WESTERN MASS REVIEWS

Review of Joshua Michael Stewart's chapbook “Vintage Gray”

2007-08-07T06:40:00.000-07:00

I had the pleasure of reading Joshua Michael Stewart’s new chapbook “Vintage Gray.” This well-crafted little volume from Pudding House Press (2007) contains something for every discerning reader of poetry. On opening the book this reader was immediately struck with refreshingly original imagery. In the opening piece “A Covenant and a Busted Tooth” he writes I’m eating a slice of toast thin as an angelfish / and my coffee’s cold as a frog’s belly.
The poems continue to both amuse and astound. The reader soon discovers playful poems about punctuation, playing air guitar, and pajamas. Stewart also explores the more serious theme of death in “When the Surrealist No Longer Remembers His Dreams”(which is a surrealist gem), in “Ghosts” and the book’s penultimate poem “On Being Asked If I Believe in an Afterlife.” “Internal Bleeding” depicts an encounter with a deer where the hunted becomes the hunter. Nestled within the volume, almost hidden on page 23 of 32 is a scintillating little piece.called "If I Had a Hammer...and Some Nails...Maybe Some Wood." Is it about building a house or the tremulous stirrings of the beginning of a new love? I hope both.
If you give / the signal: blink your eyes or breathe, / I’d have an old borrowed machine idling, / coughing black smoke. It may not look like much / but this rusty heart’s a thundering juggernaut.
“Vintage Gray” is available from Pudding House Publishers http://www.puddinghouse.com/
Joshua Michael Stewart lives and writes in Ware, Massachusetts.

by Lori Desrosiers

Book Review from Sympetalous

2007-08-02T13:37:00.000-07:00

Namaste...
and I can't think of a better way
to share that Light than offering up an awesome book tout...
Your summer reading assignment is Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth
This cherubic bad boy from the NYTimes cherished list
takes on the deeply entrenched Ego-driven mindset
like some single seated Monk chanting tones of full Acceptance
in the looming face of the invading hordes of screaming Huns
Cue the thundering hooves amidst a swirling wind machine
and the rising, clearly resonant surround sound of AAHHHHH...

oh but then their horsies pull up and start to neigh
and somehow most seem to just sorta fade away...
while some now bow and graze in this future pasture
and as the dust clears to a cloudless cobalt sky
we see several former barbarous types
sitting zen in a semi-circle around
a still enchanting David Carradine
(who's working for scale cuz he loves the script!)
Quick zoom to ground level ultra close-up
of a Graaass-hoppahhhh about to launch...
Fade to soft focus earth-tones
after slo mo/strobe light effect
shows the sweeping arcing motion
of those spindley green appendages
having their springing way with the world

Gilbert, Kinnell, Dickinson (not Emily) and Bidart: Reviews by Twilite

2007-04-30T13:21:00.000-07:00

A Tribute to Jack Gilbert
April 29, 2007
APE ltd Gallery,
Thornes Market
Northampton, MA

Tributes can be maudlin affairs with lots of tedious gushing and fawning over the honoree, who is often drawing his agonal breaths. Maybe that's what tributes are supposed to be, and maybe there was some of that here, but by god, I'm glad I didn't miss this one. The whole thing built steadily, with the readers, and the stories, and the poetry, just getting better and better. Everyone read a Gilbert poem and one of their own, and offered some personal recollections. Kerry O'Keefe recalled a story of how one of Gilbert's poems had finished off her marriage. Doug Anderson's reading was wonderfully expressive, and Henry Lyman was sage and erudite and soulful at the same time. The afternoon built to a crescendo when Gilbert himself read a piece, "Sing Going Down". Impressively moving and effective, Gilbert gathered his powers and delivered the goods. If one reading of one poem can sum up a lifetime of work then this was it. Simply amazing.
Twilite's rating - 9.2
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Galway Kinnell and Josephine Dickenson
Smith College
April 24, 2007

