Posted in Promoting Books, Promoting Poets & Artists

📖INTERVIEW: “With a Broken Wing” by Ronaye Hudyma📖

Whether contemporary, classic, or peppered with Elizabethan eloquence, this profound ensemble of 130 poems is not stationary. They move as if conducted with a maestro’s baton –fluid between the euphoria of life and love, the drama, the anguish of death and loss, with every nuance of human emotion spilling upon the pages.

They are poignant words written with the transparency of youth, gathering maturity and experience, evolving to wisdom, into the spiritual realm.

This is not just poetry. There are a million stories in each poem. Once for each of us. From the teenager discovering their individuality, the young adult challenged by relationships and the world around them, to the Elder denizens of Earth, who cherish their memories as veterans of life, this is a book to be read and reread, a keepsake to console, embrace and affirm your recognition of the truth within yourself that is already there.

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^Click on the eagle to purchase the book on Amazon!


The only life I had ever known before this was on a stage, with the spotlight in my eyes, the music in my ears, amid the roar of the crowd. This is what I lived for. This was all that mattered.

Music had always been such an intrinsic part of me, that the moment I was born, when the doctor grabbed me by the feet, turned me upside down and slapped my wee baby bottom, I swear I burst into song, not tears.

My purpose in life was clearly defined, and my parents willingly supplied the piano, singing, ballet, tap dancing and drama classes—where I learned how to be a tree—and showed off their little girl’s talents at every event and contest.

There was no question in my mind. I was destined to be a classical soprano and concert pianist, singing Verdi, Puccini and Mozart, playing Bach, Beethoven and Brahms, a calling that intensified as I outgrew childhood and entered adolescence.

With those teen-age hormones and emotions kicking in, I found it terribly romantic to lead a life of dedication and sacrifice for my art. I couldn’t have been more committed and devoted. To abandon it would be unthinkable.

I was fearless and confident, or young and naive, but that’s what it took as I set out on my own at age eighteen with a one way ticket to the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto, Canada, three thousand miles from home where I didn’t know a soul. On my own and where I didn’t know a soul would be a constant theme that ran throughout my life.

It was a real tearjerker with my family and friends crowded around the railway platform, kissing me goodbye; and mom handing me sandwiches she had packed as I boarded the moving train, looking back until their tiny faces disappeared into the horizon.

It wasn’t as if I had told anyone I was coming or had any forethought of where I was going to stay. First I’d get there, then worry about the rest later. I’ll wing it! Those words became a mantra and motto that served me well on the road that lay ahead. The show biz term is chutzpah, and I had it.

All divas have to eat, so between studying the art of Bel Canto and learning arias from “La Boheme”, I auditioned for everything, in any genre, whether I was qualified or not.

“Can you sight sing?”
“Of course.”
“Can you square dance?”
“Speak French?”
“Ride a horse?”
“Uh huh.”

I wasn’t really lying. I didn’t say when I could do those things. Maybe not then, but I would in time for the first rehearsal. First, I got the part, the role, the show, or job, then I would throw up in the wings with my heart in my mouth when it came time to deliver.

I remember calling a friend of mine, panic-stricken, saying “You’ve got to help me! You know that guest spot I have on that show? They’re taping it in Montreal. They just sent me the script and the whole thing is in French. I don’t speak a word of it.” Even after she translated it for me, there was no way I could carry it off. “Maybe I could just say Bon Jour, Oui, and smile a lot…” which is what I did.

They didn’t call us “gypsies” for nothing. I went where the work was, leaving friends and lovers behind, a nomad in search of the next gig, the next adventure, and the next teacher who could transform me into Maria Callas. No matter where it was, what it was, or what it paid—be I the chanteuse at Le Toilet in Nebraska, or a headliner at The Fiesta Palace in Mexico City—the world was my playground and I was fulfilling my own prophecy.

Chance, it seemed, was on my side and followed me wherever I would go, often arising from a most unlikely circumstance.


I was standing in an elevator in Manhattan and struck up a conversation with the man standing beside me who just happened to be an agent. “I need a singer in Alabama for two weeks,” he said. “Do you want to go?” Coincidentally, I just happened to be between shows, TRANSLATION: Out of work . Over the years, we developed a solid working relationship and he ultimately sent me to places like the Orient and Sri Lanka.

I was fearless and confident, or young and naive, but that’s what it took as I set out on my own at age eighteen with a one way ticket to the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto, Canada, three thousand miles from home where I didn’t know a soul. On my own and where I didn’t know a soul would be a constant theme that ran throughout my life.


The glitter and glitz never endure, so I decided that composing music would be my legacy which segued into writing songs. It was a natural progression and a smooth transition with doors opening for me like the parting of the Red Sea. While I was performing at The Palomino in Los Angeles, a production company for a country star was in the audience and requested demos for three of my songs. Not only were they encouraging but suggested I come to Nashville, which they called a “writer’s town” where the only prerequisite was to have the heart of a poet and the skin of a rhinoceros. Before they could hang up the phone, I was packed, ready to go, and on my way.

With a promise and a prayer, and very little money, I left Los Angeles in a classic old 1966 Dodge Dart that ran on a postulate, pulling a six by four trailer that held all my worldly possessions. Destination: Music City, U.S.A. where I had never been and knew no one.

