Albany Poets Present!, July 1

[Not exactly the view this night at Valentines, but an image of what I have seen sometimes at the bar.]


Tonight we were exiled to the cavernous upstairs at Valentines while down below 4 head-banger bands nearly drowned us out & Kim the bartender did Sudoku. Oh well, we read loud, & short, & were back on the street before the sun had fully set. We had our own "hard-core" poets & some newer voices too.

I did "July 4 in the Year of the Terror" because it was the right time of the year, & "God" because it is short & scurrilous. A new voice, Pete Farina fit in quite nicely with the edgy night with "Driving in November," then what he said he likes to think of as "a real love poem," & one called "4 years;" hope he comes around again. Chris Brabham read the funny, sexy, thankful poem for his wife, "That Ass of Hers," then, after Sylvia, did his "Medicine Cabinet Junkie."

Sylvia Barnard has been reading "Pilgrimage to Vermont" at a couple open mics & tonight added a sequel about visiting an old graveyard there in her mother's childhood town. Kristen Day read her "Wasted Words" again, a funny, social satire about a passenger on a plane with a cellphone; "3 Squirrels" (& she doesn't like squirrels) is a funny take on the effects of medication.

Among the former Troy residents is Thom Francis who read a poem about a bum on 4th St., "Jesus Walks on the Water" and "Female Pedestrian," a poem about watching people from the roof of his building as they go into a club across the street.

Apparently Emily Epstein wasn't scared away last month & came back with a couple more poems, a train-of-thought ramble (a "scribble" she said) on writing, on space, on time, then a fast-speaking rap on reality, with rhymes.

I've been waiting to hear Chris Rizzo read at one of these open mics, but tonight he recited an early Thomas Hardy poem ("Heredity"), then Ezra Pound's tiny "In a Station of the Metro." Maybe he'll bring his own poems the next time.

Hopefully next month the poetry at Valentine's won't be double-booked with bands, but we'll just have to wait & see (first Tuesday).

Poets Speak Loud, June 30

[Ed Rinaldi reading at the Lark Tavern in March.]

With our host, Mary Panza keeping order, such as it is.

Shaun Baxter was back with a summertime haircut, & a piece I think is new, in wedding clothes, "Sacrament." I read my tribute to the CT Beat Poetry Festival, then another new, springtime poem. Scott Wheatley, a young poet who has read here before, read 2: "Tribute to Whispered Smiles (with the haunting line "...& you refuse to look in the palm of my hand") & "Order of Solitude."

Tonight's featured poet attended high school in Troy (NY) with our host, Mary, & has been coming out to readings, particularly here at the Lark Tavern, for the last few months. Ed Rinaldi's poems are mostly short imaged-based reflections on urban life, like "Born a Bastard," and "Dole-out the Barrel," "Hot Air Balloon," "Insulation." A longer piece was musings on a bird on the windshield while driving at night. The "river" (Hudson, of course) had a prominent role in a couple poems. He also included ruminations on George Carlin, & the compelling "Memories are Perfumes for the Eye." It was good to hear him featured after only the snippets we get at open mics.

Another poet who has not read out enough lately is Sebastian Pacheo, who read 2 poems about "bad neighborhoods." Chris Brabham did 2 poems too, including the recently written "When the Bullet takes the Flight" about healing in the community after the recent shootings here.

Tonight we all picked on James Schlett, because we love him so much. When Mary introduced him, she mentioned that he would be reading in the "Poets in the Park" series on July 26, suggesting that if one was cruising the park that night for a hooker, one should stop by the Robert Burns statue to hear James read (who knew there were hookers in the Park?). Then James read one of his romantic, philosophical musings ("Coercion") about being in Washington Park & his honey putting her hand on his chest. That was too much -- all kind of advice was offered as he left the stage, bringing a blush to his cheeks -- ahh.

Kristen Day has been coming back & read "Wasted Words." Speaking of coming back, Tess Lecuyer, who has been working in prose fiction lately, read one of Judith Johnson's dead-cat poems, "The Return," in a near perfect JJ purring manner.

Don't ever ask the audience to pick the poem you should read, they always pick the crazy title, so when Joe Hollander offered us a choice we picked "Trash Night" (& it was the shortest too). NicoleK, off for the summer, was back out & shared a poem about a reason medical event in her life, then a seasonal piece about waking up steamy & angry (more to my liking).

Always the Lark Tavern (on Madison Ave. in Albany -- don't look for it on Lark St.), last Monday -- see www.albanypoets.com.

Harry Staley Birthday Reading, Social Justice Center, June 26

[This is my favorite picture of Harry Staley, taken at the old Half-Moon Cafe in February 1991.]



