poetry reading – Page 3

Flowers For The Poets

The night was unusually warm and inside the Sacred Grounds Cafe it was even warmer. The reading was about to begin when my father’s neighbor Devi and I walked in with two huge arrangements of dahlias. Some of the blossoms were as big as my head, some dainty like pompoms on a clown’s tunic. We put them down on the host’s table next to the mike. Their grandiose presence stunned everyone.

Devi wanted to bring the flowers when I read my dahlia poem, which was published in the Bulletin of the American Dahlia Society. I selected my reading based on a flower theme, which means any poem with the faintest suggestion of flower was a qualified candidate. As the night went on the dahlia looked even more vibrant as we melted slowly in the heat.

The poetic diehards hung on to the very end. When the reading was concluded I invited everyone to pick a dahlia. The room suddenly came alive again. Eager hands reached out and the vases were promptly emptied. We walked out of the cafe into the cooling night each holding what could have been mistaken as gigantic lollipops. I watched the dahlias floated away in all directions. It was beautiful.

Jewel In The Haystack

After a reading at Sacred Grounds, Dan Brady and I took the N Judah to Irving to catch the 44 bus. We were talking about poetry when a Chinese man (about our age) looked up from his reading and smiled at me.

“Hello.” He said. “You work at Clarion. I work at The Pot Sticker down Waverly, remember?”

Sometimes it was hard for me to recognize people when they appear out of context. But I realized he was the waiter who took my take-out orders.

“My name is David. You go to poetry readings? I like poetry too.”

David spoke very good English. I told him we used to have poetry open mikes at Clarion. I would have invited him if I had known.

“What are you reading, David?” He showed me the cover of his book. It was Carl Jung. I was blown away. All the years I worked in Chinatown I had not met one person who had the slightest interest in poetry, psychology or philosophy. David and I could have been great friends. I told him I had sold Clarion. He too, looked disappointed.

I had too many questions but we were approaching our stop.

“Come to the reading at Sacred Grounds.” Dan and I urged him. He couldn’t. He had dinner shift on Wednesdays.

I saw David again some months later, at Eric’s, another Chinese restaurant on Church Street. He was a little distant when he saw me, and because he was working, we couldn’t talk too much. The last time I went to the restaurant, he had stopped working there.

Twenty Years, Twenty Poems

Steve Mackin at the SF Poetry TV Show. Click to watch.

At the end of the Thursday tarot soiree conversation turned to the internet and its effect on musicians. The prevalent file sharing culture is challenging copyrights. And if you protect and charge for your music chances are the audience will turn away from you and go to the ones that are giving out their music for free.

“Take Lady Gaga, for example,” our pianist host Richard said, “she was giving her songs out for free until she built up a large following. She makes her money from her tours.”

I think of my friend Steve Mackin, who is always generous in giving out his poems. Earlier in the year he read twenty poems in twenty minutes to commemorate his twenty years of writing poetry. That and his most recent reading were accompanied by free books that he painstakingly printed, collated and stapled together. I appreciate having the poems in my hands after a reading to savor at another time. By giving, Steve’s poems are in circulation. I don’t think anybody ever “burst” into a scene. It all takes hard work, and Steve is planting the seeds.

Stealing a Style

I don’t know about you, but going to poetry reading is work for me. It’s the good kind of work—observe and steal. The style, I mean, not word for word. It may be the surprise twist at the very end of a poem. It may be the use of a repeated rhythm. It may be the concept of a slice of pizza topped with “tiny little white men” *. It may be an imagery of a bucket of herb blood. Whatever it may be, when I see a gem I snatch it and put it in my memory bank.

Luke Warm Water came to Sacred Grounds last night and he was the rich guy I hung onto. Out of his mouth tumbled all kinds of goodies. It was better than Christmas. When I got home I had to cook down his humor, metaphors, language, moves, even the beer he sipped during the reading. And the end result was I wrote a poem of my own without a trace of LWW.

* from Luke’s poem “Are You Hungry For Pizza?”

Five Minutes Of Fame

At open mike we usually get to read for five minutes. Sometimes less. But the concept of five minutes varies with individuals. That’s why the host of a poetry reading is often the time keeper. A nice little chime is too understated. Its sweetness can easily be ignored by the poet. A kitchen alarm works well, since it is meant to be loud. But I find it off-putting, especially when I’m immersed in something wonderful. The continuous beeping jerks me back into reality and destroys the magic of the moment.

There is really no good way to manage the five minutes. Poets are needy for attention and not good manager of themselves. To cut a poet off in the middle of delivery requires snap judgement and the skill of a surgeon. No one does it better than Don Brennan. He interjects when he hears a pause and in no uncertain terms tells the poet to stop. “OK. Time’s up.”

That is definitely better than having the audience booing at the end of an interminable narration and chiding the “rude” poet for taking up other people’s time.

The Old Druidess

Sometimes we live in magick and we don’t even know it. It is because we are mundane and unable to perceive the fantastical elements. Unlike falling in love where there is a heightened sense of pleasure, most magick is subtle, coming and going without creating too much of a stir, except when it is gone.

Jehanah Wedgwood had long silver gray hair. She sat at the head of the table at the Sacred Grounds Cafe with a piece of sign up sheet in front of her. She had sat there like this every Wednesday night for nearly twenty years. Once in a while I gave Jehanah a ride home after the reading. She lived not far from the venue but I could never find it on my own. I blamed myself for not paying attention. Sometimes I would pick her up during the day for other outings and find the street and the houses looking all together different from the night.

After Jehanah died we had a druid ceremony at the Monarch Bear Grove at the Golden Gate Park. While we memorialized Jehanah, Rodney the celebrant pointed out that he had trouble driving Jehanah home. Many hands shot up at once, as we all had the same experience. “It was because she lived in both worlds.” The magick was explained but the realm had already passed on.

The Pit Bull

I’m scared of Chris Trian because he is big, tall and loud. When he stands up to read I imagine his mop of blond curls grazing the ceiling igniting fire. I am scared because Chris seems angry all the time. Except for sex, he blasts drugs, alcohol, God, Devil and Hell alike. Chris is not the cordial kind of guy who welcomes you to the Sacred Grounds poetry reading with open arms. He and his wife Dierdre occupy front row seats every Wednesday night. And if they come in late, somehow the seats are reserved for them.

I don’t remember how we get connected. I think Dierdre is the key. She is the witch with the pit bull and if you are nice to the witch, the pit bull won’t bite. When Chris turns off his poetry voice he is warm and gentle and sane. And as my anxiety eases I begin to hear his words, strong, no nonsense words that spew fiery imageries.

Chris brought his paintings to the SF Poetry Podcast TV Show. We mounted a different one for each of the taping segments. I listened to Chris without the distractions of noise and people and found myself reacting emotionally to his every word. We have great poets among us, writing with no recognition, struggling to make a living. Here’s Chris, a living example. Hear him and be moved.