Getting There

It is time to leave poetry for a while and go back to more foundational stuff. The question at hand is how do the things I learned as a child affect me now, as well as how I learned those things?

Until I was about six years old we lived on the second floor in the left facing apartment at 4102 Eastern Avenue in Cincinnati. It was from here that we ventured to the library, Vern’s grocery, Doc Clauder’s drug store, Johnny’s barber shop, the “five and dime,” Mr. Mosey’s variety shop, Walt’s Deli, and other neighborhood establishments.

Doc Clauder’s Drug Store and Johnny’s barbershop were dad’s bailiwick. Mom pretty much covered the rest of the territory most of the time, although visits to friends and neighbors could include either or both.

I loved Doc Clauder’s drug store. Doc was in his 60's, a big man with dark rimmed glasses, a mustache, and a ready
smile for a kid. His son(s) worked there, too. 

The minute you opened the door the smell greeted you—a mix of medicines and cigars—followed by a quiet rumble of conversation from the back room—much to my disappointment a grown-ups only place forbidden to little boys. But Doc (Mr. Clouder, to me) would mollify me with a piece of candy and a walk to the comic book rack where I would read anything I could reach. Dad usually went into the back room to say hello, but never stayed long. When we left, Doc was usually ready with another piece of candy or an empty cigar box with a cool picture of a sailing ship, or Indian or fancy crown.

 Doc Clauder's. Notice the sucker in my left hand: a gift from Doc.

Johnny’s was also a great place for little boys. Johnny would greet you like a long lost friend, and if you asked, let hold the civil war era pistol (unloaded and I expect unworkable) that he kept in a drawer. The place always seemed packed with as many loafers as customers, but they all knew dad and treated me like a king. Then they would argue about sports or politics while Johnny clipped away. I don’t know how most kids felt about haircuts, but for me they were a great time.

There were two other establishments that were dad’s alone. Stumph’s Tavern and Lindy’s Stag Bar. Dad was a socializer, card player, gambler, and liked spicy foods and cold beer. Lindy's had all that and more. Everyone knew him and he knew everyone. No one used his given name, Howard; he was always Mac. Calling him Howard identified you as a stranger.

I was allowed to accompany him to Lindy’s fairly often, but only once to Stumph’s. It was considered (I think, in retrospect) a rougher bar. It was adjacent to the Ford tractor plant and could get pretty crowded.

At Lindy’s the clientele were established. There was the obligatory stuffed Marlin on the wall behind the bar as well as the equally obligatory circa early 1900’s bare breasted pin-up; and the brass spittoons on the floor.

I was usually treated royally. When I was small, if dad sat at the bar, I sat on it. If dad sat in one of the booths I sat next to him. On the rare occasions that he played poker I sat quietly off to the side of the table.

I was fascinated by the card play. The flash of colors, the speed of the dealer sending cards flying across the table, the grunts, terse “check” and “raise” or “call” coming from the players, and of course, the clack of the chips. There was also the occasional slap of the cards on the table when someone triumphantly displayed a winning hand or the loser slammed down the cards that betrayed 
him.

 

Lindy's as it looks today. The sign said East End Cafe, but everyone knew it as Lindy's

Sooner or later I would get bored and dad would walk me home, my hand in his and my belly full of coke and pickled eggs or sausages. 

Half-a-dozen years after he died I spent a summer working at Coney Island, revisiting the old haunts. Everywhere I went I was “Mac’s Boy,” and it was a real struggle to be able to pay for my own beer. He was my hero, and to the best I can remember, I have tried to be as good a man as he. I’ve failed, I know, but dammit I’ve tried.

I still miss dad and it has been more than 50 years since he died. I expect I always will.

Time for a break here, and in the next post I’ll write about why I have given all this background. There is a destination, I promise; it just takes a bit of time to get there.

Flower Power Dynamics

We begin this post with a couple of assertions, followed by a confession, and finally a bit of philosophy. The assertions are pretty direct. I am not a true poet, and I am not a good poet. I am, however, someone who enjoys poetry, who does occasionally try to write poetry and who wishes to be a good poet.