Galway Kinnell is god, well maybe not the God, but definitely a poetry god, at least to me. Even though he is 80 years old this year, he remains at the height of his power and relevance. Wow, just unbelievable! I was a huge thrill to hear him read and to talk with him afterwards and have him sign a book for me. He is a most gracious and wonderful man. He has found an incredible protegee in Josephine Dickenson. What an unexpected pleasure. She completely blew my mind with her earthy, deep poetry and heart felt delivery. Nothing artificial here.
Twilite's rating - 9.4
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Frank Bidart
Smith College
April 17, 2007

Frank Bidart has an amazing cobra head, stilted, elliptical poems and a delivery in which he punctuates the reading using his free hand like a sock puppet. He lets the words hang in the air for effect, carving space like some partially deranged puppeteer. With his dark clothes and contrived persona, he cuts an odd figure to say the least. I'm not quite sure what to make of his stuff. His long piece, "Giselle", I found self-indulgent and lacking in music. Interesting, I guess. Good, but certainly not great. Somewhat perplexing.Twilite's rating - 7.9

Naomi Shihab Nye at Smith by Kat

2007-04-21T20:36:00.000-07:00

Wednesday night I heard a wonderfully life-affirming poetry reading by Naomi Shihab Nye... have you read anything by her? I think you would like her; what a beautiful and caring person. She's the type who can have everyone waiting at an airport gate start talking to each other. She goes up to soldiers and engages them in warm conversation, then writes empassioned anti-war poems with the conviction of a mother who cares for the world so much it hurts.

Poets.org features this beautiful description of her writing:
The poet William Stafford has said, "her poems combine transcendent
liveliness and sparkle along with warmth and human insight. She is a c
hampion of the literature of encouragement and heart. Reading her work
enhances life.

"From Nye's poem "Streets"
If we stand quietly enough evenings
there grows a whole company of us
standing quietly together.
overhead loud grackles are claiming their trees
and the sky which sews and sews, tirelessly sewing,
drops her purple hem.
Each thing in its time, in its place,
it would be nice to think the same about people.

Bach's Birthday & Blue Guitar Gallery by Twilite

2007-04-12T08:31:00.000-07:00

Bach's Birthday Bash and the Rites of Spring!
Poetry and Music Performance
Harry Azmitia and Saundra Dubow, Poets
Lynne Camenga, Violin - Sonya Lawson, Viola
Westfield Atheneum
March 21

On rare occasions magic occurs. There are those moments in life and art that completely blow yer freakin' mind. This performance caught me totally by surprise. Lori Desrosiers poetry, read by Saundra, captured something like a sunny day from childhood, elusive and ebullient and brilliantly performed. Harry hit the mark with his well read, traditional verse straight from the inner soul. The music was delicious compliment, especially the expressive violin of Lynne Camenga, and Sonya Lawson capped off the evening with her toneful renditions of Bach on a Dali inspired, ergonomically correct viola. What a triumph!

Twilite's rating - 9.4

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Poetry Reading and Performance - Karen Randall (art and poetry), Christina Svane, Bill O'Haire, Erica Russo
Blue Guitar Gallery, Easthampton - March 31, 2007

Is it possible for Twilite to be taken aback? The short answer is yes, absolutely! Guitar virtuoso O'Haire provided effective backdrop to the abstract, atmospheric poetry of Randall, while O'Haire's better half, Svane, performed almost yogaesque movement, poetry in French, and something that sounded like Middle Eastern wail. It was all brilliantly weird as we all sat around in a circle on the floor and didn't really watch or listen, but experienced. I even got up during the "open" part of the performance and read a poem which fell almost completely flat. Apparently, I just couldn't dial in my mojo to the appropriate cosmic strangeness. Oh well, just give 'em hell!

