Sacred Grounds Cafe – Page 2

Haight Street Blues

Don Eli had a gentle voice. When he read his poems sometimes we couldn’t hear him. Then Don disappeared from the scene. I bumped into him many months later standing on Haight Street talking to some passer-by. He had taken to the street, reciting poems by request for money. His voice had become strong and loud and his gestures expansive. I was amazed at his transformation. He had since been a fixture on Haight Street for many years.

Being a street poet Don had to overcome many obstacles. Solicitation had to be understated and fun so people wouldn’t get scared or intimidated. He learned to project his voice and be theatrical so his patrons got their money’s worth. But the biggest problem for Don was the street gangs. They didn’t like him and wanted him out. Don persisted, until recently, when during an evening a group of men gathered half a block away from him with looks to kill. Don had no intention to get beaten up so he fled and that was the end of his street gig.

Don is back at the Sacred Grounds. When he reads the room is too small for him.

Photo by Travis Snelling.

Poetria Inception

With the moon eclipsing, the Puyehue-Cordón Caulle volcano in Chile erupting, and the earth still tremulous under Japan’s soil, three women sat in the warmth of a kitchen in San Francisco divining a new beginning. Jeanne Lupton, Kellyann Conway and I met each other at the fateful Sacred Grounds Cafe. I love Jeanne’s revealing tankas and Kellyann’s intuitive verse and they in turn like my penetrating style. Coming together to co-create seems natural and timely.

In Patti Smith’s memoir “Just Kids”, she talked about an unrealized vision of Jimi Hendrix, of musicians from all disciplines and cultures playing in a circle until there is harmony. Poetria will realize this vision with words.

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.