Even though photos of Jehanah Wedgwood are still hanging on the wall at the Sacred Grounds Cafe, I felt that she had truly departed. Memories live in those who have known her, her poetry, and the resemblance on her children’s faces. It has been a year since her death. The poetry reading series has assumed a different personality—light, humorous, at times rowdy—that of our host, Dan Brady’s.
Her presence used to fill the room, even long after she was gone. Like air, it dissipated without our knowing each time the cafe door opened and closed. I realized Sacred Grounds has regenerated. A whole new me ready to go again.* The old Druidess has let it to be so. We must remember to celebrate the new.
The version on youtube of TS Eliot reading his own work, The Love Song Of J Alfred Prufrock, is painfully uninteresting. There are a few other interpretations by various people. Only one, a young, high-pitched voice, has the kind of edginess I imagine J Alfred to be; but the verses are chopped up by an infantile video interpretation.
It doesn’t take much to turn a great dramatic monologue into a bore, but it does take intention and integrity of the deliverer to bring out the essence of a poem. Last night at the Sacred Grounds we had such a treat, when the featured poet Greg Pond received a standing ovation (a rarity) after his reading.
Besides his own poems, Greg chose to present the work of his friends. He clearly worked on each poem to bring out the drama and music. Greg personified the romance of Steve Mackin, the satire of Garrett Murphy, the mysticism of Jehanah Wedgwood, and the angst of Don Brennan. He read our poems better than we have read them. We were all giddy, after discovering a “side” of our poems that we had never imagined. We swore to improve ourselves as we chattered non-stop like school children, walking out into the night.
The room was once again warm and stuffy. Poets were reading to the theme of food. Joan Gelfand, poet and activist, brought in a large mailing envelope to collect money for the San Francisco Food Bank. Some of us brought packaged food. People kept coming in to listen. Dan Brady, our hosts, counted over seventy people in the cafe at one point.
How much was Joan able to collect? Was it a successful evening? In the bigger picture it is never enough. Corporations have been cutting back with their contributions and I think San Francisco is just shy of being qualified for federal funding. But in a small way we have actively participated in raising the consciousness of helping the needy, put some money down, give some food away. Miracles happen when we stir the cosmic soup and we walk away knowing that some way some how things will change for the better.
Leonard Irving led a double life—one in Vermont, another in San Francisco. When in Vermont he was a husband. When in San Francisco he was a poet. Not that he didn’t write when he was with his wife. They got married when Leonard turned 89 because Randy his wife didn’t want to marry a 90 year old man. When Leonard was in town he had a single rented room in downtown San Francisco, took the bus, went to readings and lived a pure poetic existence. I met Leonard at the fateful Sacred Grounds. He had Scottish roots, white hair , blue piercing eyes, spoke with a musical accent.
Many of Leonard’s poems were about city life. Many bus poems–the waiting and waiting of it. But when his first book came out it was all about birds. Published in 1995 in Vermont, it included Randy’s drawings of wildlife. The book was dedicated to Finnegan.
Leonard stopped coming to San Francisco about three years ago. He had invited me to Vermont. They live in a farm. I like to imagine myself snuggling beside a fire while the outside is blanketed with snow. He and Stephanie Manning correspond from time to time and Stephanie would read his letters to us. Well into his nineties now, Leonard is still jolly.
Avotcja! I called her when my daughter (18 at the time) ran away from home. Avotcja. Not only her name was magical but I knew she was the strong woman who I could lean on. I needed magic and a miracle. She stayed with me the whole way through, advising, warning, consoling, encouraging me, the distraught mother.
When my daughter came back I took her to the Sacred Grounds reading. Avotcja read a poem. She pulled me aside afterward, “I don’t know if it helps but I put the poem out there for her to hear it.”
Six years later her poem is still out there doing its magical transformation as I watch my daughter grows into a functional young woman celebrating her 24th birthday today.
Who is Gaya Jenkins? I know her and I don’t. Gaya was one of my first poetry friends at Sacred Grounds. We went out to dinner one time. I gave her rides back to her Chinatown residence after the reading. We got close, once, when I didn’t want to go home and she needed to make a delivery in Petaluma. We drove up, half crazed in our respective mood, both needed to take a time out from reality. And then Gaya was gone. She moved around the country while I faithfully remain at Sacred Grounds.
