SOMEWHERE NORTH OF BOSTON
Episode #60
Enchanted Saturday
I visit Somerville about twice monthly to attend the bi-monthly live meetups of our little group of poets and writers known as the Bagel Bards. We meet now in the basement of Panera Bread in Porter Square - a windowless, airless space, with piped-in music. What it lacks in charm we more than make up for with heaping portions of poetry, camaraderie, and bonhomie. Today was exceptional and the poems read were even better than they usually are - a very special start to what turned out to be a very special day - an enchanted Saturday.
Poems were read by a few bards including Neal K., who has never gotten off the bus - a reference to Ken Kesey. Neal is a Harvard Man whose roommate was the unibomber. He arrived at the Bards sporting a wig - a kind of trashy, dippy thing which made him look like he is - marvellous and ridiculous at the same time - but not in a bad way, not at all bad. He is our Court Jester, our merry prankster - and he takes his role most seriously. It’s hard to describe Neal - tall, handsome, dishevelled - but stylishly, or his poetry, which is a clever mix of wordplay, Kabala, politics and society, neologisms (do you innerstand me?) and all sorts of strange allusions and random thoughts that tend to cohere into mini-masterpieces which we are treated to on a weekly basis.
It’s not easy for a poet to make an entire room roll with laughter by reading a poem, but Neal K. managed to do it today with exceptional skill. After a round of applause, he was succeeded by his friend Tomas O. who followed this hard-to-follow act with two poems of his own, which bore the indelible mark of the wit and whimsy of this Great Irish-American master of the art form. Again full-throated laughter rising from the tables jam-packed with versifiers - people who know a good poem from a bad one and whose spontaneous appreciation is the gold standard.
Others read too - Nina about Spain (another in her Spanish cycle) and a funeral, David D. and Johnna M. read. Doug Holder read a sad and graceful poem, and David P. Miller read a poem from his new book "In the Bend of the Stairs", in which he riffs on googling his name and finding multiple David P. Millers. Hilarious - but also very skillful. It was absolutely amazing to be surrounded by so much talent, so much love of language, so much good humor and friendship.
Having drunk my fill of poetry we wandered over to the small bookstore - The Lost Bookshelf - run by our friend, a fellow Bard, Gloria M., who is closing up shop and selling books for a buck each. Of course I was there with bells on, but also with a heavy heart that this arts center, a former armory, was taken over by eminent domain by the city of Somerville and many long established businesses run by local residents were now leaving. I walked away with 3 bags full of books but Gloria would not let me pay for them because I am a fellow bard. I wished her the very best and she is determined to make the best of it all as she will continue to publish writers from far and wide in her Cervana Barva Press along with her own poems, a recent collection of which, entitled “Ash”, has been winning prizes left and right.
As I wandered out of the bookstore musicians were playing in a cafe also in the armory, and I just had to drift in and listen to them. It was a duet of piano and bass guitar, and they were playing old standards like “Love for Sale” and “Autumn in New York”. So here I was again surrounded by music and art and books and eating lunch at the cafe listening to this live jazz a short walk from my house. These musicians were elder statesmen, sporting beards and the look and habits of old jazzers - real hepcats. They appreciated my applause and when I finished my lunch I offered to read them a poem I had recently written about a jazz musician I once knew when I was a college student at Rutgers, (Newark campus). They of course knew his name and kept interrupting my poem with sighs of recognition when famous names or places were mentioned. I was happy that they listened to me and gave me such an enthusiastic reception. Poetry read on the spot to strangers willing to listen is not an everyday occurrence; but it happened to me today - a day which left me with the distinct impression that I too was on the bus.
FOR THE SAKE OF SUCH MEMORIES
Leafing through books in Gloucester to select
Those that stay from those that go
Back to Somerville
I chanced upon a history of
Newark Nightlife,1925-50.
I would have placed it in the box to go
But I thought to look up a name
Of a gentleman I once met
In a New Jersey park long ago
Where he played his trombone
Under a spreading elm tree
On Eagle Rock all alone,
While our jejune flock picnicked
On a hot summer’s day.
The entry in the book for “Moncur, Grachan”
Was not about him - the avant-garde trombonist,
Grachan Moncur the 3rd,
But about his father, a string bassist
Who played all over town
With his half-brother Al Cooper,
Who led the Savoy Sultans.
Then a list of vocalists with whom he had recorded
Rolled out like pin balls hitting their marks
In my memory - household names I could hear
Clear and distinct in my mother’s voice:
Mildred Bailey and Red Norvo,
Billie Holiday and Johnny Hodges,
Mary Lou Williams and Bunny Berigan -
Musicians my mom saw up close and personal
In jazz joints on 52nd Street and other enchanted spots:
Eddie Condon’s, The Three Deuces,
Jimmy Ryan’s and the Onyx club,
The Savoy Ballroom, the Eagle Bar.
Those Jersey girls did not have far to go
In search of bebop and dancing.
And for the sake of such memories
I placed the book back on the shelf.
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