Meanwhile Back At The Poetry Reading

In May of 1990 a letter from The New Yorker magazine arrived in my mailbox. I had sent them “Dinner With The Babe,” my poem about a fantasy dinner with baseball legend and big eater Babe Ruth. It began as follows:

I’d serve a lot of hot dogs,

buns and beans and beer.

There’s never too much food around

when Mr. Ruth is here.

He’d come straight from the ballpark,

in uniform and cleats;

we’d talk about his batting stance,

and broads and booze and “eats.”

Naturally, having created such a rare work of nostalgic whimsy, I opened the letter expecting words of praise about my “playful surrealism” and “a marriage of art and life made in baseball heaven.”  Instead, it read as follows:

The Poetry Department will be closed from May 31, 1990 through August 31, 1990. Only topical poems or those scheduled for imminent book publication will be considered during this time. All other manuscripts will be returned unread to the sender. Thanks for your cooperation.

And so began my journey as an unpaid, part-time poet. My early efforts were a mixed bag of pseudo-sensitive pablum, self-indulgent preening, and wordplay gone astray. Take, for instance, this short verse that abruptly dead-ended before hitting its stride:

Life is a mystery, love is a riddle,

hi diddle, ho diddle, hey diddle diddle.

The lesson is a hard one, but when you commit to a rhyming structure, you’ll likely have more losses than wins. In this case, once I used the word “riddle” in my poem, I pretty much unlocked the door to diddle. Similarly, I almost rhymed “Phoenix” with “Kleenex” in an unfinished poem but had to abandon the crusade after weeks of not showering or shaving.

Another pitfall for the aspiring (and sometimes perspiring) poet is the tendency to imitate their heroes. Witness this Dr. Seuss-like verse I wrote to my brother in anticipation of a visit from our mom:

Marge, you’ll find, is a good guest.

She will not say “my way is best.”

She will not squeeze your tube of Crest.

And if you feel you need some rest,

she will not make one more request.

Shameless mimicry aside, I increasingly found poetry to be a potent way to share genuine experiences with clarity, imagery and humanity. My feelings about the menace of a coming hurricane became a piece called “Blow Hard” which ended on a relatable up note about dodging disaster:

In the night it’s hard to slumber,

your house could be a pile of lumber.

You wonder why you’ve been forsaken,

fearing death or endless raking.

Then the danger peaks and passes,

you open doors and nothing crashes.

Slowly, you regain your nerve…

“Yeah, I knew the hurricane would swerve!”

One of the keys to a good poem, I discovered, is to be a storyteller who finds fresh ways to say routine things. The short-form framework of a Japanese haiku – 5 ,7 and 5 syllables on three lines – always got my cut-to-the-chase juices flowing:

Waking up early.

Time to think about the day.

First thought: Get more sleep.

Whistle while you work.

People will love to hear it.

Or they will slap you.

Meet you at midnight?

That’s way beyond my bedtime.

How’s six-thirty sound?

Your secret is safe.

I only told ten people.

They seldom gossip.

Having fun with words is always worth the ride, but the slipperiest slope in poetry may be the love poem. I found that out when I met my wife Sherry and proceeded to try way too hard to flaunt my sensitive nature. Observe:

Rooftop romantics leave no star unturned

for a stroke of luck in the moonlight.

I’ve paid my dues in Sinatra and self-pity, 

unemployed heart, overworked and underfed.

Need I go on or is your gag-reflex fully engaged? 

To this day, sometimes my poetry writing is a series of fits and starts that seems destined to fail in expressing anything of worth. You take words, you stick them together and you see if they convey any meaning – some of them do, some of them don’t. Then there comes a moment in my mind when I see and believe and the words that weren't there keep arriving, whole and true and right. That was the case when I wrote this verse in a poem for my wife: 

Indulge me, dance after dance, 

for I have loitered along the way, 

forfeiting precious time in your arms. 

And my atonement now is to love you 

that

much 

more.

