Poet's Ramble

What I've Larned Before Signing Out

2006-10-01T11:01:00.000-07:00

I've created a new blog as an adjunct to my aviation web site, and this is my final entry here. The new site is called Honey and Quinine. KUDOS to Blogspot for offering this opportunity, but it's proven beyond my brain's limited capacity to enjoy it. To read more, visit www.aeroknow.com/blogofjob.htm

R.I..P, -- temporarily -- Talking Poetry

2006-09-21T07:34:00.000-07:00

Three people -- two casual acquaintances and one admired acq uaintance -- I told face-to-face about Talking Poetry at Trout Lily said they'd try to attend September 19. None did.
.. . . . That's okay. I agreed to moderate it. I don't believe that the proprietor of the establishment's disinterest in writing and distributing a news release affected the outcome. Nor did her removing the promotional flier I gave mer after displaying it less than two weeks. Nor did her declaring it finished after tthree weeks. Nor did MY getting the date wrong in the news release I distributed two weeks after the release should have gone to the media. Everyone I know who calls himself or herself a poet WORKS on Tuesday afternoon. So attempting to reach that likely-miniscule "niche" of poets and poetry enthusiasts who don't work Tuesdays seemed like a moon shot from the get go.
. . . . That's okay. I successfully produced a flyer which was distributed to all the public libraries in town and five downtown businesses and one institutions of higher learning. I produced a news release, gave it to the person whom, for propriety's sake was the appropriate sharer of news of the event, followed her advice when I learned she had not had the time to email it to the media, and appeared at the venue on time each of the three weeks in which I was permitted to sit on the luncing pad, ready to go.
. . . . . Talking poetry will rise again, sports fans and athletic supporters. And I'll tell you all about it when it do. Stay tuned . . . .

Talking Poetry Swan Song?

2006-09-16T14:08:00.000-07:00

So it's Tuesday, September 12, and I'm 59 and a week old, arriving at Trout Lily Cafe in drizzily precip. And into Trout Lily a minute before 1:30. I'd have been there earlier, but I decided to take in downtown scenery while shopping for an empty parking space. And at the last minute, I found one across the street from TL. It cost me only $10.50.
. . . . Into a bustling TL. Manning and Maureen at one table; Crook and confidante at an other. Who'd imagine a bomb was about to drop?
. . . . My first question to Kate: "Did you get the news release out? (I had delivered it to her last Tues in hard copy and disc.)
. . . . ."Haven't had the time," she replies. "I've been working 12-hour days. How is your publicity going? Is anyone coming today?"
. . . . "I ran into Nick Wassmer at the Jackson reception. He said he'd try to make it." I didn't tell her flyers are posted at two more restaurants and that Lincoln Library has distributed flyers to the branches, and I know one's on display on the ground floor at the main branch. "May I distribute the news release?"
. . . . . "Yes. You have until next Tuesday," she says. "If no one comes, that's all for (Talking Poetry)."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B O O M
. . . . I also don't tell her that Sunday afternoon, the substitute teacher line called and offered me two weeks of subbing for special education physical education at Jefferson Middle. Some cultures despise displaying pain and personal dismay in front of strangers. Except when I'm listening to poets reading poems, I am of that culture.
. . . . So it's over to my table and I read the latest Poetry magazine because I am too livid to write poetry. If I tried to write anything I'd probably push the pen through the paper.
. . . . .The parade of life around me touches me bittersweetly. Some polite niceties are exchanged as Mike and Maureen hit the trail.
. . . . . The hour seems to last half the afternoon, but I reap richly from Poetry magazine. When the heart is aflame, the mind seems to focus more smartly wherever it is pointed. When I get my second cup of cofffee, I ask Kate. "Do you know that the Illinois Times calendar deadline is the Friday before the next Thursday and that issue won't be out until a week and two days after your deadline?"
. . . . "If you call them today, you can probably get it into this Thursday's edition."
. . . . I return to my table. A fellow comes over . . . .
. . . . . "Say, Job, is this your office away from home?"
. . . . . "It could be," I say smiling. "Please fortgive me, but I don't remember your name."
. . . . . "I'm Vince Rohn from First United Methodist !"
. . . . "Gosh, I'm sorry Pastor Vince, I didn't recognize you out of your ministereial vestments! Must tell you my friend that I've become a bitter old fart since the FOR SALE sign went up at Fifth at Capitol. I'm really bummed ou8t over that! I expect to remain a bitter old fart for a long time because of that incomprehensible abandonment of downtown!"
. . . . I can't quote what Vince said because I had ceased to focus on a person I recognize as an accessory to a crime. NEVER have I seen such a rich, worthy outreach so blatantly hasten from the encroaching "pioneers." As John Paul Jones fictional poet might have said about this "I have not yet begun to write!"
. . . . . And 2:30 arrives. I stay an extra three minutes in case I'm running a little fast or Kate's clock is running a little slow.
. . . . Outside, the drizzle has abated. There's a $10 overtime parking ticket on my car. Yes, my jpresence was costly for the host: whatever coffee, two tasty tamales and some rice cost. When you figure my cost for being there -- 10 days of certain substitute teaching for takehome pay of about $85 per . . . . $850 . . . . deCLINED so I could be there . . . . . I can live with it, in a manner of speaking. I don't mention that as I exit. I don't mention anything as I depart. In one way, from one perspective, I haven't been therte since I arrived. But I will return next week because I believe in honoring the commitments I make, because I believe in poetry, and because circumstances may improve. You'd never know it to look at my car, but I am a poet with great expectations..

> > > > > and Illinois Times includes the news about Talking poetry in Thursday's edition. The news release talked about Tuesdays, that the next one was slated for September 19. The Times mentioned September 17th, a Sunday. I double-check the news release I rapidly revised after obtaining Kate's permission to do it myself. MY TYPO. In my rush Tuesday afternoon on arriving from Trout Lily, I mis-typed. And the calendar person didn't realize the 17th was Sunday and Tuesday (also stated in the release) was the 19th.

