Batter up

You may remember I mentioned the Poetry World Series, an annual event at the Mill Valley Library.  This event, organized by Becky Foust and Melissa Stein (below), combines poetry with the structure of a baseball game.

2016-05-06 21.10.36There are two teams of three poets each, an emcee, and judges. This is inning eight, the gracious and funny Matthew Siegel and I were pitched the phrase “zoo animals.” For each inning, the audience “pitches” topics, and one poet from each team “bats” their poem at the topic, no prep beforehand. We even each have walk up music.

Dean Rader was the charming emcee, and I was on the red team (note my borrowed red Diablo’s baseball shirt and cap), Continue reading “Batter up”

A miscellany

tin manI realized that this is close to the five year anniversary of this blog. Despite typos, sloth, and various technical difficulties, I’ve managed to publish something at least once a week for this period. These last two weeks have been particularly busy, so I thought I’d include a few things from various categories, starting with a Monday poem one day late. Larry and I were talking about our friend Paul Tulley the other day–how strange it is that he’s been gone for almost 20 years. Larry mentioned that Paul once sent him an obituary for Jack Haley, who played the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz, with a post-it attached that said: “RUST IN PEACE.”

Poem for Paul

Lately, crows have been invading poems,
those hoi polloi birds, irascible and unashamed.
An eye for the mystic ordinary, Paul
knew the difference between crow
and raven—Most poem crows are ravens,
he might tell you, pointing out their size,
their heavy bill, their solitary strut.

While others scanned for kestrel
or for heron, Paul wondered about gulls,
their range and variations, their coziness
with all things human and the limitless,
inhuman sea. An underrated bird,
he might say.

For years in one small bedroom
where the sea could just be heard,
Paul held ongoing court for grownup
children, his beery Buddha’s smile
traveling with them,
Moscow, Moose Jaw, Lhasa,
back with an unusual rock or plastic wind-up
toy for Paul to slowly take in hand,
consider, and comment on.
His comment the reward
for the journey.

He wrote his poems on scraps
dropped in a coffee can
or sent on a card to a friend,
no copy kept, or lost
in the drifts layered
around his bed.
One of the rare ones
who knew that the writing
was everything.
What happens after
doesn’t matter. Continue reading “A miscellany”