I have a
friend who this past October attended his second Dodge Poetry Festival, now
held in Newark, NJ. He was thrilled by the experience, the easy access to
poets, the comradery of other poetry lovers, even a large sales tent dedicated
to poetry books, CDs and paraphenalia. No matter how many anecdotes I and other
veterans of the Waterloo Village editions of the festival relate, he still
insists he had a good time. I, however, can't help but feel that the Dodge as I
knew it is gone forever, and that the Newark festival, aspire as it might,
cannot hope to equal that event. In fact, I almost feel if another edition is
held, a new name should be attached to it.
There
were of course flaws with the old location in Stanhope, NJ, serious flaws. The
Village itself, at one time a touristy collection of antique buildings arranged
to emulate a community of bygone times (appropriate perhaps for what many are
schooled to believe is a dying art), went bankrupt some years ago, and the
property through special arrangement was opened only for the Festival, every
other year, or so is my understanding. Therefore, necessary maintenance to the
site wasn't being done. There were plumbing issues. Parking could be hazardous
in stormy weather, and in my memory, it rained every time I went to the Dodge.
But these
physical problems were always outshone by the tremendous gift of the
Brigadoonish collection of poets, poetry lovers and lovers of poets who
assembled there. I remember hearing Lucille Clifton read and speak about her
work in the chapel. Open mics, always a mixed bag, benefited from the quirky
atmosphere of the Mill. Small, white tents by the lake served as intimate
spaces for mid-level, sometimes even non-academic poets to read in. Then there
was the Big Tent. A sort of serene circus atmosphere reigned, colored
spotlights and a brilliant transparency of the familiar, "Dodge Poetry
Festival" logo were projected onto the curtains behind readers. Cranes
with cameras swooped over our heads, like at the Oscars, and the resulting
videos, many of which can still be seen on YouTube, were appropriately
dramatic, and excelled at capturing the mood of each reader and day.
What
other facility combines the smell of mud and straw with the magic of Stanley
Kunitz transporting us up to that rooftop he straddled in 1910, waiting for his
first view of Halley's Comet? It was grand, it was open, you were free to come
and go, but mostly we stayed. We got our "fix" of first-class poets,
often reading work that hadn't been published yet, or work you'd come to know
by heart, but never thought you'd be lucky enough to hear straight from the
poet's mouth. The main theatre at the New Jersey Performing Arts Center, now
the central performance area for the Dodge, is stunning in its own right. I
still have a lousy snapshot of the magnificent chandelier that hangs there like
a glittering molecule. But it was not my Dodge.
There
were no strolls in the grass, bumping into Sharon Olds or Chris Abani on their
way to lunch. There was no light rain, mottled skies still bright with the
promise of Galway Kinnell or Billy Collins. No trees, no birds darting over our
heads, enjoying the music of words, too. Just not the Dodge. Not my Dodge, the
festival I lived for and loved for fifteen some-odd years.
I wish it
well. Even the former proprietors of the Book Tent, Borders, have fallen by the
wayside in these difficult times for literature, times when all of the arts
need to reinvent themselves and how they reach their audiences. Any festival
dedicated to that most maligned of arts that can manage to maintain even a hint
of its former glory is to be commended. But, don't call it the Dodge. It's
something. It's a grand time surely, if you can forget the forest from which it
sprung.