Talking Poetry at Trout Lily

2006-08-28T16:43:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Kate Hawkes, owner of Trout Lily Cafe, 218 S. Sidth Street in lyrical downtown Springfield, there will be a new poetry discussion gathering called Talking Poetry, moderated by your struly. It takes place Tuesdays from 1:30 to 2:30 and you are invited to attend. We will discuss new poems we've written, catch up on the latest news of who's reading poetry and publishing poetry and look at P O E T R Y matters of interest. All it will cost you is a cup of fine Trout Lily Cafe coffee, tea or other tasty libation and maybe a cookie. . . okay, lunch if you're really hungry. Hungry poets will appreciate the fine fare from the Trout Lilly Cafe kitchen. And if you insist, I'll sell you one of my books of poetry. Until we take this show to Broadway, I'm paying my own way, so would it kill you to buy my poetry? I thinque perhapsly not. Join us for the fun if you can, and if you can't . . . . well that's okay too.

Patriot Song

2006-07-21T08:47:00.000-07:00

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Patriot Song
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Job Conger
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . written 3:55 pm, Wednesday, July 18, 2006

. . . . . . Here's to the good of all citizens,
. . . . . . to laws justly made and enforced,
. . . . . . to everyone's not-faith and faith,
. . . . . . and neither state-endorsed.

. . . . . . A toast to our land's equal rights,
. . . . . . to the promise of freedom from hate,
. . . . . . to each person's inalienable freedom from love,
. . . . . . to the vigor of sincere debate.

. . . . . . Here's to each day, working hard,
. . . . . . satisfied and content at day's end,
. . . . . . to fullfilment of good deeds rewarded,
. . . . . . and the unwavering trust of a friend.

. . . . . . Here's to fruits harvested gladly
. . . . . . and the sweat of those sharing the toil.
. . . . . . to the cosmic perfume of the fragrance of peace
. . . . . . in the whiff of the rain-sweetened soil.

. . . . . . Here's to our forefather patriots' pen,
. . . . . . to the farmers' sharp sod-busting plow,
. . . . . . to the hope their grand eloquent vision,
. . . . . . will continue to nourish us now.

. . . . . . To the dream that our babies a borning
. . . . . . will learn living right, shunning wrong,
. . . . . . out of many, one nation in allegiance to truth
. . . . . . may we harmonize in freedom's song.

- - - - - I had intended to share this poem during Poets & Writers Linterary Forum's open mic at IMO's Pizza July 19, but decided not to drive out when a near-calamitous thunderstorm rolled through town about 5:30. So I'll recite it next time. And if you're not attending a witch burning or ice cream social (yes, we are a bi-polar nation) please join the fun August 2, 7p at 751 Durkin Drive, on Springfield's coolie cosmo -- better make that cooly cosmo -- west side.

song lyric from 1987 - The Heartaches Get Harder

2006-06-30T08:13:00.000-07:00

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Heartaches Get Harder
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Job Conger
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . written November 9, 1987

. . For me, love was never a silly old game I could play.
. . I haven't loved often, but I've had my share, I must say.
. . It's no trick to leave before becoming close enough to care,
. . But when something good dies, the hurt becomes almost too much to bear.

. . . . (chorus)
. . . . . . And the heartaches get harder, the breakups are more of a pain.
. . . . . . When lovers depart in their middle years, it's more of a drain.
. . . . . . So to eager young sweethearts: Don't give up when love's on the sane
. . . . . . For the heartaches get harder; you may never find true love again.

. . Oh, I had me a sweetheart who loved me, and I loved her too,
. . But I took her for granted, as my kind of men often do.
. . Now she's found a new friend, and my chances are shot all to hell.
. . There's a lesson to learn here, and God knows I've learned it very well.

(chorus)

. . The colds that you have as a kid linger longer with age.
. . And the tumble as young love goes south can evolve into rage.
. . Being lonesome for love I screwed, up really cripples my style,
. . So I write stupid songs, and I try to hang on for awhile.

(chorus)

- - The lyric is published in my book Minstrel's Ramble: to Live and Die in Springfield, Illinois and available from Prairie Archives in lyrical downtown Springfield AND whenever I read, recite and sing my poetry. If YOU like the words, make up your own song and share it with others. You have my permission. I'm interested less in the perpetuation of my name than I am in the perpetuation of my words. If you really like the words, arrange for me to perform it at your "tax and spend Libra" social occasion or effigy burning.
. . . . The song is autobiographical, but I'm not uncomfortable singing it for strangers. To admit to my frustration is to reveal a human frailty about as shame eliciting as hitting my thumb with a hammer when I'm putting a nail into the wall to hang a picture.
. . . . I know the words border on cliche, and it seems to OOZE "poor little me" but the insight that for me anyway, breaking up with a paramour of the feminine persuasion is rougher on older farts than young stallions makes it original and worth sharing.
. . . . What do you think?

new poem - And So . . .

2006-06-27T11:17:00.000-07:00

I posted the following poem June 6, 2006 at this blog and two days later it disappeared. I don't know how it happened, but I know I did not have a hand in it. I wonder who did and why, and if the perpetrator of the deletion will contact me -- writer@eosinc.com -- and explain, I will be happy to share the information in a future blog entry.
. . . . I wish my earlier posting had not been deleted because I am a patriot, a past election judge representing the Republican Party, and I've voted in almost every election since I was in college. Even so, I am glad the deleting entity provided me the inspiration to pay more attention to it in revising the early version into the current incarnation which makes my point better than before. I hope you agree.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And So . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .by Job Conger
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . written 7:55 pm, Monday, June 5, 2006

. . . You didn't listen when I suggested
. . . Dubya is no more than Dan Quayle
. . . with a Moses mission and no conscience.
. . . Your ears were deaf to my urging
. . . to nip his virulent "Creeping Charlie" weedness,
. . . transforming our cherished panoply of freedoms
. . . into a pedagogic garden of worse.
. . . You believed his lies while you doubted
. . . the deeds of proven patriots,
. . . and I sang of the sad fate
. . . your glib contentment would bring.
. . . Can you hear me now?
. . . Can you hear me now?

