**Town Versus Gown: Academic and "Street" Poets**

Last week, a friend of mine was featured reading his poetry on a local radio station, along with a professor from one of the area colleges. Mike Jurkovic has no college under his belt that I'm aware of, but 25+ years of fairly technical experience at Cosmodemonic Communications. The professor's work I am aware of, but I don't know him personally. The contrast in style was striking and as most poets know, there is something of a split in the poetry community between those with schooling and those who are driven to express themselves in words without a formal education. Generally, I can see the positive attributes to both types of writing, but personally my taste does lean towards the so-called "street" poets.

            Luckily, none of the poets I know who might fit into that category actually live on the street or spend most of their time there. Their poems can often be grammatically incorrect, or the meanings of words bent or broken, depending on how much they rely on computer thesauruses. One can be critical of these flaws, or accept them as part of the creative process. I can only completely do that if I know the poet made those choices to err consciously and deliberately. I still believe in proper grammar and usage because they are elements that make the language common to all of us-- the level playing field on which we all interact.

            Academic poetry (for lack of a better term-- I see Mark Doty has recently taken exception to it, but until the lines become blurred, if ever, it will be the one I choose) has a tendency to rely too much on form, in my opinion. The lines are carefully crafted, with rhymes and rhythms perfectly assembled. More often than not, however, I find the overall effect of such poetry gutless. It rarely soars for me. There are exceptions of course, but I am speaking now of my personal experience with poets in my immediate radar. The chances that street poets take in content, metaphor and vocabulary interest me far more than the level, sanitary structures that are the rule and not the exception from the Ivory Tower.

            I think perhaps the two groups could benefit from more exchange. The street poets could only make their work stronger by nailing down the basics of grammar, spelling and usage. Then variations would be deliberate choices for effect and not accidents. The benefits to academics would be less precise, but no less valuable. The subjects that street poets write about are far more wide ranging than those of the academic. Opening up to that expanded realm of possibility can only enrich their work.

           

            Writing is a solitary activity. Going out to open mics and hearing other poets from anywhere is always a broadening experience, even if you don't connect, even if you don't like what they have to say or the way they say it. Reading big and small publishers and going online, where many of the little magazines are migrating to because of economics, helps to remind us why we all do this. We are trying to communicate our feelings, our thoughts and our observations. The language that we are using, whether flawed or stilted, isn't really all that different when it comes down to it. Listen beyond the words, read between the lines. Go to the streets and climb the Tower. It will be an adventure, at the very least.

*Janine Pommy-Vega Celebration- Woodstock, NY; 2/20/11*

 

            There was a celebration of the life of Janine Pommy-Vega yesterday in Woodstock, NY. Vega, who passed in December, 2010, was one of the few females allowed into and promoted by the tight, male-dominated circle of Beat poets in the 1960s. She was a force unto herself as well, and for almost 30 years taught writing workshops in the prisons of New York State. Two former workshop participants were among the speakers, and they revealed that the groups often referred to Vega as "Mother".

            I knew Janine only as an acquaintance. My shyness, which may come as a surprise to some, sometime prevents me from taking advantage of the poets around me, the big leaguers that we are accustomed to having among us here in the Hudson Valley. The same is true of my relationship with Enid Dame, who many recall as perhaps the least threatening person to inhabit the planet. I was lucky to have had her attentions for one morning at a small workshop, but I do regret not just going up and chatting with her at the many readings she and her husband Donald Lev attended. Donald is still here, and yet I still feel that absurd intimidation with him at times, though I do my best to go beyond it. Regret is a bitter, irrevocable emotion, but one that can perhaps help to change my future behavior, at least a little.

            Vega was genuine, tough, dynamic, and yet so sunny and positive that if one didn't know better, one might think it was merely an attention-grabbing false face she wore at readings. Even the last few times I saw her read, her once strong body crapping out on her big time, the energy behind her words remained. I was privileged to have seen her up close and it action. She grabbed your attention, that's true, but it was because of the power of her words, her energy, for lack of a less Woodstocky term. She had the beat, she was a Beat, and that rhythm will echo down through future generations of writers, activists and optimistic doers.