This was one of those events that came about almost by accident. I received a phone call from Helen Staley wanting to set up a reading for Harry at the Third Thursday Poetry Night the Social Justice Center. I had been to visit them in their State St. apartment & we had talked about my series & the possibility of Harry reading. However, I already had commitments for readings going through November. So instead I arranged for the use of the space at the Social Justice Center on another Thursday evening, June 26, which turned out to be Harry's 84th birthday.

The place was packed, as well it should be, with folks from Harry's years at the University at Albany, as well as activist friends & community poets who know him from his past readings. Interestingly, on display, was a photo, apparently from Tom Nattell's collection, that I had taken for publicity use for the Readings Against the End of the World in 1988, the year it was held at the newly opened Social Justice Center. In the middle, holding the end of the long ribbon of pages listing the readers for the 24-hour event, was Harry Staley (the other end was held from the top of a ladder by Tom Nattell); another person in the picture who was in tonight's audience was Rezsin Adams. Albany documentarian, Joe Schuyler, a student of Harry's from the early days, took pictures of all of us. At one point Ted Adams & Harry compared their ages (Ted is older). But we were here to listen to poetry.

The poet reading with Harry was their friend Ellen Reed Driscoll, who had done the illustrations for Helen's book, The Paw on the Tarmac (Westview Book Publishing, 2007). But tonight was her first reading, despite that she has been writing poetry for a number of years. One advantage of going to open mics is, not to copy other readers, but to find what works & what doesn't in a reading, to introduce a level of reality to one's idea of what a "poetry reading" is, & to try out one's own poems, to find what works & what doesn't. Ellen's topics competently covered the required love, death, & politics, with an occasional wandering into sing-song rhythms & rhymes & poetic diction. Her poems were generally short musings in a relaxed presentation. I hope to see some of these hot-house flowers out in the open air of open mics again.

Harry Staley has been in this community since the 1960s, as a teacher, scholar, mentor, poet, activist member of the community, & since my return here 20 some years ago (so pleased then to find Harry still here) I have tried to get to every poetry reading he gave. Some poems I have heard over & over, before his poems were available in books -- as Ted Adams stated to me tonight, "He has given a new meaning to the word 'Petunia'" (see "The Senile General in the Garden," from his The Lives of a Shell-Shocked Chaplain). Tonight he read from All One Breath: Selected Poems, The Snail's Pace Press, 2002. He read "Early Mission," "Sniper" (with its marvelous sound effects), "Beyond Victory," "First Will and Testament," the anti-war (aren't they all?) "Valor," "The Rat" with its carefully crafted half-rhymes, "Tom Kelly Mimics Robertson Davies," "Construing Aliquis," "Convalescent" (with its line that gives the title to the book), "Cain," and the perfect ending of "Nuncs." In spite of (or becaue of) Harry's characteristically carefully constructed (& short) reading, the audience wanted more, so he performed the exceedingly rare poetic encore, not once, but twice. The first, at Helen's request, "The Final Flight;" then, from the audience a call for "Fourth Commandment." While showing the weight of 84 years, Harry gave a strong & lively reading, tinged with his ad-lib humor & leprechaun smile.

"Thank you Harry," the audience said in its standing ovations, for being here, for all these years & for now.

Bob Sharkey's Retirement Poems

[Bob Sharkey reading at the Lark Tavern, April 2006]


Well, I went to a retirement lunch the other day & a poetry reading broke out -- Albany poet Bob Sharkey recently retired from his day job with the State of New York. I was happy to be there, with a couple of other Albany poets ("the 2 Ks"). Perhaps giving his co-workers a hint of what was to come Bob read a couple poems. Here they are -- & everyone toast to Bob's new life --

Lost Poems
by Bob Sharkey

Rosella tells us about working
12-hour shifts, meals at her desk,
beside the wall of thousands
of names and photos,
some of people she’d recognize
when she’d walk past.

Rick relates how his brother,
still in mud-splattered fatigues,
went into a headquarters company
mess hall and upset a lieutenant
who sent him to a major who asked,
“what do you do here, son?”
“I KILL PEOPLE, SIR.
WHAT DO YOU DO, SIR?”

Carolyn describes the scene
behind her house.
Wet, wind-driven snow
whitening every branch,
bush, stalk of tall grass
and a lone red cardinal.

Kelly listens as I carry on
about the years passing along.
“It’s really all one long day,” she says.
It’s all one memorable day.



