Just got an emailed press release:
FRI (3/4), 8-11pm. — The Traveling Bonfires’ “Vagrant Wind 2005 Road Journey” kicks off in Asheville, featuring the poetry of Nina Marie Collins, Matthew Mulder, Pasckie Pascua, Riley Schilling, and the music of Dashvara and Tim McGill. Bearly Edible Cafe, 15 Eagle St., downtown Asheville. FREE.
A few days ago I talked with my publisher about the state of affairs with my first book. Needless to say, sales are dismal for poetry books (especially for an unknown writer like myself). However, that first book was devised to be a quiet release.
The intent of the book was to collect some published and previously unpublished poems to give to gatekeepers and other influential people. It was dedicated to family and friends and tended to represent more of my personal verse poetry (i.e. autobiographical). But I also added a few free verse poems, which incorporated universal themes. This was to position my poetry the way a cover letter and resume position a prospective employee. More on that later.
Sunday evening I came across this Open Letter to POETRY magazine from Charles Ries.
A few years ago I felt it was my duty to subscribe to POETRY. I was curious. I wanted to see the top of the mountain. I wanted to see what the best writers wrote. And for two years I read most or all of the issues you sent me. I looked into their pages and asked, “What makes this poem great?” “What makes this writer unique–exquisite?”
That said; I struggle to feel engaged with most of the work you publish.
I have mixed thoughts and emotions about what he wrote in his open letter. My initial thought was kinship in regards to feeling engaged with some of the content POETRY publishes. However, after reading the October 2004 issue (which I purchased from a local retailer), I decided it was time to subscribe to one of the flaghips of academic poetry. Frank Bidart’s poem “The Third Hour of the Night” captured my attention (and my few remaining dollars). I guess I agree with Mr. Ries in that POETRY is a journal for the academic writers and their readers. But isn’t that the point? If you were looking for well written non-academic poetry there are plenty of small press poetry magazines you can find and enjoy.
I suspect the real issue is high art versus subculture. By no means is poetry considered part of the American mainstream. However, it’s more likely the subculture of small press poetry will be less than a footnote in American literature. Whereas the subculture of POETRY magazine will provide notable poets like Hecht and Gluck. The reason the American consciousness remembers Robert Frost and Carl Sandburg is because they devoted most of their life to the high art of letters. Equally passionate are the small press poets who bleed their life into their noteable yet mostly unrecognized works.
For better or worse, I am part of the second category. Yet I struggle to be challenged by the work of most small press poets. That’s why I decided to subscribe to POETRY. I consider it part of my ongoing education in crafting poetry. That’s why I read the academic writings of American poets like the late Anthony Hecht. In his last published book The Darkness and The Light, he wrote:
Nothing designed by Italian artisans
Would match this evening’s perfection.
The puddled oil was a miracle of colors.
“The Onslaught of Love,” pg 4
Finished Time and Money last night. A line that keeps rolling around my head is from his poem “Money”:
What’s wrong with money is what’s wrong with love:
it spurns those who need it most for someone
already rolling in it.
On the bus to work this morning I thought about that as I read today’s Times. And again as I waited for a transfer at the bus station. Most people were there to make money—going to work. A peculiar exchange I watched as I read the paper. A man walked up to a seated woman and handed her a folded note and motioned away from the station. She waited until he left her and then she unfolded the note, read it and then lit a cigarette. Over her shoulder, I read a name and a phone number. He held the bus he was waiting for until he realized she wouldn’t follow him. Then bus 20 arrived and she boarded.
Things don’t always follow the path I might have imagined. Like the poem I wrote during Monday night’s writers group. I thought about posting it but it turned out a bit darker than I planned. It was a simple exercise: write about an empty glass.
Even this post didn’t follow the path I intended…
A review of the “World’s Fastest Readings” featuring faculty of the Warren Wilson MFA program. Jane has been diligently requesting a review the event. I’ve been telling her to wait because I’m waiting to hear from a very nice, overworked editor if his magazine would like to publish my review/commentary of the event.
It hasn’t been two weeks yet and I’m getting impatient or obsessive. Every five to ten minutes (okay, maybe it’s not that bad) I catch myself clicking the “mail” tab on my Hotmail account hoping to see something beside a “JC Penny Winter White Sale” web banner and a “Meet Sexy People on Passion.com” web ad.
