I remember the black-and-white linoleum tile floors,
sand and grit from our boots scryed under terrazzo tables,
how the cane chairs scudded and groaned beneath our weight.
I remember it was late afternoon, how the slanted sunlight
streamed in long shards through high warped windows.
I’ve idea who was there, was I with a boyfriend,
or maybe it was Herman Berlandt, as I was his wheels.
But I was the only woman there, both visible and unseen,
circling the table with my old Pentax camera,
paying homage to light and shadow, the ocular distance
of lens and the alchemy of silver nitrate etched on film
was both a wall and a passport that gained entry to the club.
I was chronicler and eavesdropper, voyeur and witness.
I was new to poetry, but I was all in. I had found my tribe.
I still can’t find the negatives or remember what was said,
I was chronicler and eavesdropper, voyeur and witness.
I was new to poetry, but I was all in. I had found my tribe.
I still can’t find the negatives or remember what was said,
but I have an indelible memory, an image of that day,
with Jack Micheline holding court, leaning back in a chair,
black leather jacket creaking, leonine head thrown back, laughing.
I remember a half dozen poets crowded around the table,
drinking, conversing with myriad knees nearly touching.
But not what was said. Sometimes being there was enough.
4/18
black leather jacket creaking, leonine head thrown back, laughing.
I remember a half dozen poets crowded around the table,
drinking, conversing with myriad knees nearly touching.
But not what was said. Sometimes being there was enough.
4/18