It sums up my feelings perfectly. One might even say “poetically.” I don’t think I could write it any better. Unless, of course, I went for the rhyme: 

Indulge me, dance after dance, 

for I am wearing my best dancing pants.

Okay, not better as a rhyme. Moving on.

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A Florida Whimp Whines About Winter

Cold enough for you? I’m freezing.

It was so cold this morning, I saw a squirrel wearing a hoodie.

It was so cold, I saw a collie in line at Dunkin' ordering a double expresso.

It was so cold, a raccoon asked me for directions to the Burlington Coat Factory.

Exactly how cold was it, you ask? It was 28 degrees. In Florida. Okay, I’m not expecting anyone to throw a telethon for us. I’m not even expecting an outpouring of sympathy for my discomfort. But after 40 years as a Floridian, I hope you can appreciate the hardship I’m enduring as I face temperatures well below the 75 degrees I’m used to in the winter months.

“Oh, poor baby,” my brother Jim scoffed during an early January phone call. “It’s 14 degrees here in Nebraska and we haven’t seen the sun in six days.”

“But your 14 degrees is the equivalent of our 28 degrees,” I countered lamely, pointing out the blood thinning effect of spending decades in a subtropical steam bath.

“In a few days you’ll be back soaking up the sun,” my brother ventured. “Meanwhile, we’ll be huddled by the fireplace taking swigs from a flask of whiskey and praying our provisions hold out till spring.”

“It was so cold this morning, I saw an egret wearing leg warmers,” I blurted, trying to match melodrama with imaginary wildlife.

Dressing For Distress

One of the first things you notice when the temperature drops is that a Florida cold snap brings out some strange wardrobe adjustments.

While running errands yesterday I saw a woman on a bicycle wearing a heavy winter coat with a hood. She was also wearing shorts. Earlier today I saw a guy wearing sandals, shorts and a heavy knit sweater. In both cases, it's as if their upper and lower bodies came from two different climates and formed an uneasy alliance in search of better weather.

To be honest, I’m not immune to wardrobe confusion either. When you spend the better part of the year in shorts and a t-shirt, assembling an outfit suited for cooler conditions doesn’t come easily. A long sleeve tee and jeans feels like a logical upgrade, but what if the daytime high never gets out of the 50s?

Under the right circumstances, a mid-weight sweater would be a sensible choice, but that depends on if it’s windy or not. Maybe that heavier sweater that feels like wool but is really acrylic needs to be exhumed from the cedar chest. And what of that smell embedded in the garment? Is that the cedar chest scent or the cold sweat ghosts of Christmas’s past?

Whatever ensemble I pick, I’m invariably too warm, too cold, or convinced that the apparel I need was donated to a long-ago clothes drive because “I’ll never need this stuff in Florida.” Think again, Sonny Sockless.

Hunkering Down Until The Temp Goes Up

When the weather got unseasonably cold, my wife and I found ourselves downshifting to a hunker down lifestyle, canceling all plans and priorities that involved leaving the house.

“What do you want to do today?” I asked Sherry, hoping she was as committed to sustaining cozy comfort as I was.

“I’m content just to putz around the house,” Sherry confided, leaving details up in the air.

“Let’s do that,” I agreed. “I think we have our hands full maintaining body temperature. I’d hate to lose focus on that just to feel actively engaged in the world around us. Besides, it was so cold this morning, I saw a sand hill crane wearing flannel pajamas.” (I have a million of them.)

As the chilly days dragged on and the sun kept its distance, we realized that we were no different that most other Floridians: A lucky group of hearty souls who, despite our sun-splash lives, reserve the right to whine about any dip in temperature that makes us reach for a light jacket.

If nothing else, I hope this cold weather commentary raises awareness around the rest of the country that winter's icy assault sometimes effects Florida folks, too.

To my fellow Americans in Northern and Mid-Western States: Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

To my Fellow Frozen-In-Place Floridians: We WILL get through this. Your courage and resilience give me goosebumps.