. . . You scurried from fear more earnestly
. . . than you sought the truth,
. . . not caring to comprehend how theocrats
. . . humping autocrats
. . . breed only dark despair.
. . . You called him holy for the oaths
. . . he chanted like an anointed Pharisee
. . . cloaked in the solemn vestments of a president,
. . . and for his certitude of stance,
. . . untainted by facts and other voices.
. . . I told you he was a bad penny
. . . who would out-bid morality
. . . and bankrupt the dreams of our forefathers.
. . . Can you hear me now?
. . . Can you hear me now?

older poem; new posting - Tuff Tookas!

2006-06-20T20:10:00.000-07:00

Tuff Tookas
by Job Conger

You have a gift, and the world doesn't give a damn?
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!
You feel lost, and you hardly know where you amn?
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

When you're altogether twisted, down and feeling blue,
When your friends are moving upward, and you're stuck like glue,
Just remember what the world wants to say to you:
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

Yes, you told me that you loved me when my kisses were sweet.
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!
Now you tell me that your world seems in com plete.
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

It's the fate of everybody that we crash and burn.
When we reach a point of panic and there's nowhere to turn,
There's a moral to the story that we all must learn:
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

The nice thing in being older: there are fewer surprises.
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!
You still hurt like hell, but you know what to be wise is.
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

Now's the time to get you working up a new head of steam.
Find an on-ramp to tomorrow and an open dream.
Say goodbye to pain and sorrow with a primal SCREAM!
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

---- written April 7, 1996 and published in Minstrel's Ramble: to Live and Die in Springfield, Illinois by Job Conger.
. . . . All I needed during this year of my involvement with Poets & Writers Literary Forum of Springfield to write a new poem was a reminder that our next meeting at Barnes & Noble was the day after tomorrow. The night I recited it, I approached Marcellus Leonard as I headed for the microphone, and checked with him, just to be sure that "tookas" was not an unacceptable, inappropriate word to speak to an audience that included a few 10 year olds with their parents. I had a hunch it was okay, but checking with Marcellus also gave me a boost of confidence, always handy when premiering a poem -- or as Melissa Sullivan might have said, "when premiering a poem for the first time."
. . . .They were joyous days. No spooks, no ghosts, no serious sour notes.

"We thought we could live forever in fun. But our chances, really, were a million to one."
-- Bob Dylan

Another Poem -- a real one, I think

2006-06-14T16:53:00.000-07:00

Fourty-two of the 69 arguably poetically-turned contributions to my first book of poems and essays were written for practiced, consistently rendered musical accompaniment, and of those 37 were written to be sung with practiced, consistently rendered melodies. So even if you count only the latter category, a Boston stranger might reasonably deduce I am a songwriter who wears the coat, the cloak, of a poet. I chafe at this. I'd rather die a failed poet than a successful songwriter; it just seems a more noble way to fail.
. . . . . Here is a poem I wrote. The periods are inserted because this internet format will not permit spaces.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . When Someone Inspires
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Job Conger

. . . I will build for her enchanting form and mind
. . . . . . . . . . . . . castles of hopes and dreams
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .contructed with pen and heart,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . lines of inspired imagery
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and lilting, lusting, lyricism.

. . . Giving melody to desire
. . . . . . for times in which I want to capture her
. . . . . . . . . . . . and rush to hot times at the Hyatt Regency,
. . . . . . predicting ecstasy,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . surrendering hearts,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and good times coming our way,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I will flower the path to love
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . with roses of words,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and as I do,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .I will write
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the end
. . before the beginning!
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

. . . . . I wrote this poem February 16, 1971 as I sat in the student lounge at MacMurray College.
. . . . I don't even remember the name of the girl I wrote it about (we remained just friends; not a big deal) , but I remember the name of the girl she and I had talked about a few days earlier. She knew the girl I had taken to the Senior Prom at Springfield High three years previously. Her name was Joyce Mitchell. To this day, I can't drive by a certain house on way-south Second Street without wanting to pull into the driveway and asking her fine parents if she's ready to go.
. . . . Some memories are too powerful for poetry and rhyme, and even song. Some memories named Joyce Elaine Mitchell are destined to live forever only in time.

In Celebration of Carillons - Cameron Dowe ll

2006-06-07T10:02:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem because I wanted a parody that would describe a star "who could ring him a bell just like a playin' guitar." The only folks who can do that are bell choir participants and carilloneurs, and since I dig carillons, the choice was easy. From the start, I wanted to use a West Side name, and since Cameron is the name of the son of a former friend, it was a natural choice.
. . . . . I had to decide whether to title it Cameron Do Well since it's obviously a parody of Johnny B. Goode OR title it Cameron Dowe II and just use the obvious variation in the chorus. I chose the latter, and I hope you like it. Better yet, I hope you invite me to your party and ask me to play and sing it for you. . . . . . . . . . One two three FOUR

Cameron Dowe II
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Job Conger

In Central Illinois in rocking Springfield town
He plays his tasteful music 'fore the sun go down
The kid is total kewl and surely will go far
And he can ring a bell just like a playin' guitar.
At Washington Park's carillon we hear him play,
Singing go Cameron go today -- hey, hey, hey

GO, go Cameron go, GO, go Cameron go,
GO, go Cameron go, GO. go Cameron go,
GO -- Cameron, do well!

He grew up walking distance from the White Oaks Mall
The boy was barely 10 when he first heard the call
Of tintinnabulation and the many fans
Of Thomas Rees Memorial's Karel Keldermans.
The bronze and granite edifice will bring him fame.
If you don't dig the music, that's a crying shame, so

GO, go Cameron go, GO, go Cameron go,
GO, go Cameron go, GO, go Cameron go,
GO -- Cameron, do well!

With lofty aspirations and a heart that's pure,
The kid is destined to be a great carilloneur.
He pounds the Posdro, Barnes, DeTurk and anthems sweet,
His crazy boppin' Byrnes with a funky beat.
Folks outside, they can hear him thirty blocks away,
Singing go Cameron go today.

