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Shared. Not Burned.

Mackin Books Day 092213Evidences indicated that Steve Mackin might be present at the Poetry Hotel yesterday. There were periodic knockings that sounded like someone was at the door but when we opened it, in rushed a draft of cold air. Of course, each time we faced the unseen, we said, “C’mon in!”

And when I am dead
Let the dirges be sung
To the turban mad twirl
Of the dervish and Hun
On the field of twilight
As the moon mugs the sun

Bill Mercer opened the reading with Dylan Thomas’ In My Craft of Sullen Art, a poem Steve liked to recite when he attended a reading for the first time, or just for the love of it.  One of Steve’s poems was read too. Imagine him growling and cursing if  no one bothered to read his poems at his memorial Salon!

And when I am dead
I will leave not a mark
Except for these poems
That I carved on the heart
Of the veil of the night
As Venus fucks Mars

Steve’s friends came and went all day, picking from the thirty-four boxes of Steve’s books that his family gave away. The portrait of James Joyce (painted by Chris Trian and commissioned by Steve) looked on as we performed this intimate activity: going through one’s library that took years to build.

And when I am dead
Why then build me a pyre
Of my books and my poems
Consign me to fire
Oh sing then rude cantos
of the ruin of desire

We didn’t burn any books. If Steve’s poem was his last will, we certainly did not executive it properly. But no matter how fiercely the wind protested outside, Steve would have loved seeing his books taken up by appreciative hands. We all had a part of you now, Steve.

 

Photo by Vern Peralta.
When I Am Dead, by Steve Mackin.

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Poetry Hotel/ Birthday Poem

Clara, Cake+Jack (1)WHY I’M GLAD YOU CAME INTO THE WORLD, WHY I WISH YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY NOW (2013), AND MANY MORE

—Jack Foley

 

Listen to the poem!

 

 

The Poetry Hotel
Imagine paying for a night at the hotel with a poem…
—Clara Hsu

(Clara) At the Civic Center Bart Station
Carlos, Dan and I had a vision
to take possession of the Mission Street Marriott
after we win the lottery.

(Jack) When I heard this poem,

We will renovate the building
knock everything down to its bones.
With imagination, joy, and persistence
we give birth to the Poetry Hotel.

I wanted to join up.

When you enter the Poetry Hotel,
observe the grand reception hall.
Poets check in with a poem
check out with a new chapbook.

I’ve got poems, I’ve even got

The ground floor is reserved for first drafts
the second floor is for revision.
From the third to the twentieth floor
there are chutes and ladders built especially
for the out of bounds writers.

a rhyming dictionary,

All the rooms have the essential
desk, chair and bed,
an unlimited supply of paper, and
ink gel pens to write.

though I don’t use it.

There are numerous libraries
each named after a poet.
Collections of works are readily available
for reference, research and reading.

Clara came to me

As for dining, the Poetry Café
serves daily a scrumptious buffet.
Muffins, puddings and all sorts of pies,
thick soups, black coffee, exotic teas
to nurture the poetic belly.

and asked whether I could bring her to a “break-through.”

Every evening there is a gathering
new and old poems are read.
Cakes and champagne are served afterwards
to celebrate the creation of words.

I notice now

This enterprise is run so successfully
it is franchised throughout the world.
All the poets in this planet
come home to the Poetry Hotel.

that she brings me to “break-throughs.”

Carlos, Dan and I blinked
as we stepped into the train.
It was filled with sleepy people
who wanted to get home quick.

When I’m weary, at night, it’s late, near bed time, my mind a blur,

Days of work and nights of toil
weaken our eyes and hearts
But tonight we lay the cornerstone
for the Poetry Hotel.

she sends me poems from her own “poetry hotel,”

that boiling consciousness,

and suddenly:

(Both) I waken.

*

Photo by Dore Steinberg.

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Carlos Ramirez

Carlos3Here is a poem for Carlos Ramirez, who is in dire sickness. He was one of the founders of the “Poetry Hotel”, a hotel of the imagination serving the real poet community of the San Francisco Bay Area. Carlos has been hospitalized since mid February and now in the ICU. May blessings be upon him.

Langston Was Found

Langston was found in El Salvador
great big frosty beard
discovered on the library shelf
Langston, Langston Hughes
dances in schoolyards, they called him
Santa Claus
silver liquid drops, he loved the rain.