The confession sounds simple—even foolish—but it none-the-less true: Publishing or reading a poem that others will see, or hear and judge is terrifying. In a way it is the equivalent of undressing in a public place and being totally exposed.

I would not be surprised if a number of artists or writers would describe similar emotions. I imagine a painter who brings his or her paintings to be hung in a gallery for the first time. They alone know the effort and the love they have put into these works, and they now have to abandon and expose them to criticism from strangers who know nothing of their experience, and who may judge their best efforts as worthless. And as each painting is hung they may notice some miniscule flaw they only now see and can no longer correct. Terrifying.

As long as the painting, or in my case the poem remains safely in my folder or notebook it is beyond criticism and may be changed if I suddenly see a flaw, or find a better way to describe what I am trying to present. As long as the poem is in my hands alone it remains plastic and can be remolded as I feel necessary. Publish it and it is no longer malleable; it is frozen on the page and out of my control.

The Haiku (I often refer to my efforts as Hai-choo) that appears in the previous post was first written years ago; not long after my mom’s death in 1999. I have read it many times in the intervening years and almost without fail have changed it each time. In fact, I changed it twice before hitting the “publish” button on the blog site for the previous post.

Over the past few days I have re-written it more than once. Currently I favor this version:

Bowed head, crooked smile

remembering their love, loss—

parents too long gone.

Is the first version better than the second? How many versions have there been? I don’t know. Tonight, as I write this, I like the second version. Will I like it at another time? Will I think it was the best I could do? I won’t know until the next time I encounter it.

Even poems from that first shrunken folder that Dr. Adams handed back to me forty plus years ago have changed almost every time I re-encounter them. Even the few that have been published have changed.

All this I tell you to cause you to think about what courage it takes for an artist (musician, painter, sculptor, poet, etc.) to turn their work loose; to surrender control. Years ago, when I worked on an assembly line, I wanted what I did to be right, too. First I was taught the proper way to do the job, but there was back-up in case I erred. An inspector, a repairman, a tester—someone—could correct my effort if it fell short. 

 Worker on the Ft. Wayne, IN assembly line

Each of our actions, yours and mine, are often the same way. Sometimes our errors can be apprehended and corrected by ourselves or someone else. But many things we do cannot be fixed, cannot be undone, and they are frozen forever as part of our lives; our legacy. That, too, is terrifying.

What I hope and pray is that the poems change because I have changed; that I have grown and matured, or that I have learned from my previous errors and am making amends.

I want that in my life, too. I want to change—and in a positive way—so that I am a better person. I know that there are some things that cannot be fixed or undone or unsaid—they are frozen in time and I must live forever with them. But I also know that much can be changed and that in some ways my life must be like the poems in that shrunken folder and it must change as I grow and mature.

In a book by Emerson Colaw, Beliefs of a United Methodist Christian, he wrote:

“The worth of an idea is never measured merely by the degree to which we attain but by the direction it gives life.  The flower, reaching for the sun, never reaches its goal except in responding to the upward pull; the dynamic of life and growth is within the flower.  We may never in this lifetime attain all that is implied in the ideal, ‘You, therefore must be perfect, even as your heavenly Father is perfect,’ but in reaching toward that we have within us the dynamic of growth.”

 

Reaching for the Sun

This, I think, is as good a description of what I pray my life can be—that I respond to an “upward pull” and grow dynamically. I shall never be a great poet or a great person, but that is what I want to be reaching toward, however imperfectly.

Lessons of the Shrunken Folder

I hold that most, if not all of us, learn best from failure. Easy things we accept in passing, seldom giving them a second thought except in the rare cases when we recognize a lesson in a memory: a lesson we weren’t mature enough to grasp at the time.

Taking that thought a bit further, sometimes we find that the most impactful lessons come from the most painful experiences.

Allow me to offer a couple of examples: Cincinnati is well known for its hot and muggy weather. I remember hearing, although I can no longer remember the source, that summers in Cincinnati were nearly the same as what lions experienced in Africa. The summer of my second year was having its way. The temperatures were high, my mom  (six or so months pregnant) was suffering, so dad bought a floor fan.