GO, go Cameron go, GO, go Cameron go,
GO, go Cameron go, GO, go Cameron go,
GO -- Cameron, do well!

. . . . . . . I sent the words and a short note to the Springfield Park District who kindly forwarded my note and lyrics to Karel (pronounced Carl). I had asked in the note to call me if he could add anything to improve the technical accuracy. I was especially concerned with composers' names since I had originally used 17th & 18th Century composers I knew, but could not say for certain, had composed for the carillon. Karel kindly set me right with the names I used in the revised version.
. . . . . Though I had some fun with the parody, I'm a big fan of the head carilloneur and the magnificent instrument he plays.

Poems and Fish

2006-06-04T11:19:00.000-07:00

Sunday's emailed The Writer's Almanac was so arresting, I can't believe I didn't have to pay for it!
. . . . It contained e.e. cummings' poem "since feeling is first" and my first feeling was to blow by it and read the historical information . . . and I did. Happy 19th Amendment Passage Day, especially to all women who vote.
. . . . And then I returned to e.e. whom I've always kept at my intellectual arms' lengths since the nuance he invented was the practice of never using upper case letters like other famous poets did at the time. Until I looked close at "since feeling'" I could not have sworn that he used college-standard punctuation. but i'm not one to be influenced by trendy fads
. . . . When I returned to this poem, I decided that here was a poem I would memorize soon, and if I never share it with another strangersoul, I will share it with a friend or two. When I read, "Reprinted with permission." I sighed because I knew I could not share the words with you here. Then I entered the title into Google, and at the top of the list was a link to the poem. You can find the text by visiting http://www/cs/berkeley/edu~richie/poetry/html/poem162.html and discovering . . . and PRINTING this wonderful poem for yourself.
. . . . Or not. I probably too often talk about the joylessness of most poetry readings. And when I'm not whining about that, I'm probably too often joylessly bemoaning the passionlessness of poetry. In this poem by e.e. c are both that hit me like the concluding five minutes of the NBC TV show Saint Elsewhere used to hit me. And that's why I'm going to memorize this wonderful poem; because having it that deeply into me will improve my disposition and froggy countenance simply by having atoms of that poem's words subtlely transfiguring me.
. . . . I was going to memorize "The Lost House" by David Mason, and I still may. It's another keeper that nourishes me every time I read it. My print of that poem -- from The Writer's Almanac, of course -- is still here in the office, sitting on my lap as I write this, and within arms' reach since May 26 when I discovered it.
. . . . But you know, you can be a successful fisherman, even though you don't keep every fish you lift out of the water and into the asphyxiating air. Some fish are not worth the trouble of reeling in, but how else can you disengage the hook, look them over and throw them back? Disengaging the hook is essential, and to do that you have to look at the fish.
. . . . That's why reading poems is essential for hummin' beans who presume to write them. I'm going simple and arbitrary in saying this, but if you call yourself a poet and can't tell me at least three poets you generally enjoy and three you generally don't enjoy, you aren't reading enough. I usually avoid poems when I'm not up to the obligation of being challenged by fresh writing. But when I approach the plate, and I want to play ball, and I'm game, there aren't many things I can do with my eyes that net me more satisfaction. Kevin Stein said it best: you don't have to like every poem you read (I've said it before I heard him say it at Iles School in 2005, but since he said it, I feel better about saying it my own dang self.) but the pursuit of nourishing poems is a worth enterprise for good people who like words. If YOU'RE that kind of person, visit that link I posted to my new favorite e.e. poem, aye?

The Poem is What's on the Paper

2006-05-27T14:25:00.000-07:00

Since I became serious about poetry, I've "sweated through the fog with linguists and contenders" as Whitman said, trying to come to terms with the dichotomy between a poem on paper and the same words spoken from behind a microphone. When respected poets read poems from a page, I've sometimes cringed when the reader didn't pause appropriately follwing the period at the end of a sentence at the end of a stanza. When you're reading a short story to friends, do you pause at the end of a paragraph? Do you pause between paragraphs and before the next chapter when reading a longer effort?
. . . . . Would you believe that an inordinate percentage of students I've asked to read aloud from prose in middle and high school don't even pause at a period (.) before reading what follows? This incapacity to understand the purpose (or perpus, if you're a less-educated middle school student or president of the United States) of a simple period drives me nuts, the way the disinclination of more practiced adults burns me at poetry readings. But I digress . . . .
. . . . . If you've not yet subscribed to the email version of The Writer's Almanac -- Garrison Keillor's wonderful effort -- I urge you to do so when you finish reading this ramble. If you're as smart as I hope you are, you'll figure out how. The email and radio show program (a few minutes every weekday on WUIS-FM (91 9 as the station on-air people have taken to mis-stating it over the last year or 91.9 if you have more than dirty cotton between your ears) has made me a better poet and a better hummin' bean. Here's the point in telling you this:
. . . . the May 26 email included a poem entitled "The Lost House" by David Mason. This is a wonderful poem, and if I could share it with you here without getting arrested, I would. Google David Mason as I intend to do, and you'll probably find more about him.
. . . . The poem is exquisite, a joy, a revelation, 24 lines (six stanzas) long. The enjambment between the lines are masterstrokes. I didn't even notice it until I had read the poem about six times and begun to decide it was an excellent poem. But I realized, as I appreciated Mason's technique, that pausing between stanzas, is the oral technique of the sadly misinformed. So here's the NEWS: The poem is a poem only on the page. Here is where it is a poem. ANYWHERE else it is a poem READ or RECITED, but it is NOT A POEM. Is the tuna in the ocean a fish? YES!
. . . . . Is the tuna in my noodley cassarole a tuna? NO! It is a tuna on a plate, but it is NOT A TUNA.
. . . . . What does this mean for readers and reciters? It means that reciters should pay as much attention to the structure of the poem on the page as we consider the genealogy of the fish.
. . . . . Understanding this FREES the reader/reciter (or FREE'S the reader/reciter if you're an under-educated middle school student or a president of the United Snakes) from allowing himself and herself from being distracted by concerns that are irrelevant. The result? The likelihood of your audience understanding the poem are multiplied bigtime! And if leading your audience to understanding what the poet said is not the point of your sharing aloud, if being aloof, mysterious, hauntingly and convincingly modern-poet-like, you should rethink why you open your granola intake port.
. . . . . Poetry shared aloud is a revelatory, affirming, illuminating catharsis for intelligent people who have poetry inside. By not hobbling the process by paying attention to the physical appearance of the poem on the page -- all the while paying attention to upper case usage (WHEN THERE ARE occasional worlds begun or STATED in Upper case), punctuation (or making your own punctuation up as the author intended you to do when eschewing it during the creative process -- and concentrating on the point of the poem, you affirm your validity as a poet and speaker of poetry, and you will bring new poetry advocates into this wonderful and nutty-wild world. I hope that is your goal for poetry. I am happy to state for the record that it is mine.