Twilite's rating - 8.4

Naomi Shihab Nye at Smith College 4/3/07

2007-04-03T18:54:00.000-07:00

POETRY REVIEWS WESTERN MASS

I went to hear Naomi Shihab Nye at Smith College on April 3, 2007. What a pleasure to experience her sincere, poignant and image rich poetry, peppered with humor. I was particularly touched by her narratives of women in war and her anecdotes of her life. She told us that when we need to look at language in a new way we should talk to people older than ninety and to children under three. This was a delightful, moving and inspiring evening.
Lori's rating five stars out of five. *****

Reviews and Remembrances from Sympetalous

2007-03-20T08:52:00.000-07:00

POETRY REVIEWS WESTERN MASS

So '07's off an' runnin', kinda gettin' warm
in the white hot micro universe of spoken form
and formless poetry it's free an' still early on
an' hence not too late to honor and appreciate
the still shimmering residue of our '06 spin,
a revolution it was around the sun just passed

In addition to the aforeposted and reviewed
(or rather words o' mine that swiftly ensued)
re: the hipster Chris Chandler on 5/02/06
at quaint, funky Oobah's Deli
in old-school down-bound-town
Main Street, Willi-mantic, Conn
~ and ~
the Queen o' Cool, she's La Blue Belle Patricia Smith
on a Brainiac-Black-Smith-Word-Smith College Gig
in Northamp-tone on an 09/28/06 eve...
there were others on which to report,
five of shiny sterling note
still compounding interest
in my confounded memory bank

1/ Patti Smith reads on 2/08/06 at Cooper Union in The Village, NYC
proudly standing at an ancient massive lectern once used by Lincoln to announce
his opposition to slavery in 1859 and later by Twain no doubt wrly musing on the
sadly humorous fall from grace of a clearly unevolved human race, while literally
Mark-ing his territory via salivated tobacco stains still visible these five long
quarter centuries later to Patti, our dear speaker, the feisty, long in the tooth, forever young at a still growing heart warmed by an everpresent fire in the belly
of a beat-nik-chip-monk-punk-poet-shaman sharing her latest penned musings,
these sooth-said so dubbed "Auguries of Innocence", these icy hot & fiery cool incantations on a future still to be "plenty fucked with", miraculously chanted,
carved deep and clean in dark soapstone, then brought down the mountainside
to be cast upon the waters amongst adoring masses masquerading as a precious few dozen, and all as if by divine calling, then soulfully held in sacrosanct retrospect,
the destiny of this sweet pleasured, painfully shy, self-deprecating yet supremely brash and bold jersey word warrior with an uncompromising passion for the ragged
edges of life, and true compassion for the outcast and the downtrodden exceeded
only by her stunning vision of our world as Peaceable Kingdom where the instinctive Artist simultaneously on street, stage & endless galleria blends seemlessly with her
Art as well as an Audience of Clear Light Seekers whose very existence depends on their subtle merging with the various pulsating, luminous creations...

(alright, I didn't get alllll o' that from just one ever so slightly awkward reading...
cuz Hall o' Fame Rocker Patti girl, now thrice score in years, has shaken and stirred
my conscious soul to its uncompromising core for 30 years now, cuz she and I sweet
sister brother nama-stay we're still dancin' bare-foot bein' re-born til dyin' day
headin' most sure enough for a spinnnnn...an' then some strange music draws me in,
makes me come on naturally...like some speara-chewal hero-in(e)))))))

2/ Hugh Ogden reads on 5/04 at Bacon Academy in Colchester, CT
(and then drowns in Rangeley Lake on New Year's Eve)
The straggley long gray maned quixote/coyote rebel marchin' into the maw of hell
on a heavenly cause, twinkling eyes at once at seeming rest and now fully ablaze
fueled by a blend of light, wry, dry wit...and a piece of the deep uncommon wisdom
that would 241 days later barely freeze then draw him gently in and smoothly under...
Now and forever the image of an aging american gothic bard artist as flannel clad
guru slo-mo slip slidin away and between those thin, cool, white sheets... of ice,
the dear lake his eternal bed indeed, perpetually warmed and comforted by the
lofty irony that the Maine waters that Hugh so wholly loved would swallow him whole