At Dunkin' Donuts
by Bob Sharkey

There’s a scary looking guy.
His tongue’s hanging way out.
At least he’s taking his meds.
I got here in a lunchtime stupor
with the tumble of years in mind.
How had they passed so quickly?
As if I need some punctuation,
young hand-holders pass by outside.
I want to be them. Not just him.
Her especially. I want to be her.
From a corner table, three young cops
belt out a chorus of “Happy Birthday.”
The sun comes out unexpectedly after
days of grey, highlights the bright colors
of fruit and vegetables piled up
on a long table over at the intersection.
I head out past the big pink tongue.
There’s also a guy in a motorized chair.
He’s wearing a medical wristband.
Like a pair of abandoned wrecks.
I look for an attendant, for a van outside.
A woman on line’s doing the same.
The line’s long. She’s at the end.
The lot’s full. Everyone’s in a hurry.
Me too. I’d like to linger,
to uncover the mystery of the two guys.
There’s work and meetings. The sun.

Split this Rock Cento

Split This Rock Poetry Festival — Cento, March 23, 2008

On March 23, 2008, participants of the Split This Rock Poetry Festival walked silently from George Washington University to Lafayette Park in front of the White House. Once there, every participant stepped up to the mic and recited or read one 12-word line of poetry about peace that became the beautiful cento you see below.
(from http://www.splitthisrock.org/cento.html

I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn between
bitterness and hope

Turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.

Let’s dance! Let’s dance! Give peace a chance!

Bless them, with the forgiveness only the dead can afford to offer.
In an age without heroes I just want to be a man.
I think I could turn and go and live with the animals.

We draw from a deep well of sorrow and shame—my country and I.
The erosion of voice is the build-up of war …

I don’t know Baghdad
But I do know Albany
And it’s burning.

Oh wasteful war—we could have been learning and listening together!
Who needs oil? The sun ain’t going nowhere.

YA BASTA!
Lies win you nothing but folded flags in tear-drenched laps.

Alabanza …
I will teach you.
Music is all we have.

Make generals do the fighting.
A child’s hand will overturn their chessboard.
We must emerge from pioneer ashes to penetrate the bosoms of indifferences.

I work so hard to educate
I mourn as bombs annihilate.

Today poets animate the public podiums held by politicians manifesting once sleeping dreams.

“Stop the war” we say
But for this war our taxes pay.

Beneath Mordor —
Atlantis rising!
Inanna emerging from the Iraqi underworld, again.
Welcome!

Even when dreams vanish cranes glisten like snow in a broken field.
In my country there’s a censure called “freedom”

America, my heart opened for you.
Belief in the love of the world …

I.e., reality’s bonemarrow
resides in its pieces.

Weep, you may weep, but you may touch them not.

Singer-poet raised silent stumps
Music mangled but not voice
Viva Victor Jara!

We need one single person not to fight. Won’t you be that one?
I can no longer watch as you eat the shadows of others.
Carrying your harp of sighs you breathe out the music of mourning.
After the war’s funeral let us not suffer renovated marginalization ever again.

Connection with other
important as autonomy
Alone, not alone in the war zone.

We no longer whisper sweet nothings
War cries make poor pillow talk.
Words of peace pierce the wounded air here, like sweet bandages.

Where are you, Prince of Peace?
We could really use you now.

Placing words like quicksand, stepping forward where word bridges hold.
My bird-wing arm is wrapped around your heart’s spun glass cage.

War is not the answer. Talking it over is the answer.
A world of peace and social justice, protection of the planet.

Let us walk through
inviolable borders
like rain finding its
destined continent.

If you dare, come now with me,
Fearless, confident and free.
Turn your wrath on war when its winds rise. Spit and let the flags fight.

Love is what it is …
The calming stream that warms us …

The bombs pound holes in the night. Night after night.
This is our watch just for having been born.

they speak of the art of war
but arts
draw their light from the soul’s well
warfare
dries up the soul

Maybe you shook the hot bone dice.
Promise me not to go silent all of a sudden.

Hung one, young America died and continue to die
Terrorists occupy THE WHITE HOUSE

ahhh peace
ahhh end this war now
ahhh peace
bring them home

Our country
Our shock
Our awe
Our shame
Our recompense
Our future

Draw me a future I won’t be ashamed to leave my son.

Why, in America, are the only choices I’m allowed always between lesser evils?
What will you do, America, when the dormant poet begins to speak?

Carry the wounded world like a dying child in our arms forever, giving sorrow to words.
Melt down the vessel full that served as mixing pot of grief.
Can we bring down heaven, plant it here where they love?

The invasion of boots is everyday
Occupation is violence
Operation self-determination is salvation—spring.

