean back and say, "Love is a verb."

In the spirit of love and reconciliation, let us consider this piece as a sort of family reunion of letters. Allow me to update for some and introduce to others two of your Left Coast kinfolk. A young lion and an elder. Both old souls, they help you get to know the writers in your family tree.

Chris Abani, Demon Hunter

2004 was a good year for Chris Abani. Graceland, his critically acclaimed second novel, published by Farrar, Strauss & Giroux, was named one of the best books of the year by the Los Angeles Times Book Review. About his third collection of poetry, Dog Woman (also published in 2004, by Red Hen Press), poet Maurya Simon said, "Dog Woman is a mesmerizing, haunting and sometimes subversive exploration of the personal and cultural politics of power and disempowerment ... it's a daring, trailblazing and important book; it's a vital addition to the poetry of our times."

This all came atop of 2003 when Abani won the prestigious Lannan Literary Fellowship and saw the publication of his second poetry collection, Daphne's Lot (Red Hen Press). In 2001, all he did was receive the Netherland's Prince Claus Award for Literature and Culture; the PEN Center USA West Freedom to Write Award, and the Middleton Fellowship, which granted him a full ride to the University of Southern California's (USC) doctoral program in creative writing and literature. Chris Abani has paid the cost to be the boss.

Abani wrote his first novel, Masters of the Board, at 16. When it was published in his native Nigeria in 1985, he was arrested for treason by the Nigerian regime of General Ibrahim Babangida. Abani was accused of masterminding the coup led by General Mamman Vatsa because the plot of Masters of the Board mirrored Vatsa's coup plot. He served six months in prison.

"I didn't let my family know about the particulars of my arrest, I didn't want to endanger them," he says, sitting in the food court of USC. Abani is a heavyset man with a crooner's manner and soft voice. Wearing blue jeans and red shirt, he could be a sensitive defensive tackle for the USC-defending national-cochampion Trojan football team.

Writing about the prison experience in his first collection of poetry, Kalakuta Republic (Saqi Books, January 2001), he says, "This initial brush with the government was not deliberate on my part, but having once been brushed by the wings of the demon, I became the demon hunter."

Two years later Abani was arrested again for his writing, and he was held for a year in Kiri-Kiri Maximum Prison (also known as Kalakuta Republic) where he was tortured extensively then released.

"I'm not sure what they were thinking when they released me," he smiles. "That I would stop making art?"

Two years later, his anticorruption play Song of the Broken Flute landed him on death row at Kiri-Kiri, with six months spent in solitary confinement. This was his punishment for leading a riot when his young cellmate, John James, was tortured to death at age 14. International pressure from human rights groups eventually secured Abani's Get Out of Jail Card--but it wasn't free:

   Sergeant Adam Barkin Zawa
   Rammed the barrel
   Of a rifle-Lee Enfield-up my rectum
   Maintaining casual banter'
   'How is your mother? How is she finding
   our lovely country?' interrupted
   only / by the blood spraying from my
   backside, / baptizing his heavily scarified
   face, / empty ancient mask.
   Breath heavy with local gin--ogogoro--used
   / To scare demons,
   guilt, into lonely/Dark corners.
   --From Kalakuta Republic

Art has served as both weapon and savior for Abani. Art helped him survive the horrors of the Kalakuta Republic. Telling those stories in verse helped him to document full, rich humanity under the most inhumane conditions.

"Art is essential," he says. "It's what is human in us. People have always tried to create narratives. Through stories, rock painting, sons. Trying to make sense of what it means to exist in this often-painful life, what it means to be human. Art becomes a way to meditate the terror. It connects us. Like James Baldwin said, 'Your pain has no meaning unless you can connect it with someone else's pain.'"

Kamau Daaood: World Stage

Kamau Daaood knows a little something about pain. You don't live 50 years in a black body and not know your way around deep heartache. When describing his chosen profession, he calls the poetic vocation, "Being wounded with a blessing." Like Abani, Daaood uses art to ease the pain.

Sitting in his Leimert Park living room, you get a sense of the six-foot-four, bass-voiced man. "There's a lot of West Coast bashing," Daaood says plainly. "I think that's when a lot of the brothers and sisters from the East can't find home. They end up in some Hollywood scene and that begins to represent L.A. for them. But there's always been a pulse rooted in community that's a very serious and very progressive scene. Oftentimes, the visitors don't plug into that pulse."

Daaood has not only been plugging into that pulse for decades, but he's been the red blood cells traveling through the veins. Daaood was one of the youngest members of the legendary Watt's Writer's Workshop. The 1960s era workshop was an incubator for Jayne Cortez, Stanley Crouch, K. Curtis Lyle, Ojenke, Eric Priestly, Quincy Troupe and many others transforming Watt's Riot embers into metaphors.

"All the writers were very serious about their craft," Daaood says. "If you brought weak work, you heard about it. The first time that K. Curtis came to the workshop and read this poem someone snatched it out of his hand, and said, 'This is bullshit,' and threw it out the window. The next week he came back with a piece that was really strong,"

Daaood brought that tough love approach to Leimert Park when he cofounded the World Stage with master drummer Billy Higgins. The World Stage was a grassroots writer's workshop and jazz workshop that was designed to create and nurture artists in the Crenshaw District. From poet Ruth Forman, novelist Jenoyne Adams to jazz drummer Willie Jones III, and vibraphonist Stefon Harris, the World Stage has set fire under a new breed of artists who have their feet set firmly in the community.

In April of 2005, City Lights Publishers released The Language of Saxophone: Selected Poems of Kamau Daaood. The title is a riff on Los Angeles poets' long tradition of being intertwined with music.

"The music has always had a strong impact on the poets," he says. "We filtered the experience of the '60s through the militancy and music of the times, through Coltrane's runs and honks. But not just the music of jazz, also the music of what we called the 'Sermonic Tradition' which we got from Ojenke, who got it from his father, Rev. Saxon. We tried to find the music in how the black preacher brought the rhythmic word to the people. Then we combined that with all the image-driven surrealist poetry we were reading and 'all the Pablo Neruda, all the Bob Kaufman. We put it all together and made it our own.

"The school of poetry that came out of that period was marked by high-energy performance, rich with provocative images and steeped in musicality," he says. "The most well-known proponents of the style are probably Quincy Troupe and Jayne Cortez. And there are many very strong, younger poets who are out of that tradition but making it their own."

These young poets are the legacy of Daaood because you can always tell the quality of the tree by the fruit it bears. In a way, The Language of Saxophones is Daaood's latest casting of seeds.

"In this collection, in this book, I'm writing four decades of my life. Hopefully, there is some growth on display. Most of my work in the past was geared toward the live performance, serving the community in a specific time and place. A village artist as community artist. Like Ojenke used to say, 'I don't write poems on book pages, I write poems on hearts.'"

This is a family lesson that we can 'all learn from elder Kamau Daaood. Let's try to find home in the heart of each other. Unswayed by geography or Fahrenheit, let's have a family reunion that makes love a verb down South, on the Eastside, the Westside and the Midwestside.