3/ Roger Bonair-Agard on 10/25 at Molton Java in Bethel, CT
So Rajah B.A. you rocka my world say
feel like I'm smokin' purpley haired sinse-ay
Hey Roger B.Ar, the Be-All an' End-All
before you were born but af-ter the fall
from grace stilla trace, the only thing that's all
that will be droppin' would be our slackened jaw
from your pure power pipes and those silkychops
yeah, he's Ace, he'smoooooth Roger Bonair-Agard

4/ Martin Espada on 11/02 at RealArtWays in Hartford, CT
Then there's the cooly cerebral sword o'
the Esteemed Professa Marteen Espada
and you just know he was mo' than just riffin' by sorta
pitchin' perfecto while pluggin pure Pablo Neruda
like some newfound Johnny Jumpin Jesus Appleseeder
sowin' fertile mindsouls as would any Buddha feeder

Sadly he seemed a little distant and lacking in the fiery spark that
must have named his and now my "Mayan Astronomer in Hell's Kitchen"
as he generically signed this skinny, steely blue scintillating volume

5/Magpie Ulysses on 11/21 at Reflections Cafe in Providence
Why you brilliant, instinctive, rhythmic, twitching, slightly damaged
slammer, you! workin' both sides of the tracks on the Vancouver docks,
baby's helpin' folks with needle tracks, maybe layin' soulful slammin' tracks
for torn and reborn troubadors and minstrel whores who seemed to slip right
on thru the invisible cracks of amorphous life, a coupla which may've held a
piece o' you after just wriggling past in your adventure travels and travails,
all the while living on the prayerful edge and then surviving therefore
thriving on the Pure Power of the Words and your staggering ability
to mount your special passion and then hump that quivering truth,
conveying climax and sweet release as a rarified free juice for those
fortunate enough to be present and then ready and willing to go deep
within and ride that baby blue wave and catch that violet wind...

and now if she'd only return my e-mails...like she said she would on the
last goddamn page of her book... hey, whuddup with that?

Poetry Reviews by Twilite

2007-03-16T07:56:00.000-07:00

POETRY REVIEWS WESTERN MASS

"The Best American Poetry 2006"
Guest Editor - Billy Collins
Series Editor - David Lehman
Publisher: Scribners, 2006

Safe, predictable sampling of so-called high quality poetry for the masses.
Rounds up all of the usual suspects and a few annoited successors. As even and
flat as a frozen pond. For all of his vaunted wit, Collins choices are
relentlessly limited. No, it's not terrible, just disappointing and lacking in
grit or soul. I like my poetry a little unwashed, and with a very few
exceptions, this tweed wearing collection failed to deliver. Poetry by MFA's
for MFA's. It's exactly what you'd expect. Twilite's rating: 6.5

Editor's Note: Being in an MFA program, I beg to differ on the point that MFA's only like "tweed wearing" poetry. We have hip-hop,slam, beat, cowboy and biker poets in my program, who have more of the "unwashed" style that our esteemed reviewer prefers, and he knows it! - Lori
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Slate Roof Press, Group Reading, March 7, 2007
Forbes Library

Slate Roof Press is a group from Franklin county that formed a small member press to produce chapbooks. They were all good readers, and the books were all nicely done. Trish Crapo, what a great name for a poet but it's pronounced "cray-poe" (too bad), had a couple of good poems, especially one called "Salt", though I thought she played it a little safe. Susan Middleton has a descriptive style, wonderfully rich and vivid, but I got the feeling I was looking at one of those super-realist paintings that are so popular now. Art Stein had some good poems, and he was heavily into the Japanese formulaic (he was good at it, though) and his stuff had a sensuous feel. My favorite was Jim Bell, who's style was economical and clean and surprisingly effective and evocative. I found his poetry to be the most interesting and unique of the evening. I thought the weakest poet was Susan (Pupello?, I didn't quite catch the name), though in no way was she bad. One of her poems was about her first sexual experience. It was a little detached, like sex with a statue, (though she did use an unflattering and interesting image of her father's equipment, comparing it to the "brown pipes behind the john" and even emphasized it with an editorial comment, "it's true") I didn't even get a twinge. All in all it was not an unpleasant evening, but a little staid and subdued, and the crowd was pretty old, am I getting that old? I talked to some of the poets afterwards but I got the feeling it was a little insular.
Twilite's rating - 7.9