I haven’t seen anything similar in years and googling didn't help, so I’ll do my best to describe it. It was round, with an inverted cone shape over the blades to direct air out the top, and a cone shape below the blades to accomplish the same thing at the bottom. Around the whole assembly was a cage made of wires; closer together where the blades turned and more open at the top and bottom. The openings at the top and bottom were plenty wide enough for a kid to reach in.

I was lying on the floor, loving the new breeze, when my dad explained that I was not, under any circumstances, to put my hands or feet inside the cage.

Being the compliant, sweet, docile child that I was I immediately stuck my foot through the opening and into the blades. Several things happened simultaneously. I howled and bled, mom screamed and yelled at dad, and dad cursed like a sailor while he rushed me to the bathroom to wrap my foot in a towel. Then we went to the doctor. 

A few decent size cuts and a sore foot were all that resulted. I never stuck my foot or anything else in the fan again, but when my sister began to crawl dad bought some screening, the kind for windows, wrapped it around the fan and made it impossible to stick a little hand or foot into the blades. (Again!)

Why do I tell you this story? When my sister was born, mom and dad moved her crib in front of a window—the one behind me in the picture below. Then they could cover the inward facing part of the 

crib with a blanket when they wanted her to nap.

Well I wanted to see my new sister--born a few months after the fan fiasco. I climbed on top of the register, slid along the sill until I could see her in the crib. I leaned against the window and it cracked. Since we lived on the second floor that wasn’t good. The instant my dad heard the crack he shouted, “Don’t move.” I froze. Immediately. He had me hold onto the bars of the crib until he could grab me. One lesson the fan had taught me was to listen and obey—at least at least in an emergency. The crib was relocated somewhere else. I can't remember where.

Here is the second lesson: When I was about ten dad announced that I was going to begin to get an allowance. A fortune in fact—fifty cents per week! He handed me two quarters.

That was the most money I’d ever had except maybe at Christmas when each set of grandparents might send a buck along with any presents.

As he handed me those quarters (this was a Saturday morning at breakfast) he said, “I’ll give you a nickel for every quarter you can stand on end.”

I tried and tried, but they kept falling over. I wanted that nickel so badly! Finally I had a genius idea—He hadn’t said I couldn’t lean them on anything! I leaned a quarter on my milk glass. “I get a nickel,” I crowed. He handed me a nickel and took my quarter. No amount of protest (and believe me I set up quite a ruckus) would get him to give me the quarter back. He said that I had to learn to listen closely to what people told me, that he had said he would give me a nickel FOR every quarter I could stand on end--not IF I could stand it on end. He added, “I’ll give you a nickel for every quarter you can lay on its side, too.”

That lesson, painful as it was, helped me become a first rate bargainer later on when I listened closely to what GM said and made certain I didn’t miss traps. It also won me a heap of quarters! It reminds me of a saying of Confucius: “The Master said, He who by reanimating the Old can gain knowledge of the New is fit to be a teacher.” Analects, Book 2:11

So all this and not a word about the folder? Ah, but we haven’t finished yet. Dad, and mom too, worked to teach me to be alert and aware of my surroundings—including people. I was very fortunate to have them, although dad died much too soon.

Below is my favorite picture of them, shot in 1940 while visiting mom’s family, three years after they married.

A crooked smile--

remembering their love.

My parents long dead.

The folder’s lesson? Spend time on what is good and make it better. Don’t waste time on things that aren’t worth the effort.

Four of the poems in that remained in that folder were later published. Two in a poetry magazine and the others in the paper. But I had to work on them first . . . a lot of work.

A bit more poetry next post--mixed with who knows what else!

Down With the Laureates!

Before we go back to my poetry saga there is some other ground I’d like to cover. That is: What makes a good poem?

Answer: You like it. (If it is your decision) or, I like it if it is mine.

A poem, like a song, like a painting, is art. Different types of art appeal to different people. Some professor or editor may tell you Edmund Spencer’s The Faery Queen is fabulous—a classic—a masterpiece. I can’t even get through it. I’ve tried more than once—and I won’t be trying again. I simply don’t like it. But you might.