You’ve ruined lives like centaurs tearing up trees with world-wasting cries …
“Both, I will have them both!” declared this true-blue American.
This fifth Easter Sunday drops yellow down my throat—what must I do?

Mercy, Mercy
“America can’t leave ‘em go like this.”

Under the peace hungry eyes of the world,
Cherry blossoms witness the fifth anniversary of the Iraqi war.

Politics of death and taxes bring me here to grieve.

Blood on Blood—red matter fragments! What follows? Let it be—luminous, free!
A painter says red, white + blue. No more purple hearts for you.
So instead of war, we might have had much improvisational festivity.

Dichoso el árbol que es apenas sensitive
Y más la piedra dura …

This empirical wonderland is spinning off its evil axis
and I am pissed off.

Listen—the murmur
of 100 million stars
too distant to fear
any fighting.

Baghdad, once called the given garden—
a desert—stolen—water, medicine, citizen.

Easter, again, and the sky as blue as the oldest promise.

Blackwater, Boeing, CACI, Dyncorp, GE, General Dynamics, Halliburton, KBR, Lockheed, Raytheon, SAIC?
When your venomous cabal is gone, may the earth truly blossom again.

Weight-bearing has made us strong
Our bones metal
Muscles sinew hearts anealled

Can’t we try to win this peace? Because we’re never gonna win this war.
Weapons of mass construction—loving-kindness, diversity, joy!
War, you’re in our cross-hairs.

O voice of all-night wind and rain,
do you count the petals that are falling?

There is more beauty in words than in war.
The most deafening weapons in any war should be lyrics, not landmines.
Carry our well wherever we walk, saturating scars with living waters, promise.

O sister of nausea of broken ribs of isolation
what is the freedom I protect how is it mine

Mothers search the skies for their sons and daughters.
I dream of a child who will ask, “Mother, what was war?”

Move within. But don’t move the way fear makes you move.

Melt, melt away ye armies—disperse ye blue-clad soldiers,
Resolve ye back again, give up for good your deadly arms.

May rooms of dryness find you fed … watched by every human love.
The light is always there, even on an empty page or in my dream.

Where there is no wisdom, the people perish.
I am grafted to the skin of this land and its blood

“Islands”: For God’s sakes
Don’t you know
they are connected
underneath?

Look up—veil of cherry blossoms—peace rising.
Happy peacemakers know—even in sorrow, anger—we’re all children—one love.

1968: screaming screaming STOP this war;
2008: silent, silent STOP this war.

On a day of unreportable sadnesses we must reteach a thing its loveliness.
Go ahead open your hand ...
The lone night bird sings to the tortured between screams.

If I keep from imposing on people, they become themselves.
Peace is within reach, over the horizon just beyond war.

The best lack all conviction while the worst
are full of passionate intensity.

Where the princes are principled and the poets empowered, there is the land where peace is possible!
Let there be peace on Earth, the peace that was and is meant to be.
Let there be peace on Earth and let it begin with me.

And the narrowest hinge of my hand parts to score all machinery.

The children are waiting to be heard, listen to their silenced cries.
We inherit ashes and transform these into the rich compost of poetic possibility.
Let America be America again.

All thinking people oppose terrorism both domestic and international …
The winding Potomac lazily drifts by the Pentagon, journeying towards the sea.

America, let the words of the poets ring in your head.
No sick winter shall blot out the stars of our defiance.

Heroes want hugs, but send bombs to buildings to excuse their absences.
We are borne with dreams in our hearts, looking for better days ahead.

I’ve never been to war, except inside.
Please stop war. We want peace and we will not fight.
Poetry made me brave. It tells me we can build our peace.

Enough, I say, enough.
5 years. How long until even the gods are ashamed.

Happiness exists, I can feel it.

Why are we here,
Because the heart needs to burn bigger than fear.

Mr. Bush, you’ve pushed war 5 Easters. Ask this: who would Jesus torture?
Dung beetle says, “I want dung, not blood.”

You have broken our laws, and our hearts, but not our spirit.
Lilacs are still ten dreams away.

… old fathers … consider the necessary eradication of the new fathering fathers (who are their sons) …
To be free why do we steal the dignity of others?

War is like cancer: It’s treated, but needs a cure.
All those ships that never sailed.

Hate never dispels hate
only love
each the other
one heart

And because everything we carry is really ours.

T’ai chi afternoon
What about sweet surrender?
Sink and relax.

Lieutenant! This corpse will not stop burning!

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

Look around
The intifada is coming
and we are the stones.

We will NOT be SILENT.
Yes, we do want to be well.

I dream a world where love will bless the earth.

We are warriors of the light
shine, shine, shine
love love love.