Poetry and Book Reviews by Twilite

2007-03-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

Poetry Reading - Smith College - March 13
Kimiko Hahn

Hanh's softspoken nature and petite size belie a monster, a poetry death reaper with unblinking eyes and an obsessive heart. She lightened up a poem about moms who kill their babies with one about premature burial. She had me, that's for sure. She gave me hope for the hopeless and soulless world of academic poetry. Poe's got nuthin' on her. Nuthin' !

Twilite's rating - 8.7

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Poetry Reading - Smith College - Feb 26
Sarah Manguso and Kevin Prufer
Here is my two word review; Sarah Manguso - smug, Kevin Prufer - pretentious.
Honestly, Manguso had some interesting ideas and images, but her delivery was like watching the wallpaper peel. You really had to experience it to believe it. It was like she was Vulcan or something. This chick was way too smart for her own good! I wanted to pull back her hair and check her ears. In contrast, Prufer was animated. His command of English and references to Roman history and mythology were duly impressive. He delivered his self satisfied, intellectual tripe with the conviction that he was the most gifted wit of his generation. This guy was so in love with himself that he actually giggled with glee at his own cleverness. Wow! The best thing about this reading was that it was really short, (only about 30 minutes total) and the beer sure tasted fine afterwards. Twilite's rating - 6.5-
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Eggless Wisdom, poetry by Susan Cordelli Botfield
Chapbook printed by Adasha Press, Easthampton, 1996
Unique, way too personal, death poems about cancer and pussy.
Not great poetry, but what a subject. I read it twice because it was short.
Give me this stuff over the contrived academic crap any day - at least it's got a soul.
Twilite's rating - 7.4
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Babylan - An Anthology of Filipina and Filipina American Writers
Editors: Nick Carbo and Eileen Tabios
Publisher - Aunt Lute Books, 2000
Sometimes anthologies are dismal dumps of carefully selected horseshit, but not this one! Half poetry/half prose, it sings from the diaphragm like some mythological beast. Deep, deep throaty expressions of passion and heat. Maybe too deep, but who cares? The prose was especially sensuous, the poetry especially delicious.
Twilite's rating - 8.5
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Sailing Alone Around The Room, New and Selected Poems
by Billy Collins Publisher - Random House Trade Paperbacks, 2002
Collins is the ridiculously popular master of a certain kind of poetry that appeals to the NPR set. Perfectly crafted, mildly amusing, and with just enough depth to fool the average egghead, Collins prances on, laughing all the way to the bank. I'm sorry, I don't get the attraction. Maybe I'm jealous. Maybe it's Fleetwood Mac, or the Beatles, but it sure the hell ain't Bob Marley or Johnny Cash.
Twilite's rating - 7.1
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African-American Poetry, An Anthology 1773-1927
Editor - Joan R. Sherman
Publisher - Dover Thrift Editions, 1997
This little volume offers deliverance and merits further research.
Uneven, brilliant, dusky jewels that sparkle or fall into the dirt and melt.
Check out "De Cunjah Man" by James Edwin Campbell, or "Wish for an Overcoat"
by Alfred Islay Walden, or "Her Lips Are Copper Wire" an absolutely amazing poem
by Jean Toomer. Also includes such favorites as Paul Laurence Dunbar and
Langston Hughes. Thank you, Lawd!!!
Twilite's rating - 8.2