Lady Destiny - a poem

2006-05-13T09:32:00.000-07:00

Lady Destiny

Destiny punches no time clock
so if you think you've found yours,
be generous in giving her all they hours she will demand.

Others will not consider your allegiance
normal
and they may think you're a mutant fruit on the tree
that's best nipped in the bud.
Give the skeptics their two cents' worth
but keep the rest for yourself
and for Lady Destiny.

Do your best to play the game
of the drones who pack the pollen home
and the mud daubers who are too ofen deaf
to her call.
Why?
Because the hive rewards the team player
with sustenance
that allows you
to listen long
to Lady Destiny.

Don't ignore her when she calls your name.
She will be your one true love
seeking you as you seek her throughout your years;
returning to reward your sacrifice
and to punish your indifference.

And after you do all the things you choose,
though you forget their names and faces
to your final day,
you will remember Lady Destiny,
and you will judge
the value of your life
to be only as worthwhile
as you were true
to her.

-- Job Conger

. . . . . It's been a quiet week, poetry-production-wise, so here is a poem I wrote in 1996. Coming up this coming Wednesday is a poetry and prose open mic, sponsored by Poets & Writers Literary Forum, at IMO's Pizza, 651 Durkin Drive, Springfield, Ill ennui, signup for open mic starting about 6:45. I don't plan to attend BUT if you have not attended before, or haven't in a long time, and you e me that you WILL attend -- writer@eosinc.com -- I will attend.
. . . .Why so conditional? The venue needs faces that are new to the regulars, myself included. I have heard so many of the same poems by the same fine poets -- and good people, fine conversationalists who don't beat their dogs or keep their significant others unwatered and locked up in a pen (no pun intended) for days at a time -- who haven't written anything new in two years, that I can almost silently lip-sync their words as they read them. With one exception, I've brought at least one new poem or song to each IMO's reading I have attended over the last year. I'm not asking the same of the rest of the world, but it's getting harder for me to live up to my own expectation of myself. If you e me by Wednesday noon, I will not only attend, I will bring a new poem to read.

Young Writers Navigate the Maze

2006-05-01T15:09:00.000-07:00

Picture notes:
. . #1 - Anita Stienstra welcomed an incipient Emily Dickinson to the microphone. All contributors were given two copies of the 2006 Navigating the Maze.
. . #2 - P&WLF president Dave Pitchford welcomed everyone to the evening's reading.
. . #3 - Anita reads a fine poem from the 2006 edition. The excellent illustrations throughout the publication were also produced by students.