Songwriters are a special breed of individuals, a whole different species that come to Nashville in droves from everywhere in the country. They are a dedicated bunch, often broke and lonely, willing to sacrifice everything for a chance to make it in the music business. I was one of them.

I was “out-there” and confident, yet innocent, trusting and exploitable, oblivious to the pitfalls and land mines that littered the playing field or the sharks circling at the smell of blood. The first thing I did was join ASCAP, the licensing agency for songwriters, artists and publishers, where I was welcomed by a tongue down my throat, then chased around a desk clutching a cassette of my songs.

Like everyone before me, I made the rounds of the publishers who hid behind barricaded doors in administrative structures designed to keep writers out, with security guards ordered to shoot us on sight. At this time, all the female artists were still singing tearful songs of self-reproach while their men caroused at the corner beer joint; but I submitted lyrics like “Doing all I can in the arms of another man. It takes one to forget one.” A woman couldn’t say that back then. The rejection was candy-coated and kept me hooked, however, as they’d always add, “…but bring me more.”

Some actually took a couple and gave me the required dollar after I had spent my rent and food money on demos. I was thrilled until I found out that it didn’t mean they would always promote them to the record labels—especially if they had eighty other writers signed.

Nobody tells you these things when you’re going into the game. Occasionally I would get a song recorded, but my hopes were dashed when it would be bumped from the album at the last minute. Finally, when I did luck out, my name appeared in Cash Box and Billboard, which I promptly sent home to mother, but I never saw ten cents.

At long last, I landed an exclusive publishing contract. This is it, I thought. Now I was a professional. All I had to do is write hits and live happily ever after. Not necessarily. It kept me alive for eight years until they went out of business.

There’s a saying in Nashville—if holds were gold—near hits and misses, and I had them, with holds on my songs from Kenny Rogers, Lori Morgan, Michael Bolton, “cuts” with up and coming artists that faded into obscurity, an offer of a record deal from a small label, which my then publisher turned down. This kept me going for years until my luck ran out and I was left with no other options but to leave the same way I came in.


It wasn’t a decision. I’ve always been writing as a form of introspective expression or the wonder of being alive. I started a diary soon after I left high school and some of these poems are from there–the unbridled, unfettered, uncensored raw emotion of one very young, with not much ego yet to protect. But in actuality, what I thought was unique to me, is simply human emotion that all of us experience to greater or lesser degree.


Because that is when you most want to purge yourself of the feeling, whether in song or in verse. When you are happy, you’re lying on a sunny beach. When you are not, you’re drowning in the ocean.


No. There are many poetry books, but these poems have a variety of style, verse and subject. They are not stationary. They move–fluid between the perspective of innocence and youth, gathering maturity with experience, and evolving to wisdom.

I do not set out to write a poem. They come. Then I write them. I don’t consciously follow any rules of structure. I go by feel. I conduct them as I would an orchestra. How the words feel when I write them, how the poem feels when I read it. My instinct tells me when it is finished.


Moment by moment we make our choices. Somewhere along the way——I picked door number one instead of door number two.





My lifelong career has been in the entertainment business, beginning at The Royal Conservatory of Music of Toronto where I studied classical piano and voice; continuing as a solo performer in the medium of stage, television, and nightclubs touring across North & South America, the Orient and beyond. This was followed by a contracted staff song writer position for publishing companies in Nashville, TN. I have had poems published as Editor’s choice’ in Poetry Magazine in Chicago. I currently reside on an island in the Pacific Ocean in Canada.

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Evy Zen (formerly Eva PoeteX) is a mystic poetess, eclectic artist, fiction writer, and wellness advocate who calls the Greater Cleveland area home sweet home. Born a Clevelander with a Greek lineage, the arts started being a major part of her life the moment she picked up her first crayon. To date, dozens of Evy's writings have been featured in publications like Thought Catalog, The Journey Magazine, and Journey of the Heart: Women's Spiritual Poetry. As a spoken word poet, she has also had the opportunity to collaborate with numerous musicians across the globe. Currently, Evy is the Founding Editor of Poehemian Press and runs the decade-young poetry website (formerly The Artistic Muse). Additionally, she is the author of several independently and locally published poetry books, including "Esoterra" and "Sacred Shapes." Furthermore, she works as a full-time freelance writer and editor. In 2012, Evy received a Bachelor of Arts degree (honors) in Creative Writing from Cleveland State University. She also obtained a Diploma (distinction) in Exercise Nutrition from Shaw Academy four years later. When she's not creating, Evy Zen recharges her batteries by reading her weight in books ("The Alchemist" by Paulo Coelho is her personal favorite), going on epic bike rides, meditating to ambient music, and racing super cars behind the safety of her computer or TV screen. To find out more, visit her official website at

3 thoughts on “📖INTERVIEW: “With a Broken Wing” by Ronaye Hudyma📖

  1. I loved reading your interview. I haven`t the poetic words to tell you how much, but your life, your history of the art of music and poetry make a very interesting tale. I can`t wait `till my copy of ‘On Broken Wings’ arrives. Lynn

    Liked by 1 person

  2. So sorry, Ronaye…I felt something was wrong with your title as I was writing “On Broken Wings”. “With A Broken Wing” is a much better title.

    Liked by 1 person

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