Poets' Outing in Northampton? by Sympetalous

2007-02-06T10:38:00.000-08:00

So I was thinkin'...
the Phunky Phlorence Slam appears
to be headed in a long standing direction...
and you guys've got your weather permitting
Festivals in the Parks and what not...
so how's about a little Poetry Pub Crawl
on a breezy not quite boozy summer's eve
amidst oh so trendy Noho sidewalk throngs
dancin' to some so faux boho street folk songs
(y'all know what kinda underwear they're sportin'!)
Yeah, I'm talkin' bout a little hook up and walkin'
with maybe 10 or 12 poets or even eleven odd ones'll do
for the first hale and hearty round at some fine watering hole
and with all in a knowing cluster we'll tilt our mugs'n'glasses
whilst each bard among us shares a suitably ironic tale or two
in a style most befitting the time honored barroom troubador tradition
of artfully blending utter bullshit with sublime wit and wisdom!

Perhaps three or four stops will do...maybe about 30-45 minutes per dive
with the inevitable light weights sitting out a round sippin' Shirley Temples...
sorry, no total tee-totalers, unless they're able to easily slip into that giddy
semi-inebriated group mindset popularized by centuries of brilliant wordsmiths
stereotypically of Hibernian descent, and that be a wee bit Irish in persuasion,
but Aye, I could go on but even a phool such as this has to work on occasion...

So Flo Po So... whadda ya think? sorta old school cool?
and Lori? oh baby, you're in... but till then,
you can maybe post this plea on your bloggy thin'...

~ Sympetalous ~

Bald Chandler - by Sympetalous

2006-12-28T12:48:00.000-08:00

December 19 -
Still enthused from last night, I'll share with you this very recent piece about a guy who's been on the circuit for almost 20 yrs, (check out www.chrischandler.org)
a brilliant blend of southern boy, beat hipster, left wing/underground commentator
sometimes working with a keyboard guy and/or lap-top projected imagery on a background bedsheet... he's way smooth and very edgy...his monthly blog/newsletter
as well as several free 5-8 minute videos linked to his website are awesome (check out
"Something's Happening but it ain't on the Airwaves")...

Anyway blah blah gush gush...you've got to get this guy in 2007, a total starving artist type with way less Big Shot baggage than the dutifully esteemed Marteen Espada...and what's really cool is that the only place I've ever seen him live is at a deli in a little old storefront on a slightly funky Main Street in a small New England city/mill town that also has a State College nearby with an improving reputation... sounds like Jester's, huh?... but actually it was Oobah's Deli in Willimantic! and his performance greatly influenced my own unique developing style...

~ A Chandler is a Candler ~
No mean meat butcher or breakin' bread baker so no faker
He's a burnin' Light o' Truth tapered Candle-stick maker

yeah you gotta lotta "street" in your sweet sense
an' some "just rode in" road on your knowing face
an' so you got glide it's hip it's in your step'n'stride
with eyes open'n'wide receivin' higher grace
a little pain endured maybe more than a trace

but mama papa, please don't stop an' rest assured
there's plenty advanced ol' gold in your ancient sweet soul
an' so your way mad flow's mostly honey smooth an' pure
an' your perspective's a blenda empathy with poor
ana sense o' color-Ful hue-More that they & I & Eye adore

therefore, the Lizard Pigs abhor, like your clarion call
to really rally, take it to the streets alive like days of olde
but hey 'twas only 7 years ago when pushin came to shove
an' there was action bold in Seattle no more sleepin' at the Battle of

an' I've no doubt that you were there in full Spear-it and/or Bod-ee you dared
an' still do with arch-ed comment-air-eee,it'd be...no ordinary drawl
2 parts yo and 1 part y'all...why it's all on edge an' then it's on
enlightened cruise con-trol, a To-tal-con Sue-mate-pro
but this ain't no mainstream black face minstrel show
so you make do (unto others) without no, that's any actual dough
but not without the D.I.Y. rapier wit an' keen mind say I

and then we who see can feel a bit o' the bitter-sweet
it'so reet it better comes with years o' barn-storming tours
armed with only reams o' truth on An'gelic wings it soars
from way laid tracks o' bloody troubadors
who got killed before they reach Bombay
oooh ooohhhh...one fine day...oooh ooohhhh

