At Lincoln Park Pool

Wednesday, 28 November 2012

despite the heat
advisory, I brought my
son to swim. ninety-four degrees
on July 4th and Cleveland has been
grilling ribs since 9AM
and bottle rocket blasting since
June 15th.

My son runs off - but Antonio,
thumbprinted mark of Cain
beshouldered, 
ever-belligerent, 
redmopped stutterer with 
metal-backed teeth - comes to spit self-conscious
impudence. He may sway to 
full-bore bully in annum
but now the question growling in his seven-year skull remains
unanswered. I father at him, a learned herding, outflank,
astray, askance, a thwart to de-rile his style.
Girls with fresh breasts, too shy
to show their bikinis under shirt, come 
tell me how cute my son is. Girls not much younger
take turns sitting on spout of fountainspray, hands trickling
down...
ever all-pursued by some omnipresent brown brawl of boys, 
stumble-tongued and
puppy-eager.

And I feel my age as
the only parent here -
adrift of vigor -
cross-legged on a
threadbare blanket
palms flat into 
ground grit -
A tart
magnanimity, and all these young running to be old. 
As children suspect we
withhold - I clutch this.
It is right to keep from them.
The patrimony, my first
taste of entropy as cool lemonade. 
I died when my life became my child's.
Already my blood 
only heats between hot
concrete and sky blaze. As something done grown,
I watch this pack of growing things.

A soggy neon ellipsis with spirals of water
flung as it flies. A poor throw brings 
the ball to
the feet of 
Antonio
and
the children all shout
his name. All shout his
name. A bend and I see 
fingers squeeze 
water; drops 
stutter poolside, the metal
creak of the lifeguard stand.
ALL shout his name.
A choice made but inept arm
betrays - launched in the 
general vicinity of
no one. 

An eruption
of water and from the scrum suddenly
the whole pool is playing catch. 
Old men and lifeguards, my son
astride my shoulders arms aloft
and we all shout his name. All
brought to life for
what I'll remember as -
amid sun and the shadows of lost dogs -
the moment
when
Antonio was king.

Against the Open Mic

Saturday, 3 November 2012

Today I’ve given up attempting to read at poetry open mics. I attended the quarterly open mic held at the Cleveland Public Library and thought it was going to be great, no familiar faces, lots of first timers – hesitant, unpolished, earnest. Thus, I tweeted.

Why good? Because the Cleveland poetry scene is filled with old men writing shit poetry. Old men writing shit poetry and telling each other it reads like roses. The only thing more annoying than an egotistical poet is an egotistical poet who writes crap. In Cleveland, this has been going on for so many years – with poet heads are so far up their poet navels – that these guys feel entitled to a measure of adulation and a pass on their poor behavior. It’s nigh incestuous, but, more charitably, probably just directional selection. It’s off-putting to grounded writers, and distasteful to neophytes.

What happened today is that one of these guys waltzed in to the open mic after missing all of the other readers and then spent 5 minutes rummaging through a ream of unorganized poems for the 3 sheets of his own poem. Then the friend who accompanied him read a couple of nice poems. Afterward, no one else seemed keen to read except for me, but the open mic was brought to a awkwardly abrupt end by an audience member instead of the librarian who has been running it. Omphalo-Cranially-Inverted Poet then proceeded to tell the rest of the readers that the CPL has a whole shelf devoted to his poetry, and that he has over 50 volumes. He ended with “If you like my poetry, check them out! If you don’t…” and shrugged.

I decided to write a few basic guidelines for poets who choose to read at open mics. They are designed for primadonnas, but primadonnas won’t read them.

  1. Come prepared. Do not bring your entire body of work unless it is organized and each poem is easily accessible. Rummaging through folders and binders and half-rotted box tops for unlabeled sheets of poetry wastes everyone’s time.
  2. Come on time. Do not roll in to the venue late, as if you own the place, thereby missing all of the poets who have gone before you.
  3. Listen to the other poets. Do not spend your non-reading moments choosing a poem or preparing to read your poem.
  4. Do not monopolize. This is not your poetry reading. It belongs to everyone. Two poems of regular length are acceptable. Three if shorter. Do not read your epic, no one has time for that shit.
  5. Do not brag. It’s an open mic. If you’re hot, people will already know you’re hot, so you don’t need to bring it up. If your poems are good they will speak for themselves.
  6. Do not promote. Unless you’re a featured reader, an open mic is not the place for you to shill yourself. Saying “If you want some of my poems, see me after the reading.” is acceptable. Trying to sell your poems like they are a time-share is not.
  7. Appreciate the other poets. Clap for every reader. If someone says it is their first time reading in public, clap for them before they even read.

Hm. Seven is a good number. I’ll stop.