Everything Old Is New Again- Revision in the Age of Fake News

For many years, I was reluctant to revise my poems much. I don’t think it was that I thought they were perfect. At least I hope that wasn’t why. I just truly believed in the strength of the initial draft, the unconscious power of composition that occurred. I was more afraid of losing what I felt was that inherent power, even if the poem itself was flawed. I was more inclined to quickly move on to the next poem instead of spending time with any one piece. This could explain why my output was so much greater in the past. 

I have been busy lately with longer, themed projects, like the Ziegfeld poems I’ve already talked about. I also spent a good portion of the year on a book concept concerning the women of Marx Brothers movies, a project that’s taken a back seat to the Ziegfeld material. I decided to follow my passions more directly, considering my very limited time to write. 

I’ve also spent some time sending poems out, some new (despite everything, there are always new poems), but a good number of old ones. I’ve had some success there, but there’s a certain dishonesty I always feel in sending out work that isn’t representative of my current voice. Nevertheless, I aim for some consistency. 

I pulled a few poems out from the last fifteen years and am trying to assemble them into some sort of manuscript, with the horrifically generic theme of “love.” Certainly, the romantic relationships in my life provided me with a good deal of material, and in turn, writing about them afforded me some cheap therapy that I benefit from to this day. 

In order to make a uniform package, I’ve been revising each one. This is best done first thing in the morning, while I sip my stevia-sweetened coffee, and before the Dagwood-like rush to get out the door for work. Even poems I’d almost committed to memory (although that’s never a goal of mine) come up a decade later as desperately in need of order and streamlining. My biggest fault as a poet is becoming somewhat entranced by the sound of my own words, often to the detriment of logic. Sometimes the sun rises in the west, and sometimes a door becomes a jar. 

The distance of years and deficit of crazy-making estrogen has given me clearer artistic vision. I am making these poems generally better, and most definitely a more cohesive unit. The truth will set your work free. I look forward to sending them out as a family to a few select publishers, or even doing another Flying Monkey Press publication. It’s all the same to me. The word’s the thing, and how it gets out there is a matter of chance.

Donald Lev, NYC Poetry Legend, Dies

Donald Lev and I weren’t close, but we were familiar. To tell the truth, he and his late wife, Enid Dame, always intimidated me. They brought out the shy in me that I’ve worked hard to overcome. It certainly wasn’t because they were unapproachable. I’d seen them at readings around the Hudson Valley for years before I dared to speak to them, complementing them on their work. I probably first saw them at Bob Wright’s version of the Woodstock Poetry Society back in the late ‘90s or early ‘00s, maybe earlier. 

They were anything but aloof. However, their work was so finely honed, each word carrying so much meaning, I could not believe that I’d have anything to talk about with writers of this caliber. I was wrong of course, yet, I never quite got over that sense of awe. I would eventually come to greet them both at readings, swallowing my fear. I even participated in a private poetry workshop with Enid, just three of us in the group, and I still have my notes from that. Midrashic themes were her specialty, and Lilith was her favorite character. When she died in 2003, Hudson Valley poetry was devastated by her loss. None, however, more so than Donald. 

Donald was accomplished in his own right, yet seemed to hover a bit in Enid’s shadow, or as much of a shadow as poets can muster. His themes were more broad ranging than hers, and his work after her death reflects this especially. He was frequently introduced as one of the “stars” of the underground classic Putney Swope, and late in life, he wrote a series of poems based on the movies he saw at Upstate Films in Rhinebeck, a local art house cinema. He wrote about politics, religion, family, and Enid. He frequently read her work as often as his, keeping it alive for all of us, knowing poetry lives best when spoken aloud.

More recently, he lost the ability to drive and depended upon the kindness of other poets for transportation. He was often assisted up to the mic as our own Elder Statesman. His final illness was relatively brief, punctuated by a short rally in rehab where Donald pined for pen and paper. But in the end, the body was ready, and in truth, the spirit seems to have been ready for much longer. Nevertheless, we will miss that funny, gloomy fellow with the glass of red wine at the end of the bar. As much of a Brooklynite as he was, film “star”, literary hero, and member of a swiftly departing posse of ‘60s Lefties whose wisdom we sorely need about now, he became a part of this Hudson Valley. May his memory be a blessing, and a light.

The Thrill Is Gone: Bookstores and Me

          Back in the day, after college and before the lost decade I spent at Cosmodemonic Communications, I had a long career in the retail book industry. Beginning with a short stint at the old Waldenbooks in the barely-there Hudson Valley Mall, to three years at the dearly departed Ariel Booksellers in New Paltz, to a couple of years at Norman Levine’s Editions in Boiceville, books were my close companions, night lights of the mind, portals to times and lives I wanted to dip into without commitment, return to without hesitation. 

            I’m feeling lately like maybe I’ve read too many books. I can’t tell you the last novel I finished, or even collection of poetry. I used to spend hours in the stacks, happily pawing through the shredded covers for one treasure, a new poet or an old one I hadn’t read enough of, a magazine printed the year I was born, or even a few craft or cookbooks I’d spend more time reading than emulating. 

            I can still straighten a shelf up like nobody’s business. I remember dusting the fronts, the tops, filling the carts with new arrivals to merge into an already bursting shelf, and figuring out how to make them all fit. I knew the business. But who knew the business would change so drastically in my lifetime. I’m sure the clues were there, while I had my nose buried in Sylvia Plath’s journal or Allen Ginsberg’s collected works. The Internet. Before my current position, I had a final fling at the book business, and failed at my post badly. Unsupported, with a staff of just one (me), I spent my days alone washing windows, mopping the floor, making coffee, and doing just about everything but working with books. 

            The store is still open, and the owner is still breathing, both facts equally depressing. It was a used bookstore, but I was often instructed to sift through piles of buy-backs for books in good enough shape to pass as new. I spent too much money (really, money) on new titles, a mistake I wasn’t aware of until after the fact. The books were an afterthought, shoved onto shelves without thought or philosophy. Being fired was a stroke of luck, since I’d resigned myself to the mess, but the books were no comfort. They were helpless themselves in the murky wood and coffee grounds of the joint. 

            A couple of weeks ago we stopped at an outlet mall in Central New York, one where sneakers were the star. In the far corner was a bookstore of sorts, remainders and lesser known titles deeply discounted. Even with a decent salary, no longer having to rely on strips or bargain books to fill my shelves, I found nothing I wanted to take home with me. I knew the end of all the fiction, the rhyme schemes of the few poetry books on hand. I have plenty of cookbooks I already don’t use, although I’ve read them all several times. Even the books on CD didn’t interest me—what good is a book on CD once you’ve listened. I’ve no interest in the ghostwritten pop autobiographies, or the bodice-ripping romances, the simplistic craft manuals written for those who need written instructions for tying their shoelaces every morning. There was not one book in the whole store I was willing to take home. 

            I’m more interested now in clearing my shelves, my walls, my closets. It’s almost as if I’ve moved the library inside my head. I need the physical space these days to make some headway on the few projects I intend to go forward with. I have my Handler’s companionship day and night, so perhaps the books resent our drifting apart. But like old lovers, I’ll keep in touch with some, part amicably with others. Some will be dropped off at the thrift shop where they’re given away, because that’s the option I like best. Time grows a little short, and I hate to think of the clean up after I’ve dropped the body if I don’t do some of it myself ahead of time. It is time to pare down and focus. If only I can put down this Harriet Carter catalog… anybody need a wall phone with really, really big numbers?