In Praise of Apollo

LM

I wake my mother from an afternoon nap

to ask for a dime.

Groggy, she gives it, and I

tape it to the postpaid card.

Soon, the model arrives,

the Lunar Module that

had landed a few weeks before,

five inches high when completed.

I am not a model builder, or even

an aspiring astronaut.

Women since Amelia Earhart

can barely hope to fly,

much less leave the atmosphere, weightless,

dependent on tanks for air,

tubes for dinner.



Their landing, first walk

are broadcast late at night.

Despite the history, my parents

don’t let us stay up to see.

It is summer, and no excuse of

having to get up for school.

I am seven, my sister five and a half,

my brother just turned three.

Later, he becomes the stargazer in the family,

rootless, following the sun,

Hollywood Boulevard his landing strip.



Perhaps the memory of that first Apollo

is still too vivid with them,

grim death on the ground,

all three lost to oxygen’s raging flames.

Tragedy is a constant in the Sixties,

a given on the Nightly News.

At the age of five, I saw David Brinkley

reporting from in front of the

charred remains of that first mission.



So, they spare us the possible nightmare,

Armstrong’s misspoken words.

Maybe it’s best to not get our hopes up,

seeing how space travel has done

so much better in the movies.

Even the military’s lost interest,

prefers cheap, plentiful recruits,

the idle threat of nuclear annihilation

to exploration, cooperation,

looking for our next home.



After my model arrives, a book a month comes,

science topics in slender soft covers that fit

in the same slipcovered case.

I never finish the model,

read the books without much interest.

I missed the fine print on that postcard,

thought a single dime would open up

the universe to me, postpaid.

I thought that, for a moment,

I too could fly, wings spread

wide over the Everglades,

uterus forgiven.



CAR  7/16/19

Poetry Month 2019- Part Two!

My last blog post, purporting to be about the first half of my National Poetry Month, seems to have skipped about from event to event, without rhyme or reason, so to speak. This entry will attempt to fill in some of the blanks, and restore some sense of chronological sensibility to the goings on.

Before there was Albany, there was Teresa Costa’s monthly Word of Mouth Poetry Series, held at the elegant ARTBAR on Broadway in Kingston. A combination art gallery and wine & beer bar, the show changes every month, and is skillfully curated by Allie Constant, and now her young assistant, Beckett Constant, born in March and already an important member of the Constant team. Dad Andrew has assumed many of the barista duties now, too.

Teresa’s features on April 11 were Alison Koffler-Wise and Dayl Wise, founders of Post Traumatic Press. Based in Woodstock, PTP was originally created by Dayl to provide a place for the writings of veterans he was encountering at Veterans for Peace and other activist events. The press has broadened its mission to include environmental and historically-based collections, and even the work of just plain poets like myself. Full Disclosure: Post Traumatic Press published My Minnesota Boyhood chapbook in 2012, and mine and Guy Reed’s Until the Words Came this past spring.

They are a terrific duo, in life as well as in poetry, and complement each other well when they co-feature. Alison specializes in poems about natural and animals. She’s recordings the goings on for years of the family’s two beautiful dogs, so much so that I feel I know them better than I do. Dayl’s work directly sprung out of his experiences in Vietnam, direct and honest recollections, but has evolved to include childhood and politics, too. I highly recommend reading their work, or better yet, hearing them read the next time you get a chance.

 The Starr Library in Rhinebeck decided to continue the Poetry Month recognition they started in 2018. thirty-four readers came on the evening of April 13 to read work the library had been displaying, framed on their walls, for the previous few weeks. About fifty in all attended, including my Handler, and I ran into an old acquaintance who, to my regret, remembered me far better from the old days of the Woodstock Poetry Society under Bob Wright's gentle whip than I her. But I hope to see Ann Braybrooks again soon. Refreshments were served, and considering the positive response, I'm sure that Nan Jackson and the rest of the crew will throw a similar bash in 2020. 

Stayed tuned for Part III, and the Woodstock Library event that there's no room for suddenly here!!

National Poetry Month 2019- Part One!

Above is a photo of me at Readings Against The End Of The World, my bad side, already exhausted from all the hubbub of National Poetry Month, and I was only halfway through. April 2019 seemed like a busier Poetry Month than usual. Maybe it’s because I’m more focused these days on the art, or maybe I’m just putting myself out more places, or maybe I’m getting a little lazy and might just like to stay home once in a while and peruse Netflix without planning for some reading or another all the time. In any case, I attended several terrific events, and spent most of May recovering from the whirlwind.

The April feature at Calling All Poets in New Paltz on Friday the 5^th was El Presidente Himself, Thom Francis. Although a vital force in the Albany Poets organization, Thom doesn’t often feature much these days, perhaps because of the demands of his newer roles of husband and father. It was a treat to hear Thom again. His work is fresh and energetic. His delivery draws the audience in with direct attention. Thom is at once intimate and unapologetic. His was one of the superior readings this spring at CAPS.

On Saturday, April 13^th, I did a rare “double-header,” and read at two completely different events, at opposite ends of the Hudson Valley. I signed up online for the 11:00 a.m. slot at Wordfest’s “Readings Against The End Of The World.” Revived just a couple of years ago, RAEW was created by Tom Nattell as a marathon reading showcasing the diverse voices and views of Albany poets (with a small “p”). It’s now hosted by Jil Hanifan and Mary Panza, and is truly a 24-hour event. A few years ago, I was up for sleeping on the floor, but time, love, and knees no longer allow for such excess. 

Stay tuned for Part Two of my April Poetry Odyssey…