(yeah, the Corporate Trail beckoned and that's what Mick & Keith followed
but that ain't where they were at when they laid down that sweet track
ooooohh, ooooohh, indeed!)

an' paranoid or not, you're always pissin' off
the Big & Little Powers that be so...a sho'nuff
geyser better call you butter, you're on a Kaiser roll
spoutin' off and mouthin' rollin' seven pretty baby needs new shoes
like even shitty vans got blues, maybe goin' south, could be needin' brakes?
an' so you could really use a few mo' fill-in gigs
perhaps a place to stay, friendly digs is what it takes
in a soulful Heartland Burg or some fairy Far West Ville...Age?
it don't matter cuz you're just a Stoney Mountain country boy
born as King was flashin' his famous dream, so you go by Holy Soul
you're tappin' into the Juice that comes up from way down deep
inside the stem of the plant, must be them ol' Dixie Roots
and Fruits o'the Vine maybe sometime looks like you'll be skippin'
that funky fickle New York town, you're torn forlorn or is it?
cuz you're amiss not quite a mess when you're not so damn Dylan busy bein' reborn
you're busy tryin' baby's dyin' to re-visit...Little Ms. Wendy Corn

(Wendy's the inspiring one who introduced me to Chris
as well as the wonderful opportunities in NYC)

A New York Minute... or longer

2006-11-24T15:25:00.000-08:00

Submitted by
Sym-petal-ous ~ from no certain address

Sooo...I spaced out on the ride and let the flow take me
where I musta had to go, and that would apparently be
the beautiful Henry Hudson Parkway/West Side Highway
and it bein' a Saturday, traffic backed up at those shitty Mid-town lights
but I just shrugged, took a chill pill and then took in the sights
and then emergin' from the rip-off backed up Battery Tunnel I flagged
a beat cop he was and he was just walkin' the line, payin' no mind
and he winced & scratched what was left of the hair on his head
and wasn't sure he said 'bout what's the best way to some Brooklyn hood
so I asked the next cop with couth & he just pointed to the ol' toll booth
"ask him" he grunted and so I paid a piece o' my soul to the Com-pa-ny
askin' what's the best way to blahblahblah and said he in a sorta fun-ny
little voice soundin kinda blue that he really didn't have much of a clue
and oh yeah, "I am not...from around...here, are you?"

No that's true and I got a little lost, hey what the hell else is new?
and so I passed the same stuff twice, a deja vue freakin' time or two
but eventually I parked on President near the Funky 4th Avenue venue
The Spoken Word Cafe that is and a Flatbush dive it was...
the kind where you walk in the door and they hit you up for your
One Drink Min-i-mum, a five dollar sum, before you can even explore
so I sipped my brown bottled brew and slowly strolled around right in-to
the strangely orange bare back room with a giant boxed-in chimney
squarely situated city-style smack in the middle and amidst thee...
ample clutter with no aisles but a tangled spread of metal folding chairs
and some tired but cushy couches and sofas that sorta belonged in some
SUNY frathouse somewheres or the like just as the 2 o'clock open-mike
was about to actually commence...and with a few sweet smiling oldsters
spewing the type of sentimental verbiage that makes poetry the "P" word
~ ~ ~ it painfully did just that ~ ~ ~