On April 27 at the Hoogland Center, Poets & Writers Literary Forum welcomed young poets, poets' families, older poets and poets' friends to a reading from the organizations annual Navigating the Maze anthology of poems written by young people. The attendance and the venue were a major improvement from the first reading of its kind which had taken place at Barnes & Noble eight years ago.
. . . . Though organizers didn't mention it Thursday night, I was president of P&WLF when NTM was begun. Anita Steinstra conceived the idea, and she remains the prime mover behind the enterprise today. Poems for that first issue were selected as we sipped coffee at Bixby's Bagels on the near southwest side of Springfield. The first reading took place in the B&N coffeeshop where we shared tables and chairs with an assortment of book enthusiasts who also happened to be there at the time, howls from the nearby cappucino machine, and the peripheral buzz of folks talking at tables in raised voices to combat the distraction eminating from the nearby microphone.
. . . . This was the second NTM reading at Hoogland, and by any account, the better. An earlier event a year or two ago was held in a smaller meeting room. Hoogland's Club Room was perfect.
. . . . Introductory remarks by P&WLF president Dave Pitchford made the kids and fams feel welcome, and emphasized the value not only of writing poetry, but memorizing it. (Dave has memorized two poems, himself!) He also extolled the memory of Springfield poet Vachel Lindsay. NTM is co-sponsored by a group called the VLA, perhaps better known as the Vachel Lindsay Association.
. . . . Anita Stienstra also addressed the audience, read a few poems herself, and after the kids had read, Corrine Frisch, president of the Vachel Lindsay Association spoke and read the only poem I could hear distinctly from my perch in the extreme right front of the room. I'm sure my incapacity to hear the others was simply sub-par treble and a low volume setting. My hearing isn't what it used to be, so I'm sure that was a factor. (I can't hear a poem spoken to a microphone, but I can hear a whispered caustic remark about one of my poems three tables away at an open mic; go figger.) Corrine's delivery was an excellent example of how to do it right.
. . . . Though organizers didn't mention it, there was a visitor to the event would could not only have recited a few Vachel poems, but also a smattering of Whitman, Ferlinghetti, Pope, Sandburg and Frost. None of the speakers recited one poem. Lead by example? Not Thursday night.
. . . . . The lesson that came clear to me during this very well organized event was that if you're a kid less than 14 years old, you should understand that your "reading behind a microphone" days await you in the future. I would be surprised if any of these eager sprouts had had any choral singing or theatrical stage experience under their "belts" before attending Thursday night and bravely, gladly, generously agreeing to read their poems aloud to an audience that numbered well over 40 people. It would also astound me to learn that more than two had ever been closer than 10 inches from a microphone. The reason for this is obvious. Writing poetry is a solitary endeavor. "Writing a poem" and "reading a poem aloud behind a microphone" are oxymoronic phrases which require different skills. No wonder most poets and many creative writers don't like to give speeches: they must embrace what they do not enjoy: being extremely exposed to many eyes and being judged (by many) every nanosecond they effuse words from their trembling lips. Some poets -- can't say many poets because I don't know it's many -- believe their work is DONE when the poem is penned upon the page. "END OF POEM" they think. For poets who don't want to rely on "Fate" delivering appreciative eyes to their words on paper, they must "sell" their poems by sharing them aloud. You may not want to read about a baseball game for three hours, but you'll watch a game on television. I may not want to read a poem silently, but I'll listen to the author, or a fan, read it.
. . . . Teachers and poets organizations assume too much when they assume young poets -- and older poets -- can read or recite a poem from a microphone successfully without learning how.
. . . . Teachers should instruct students, who want to read or recite poetry, how to stand behind a microphone. There should be time set aside after school or during a study period for this. With a small speaker and inexpensive microphone, teaching during regular classtime should not bother classes in adjacent classrooms. Teach the students about projecting the voice. Simply standing an inch away from a microphone and speaking will not reveal the poem to a listener more than 10 feet away.
. . . . Organizers should lead every poet to the live microphone and show how to use it. Have the poet who intends to share a poem aloud read a line or two into the microphone a few times so he or she can hear how it sounds when it sounds right . . . and when it sounds wrong. This leadership need not inconvenience family and friends because most will be socializing anyway. The effort should take 30 to 45 seconds per poet. Don't set the speaker volume and walk away for two hours. Have someone sitting by the volume control listen to each poet and adjust the output so when a reader begins too softly to be heard by an owl, the person on the volume control can adjust the output and thus, allow each reader be heard.
. . . . Many students who aspire to be readers and reciters of poems also aspire to act on stage, to sing in a choir or band. Those students will learn how to use the most beautiful instrument in the world -- the human voice -- in the course of becoming actors or singers. But, as said earlier, often, effective readers are not always poets, and vice versa (no pun intended). Friends of poetry should not bet these kids will learn how to speak effectively somewhere else, or worse, assume they will learn elsewhere. Those who know how to share poetry out loud are just as able to instruct young people with ears for poetry as a drama coach or choir director. For every incipient Ginsburg or Lindsay there are incipient Teasdales and Dickinsons and Frosts. Discover those quiet blast furnaces who may someday warm the world and teach them how to be heard. You're doing kids no favors when you don't.
. . . . Don't write them off by saying "They're just kids. Tonight is probably the only time they'll read a poem in public, so we won't make a big deal out of L O cution. At most, they'll be center stage for 53 seconds, they will reap warm fuzzies from mom and dad, pontificating platitudes from the emcee, and that will be it." Teach young people the rest of what being a poet can be about. Ensure their success by showing them how to do things right early in the process. To do otherwise is to deprive young people of endless hours of learning and self-actualizing, rewarding activity. The woeful adult apathy and disinterest in the blooming successes of children (and grownups) sharing poetry out loud continues to deprive our community, our world, of unpredictable, unimaginable delight that we will never appreciate until we HEAR their words.
. . . . Kudos and thanks to P&WLF and participating students and parents for a memorable evening.

More David Radavich poet pictures.

2006-04-27T19:21:00.000-07:00

Last week I tried to post 10 medium size pictures I took of Eastern Illinois University professor David Radavich during his April 19 reading at Poets & Writers Literary Forum in Springfield, Illinois. Only three made it onto the page, located at my Writer's Chronicle page. I'm hoping that by posting the remaining 7 as small pictures, the rest will appear at this posting. If you know David (I don't have his email address) please tell him the pictures are up.

Is it possible for visitors to copy these pictures for personal use? Try it and see, and if you can, be my guest; my treat. Any ArtsLinks supporter who desires larger, higher definition renditions of these pictures sent via email is invited to e me. For information about how to become an ArtsLinks supporter, visit the bottom of the web page indicated here - - - > http://www.aeroknow.com/artslinks.htm

Poetry Out Loud - Regional Remembered, reposted

2006-04-27T11:51:00.000-07:00

A glitch prevented me from revising the original Regional Remembered post, so I am reposting it here.

