At Little Grill: May 24, 2007

Last night at Little Grill I read one new poem ('Job Description of a Poet', which got a few knowing laughs from Chris Howdyshell) and a couple of newly posted poems that I'd written a year ago or so (lost in the mail). These included: 'I Don't Mind', 'With All Thy Getting, Get Understanding', 'I Had a Talk With Cupid', 'Only One 'I Love You'', and, much to the relief of everyone in attendance, 'The World's Greatest Poem' (which actually received a good bit of work as a thankful result of the reading).

A poet whose recent self-published book of poems I'd just read showed up and did a little thing on power lines. That would be Charlie Clouse, his book: Poems that Might or might not Change your Life put out by his own Hound Dog Press.

Afterwards I had an interesting discussion with a young poet on the power of rhyme and how so much 'poetry' written today sounds an awful lot like prose (or 'just talking' as he put it).

He actually did what I would call a sentence poem, something I tongue-in-cheek stated I innovated while all along being pretty sure others had done a similar style before me.

Only 'In Charlottesville'

Only In Charlottesville will you find Elvis flipping burgers down at the White Spot.

Actually now he's doing dishes at the (recently re-opened) Blue Moon Diner.

I know 'cause I just ran into him down there last Saturday.

He used to drive a pink Cadillac from the Fifties, too, just like The King.

He lost that to his ex-wife in the divorce proceedings.

This could only happen in Charlottesville, because Charlottesville Is . .

Knicely Done

I took my Mother to see James Leva and Purgatory Mountain last Friday night at the Dayton Learning Center for Mother's Day.

Danny Knicely, whose music accomplishments read like an encyclopedia of Appalachian music, was appearing with them.

More importantly he'd sat in one time with Walker's Run at Michael's Bistro a hundred years ago in Charlottesville and they still haven't been able to reconstruct the foundation of that place.

Even more importantly than that, several months back, in heat of summer, I'd ridden my bike from south of Harrisonburg to the very-exotic-sounding burg of Keezletown to catch Danny and Will Lee debut their new CD: Murders, Drownings and Lost Loves.

Part of the deal was a free CD. But, I forgot to pick mine up.

So Friday night I'm telling and re-telling this story to my Mother, hoping I don't actually have to make it known to anyone because then I would be begging for my CD, wouldn't I? And the woman taking tickets would surely get things mixed up, or lose interest in my story, or . .

Then I spied Danny at the Coke machine. I could tell he wasn't listening to my story at all, that he had D-flats and E-minor chords on his mind. (You know how musicians are.)

Oh, well. At least I'd get to enjoy the show, I told my Mother, even though I'd never see my free CD.

Just then he tapped me on the shoulder and presented me a copy.

I clutched it tightly the entire night.

Knicely done.

'Job Description of a Poet'

I was mortified--actually mortified--recently to discover that a young woman--perhaps more of a girl--did not know the difference between love and being in love.

Mortified.

What does that mean for our Society?

Has it really come to this, a man explaining to a woman the difference between loving someone and being in love with him?

My God.

Yet another benefit of decades of Feminism?

Love in all of its variations is essential to Life. Can we really forget that?

Who must remind us, teach us, experience it so he can explain it all to us?

The poet. And that's why I wrote 'Job Description of a Poet'. It may very well be the best thing I ever did.

Love Song Trilogy

I begin this 'piece' with the first two song titles of my favorite Love Song Trilogy--10cc's 'I'm Not In Love' and Boudleaux Bryant's 'Love Hurts' as performed by Nazareth--but without remembering the last title in the series.

I do this also every time I have to remember the three 'founders' of country music. I get Bill Monroe, creator of bluegrass, and Hank Williams, but I always forget the last one, the guy from Bristol. (He's a Virgo, too!)

First I think of 'Jimmy Dean', sausage maker, then I go to 'Jimmy Doyle' . . only then do I (with perhaps a bit of internet searching) come up with Jimmy Rodgers, known as 'The Father of Country Music' (born on my brother's birthday, but that won't help me next time).

So here I am again, trying to remember that last damn love song. The one that I love so much I forget it.

It was also done in the Seventies. I always think of 'Alone Again Naturally' by Gilbert O'Sullivan when I'm trying to remember the title, but that's not it.

Oh, well.

When I do remember it I can finish this post.

'Big Hearts at Little Grill'

This National Treasure known as The Little Grill Collective has now been insufficiently memorialized in my poem.

What more can be said?

Mucho.

When I first started avidly following 'bluegrass' bands in Charlottesville, Virginia 116 years ago, every once in a while one of them would appear at The Little Grill (it wasn't a 'collective' then, just a diner.).

What a mythical site it must be! Even more so because my transportation-challenged self had no way to get there.

When I finally did, I was not disappointed. It was indeed a place fit for the gods. The very best place to launch a new musical act. The very best place to enjoy new musical acts.

I read my new stuff there Thursday nights--thanks to the continuing good graces of Chris Howdyshell of Red River Roller Coaster fame--to give me a chance to make it less-than-embarassing. It's a supportive, but certainly no lay-down, crowd.

Come one night and see for yourself.

The Good News

The Good News, I have to remind myself repeatedly about my 'poetry-writing career' is: 1) that I'm writing at all (some are too scared to, or simply lack the interest or ability); 2) that I'm willing to put what I write up at my site (as imperfect as it is); 3) that when I look back at it later I see where it can be improved (meaning I've grown intellectually, emotionally, artistically--at least in part because I wrote that stuff and was willing to post it).

I say all this for the hundredth time having just followed a link back from a poem of mine someone searched for on the internet. Ugh!! (review 1-3 above, review 1-3 above, review 1-3 above).

"The Aries Male Experience"

'The Aries Male Experience' seems to have made an unlikely hero of Alec Baldwin. At once an amateur Aries watcher, and son of one, I'm also quite aware and sympathetic to the whole Fathers rights movement.

All that he says on that topic seems right to me, but what a spokesman his Martian tendencies make. Angry, arrogant, bullying, grandiose, seemingly psychotic.

Almost makes you wonder if the mother was right to 'alienate' their daughter from him.