I don’t think it will hurt possible freelance efforts if I post some of my notes from the “World’s Fastest Readings.” Here ya go:
– Malaprop’s cafe very full, people standing outside café area
– sitting mid-section near condiments counter
– Malaprop’s staff member reads last lines of each writer’s book as a tribute
– Pete Turchi – dark blazer, red button down shirt, glasses, salt and pepper goatee
– 20 writers reading for two minutes from their work
– Rick Barot began with his poem “study”
– Kevin McIlvoy read “the complete history of new mexico”
– Steve Orlen reads his poem “blind date”
It’s a rare Friday night when I can find a parking spot within a block of Malaprop’s, but tonight there was a parking space available in front of the bookstore/cafe. The drum circle occupying Pritchard Park could be heard two blocks away as I entered the store to verify the show time. Later, the drumming souls would triple in size and volume and invite the fire dancers to contribute to the urban tribe.
The sun had not set yet and the autumn twilight air was cool and comfortable. I waited outside for Philip, a friend and fellow performer, who would be supplying the sound equipment for tonight’s event. I hadn’t eaten since lunch and the Malaprop’s cafe was closed because an author was reading excerpts from his book. Twenty minutes later the shadows from the building opposite the bookstore engulfed the street and cars began to turn on their headlamps.
I was a little frazzled because I had been asked to emcee the event, which makes me a bit nervous. Focusing on reading/performing poetry is one thing, but adding the responsibility of emceeing a show is an added dimension. A common misconception is that an emcee just announces who’s up next. There’s more to it than that. An emcee helps coordinate artists with venue management about restroom facilities, store policy concerning discount for performing artists at the cafe, technical sound equipment needs, time slots and in general making the artist feel at home in a foreign place. So, I had a lot on my mind this evening.
Shortly before 8PM I found myself placing mic stands in the cafe and discussing time slots with Vanessa Boyd, a mild-mannered musician with the hint of Texas in her laconic communication. After the author and his fans dispersed, Philip and I began setting up the speakers and microphones. Vanessa was off to the side tuning her guitar as I casually sought information from her, which I planned to use to introduce her. She had traveled from Tennessee to perform and had brought her friend Steve. He was equally laconic, like her silent guardian. The set-up of sound equipment took maybe ten minutes. To my surprise, Vanessa finished her preparations, plugged in, slouched into a cafe chair before a microphone, played a few chords and announced herself relieving me of the burden of introductions.
For the first time that evening I was able to grab a cup of organic coffee, find a stool at the cafe bar and prepare myself for the read. I had almost forgot that two friends had joined me to perform along side my poetry performance. A prose piece (thanks Joy) was recently added to the Late Night Poetry portion of my performance. I quickly fished out the performance script and handed it to Julie who would be reading one poem and singing two other poems. Philip would play the performance soundtrack on acoustic guitar and I had to give him instructions on when to start the musical soundscape.
Wearing an earth-tone wardrobe and playing Americana/folk-style songs, Vanessa Boyd provided me almost twenty minutes of uninterrupted meditation with her rich, strong vocals. Wavy chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail, she sat on a chair hunched over her red acoustic guitar, hazel-green eyes searching the modest assembly, as she sang songs from her many travels.
The show organizer showed up about half way through her set. He had just come off a 14-hour bus trip from Baltimore and hadn’t been expected to be present. We chatted a bit about his trip and a few other topics until 9PM when Vanessa concluded her set.
Double-checking my notes and poem folder, I approached the “stage.” I placed the music stand near the microphone stand and began my introduction including thanks to Vanessa, Malaprop’s and The Traveling Bonfires (who organized the event). The mic stand was competing with the music stand and I held the mic as I read a Billy Collins poems to get things started. I continued to hold the mic as I read through my solo set including a poem by Keith Flynn, a collection of poems from my forth coming project, a pseudo-political piece (with apologies to Uncle Walt) and prose piece by another writer which acted as transition to group performance.
The group piece featured Julie singing three selections (including one she wrote) and reading one and Philip playing his haunting theme as I read through a half dozen poems from Late Night Writing. It continues to amaze me how supportive they are of my work. I often look at the words I have written and wonder if anyone is touched by these poems. Sometimes I helplessly observe someone moved to tears at words I’ve written and wonder why those lyrics don’t move me the same way.
Now I am home in a forest guarded by red cardinals and black salamanders and I am eating chicken, drinking chai tea latte (rooibos tea with honey vanilla & spices), burning incense (sage and smoke) and wondering what lines and poems these hands will transcribe.
Coffeehouse Junkie 