Poetry Out Loud (POL) is a national enterprise that promotes the memorization reciting of poems among high school students. In so doing, it fosters appreciation of the language, understanding of poetry as an art, and better understanding of how to communicate orally. Their website, intended for educators, but good reading for everyone, is www.poetryoutloud.org I became involved with POL when Springfield Area Arts Council assistant director Penny Wollan-Kriel asked me to be a judge for the April 5 Regional Contest, held at the Hoogland Center for the Arts in lyrical downtown Springfield.
. . . . The contests invited students tp select poems they intended to recite from a large list, with texts of poems, at the POL website. Included there, but not recited by any Regional or State contestant, were two Vachel Lindsay poems: and General William Booth Enters into Heaven and Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight.
. . . . Before I attended a poetry open mic (my spelling, and it seems to have caught on) which was sponsored by Poets & Writers Literary Forum (of Springfield) in 1994, I assumed that all poems shared at these events were memorized, so I memorized the three I planned to share there before heading out to Barnes & Noble. After all, that's how we shared poems in Miss Ruppelt's Fifth Grade class at Blackhawk school in 1958, and it was how Nick Lindsay shared his father Vachel's poems at a 1962 Springfield High School assembly as I watched, enraptured from a front row, center aisle balcony seat. And that's how I shared every poem I presented at a P&WLF activity for three years. Memorizing poetry has never been a big deal with me, no more so than putting on shoes when I go to church or not picking my nose so much when I'm eating dinner with a girlfriend's parents. My experience with P&WLF showed me that while memorizing is fine, it's not part of the social imperative at these gatherings. I also learned that it's a heckovalot better to read a poem well, with suitable intonation and sensitivity, from a piece of paper than it is to share it poorly memorized and stumbling around the poem like a drunken etymologist. Even so, even after I started reading my poems from paper occasionally at open mics, I recited almost every Vachel Lindsay poem I shared with an audience. Only exceptions were his The Chinese Nightingale and Bryan, Bryan, Bryan, Bryan. When I've a featured poet/speaker given center stage for 45 to 60 minutes, I still memorize every poem I share. Poetry Out Loud was "right up my alley,"and I was delighted to help with the Springfield Regional.
. . . . Southeast High School English instructor Joni Paige carried the ball for Springfield. I understand other high school English departments were invited to participate, but interest elsewhere had been zilch. Southeast had a competition to select students to recite at the Regional Contest. The winners, who came to Hoogland April 5 were Aren Dow, Brittany McDermott, Chris Pugh, Lauren Richmond and Kaitlyn Sanders. Students from Southeast later explained to me that only seniors were declared winners during the intramural contest, even though at least one non-senior had recited better than those who were selected to come to Hoogland. Re my reaction to that news, I consider the organization of things Joni Paige's deck to deal. I was impressed with the students who came to the Regional Contest, and have no argument with how the cards were dealt.
. . . . . The contest consisted of two rounds with each student reading one poem in each round. Two winners were determined from the total scores.
. . . . The elements of presentation by which the poems were judges were exquisitely appropriate, almost perfection. There were four grade levels: weak, fair, good and excellent, indicated by number scores of 1 through 4 respectively in the following criteria: volume, speed, voice inflection, posture and presence. evidence of understanding, pronounciation, gestures, eye contact, level of difficulty and overall performance. I will write separate blog columns regarding those elements. A missing fifth element is addressed in my blog about the State Contest.
. . . . . Master of Ceremonies was David Farrell, the "Don Pardoe" of the WUIS program State Week in Review. In Farrell's banter between recitations, he mentioned how Aren Dow had revealed in his bio that he was competing so that he could beat Kaitlyn Sanders at something. Dow's confidence was matched by his ability as a reciter. He and Kaitlyn were the two students judged winners of the Regional Contest. The other students were almost equally impressive. Every one of them deserve congrats for their interest in the American language, their considerable effort engaged in memorizing their poems, and their apparent calm heads when appearing, some for the first time, alone on a stage with a bunch of strangers gaping up at them like so many cod in a fish market.
. . . . . Kudos to everyone involved with the Regional Contest!

Poetry Out Loud - The State Was Great

2006-04-27T08:01:00.000-07:00

Serving as a judge at the Poetry Out Loud State Contest was an unexpected honor and pleasure. The event included judges and staff Grace Wenz, Esther Kaplan, Melinda LaBarre, Dennis Rendleman and me from the Regional Contest and added new judges John Knoepfle from Springfield and Susan Guthrie from Chicago. As with the Regional Contest, on hand were an acurasy (make that accuracy) judge who had the texts of the poems in front of her during the reciting and a prompter, also with poems in view, who provided words to reciters who could not remember the words and needed a prompt, the first word or two of what followed.
. . . . Contestants were Springfield Regional winners,Aren Dow, Kaitlyn Sanders plus Bueana Cox, Sharee Glenn, Sydney Jones, Ariela Rotenberg and Brandon Sidney, winners from the Chicago Regionals.
. . . . Most of these young people were dressed as though they had just stopped by during a regular day at school, but a few were attired as though they were going to be facing an audience in a competition of some significance. I had seen no words in print describing appropriate clothes for the contests, there was no mention of appearance in the judges' guidelines, and the obvious difference between those who dressed for the occasion and those who did not absolutely did not affect my evaluating them as reciters of poems. Did it make a difference in how I reacted to them as people? Absoutely. As a judge, could I, did I talk with those who acknowledged with their attire the importance of the State Contest and congratulate them for their astuteness of character and dedication? Absolutely not. But if they, or people who know them and saw them read these words, I hope word will get passed to those exceptional students. Regardless of whether or not the organization credits clothes for contributing to the presentation, those who strive to deliver maximum positive impact to the audience should keep appropriate togs in mind. Truth is, poetry is about words delivered; not about shirts and shoes. So appearance is not a consideration; right?
. . . . Wrong. How the presenter carries himself/herself matters. Consider the hands: open, pointing, clenched, hanging loosely or joined at the front as though competing in a spelling bee. Consider the arms : in motion in harmony with stance and inclination of the head, are factors in judging. And what about those feet? Are they motionless, with legs together and hands joined? For a long time, traditional poetry readers and reciters have conformed to what I call the spelling bee pose, a time-honored classic, possibly Greek or Roman or Victorian mandate, because that's what was the norm, the preferred way to share poems. Didn't matter if the poem was about a barn fire with horses dying or a rabbit's loosing race with a hawk or a lover's lament over rejection by the woman who was queen of his domain, the classic stance has been the "rule" for sharing poetry.
. . . . The art of sharing poetry out loud has evolved since ancient Greece when poets competed as stridently as athletes in periodic national contests. Poetry Out Loud organizers acknowledged this by noting the expectation of a "theatrical" element in the reciting. Vachel Lindsay used the theatrical element in his recitals to packed theaters and auditoriums in the late nine-teens and twenties. He called is presenting the "higher vaudeville," and though his description was accurate for its time, today's poets relate to higher vaudeville as they might relate to a hand crank for starting your Toyota Camry or a running board. I call the business of sharing poetry out loud, virtually the same criteria used by Poetry Out Loud, Unleashing the Poem. I won't expound about that here. Suffice to say, most of the poets in the State Contest proved they knew what contemporary poetry presentations should be because they did it! Some exceptionally well!
. . . . The first poet stumbled four or five times, forgetting words and pausing with a nod in the direction of the prompter for some help. She was the only poet to experience such difficulty so obviously, and it occurred only during her first reading. During the second and final rounds she shone like the sun. Based on the forms distributed to the judges, I had no option other to evaluate the talented young lady on the criteria included on the judges' forms. Her score for that heart-in-your-throat first recital was higher than it would have been in a contest where memorizatiion mattered.
. . . . Judges' evaluation criteria were the same in the State Contest as for the regional. There was no place for evaluating the level of memorization or for regular judges to mark deductions for lapses in memory. I hope Poetry Out Loud reconsiders this and adds such capacity to future judges' reciter evaluation forms. One of the judges remarked after the contest that failure to memorize a poem adequately, and stumbling during the presentations was not a big deal, but I disagree. Without MEMORIZATION, a major pillar in the foundation of poetry reciting crumbles like saltwater concrete. If a person has stage fright, the place to eliminate those butterflies is in practice sessions, the countless rehearsing until the words are second nature.
. . . . Memorizing the words are only the first part of the process that leads to competition. It's the first part to master. Everything else -- stance, volume, gestures, speed. . . -- follows. Why? Because in fine tuning the recital, the memorized poem becomes even more imprinted on the mind. By the time a person recites a poem for the first time, he or she should be able to say the poem aloud while playing volleyball and not miss a word.
. . . . Two rounds of recital led to determining the four finalists based on those scores. The results were no surprise. Finding four top finishers from a field of seven was not a process the regular judges were not in on, and rightfully so.
. . . . BUT, instead of seven reciters at the State Contest, there should have been 37. A small point; a wish. It was the first effort. I'm confident the number next year will be higher. Judges were instructed not to base their final round score on the total impression made during the first two rounds added to the final round, but on the basis of the final round alone. The young lady who had suffered passing memory lapse at the very start of the contest was on the same footing as the other three finalists. Round three was clearly the cream of the cream in poem choice and in delivery.
. . . . The wait for the results . . . . . . . was a nail biting time. I had a favorite, whom I expected to win, but my hands became cold and clammy during the wait, which was not long. The final tabulators were superb.
. . . . "And the runner up is . . . . (inhale) . . . . . . . . . Springfield's Kaitlin Sanders . . . . . . . and the winner is . . . . . . . . . . . Chicago's Ariela Rotenberg (EXhale!. . . . . Ariela will attend the national competition May 16. WOW! Sweet satisfaction. Expectations met!
. . . . I talked with Ariela and her mother during the luncheon that followed and learned the whole experience had begun for her in March 2006. She had memorized two poems for the regional and memorized a third after she won there. Her final-round poem was one she had presented at the regionals. She went with what she was most comfortable with, and her delivery had been absolutely first class!
. . . . So WOW! What a contest! I wish I could be present in Washington, DC when Ariela takes to the stage again, but even though I won't be there, my heart will be front row center. I was impressed with every contestant I was privileged to see and hear at regional and state this year. And I look forward to next year's competition. Kudos, congratulations and thanks to Penny Wollan-Kriel, Springfield Area Arts Council, Illinois Arts Council and everyone else who was a part of Poetry Out Loud 2006!