Of course, that could just be my body’s reaction to the temperature dipping below 60 degrees.

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My Music Comes With An Echo

I’ve always had a touch of disc jockey in me, much to the bewilderment of a series of ungrateful captive audiences. 

When I got my first record player in the 1960s, I assigned myself the role of family entertainment coordinator, choosing dinner music each night for my parents and brothers. To say my taste were eclectic is a kind way of describing selections that veered jarringly from the Soundtrack to The Exorcist to early Johnny Mathis to the complete collection of the made-for-TV band The Monkees. 

At college in the 70s, I took a late-night shift on the school radio station – a risky move for a morning person who started to fade by 9:30 at night. My solution to the dilemma was to play long cuts from jazz albums so I could duck out of the studio to get some fresh air and strong coffee. This strategy was at odds with my student listeners who hungered for the disco dance sounds of the Bee Gees and Donna Summer. My only regret is that the gig ended before I could spring the Exorcist soundtrack on them.

Cut to ten years ago, when friends of ours bought an Amazon Echo and introduced us to an adopted new family member named Alexa. 

 A voice-activated smart speaker that looks like a pillar candle, you say "Alexa, play 'Traveling Man' by Ricky Nelson" and within seconds you hear the song play. You say "Alexa, play 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' by the Tokens," and on it comes. You say “Alexa, play ‘What A Wonderful World’ by Louis Armstrong,” and suddenly there’s Louis, as wonderful as ever. 

 I was mesmerized. I was dumbstruck. I was a prehistoric man in a weird new world.

A talking candle that plays music? This strange modern technology confuses and frightens me. For I am but a caveman unfrozen by scientists to experience social media, microwave omelets and the music of Lady GaGa.

My wife and I quickly bought our own Echo. The long-dormant disc jockey in me was back and with millions of songs at my fingertips, I was ready to take a test drive.

I asked for an obscure Burl Ives song from 1952 that my father liked called “One Hour Ahead of The Posse.” Alexa played it.

I asked for a cheesy Elvis Presley cover of “Old MacDonald Had A Farm” from one of his silly movies. Alexa played it.

Thinking she would have to draw the line somewhere, I asked for an old polka tune I learned from my wife’s family called “Who Stole The Keeshka?” Alexa played that, too.

I have to give her credit. Even more impressive than her sweeping musical reach, Alexa never makes me feel self-conscious when I ask to hear songs that are often more than 50 years old. In fact, aside from a slight snickering under her breath, she treats every request with the same instantaneous can-do spirit as the last.

If there are any limitations to the Echo experience, the fault lies with me, the aging disc jockey who has forgotten more than you’ll ever know. Cat Stevens, Sting, Bob Seger, Linda Ronstadt, Paul Simon. These are artists I love but can never seem to think of when I'm standing in front of my Amazon Echo requesting some music. Which is why, on a daily basis, I hear myself say, "Alexa ... play songs by James Taylor." I'm waiting for her to say, "Seriously? Again?"

Now I’ve been to other homes where the Echo is on standby, ready to enhance the lives of its adoptive owners. Strangely, some use its miracle music capacity sparingly, preferring instead to integrate it with various devices for total smart home functionality. 

They say “Alexa, dim the lights to 30%” and suddenly there’s an inviting glow in the family room. They say “Alexa, turn on the fan” and a cool breeze creates convenient comfort without a search for the remote.  “They say “Alexa, set a timer for 20 minutes” and when the final second tics down a pleasant pulsing sound reminds you to take the teriyaki pineapple meatballs out of the oven.

These are all impressive features, to be sure, and definitely worth trying out if you’re looking to have a virtual assistant that does virtually everything around the house you can think of. But for a lifelong wannabe DJ like me, nothing can equal the intensely thrilling ability to say “Alexa, play ‘Under The Boardwalk’ by the Drifters” and be singing along with it seconds later.

The fact that Alexa doesn’t say “Yikes – How old ARE you?” makes it even sweeter.

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