Then after a bit of a while (lucky us!) there was a break
and still waitin' for my time to shine, I ambled over
to a middle-aged woman with a brash and arrogant air
the type that could probably hold her own drivin' a Yellow Cab
in the Big Apple (you know, make it there, make it anywhere!)
Now she was busy arrangin' her blessed "broad-side" freebies
so it occurred to me that she just might be the Featured Readah
name o' Jackie Sheelah, kinduva movah and a shakah in and on
the local Spoken Poa Tree scene...soooo to break the thin ice (no pond)
and crack that kinda cool veneer, I pointed to the 16 little pictures
of famous folks that were evenly spaced and adorned those walls
with faces like Malcolm X, FDR, Bob Marley, and Mu-ham-med
(you know, Ali!)..."So" I said, "they should have a little contest here,
maybe see who can correctly identify the most of those celebrities"
Huh? she mumbled looking up at the walls and then not quite at me
"Hell, I don't think I could name one of them" she sorta spat and then
incredulously I directed her attention to a picture o' John Lennon,
you know, the famed portrait shot with the beard and the shortish hair
from the 70s when the Beatles were no more here, there & everywhere
"that's him?" she now squinted with a skeptical air "musta been when
he was young" she muttered and then turned away to attend to her
words and her de-liver-ee that was frankly mediocre for a feature
or at least it just seemed like that to the likes of me

Now she did get a chuckle from the fawning locals by later fessin' up
to being well aware of how much easier it is to beg or implore
or hope for or even expect (Imagine that! an Entitled New Yorker!)
Forgiveness (Sweet Forgiveness) than it may be to have the decency
to ask for permission that just might be denied...sure I laughed,
but inside I cried... well not really, but know if you must, it was
more like derision and a little mild disgust, but not for long cuz
I quickly forgave her, for that's what I do in this type of case
that is when I'm not get-tin...a taste of my own medi-cine
and oh yeah, when my turn came I freakin' torched the place
~ ~ ~

News from the Poetry Front

2006-09-29T18:50:00.000-07:00

NEWS FROM THE FRONT by Sympetalous
Poetry Night with Patricia Smith 9/28 at Smith College

So it's a mighty short list
of those I know even just a little
whom I could well tell about this magic
cuz last NightEye went back to where
the T. Wolf say I could never return
Home again ahh but not Home Alone
cuz there I was in the Ahh-oomm womb
a sacred room at the center of a largely unknown universe
with wayfar more than one a verse and so many stan's ahhhs
and oohs for all that gray matter that would make clocks pause
and time-stan-still but not my heart for it burned as it raced
with our spirits just beaming their baby wide smile whenever
the real soul food's there it's all you can eat maybe get your mind around
that clean clear acoustic oval forum o' higher learnin' then some spiralin' wisdom
of last eve's poetic fuzzy logic and La Chiara'still exquisite MotherWomen

Yes it is, just a precious few who could sense (oh yes) and know
of the passion I saw and heard and felt somehow
last night word-Smithin' in ol' Noho way north of Soho
it was baby Boho an' a little yo so much like heaven and there were angels
of all sizes shapes an colors just touchin' takin' oaths and testifyin'
and If I'm lyin' I'm dyin' cuz I was being bein' born
like any other an' with all that talk of babies and motherin'
and cryin and sighin and itchin' maybe moanin' the blues
'bout how bitchin' are women's prisons and/or gasms
both faked and for sure surreal and so still imagined
as grand slam canyon poets love their soft stony chasms

I could go on right here'n'now suffice t'say that after a super sublime open-mike
slam-bam-thank you-mam-selle LaBlue-Belle Patricia Smith worked that crowd like
a pure Aretha who never loved a man that way an' lika Tina turn her whole life around as the Buddha told her what love's got to do with it an' I'll tell ya what, she was so still that little nappy haired girl (white folks get to say that, right?)
on the Chi-town streets maybe jumpin' double dutchin' to the Motown beat
of Temps'n'Tops the PipsSupremes and then she stopped in the name o' love
and told tales of livin' & lovin' round the world, of givin' & hoverin' roun'
the Truth as she saw it and felt it sojournalized it embellished it and then
was banished to a sacred region that now wants more than the news reported
and its ludicrous attempt at pure objec-tivity in a totally subjective reality that
whirls like Sufis on quantum mechanics, one that even Immanuel Kant screw up
and Heisenberg? oh, he's certain about that!...and now I'll shut up!