I heard from her at times, through emails. She was not well. Always struggling, always fighting her own body, the mortal combat between good and evil. Yet she was concerned with my son Lawrence—all the surgeries that he had had to go through. In her dark times she put out good thoughts for him. Lawrence survived, but Gaya is still battling, this time more than ever, when her cancer is becoming vicious and out of control.
Death may be imminent, but her spirit is strong. Gaya needs prayers, blessings, thoughts, words or whatever healing energy each of us can impart. Because she is a poet. Because she believes in the collective energy. Because she is love.
Dan Brady at the Jerry Garcia Amphitheater, McLaren Park
My neighbor Dan Brady and his wife Wendy Wolters are moving today. We have been living eight blocks away from each other for six years. Dan and Wendy are both poets. We first met at the Sacred Grounds.
Dan and I like to get together at times to do writing exercises. He is a school teacher so has all kinds of tricks up his sleeves. My brain ached after my first outing with him, having to manipulate a given set of words and using them in a poem. Since then the writing days have been much more enjoyable and fun. One time we went to three different cafes for breakfast, lunch and snacks before putting down our pens on paper.
Sometimes I feel like getting stuck in one place doing the same things every day. Sometimes I feel the wind of fate blowing and recognize the subtle changes in life. Dan took care of my cats when my son was in the hospital. We share rides. He was one of the volunteers who helped in rebuilding the park playground near my house. We had organized many Poets with Trees events, bringing poetry to Sutro and McLaren parks. Now he and Wendy will be settling in a different part of the city. Even though I’ll still see them at readings, I can’t help but feel nostalgic at the good times we had as neighbors.
There were few women poets at the Sacred Grounds when I started attending the readings in 2001. So whenever one of the women stopped going her absence would be felt by the group. For about three years I was only able to attend the readings sporadically due to my work and my children’s schedules. But each time I went back I felt the warm welcome, that my fellow poets had saved a space in their hearts for me.
Jehanah Wedgwood (the hostess) aside, Eleanor Watson-Gove (editor of the Sacred Grounds Anthology), Syreia Witt, Marsha Campbell, Gaya Jenkins, Selene Steese and me were the regulars at that time. Then, Eleanor moved to Portland. Syreia Witt died. Selene quit her job in San Francisco to become a full time poet. She began her own reading series, S.O.U.P. in Oakland. Gaya suffered all kinds of ailments and moved to the East Coast. Jehanah passed away last year. Marsha stopped coming because of heart surgery and various housing problems.
Barbara Bel Diamond, the spunky dark-haired Canadian with her signature beret came to Sacred not much later after me. She had been a steady presence on the Wednesday night circuit until recently, when she began her own reading series at Sacred on Saturday afternoons. Deirdre Trian, the beautiful witch-goddess has been our iconic figure in the past six years.
There are more women who grace the Grounds now and the balance between the genders are improving. A couple of weeks ago Marsha Campbell came back looking trim and ever graceful. I realized how much I had missed her stunning poetry, her tremulous voice resulted from throat surgery and her out of tune guitar. As she walked up to the mike she was greeted by thunderous applause—a fitting way to welcome back a great dame.
As the last tone on the singing bowl fades away, we know we’re ready. Bill looks at me with a smile on his face and I smile back. Next Wednesday (July 27) will be the premier at the Sacred Grounds. Our new set of poetry, Two Tongues of Gaia, includes the usual instruments of Bill’s shakuhachi and my drum. But we have added some vocals and the Native American style flute.
Whether we rehearse at my house or Bill’s studio, the ritual always begin with a cup of tea. Conversation ensues on the state of the world, friends and community, with Bill warming up his shakuhachi in between. We like to run the set through, pausing in between to discuss the issues that come up—the rhythms on the drum, the tempo in the recitation, the balance between voice and instrument, etc. Sometimes things work out smoothly. Other times we struggle through, tolerating each other’s point of view, but ultimately a decision is made.
We sit back, feeling good about what we’ve done, and drink some more tea. The gestation part has been rewarding. We look forward to bringing the child into the world.
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.