Going From Bad to Verse

2006-04-25T15:08:00.000-07:00

So there I was at 12:45 on a Tuesday afternoon somewhere along Vachel Lindsay's The Santa Fe Trail when my friend Jim Johnston took this picture. It's the picture of a poet engaged in the second-most important mission of the poet. The first most important mission of the poet of course is writing poems, and my presentation included two of my own (Vachel Was a Preacher and Don't You Take the Mashed Potatoes). I recited these Vachel Lindsay poems:
. . . 1. The Illinois Village
. . . 2. The Proud Farmer
. . . 3. The Beggar Speaks
. . . 4. The Flute of the Lonely
. . . 5. The Congo
. . . 6. The Santa-Fe Trail
. . . 7. A Curse for the Saxophone
. . . 8. Niagara
. . . 9. The Broncho That Would Not Be Broken
. . 10. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight
. . . . The last two were by request. I have enough Vachel Lindsay poems in my pocket (memorized and ready to recite) that so far, when I've asked if an audience member has a favorite Vachel poem that he or she wants to hear, I can respond by reciting the poem.
. . . . . A woman I met at the Vachel Lindsay Home State Historic Site last December (first name: June) and I was privileged to share poetry at Rochester Public Lbrary's Topics to Chew on lecture series because I told her I wanted to speak to her group, and she talked to the right people, and library director Nancy Kruse invited me. That's her, posing with moi before she knew what she was in for.
. . . . Springfield architect and friend Jim Johnston, artist Vern Taylor and I made the trip, courtesy of Jim's good wheels, and the presentation went well. Jim and Vern have seen me "perform" as a songwriter/slinger before, but not so much as a poet. And I know them primarily in connection with my ArtsLinks.com enterprise http://www.aeroknow.com/artslinks.htm so it was a treat to share their hometown good vibes during the presentation.
. . . . The effort could not have gone better. Springfield poets who hang with Poets & Writers Literary Forum of Springfield http://www.pwlf.com have heard me recite Vachel Lindsay poems for the past 10 years, and because I like to recite them often -- no better way to maintain proficiency than to recite poems often -- many P&WLF members have heard me recite these poems so many times, some of them can almost move their lips silently as I do my "thang." I know some performing artists weary of the same songs over and over, but when there are people I don't know in the audience (and there were almost 40 in Rochester) I crank up my performance level and truly enjoy reciting any poem I know. So there was great karma, and all seemed to enjoy the event.
. . . . Thanks to Rochester Public Library and Nancy Kruse for the opportunity and to Jim and Vern for helping make it happen.
. . . . Future postings here will include my poetry (probably more than you really want to know about it), thoughts about sharing poetry in public, what makes a poem work in public. I've seen many poems and poets succeed, and many poems and poets not succeed. I believe too many people walk away from poetry, don't enjoy poetry when shared aloud, because they've not heard poetry shared as it should be shared. Your thoughts shared in feedback to this blog will help determine content here, so don't be shy about picking up what I hurl in your direction and hurling it back.
. . . . Thanks for reading this!