            I will remember two things about Janine. During a chat after a reading, we were talking about chapbooks, and she advised me to use a spine as opposed to a folded and stapled format, so that the book would be visible on the shelf. What an excellent observation! I also have an image in my head of driving down the back roads of Woodstock during a fireworks display, sometime in late summer a few years back. We passed by Janine, standing beside her car, left foot wrapped in the boot that had become a permanent part of her wardrobe. She was looking up at the sky. smiling. Janine Pommy-Vega, who had traveled the world, charmed hardened criminals, moved mountains as she hiked them, could still be delighted by the simple spectacle of summer and gunpowder. What an example for us to follow, always trailing behind where she cleared the way.

*COLLEGE OF POETRY- SPRING 2011*

NORTHEAST POETRY CENTER

COLLEGE OF POETRY

           

SPRING 2011 CURRICULUM

MARCH 19-MAY 7

RANDOM WRITING- CHERYL A. RICE,

SATS. 10 A.M.-12 NOON

dorothyy62@yahoo.com

RANDOM WRITING is a poetry workshop based on Inspiration, Word Play, Text Play and Peer Response, designed to encourage prolific and satisfying writing.

20TH CENT. LATIN AMERICAN POETRY IN TRANSLATION- JANET HAMILL,

SATS. 1:30 P.M.-3:30 P.M.

www.janethamill.com

Hamill’s course will examine the exciting panorama of 20^th century Latin American poetry in all its regional and stylistic diversity.

TUITION: $150 PER 8 WEEK COURSE.

FOR MORE INFORMATION OR TO REGISTER:

WILLIAM SEATION, 845-294-8085, SEATON@FRONTIERNET.NET

Northeast Poetry Center, 7 West Street, Warwick, NY  10990

*Poem: "Blessed"*

Blessed

"Is Jesus still alive?" my niece whispers to my sister,

unconvinced by the pomp and ribbons

of the decorated tree before us,

o holy night carolers trembling song,

dark-robed minister and his simple good grin.

"He was a good man, and that's

why we celebrate his birthday,"

is my sister's ecumenical reply.

We have talked about this, and agree about

the man, the story, the not believing. 

I am not guilty as this litany assumes,

wasn't born bad, have not gone,

owe no apology to some Great White Father King,

but the congregants recite,

in the glow of electric popcorn balls,

30-watt savior device in the popsicle creche,

their apologies.

My nephew and niece are invited to the menagerie,

handed a small stuffed donkey, plaster lamb

to add to the crowd in attendance at the celluloid babe's cribside,

after the second hymn, second verse, O Little Town tonight.

They don't know the words,

and we are so distracted by the lights and burgundy and

gold on the tree tumbling into our laps

that they almost miss their cue.

Yes, Jaimee', there is a Jesus,

and he lives as surely as Christmas returns,

with or without the snow you missed,

without blame, even without faith,

He fills the pantry for the poor that

the minister says is bare already, only December.

He carries the souls of the suddenly light into the next act.

He lays in the bed of straw, patiently waiting for his attackers

to come with their gifts, to cover the earth in gold,

surround the barn in a cloud of frankincense,

lubricate his small limbs with myrr

for the sleep of

the peacemakers,

for they are blessed.

CAR  12-28-01

*Writer's Block & Therapy*

I've been seeing a therapist for about a month and a half now, due to some issues that I was no longer comfortable boring my friends with. And trust me, I did enough of that this year. So, in that time, and maybe for a while before that, I haven't written one poem. Now, there are times that I say that and go back into my files and find one or two that have somehow leaked out and avoided my conscious memory, almost like they don't count as poems. But that's not

the case now.

            As usual, I had a flood of ideas after the Dodge, and two or three of those became poems, but after that-- just silence. I don't really let these silent times bother me much, because I have learned from experience that I will come around to writing again. I am, however, contemplating the connection between therapy and writing. Is it a drain on my creative resources? Is the break my Muse is taking related more to the holidays than the biweekly sessions with a loving,

receptive sounding board who validates my essential sanity and instincts? Or is it that, because most of my poems are of such a personal nature (hopefully personal in a way that is universally recognizable and accessible), I am afraid that the therapist is my only audience right now, and my best "material" is going to her and not the page?

