Birth of a Poem: Notes From The Road

A scrap of yellow paper has been following me around for the last several weeks, migrating from my pocketbook, to my desk, to my backpack, and now—back to the desk. It reads:

“Pumping gas should be peaceful.”

-TV Screens

-Summer chill

-Whiff of cigarette

-Gas, rolls…

Sometimes I imagine I don’t have enough time to actually write a complete poem, so I try to capture the thread of thought in quick phrases, hoping I’ll find the thread later, and the spark, too. This never, ever works, but I keep thinking that spark can be contained in a few lines dashed before, or during, work, or before bed.

I remember what inspired the poem. The pumps at my usual gas station, what used to be known as “service” stations, recently had these really fucking annoying TV screens installed, blabbing away about manly sport scores and the shitty coffee available for far too much inside. On one visit, the gentleman pumping gas on the other side of the pump made the above remark in quotes. So, there’s those two bits explained.

It’s been a cool spring, as has been the Hudson Valley’s habit in recent years. Only today, nearly the end of June, has the usual heat and humidity combined to finally make us forget March’s blizzards. I try to pump gas in the afternoon, on my way home, so I can devote my mornings to more creative forms of procrastination, like Facebook or washing dishes. So, the refence to temperature makes sense.

There is always a whiff of stale cigarette smoke outside of any retail establishment, despite the Surgeon General’s old warnings. As long as tobacco is peppered with addictive supplements, there will traces of smoke in places where people stop, even briefly, to perform a task outdoors. And yes, it’s dangerous near the pumps, and yes, we’ve seen some horrific accidents on the Interwebs. However, what are the odds, the Smokers always think…

The last line has me stumped at this point. “Gas, rolls…” The last word only makes me think of toilet paper rolls. I don’t buy them at gas stations unless I’m very, very desperate. Unless Stewart’s is closed. Burger rolls? Ah, maybe HARD rolls, like they stock up on at gas stations like this in the morning, smeared too generously with a faux butter spread and wrapped in thick, stinking plastic.

But, as I recall, the man I quote said his piece in the afternoon. It could be that my mind was beginning to wander along, connecting one image after another arising from the location. I can never be sure.

My friend Dan Wilcox has a poem that laments the loss of “the best poem I ever wrote,” to a beer spilled on a notebook, likely scrawled in an indecipherable hand. I feel that same way when I find a note like this. It will probably still become some kind of poem, probably the kind that isn’t labored over long and finds its way to the files without any public performance. It’ll never be the poem it could have been. But of course, I’ll never be the poet I could have been. 

National Poetry Month, Personally

NPM 2018 was a busy time. My Beloved keeps joking that, thirty seconds after I said I wouldn’t do any readings in 2018, I accepted my first reading gig, and April had some additional fine examples of my hypocrisy in it.

I was one of about 30 poets whose submitted work had been framed and put on display for the month in the Starr Library in Rhinebeck. On the 7^th, about half of us read our poems to an enthusiastic crowd that I guessed to be around 75, a veritable stadium-full of listeners. I got handshakes and hugs for my poem about ‘pulling up your god panties,’ and for a moment beforehand I’d been afraid I was a bit out of my usual element. Many of the other poets were more conventional, rhyming and reminiscing. The warm response to my work was a great relief.

On the 10^th, Teresa Costa’s W.O.M.P.s (Word Of Mouth Poetry) reading featured two of my favorite people and poets, Rebecca Schumejda and Thom Francis. I don’t hear them often enough, and it was a treat to not only get full features from each of them, but a little from one of the other 'Three Guys...', Dan Wilcox. A great evening of words and friends.

Speaking of Albany, on the 21^st, I went up to the Emerald City to participate in the annual Albany Wordfest marathon, now going by the reclaimed name, “Readings Against The End Of The World.” Before there was Wordfest, there was Tom Nattell. One of the original “Three Guys From Albany,” Tom passed away in January 2005, leaving a legacy of activism and art. “Readings Against The End Of The World,” contained elements of both. I read at 11:00 a.m., to a sparse but lively crowd. Hosted for the entire twenty-four hours by Mary Panza, I recall the times I hung out all night with the crew, snoozing on the floors of the gallery on Lark Street until the 6:00 a.m. readers arrived. I am not that hardy these days.