If you don’t enjoy all the “classics” there are those who may classify you a cretin. Fair enough. I’d rather be a truthful cretin than pretend to like something I don’t. Once after a pretty snooty “looking down the nose” lecture on why I should like John Milton more than I did, I wrote this bit of doggerel:

(A Brief Reflection on John Milton)

‘Tis incumbent on me to confess

I like the whole of Milton less

Than any piece of balderdash

Sprung from the mind of Ogden Nash.

(Actually I recited it on the spot to my antagonist and wrote it down later.)

Once I decided not to give a hoot what someone “insisted” I must like and just liked what I like, I began to enjoy poetry more.

Then I discovered a couple of things that surprised me. Poems read from a book pale in comparison to poems read aloud—and all the more so when read by the writer.

One of my favorite poets is e. e. cummings and one of his poems I particularly like is, Darling!, Because My Blood Can Sing. It is a good poem when read, but to hear cummings recite it gives it a life that it never has when just words on a page.

The best example of a poem coming to life when read by the author, in my humble opinion, is Maya Angelou’s And Still I Rise. It will likely, if you have not heard her read it before, send chills running up and down your spine.

Note: You can purchase CDs or download poetry from I tunes if you want to hear the difference. Find a recording of one of your favorite poems/poets, download it and listen. You will be amazed.

If you don’t have access to a recording of the poet reading, enlist a friend to read. Even that will give the poem more power—assuming of course that your friend is a good reader.

Here is the second thing I discovered: I much prefer shorter poems. 

Again I compare a poem to a painting. When I see a painting I immediately get a “feeling” about it. It grabs me or it doesn’t. It might be the subject, the colors, or composition itself, but I know almost immediately whether I like it or not. Short poems do the same thing to me.

 This is a painting by a local artist, Heather Houser. It is called Chicago in Black. The moment I saw it I told the gallery owner I would buy it.

A short poem with a punch, or power, stays with me. I feel it as much as read it. I soon abandoned Homer and the Iliad, for less lengthy fare; Frost, and Dickinson and others (although I reserve the right to love Carl Sandberg's Chicago). It was then I discovered Japanese poetry; in particular, Haiku. I was hooked.

Japanese Haiku is generally explained as being a three line poem with the first line having five syllables, the second seven and the third five.  That is a great over simplification as Haiku is much more than that, but to go into all the technical details would soon drive you to another blog, so we’ll leave it at that.

I found Haiku after purchasing a used paperback by Harold G. Henderson, called, An Introduction to Haiku: An Anthology of Poems and Poets From Basho to Shiki. The name of the book was longer than the poems it contained! But I loved the poems--and I paid all of fifty cents!

I’m going to give you two examples, each from my favorite poet, Issa Kobayashi (1762-1826)

My grumbling wife—

if only she were here!

This moon tonight . . .

And this poem, found on his deathbed:

There are thanks to be given:

this snow on my bedquilt—

it too is from heaven.

The poem that opens the blog is a Haiku of my own. Not so good as these, but with the same intent—to make a maximum impact with a minimum of words.

In case I have tempted you to take another look at poetry, let me suggest a book or two you might look at: but first this piece of information—It is beyond the realm of probability that you will like all the poems of any one writer or all the poems in any book. Don’t expect to and you won’t be frustrated. The last book of poetry I purchased I liked just three poems in the entire book. I still think the purchase worthwhile . . . I really like those poems.

The list:

100 selected poems, e.e. Cummings; immortal Poems of the English Language, Oscar Williams. (This book has a zillion poems by a million writers. It is a good place to begin a search for poets you might like.); The Spring of My Life, Issa Kobayashi (Sam Hamill, translator):This Day: Collected and New Sabbath Poems, Wendell Berry; The Collected Works of Langston Hughes, Vol.1, 1921-1940:   Rilke’s Book of Hours, Rainier Maria Rilke; Poems, Emily Dickinson, Castle Books; and of course, the Henderson book mentioned above.

These are just a very few. Buy them used if you can, check them out, and then do what you will with them. I can always suggest more!