Pete Seeger was found in Dolores Park
white sleeveless undershirt
Mime Troupe on the Fourth of July
Pete held his arms up
turned turned turned
sun on his brown skin
sun in his brown eyes.

El Poeta de la Treinta
shy in front of the midwife
she penciled a question mark
a spark, a mite
each leaf a time.
“Carlos, Carlos
don’t be afraid.”

He came out
who-ooo, who-ooo
swore not to grow up
El Zipote
met an angel
rolling down the slope
pushing an ice cream truck.

*

Notes:

“silver liquid drops” April Rain Song by Langston Hughes.
Carlos named himself “El Poeta de la Treinta” in his book, My Heart in the Matter.
Photo credit: Mike Kepka, The Chronicle

 

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Apple Mystery

The Poetry Hotel has occasional guests who stayed overnight.  Hester Lox usually came after a night of volunteering for the KALW fund drive.  She was small enough to fit on the green couch and would only ask for a sheet to put on top of it.  In the morning she enjoyed the hotel’s simple breakfast of tea and toast.  Sometimes, when the tomatoes were in season, a Turkish omelette.

The price for staying at the Hotel is a poem.  Hester wrote:

Apple mystery / Peaceful. Nourishing.  Sleeping  / Poetry Hotel.

Maybe there was an apple involved, but I can’t remember.  The mystery will remain.  Hester passed away this afternoon, surrounded by friends.

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At the Poetry Salon

Cake for a January Birthday, & Jack Foley

The salon downstairs has become too small to accommodate the monthly gathering.  Today Richard Loranger suggested that we should take down the wall that separates the living room and Dore’s office so we might have more space.  “Everyone brings a hammer to the next Salon!”

Mary Rudge, featured poet, gave copies of  her poems out for the audience to “sound”.  Different voices assumed different characters, all under the theme “Occupy”.

It was Anna Wolfe birthday.  Steve Arnston brought over a yellow cake topped with two-inch-thick cream.  We sang “Happy Birthday”.  Last month was Susan Pedrick’s.  I like it when people choose to celebrate their big day at the Poetry Hotel.

Marsha Campbell read from the proof copy of her new book.  She was ecstatic, gave me one of her framed drawings, titled “Lust”.  Jack and Adelle Foley read their choral piece “The Dance of the Seven Veils”.  Sensuality crossed paths in the poetic minds.

Photo by Dore Steinberg.

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The Poetry Hotel

The Poetry Hotel is getting solicitation mail to open bank accounts, apply for credit cards, buy liability and all sorts of insurance, linen service, hotel equipment and several times, even phone reservation for stay!  They don’t know this is a hotel of the imagination, conceived by the ever imaginative Carlos Ramirez one summer evening in 2004 as we (Dan Brady, Carlos and I) passed by the Marriott on Market Street.  Dan and I heartily endorsed the idea and whommm, the hotel was built!

Or maybe these solicitation mail do know that this is not a “real” hotel but imagine that it could be real at some point, and they want to make sure they are the first ones to get the business.

Doing business also requires imagination.

Imagine paying for a night at the hotel with a poem…

 

The Poetry Hotel

At the Civic Center Bart Station
Carlos, Dan and I had a vision
to take possession of the Mission Street Marriott
after we win the lottery.

We will renovate the building
knock everything down to its bones.
With imagination, joy, and persistence
we give birth to the Poetry Hotel.

When you enter the Poetry Hotel,
observe the grand reception hall.
Poets check in with a poem
check out with a new chapbook.

The ground floor is reserved for first drafts
the second floor is for revision.
From the third to the twentieth floor
there are chutes and ladders built especially
for the out of bound writers.

All the rooms have the essential
desk, chair and bed,
an unlimited supply of paper, and
ink gel pens to write.

There are numerous libraries
each named after a poet.
Collection of works are readily available
for reference, research and read.

As for dining, the Poetry Café
serves daily a scrumptious buffet.
Muffins, puddings and all sorts of pies,
thick soups, black coffee, exotic teas
to nurture the poetic belly.

Every evening there is a gathering
new and old poems are read.
Cakes and champagne are served afterwards
to celebrate the creation of words.

This enterprise is run so successfully
it is franchised throughout the world.
All the poets in this planet
come home to the Poetry Hotel.

Carlos, Dan and I blinked
as we stepped into the train.
It was filled with sleepy people
who wanted to get home quick.

Days of work and nights of toil
weaken our eyes and hearts
But tonight we lay the cornerstone
for the Poetry Hotel.

Share