Joanne Pagano Weber invited me to read on the 22^nd as part of the second half of an afternoon of performance at the Greenkill Gallery in Kingston. The first half was an original play by Joanne, “Emerging Man,” including Michael McCabe in a featured role, a triumphant return to the stage after many moons away. Sadly, ninety percent of the audience decided to leave at intermission, leaving Allison Koffler-Wise and I a rather intimate group to read to. It was not a surprise. Audiences often use such breaks to make their escape from the imagined horrors of a poetry reading. However, the escapees did include the play’s director and the artist whose work on the walls of the gallery inspired the play. Duly noted. Thanks to Joanne for all support and praise for me and Michael.

Finally, on the 29^th, Guy Reed and I headed to Arkville for the Writers in the Mountains “Writers Unbound” Fifth Annual Literary Festival, held at the cozy Union Grove Distillery. There is an active group of longtime writers here, inspired by maple syrup and wood as much as the everyday drama of our lives, and I enjoy their devotion to the written word. I picked up a copy of Laurie Boris’s latest novel, The Call, a baseball tale, and so far, it’s a great, easy read with heart. I look forward to attending more events with this group.

Non-Poetry events in April included Rhinebeck High School’s ambitious production of Mary Poppins, featuring Jonah Carleton, the son of my old friend Ron, in the lead role of Bert, blues phenom Quinn Sullivan at Bearsville, and my Beloved’s many stagehand gigs at Marist College. We also had a chance to see Al Helm: Martin Luther King in Palestine, an independent film about a theater group, joined by an American gospel choir, traveling and performing in both Israel and Palestine. All in all, an auspicious start to the warmer months, and not very cruel at all!!

 (Photo by Don Levy)

National Poetry Month- Not Just For Poets!

Some of you non-poets out there (and if you’re a non-poet and reading this blog on a regular basis, you have my undying gratitude) might have the impression that National Poetry Month ranks right up there with “National Salami Sandwich Day,” or “Grandparents Day.” It may at first glance give the impression of being the Hallmarkiest of Hallmark Holidays, spread out over thirty of them. However, unlike those other gift grabs, National Poetry Month requires no sending of cards or expensive gifts (unless you’re so inclined… PM me for my address)!

National Poetry Month was started by the Academy of American Poets in 1996, but the need had existed for years. Remember all those little quaint schoolhouses you see in the movies where pupils painfully stumbled through poems they’d been forced to memorize? Well, those days are long gone. Even when I was in grade school, for the better part of the 1970s, poetry got short shrift in lesson plans. If it hadn’t been for my mother reading to us from a wonderful collection called The Big Golden Book of Poetry (long out of print, but much sought after), I may not have been exposed to much verse at all. And without trying, I committed long passages to memory about Little Orphant Annie and the Owl & the Pussycat that ring around my brain to this day.

Bullwinkle the Moose was a poetry supporter early on, too. His short segments on “Bullwinkle’s Corner,” introduced several new generations to the likes of Poe and Wordsworth. Without changing a word of the poems, he and Jay Ward created amusing visual interpretations that illuminated the work in a new way, as poetry should be enjoyed uniquely by each new reader or listener.

It’s probably still the case that outside of literary circles, not much is heard about National Poetry Month. Around my house, my Roommate is pretty sick of it already. I’ve got two short gigs booked already, including “Readings Against the End of the World,” sponsored by Albany Poets on April 21^st. I’ve signed up for 11:00am, and there’s still space on the open mic list if you’d like to join me. As Dan Wilcox reminds us, “In Albany, every day is Poetry Month!” Not every city is so lucky to have a wizard like Dan to make that true.

Here in New York’s Hudson Valley, live poetry is on the upswing once again, despite the apparent demise recently of two longtime readings. Check your local listings, or drop me a line. Better yet, I’m always up for a drink or dinner in April, if you’re craving a lengthy discussion on the merits of literature in the 21^st century. And, I’m always up for a free meal in April.