Writing Again, With a Vengeance (or at least some consistency)

 

Last year’s Pandemic fueled silence has given way to renewed motivation. I have brought the Ziegfeld poems to a sufficient level of completion such that I am actually paying someone to proofread them. I anticipate self-publishing in the next few months, and will be investigating various options along those lines soon.

But at the same time, I have been writing poems again beyond this deeply researched collection. I have observed how my voice has evolved over my writing life, and how my poetry muscles have loosened and allowed me to grab the unique phrases that I always strive to include. To be honest, I do sometimes fear such abstraction is merely the first sign of a mental deterioration I am not ready for. But let’s think positively—I have been writing poetry for over half a century now. If I wasn’t getting closer to my goals now, I would never be.

Live readings in person have returned sporadically. Some groups, having lost their physical home, have remained on Zoom. Others have found alternative digs, and hence breathed a bit of fresh air into the proceedings. In Albany, an old familiar place, the QE2, now known as the Fuze Box, has risen from the ashes of 2020 and begun hosting an open mic on the first Monday of each month, Tom Natell’s old time slot. Amusingly, the majority of readers now use their phones instead of paper. I’ve never been able to develop that habit, although if pressed I could dig up some work still lingering in my emails.

I have a friend who, instead of the “Cloud”, emails himself important manuscripts for safekeeping. I have done the same from time to time, and the Z. poems are safely suspended in two of my accounts. I began an inventory of clippings from my freelance writer days, and ultimately hope to scan in the crumbling pages and save them to a flash drive. However, I still maintain a physical file for first drafts, and sometimes final in typed form. Little ticks of paper are scattered across my desk with ideas for poems, most of which will never become poems. If I don’t rescue the thread of the thing in twenty-four hours, it’s gone. A poem might be written, but it won’t be anything like what I intended.

I have returned to working from home for the winter, my employer having discovered the joys of lower heating and electric bills during last year’s exodus. I embrace the experience this time around, at worst secure that I am employable elsewhere if need be, and using the time between tasks for the homiest of activities. I allow myself the luxury of pajamas many days, at least until lunchtime. I write best in the dawn hours, before the phone begins to ring. I watch the trees outside my skylight bare their branch souls. We have missed the slight flurries so far that have visited the Hudson Valley, but we know those days are numbered. A coat is a necessity again. Sunlight is in short supply. And I am recording my impressions of it all.

 

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. 

*Poem: "Iowa"*

 

A kindly tourist explains the difference between

the heat in the Hudson Valley and Iowa, his home,

which can get this humid but, he said, it's hard to explain.

This New York valley holds the moisture in its bowl,

and that's what makes the trees so green,

then the autumn colors so vivid. He says the weather here

is comparable to southern Iowa or Missouri.

Twain spoke at commencement for the girls at Vassar

once upon a time, a century ago.

Was the weather like home then?

The tourist begins again on the shelves of books on autism,

says he's finished the top two, and has three more to go through.

He gets a hot coffee, despite the heat outside,

inadequate air cooling inside, dark, no milk,

lidded before he leaves the counter, so sugar is out, too.

Missouri, Iowa are faraway countries from upstate New York.

Nothing is far enough away from Long Island, and

inconsequential in any case. There are no beaches

on the shores of the Mississippi. There are no shells

in the mud of the Big Muddy. The sunlight, quickly returned

after a brief, hard shower, enters the shop with some

resistance from the awnings. The glare off cars across the street

is sharp and familiar, a part of summer sunshine in June,

when the light lasts longer and has more to say,

has a more definite impression to make.

Milt Jackson's metal bubbles pop on the CD,

barely audible in the background.

Ambience. It doesn't stop the kids in the afternoon

from playing with the puppets, using a flannel mouth

to say what they mean, assuming the dull roles of

physician, cheerleader, pirate, dragon.

Only Coltrane, narrating his own destruction,

Can chase the teens out into the heat,

down to the park, to smoke as teens always smoke

before their lungs fall out, beside the Esopus,

tribute to the Hudson, distant cousin of the

Mississippi, both being of water, both rolling

while we here stop and talk about the weather.

 CAR  6/1/11