Angels in bright raiment rolled the stone away.
The underthrum, the handing off from one voice to another.

Don’t you hear this hammer ring?
We are the sworn poets of every dauntless rebel the world over!

###

Live from the Living Room, June 11

[If you think this Blog is a bit out of order, it is -- I started to write it up, then went looking for a good beach picture, & forgot to post it. Sorry Don!]

So here is "a good beach picture," at least to my thinking:


This was the summer pot-luck, no-feature, wear your Speedo party -- I mean, I didn't wear a Speedo, but someone pointed out I wore the same tee shirt ( from Coconut Joe's) that I wore last year. It was so intimate this night that we never moved into the Living Room of the Capital District Gay & Lesbian Community Center, instead we stayed in the Kitchen, with the chips, dip, soda & COOKIES!

I went first with, of course, "At Coconut Joe's," then the CT Beat Festival poem, "When You Finally Arrive Home," & the much shorter, "Painter's Eyes."

A.C. Everson was getting ready to go to Coney Island so practiced "The Year of the Mermaid," then a rap "Pessimistic Peace Pitch," & ended almost-appropriately (it was still Spring) with "Summer Night."

It was nice to see Shaun Baxter back & he read from Other:___ his "Tiny Dogs," then either a real or fake story about his father (I think it was for real), "Doctors & Cars" (they always know when you have extra money).

Kristen Day "Slipped", actually the name of the poem, then bashed abstract art at the Smithsonian & ended with "Bad Mood" (I don't think it was the art).

Uncle Don Levy drove us home (actually, I drove him home afterwards) with a performance piece by Luis Alfaro about the Circus Disco in Los Angeles, "Heroes & Saints;" Shaun urged Don to "read the funny one" (which is like telling George W. Bush to say something inane), so Don obliged with the very out "Is My Pride Showing or Am I Just Happy to See You." And we were.

Second Wednesdays at the GLCC on Hudson Ave. in Albany (NY), 7:30PM start -- usually with a featured poet first then an open mic where you can read more than one poem.

(Where did all those cookies go?)

Third Thursday Poetry Night, June 19

This was a special night, you might say a literary "2-for": the feature reading by Saratoga Springs poet Mary Kathryn Jablonski and the release of her new poetry chapbook To the Husband I Have Not Yet Met, published by A.P.D. ("the Alternative Press for Albany Poets," yours truly, me, the publisher). They are marvelous poems & Mary Kathryn took control of the design & production making an (if I do say so myself, & I do) exquisite chapbook. I was so excited that I forgot to bring any of my own poems to read in the open mic.

Georganna Millman was the first open mic poet & read a poem for her husband, "Ruby-throated Hummingbird." Michael Hare's poem "Elm Tree on Maple Ave." is a tree describing the years going by. Alan Catlin's poem combining the JFK motorcade in Dallas in 1963 with running up Mt. Olympus might have been called "Alchemy" or it was just his way of categorizing it.

Just written today, Don Levy's poem was tentatively titled "Gay Marriage in the Future" -- I think we can expect him to come up with one of his characteristically snappy titles for future readings. Mimi Moriarty read about the internment of her father's ashes at Arlington National Cemetery, like a coda to her book War Psalm. Bob Sharkey was poet as (word) photographer with a poem/picture of "North Pearl St. 4PM."

Our featured poet Mary Kathryn Jablonski read Section II - Letters from the book, the 12 letters "To the Husband I Have Not Yet Met." The book also contains 5 introductory poems as "Prelude" (which she didn't read tonight). Her quiet, straight-forward reading style was a perfect fit for the poems, weaving threads of humor through explorations of memory, longing & the power of the poetic imagination. She seemed to have as much fun reading as the audience was having listening to her. (If you are interested in getting a copy of To the Husband I Have Not Yet Met email me through this Blog.)

After the break & the flurry of book sales & signings, Kristen Day read her short poem on abstract expressionism, "Priceless Painting at the Smithsonian" (hint: she didn't like it). W.D. Clarke wrote from the other side of Custer's last fight at Greasy Grass with "Their Last Stand." Moses Kash III's long political rant "Brighter Tomorrows" was written yesterday.

Another local poet/publisher Alan Casline read his poem "Broken Pieces of the World" which he compared to A.C. Everson's "Birth of Earth". As a tribute, Chris Brobham read "Thank you Father" (his father died last year). And James Schlett closed out the night with a little piece on memory & gravity, "Come Back Down."

Every third Thursday (but not always a book release party) at the Social Justice Center, 33 Central Ave., Albany NY, 7:00PM sign-up, 7:30 PM start. Just one poem (unless you are the featured poet).