            There is no doubt that I was in need of an objective ear. I have been fighting depression on and off all year, the kind that won't just go away with a little yoga or Budweiser. And I don't anticipate that this round of therapy will go on forever. But I am a teeny bit anxious about writing. Anxious now to get back on the literary "horse" I rode into this blog on, and so much else in my life that's worthwhile.

            I still trust I will, but for now, I am doing the mechanical work of being a poet. I have sorted through twenty years worth of poetry, cleaned out files and thrown away multiple copies of no use. I managed to complete the application for the New York Foundation for the Arts fellowship in poetry, offered only once every two years. I read a few old Christmas poems at a party yesterday (invited to, incidently, NOT forcing myself on an otherwise jolly affair!). I went to a terrific reading on Saturday night hosted by my friend Rebecca Schumejda and featuring three talented Hudson Valley writers: Guy Reed, Glenn Werner,

and Will Nixon. I am still going through the motions.

            I have made some notes for a drawing that I'd like to begin. A sort of expression of my anxiety this year. For the many who don't know, art and writing were neck and neck in my life for many years, before I chose the language route in college. I even earned my Regents diploma in art. I still keep drawing supplies around, but rarely use them. Perhaps this quiet time is the time

to go back to that nonverbal express. Or, a time to restore visual art to my creative options.

            I do trust that I'll be writing again soon. I have projects planned. But this time of year, everything seems to be planned for "after the holidays". I am coasting now. It's OK. I'm still breathing, therapy is going very, very well, and I look forward to seeing more friends over the course of the season. All is well today.

*Poem: "Devoted"*

There are people devoted to a cause,

a talent, who abandon their homes, families,

go sleepless for weeks perfecting a move,

filling a canvas, and I wonder,

what I’ve ever done for love?

I drew in high school, but it was too easy.

I could see it and copy it, line for line,

and there it was.

I sang in the chorus, too shy for solos.

Ditto for theater, my single performance

the role of a nameless villager

in Fiddler on the Roof,

on stage without glasses to

manage my fright.

I was never an athlete or dancer,

and writing, writing was breathing,

just notes stuffed in bottles

thrown out into the world.

There are no Help Wanteds for poets.

The only thing I can think of,

my desire, my passion, was to get out.

I wanted to make my own home,

come and go as I pleased,

create my own space, not an eggshell in sight.

It's the only thing I've accomplished,

created here among books written by others,

other people’s paintings, movies, CDs.

I have crocheted the odd baby blanket when necessary,

cook avant garde meals depending on my food zone,

but the only thing I've actually completed

was escape into my own

solar system of existence.

And having gotten out, all I remember

is being in, and I can't get that out.

I can't get away from that.

CAR  5-5-10

*Thanksgiving & Grandma Mi*

In honor of my Grandmother, Marcella Kozloski Mihovilich, on what would have been close to her 100th birthday:

Thanksgiving Too

Her funeral priest spoke in general terms,

but we knew from experience that with two sticks of bread

Grandma made a fire of feast,

a little anise behind her ears,

dear roast held over obedient flame,

soup from the bones of leftover  husbands,

sugared hands that sweetened the meal,

poisoned her own blood,

snow pudding melting in waves of green foam

on the tongue, custard avalanche behind. 

Even small Arnold's slices at her breakfast table

morphed into something better than bread.

At Thanksgiving, perhaps, my mother won,

where my father, with his low drunk tolerance

for sentiment or hors d'oevres,

would rather have spit it out, destroying the evidence.

My mother and her own oven won a little those days.

It was a bird bigger than eagles in this world

that flew from our forks to paradise of stomachs,

then to the sewer's afterlife, and the journey

was olive sweet, cranberry bright, carnival shimmer

in the nut bowl's glory, crackers at rest.

And the bones rested after in a hot bath of boredom,

surrendering to noodles their last bit of light.

CAR  1/5/04