The Poetry Phenomenon

 

It began with an invitation from JGenius on Monday, 

May 14 to join him at the big poetry festival happening 

in the county south of here. “Let's scheme of a way to 

do that poetry reading and soak up some poetic beauty 

next weekend.” And later on, he repeated:

“Can you do the Saturday reading? We'd each read 2 

or 3 poems. 10:45-12:00 in a brilliant old giant haunted 

mansion. I even have 2 poems, maybe a 3rd. Then 

maybe some time to frolic La Conner or see a poet? 

What say you?”

On Friday, when I said I would, he returned:

“Let's plan tomorrow, eh?  Are you bringing the 

family or flying solo? And what time would you 

like to meet? The open mic thing is at 10:45 so we 

should get there no later than 10:30 -- but I'm up 

for meeting at any time you feel ready -- we could 

meet for biscuits and gravy at the diner in MV at 9. 

What are you thinking, logistician?”

So I agreed:

“Yeah the diner at 9! I’ll bring my ‘Northern Exposure’ 

script and we can practice.”

JGenius:

“Excellent. I'll start practicing my Maurice 

Minnifield-isms. That guy was pitch-perfect. 

Of course, I had him in class…If the class were 

marooned on an island, he'd be the first to secretly 

bring up the topic of cannibalism with me.”

Me:

“Can you give me the directions to that diner 

again? Exits and whatnot coming south on I-5. 

I think I remember but I could also end up like 

Amelia Earhart.”

 

JGenius:

“Right-o. Take the Kincaid Street exit, and 

turn right at the end of the off ramp. Go 

straight for three blocks (I think there are 

two sets of traffic lights) and take a right on 

1st street (it's kind of screwy, because if you 

go right, it's 1st, but if you go left it's Cleveland). 

Then you just stay on first street a few blocks 

until you see the good old Skagit Valley Co-op 

on your right -- the Mount Vernon Cafe 

(the diner) is across the street from the Co-op 

-- so it will be on your left. You can park in 

the Co-op parking lot, but there should be 

spaces around. Call in case you get Amelia'ed. 

I will be there in my derby and short pants 

at 8:57, grousing about like an expatriate.”

That morning, I left Bellingham at 8:30, 

first stopping to get gas. I couldn’t find 

anything good on the radio, even on A.M. 

where I hoped to find a 1950s oldies station. 

Finally I tuned to Spanish music just as I 

pulled off the highway. Driving down 1^st 

Street, I happened upon JGenius daydreaming 

along the sidewalk. I rolled down the window 

and bellowed, “Hey Dummy!” startling him 

out of his thoughts. Once I parked and met up 

with him, he told me he was thinking of a 

poem. We went into the diner, found a booth 

and caught up for it’s actually rare that I sit 

with friends and palaver. When it was time to 

move on to the poetry town, we took his 

truck, through the farms. 

Up on the hill, the ancient mansion loomed 

like a pair of wooden crooked praying hands 

gnarled together. We parked around the 

corner. There were clucks of people fluttering 

about on the tipped sidewalks. The houses 

all have gardens that lean out over. Up the 

 creaking stairs, we entered the mansion. 

A waxwork woman at the desk in the 

doorway pointed our way to the reading 

room. But before it started, JGenius took 

me upstairs to look for the ghost. We 

found a room with a spinning wheel and 

clouds painted on the ceiling. Outside, 

below, the town bent in the windows. 

JGenius tried to trick me by starting a 

rocking chair and pointing out the ghost. 

There was a door with a Staff Only sign 

on it.  A peek inside revealed boxes, 

shadows and sun motes and a mannequin 

draped in a sheet. It was 10:45, so we 

went back downstairs on those splintery 

steps and found our chairs. 

JGenius appraised the room and immediately 

said, “Everyone who’s here is going to read.” 

It was true. There was no audience, only 

fretting. 

I read ‘The Shepherd from Iran’ ‘Fox Subway’ 

and ‘Bellingham Coal Train.’ I have to say, 

I’m not much a fan of poetry readings. 

The 1891 room creaked with heavy time. 

I watched the tapestry rug with its dramatic 

rendering of a leopard ripping into a deer. 

JGenius read a ray of sunshine, a truck ride 

with his son and The Beatles on the radio.  

Because it was so uncomfortable in that 

old house, it reminded me of the castles 

I visited long ago, where you could feel 

the ghosts watching you. It wasn’t hard 

to imagine a muse for every person, 

wandering the festival streets with them, 

some joyfully and skipping or floating, 

others dragging along this mortal plane 

like the ones in this room, harbingers of 

death. At the end, we both stared at each 

other after the podium crashed over and 

books flew. There really was a ghost!  

Once it was over, I needed the doorway 

outside. The street was very quiet. 

We were both wiped out. Across the 

channel I could see three shelters shaped 

like cedar hats on the Swinomish 

reservation shore. We needed to be 

near the water. “Is there any way of 

getting over there?” I asked. I followed 

JGenius, stumbling the town, half thinking 

we’d run into Tom Robbins in his Spam 

tshirt. He wasn’t around. You can’t even 

get to the water in this place, the dock 

has a No Trespassing sign. In not too long, 

we found the little white pickup truck, 

got in and crossed the red rainbow bridge 

to the other side. Past the cemetery with 

fresh cared for flowered graves, we 

parked in the asphalt lot. We went under 

the wide rim hat of the closest shelter 

and there were some plastic chairs. 

Maybe, we thought, we could borrow 

a couple and set them out on the sand? 

But all the chairs had been broken. 

So we walked to the beach and found 

a log to sit on. A crow watched us, 

made a sound then was gone. 

What is it about poetry readings? 

We couldn’t figure it out. (Still thinking 

about it later, here’s my idea: poems are 

a sort of spell, and when you use poetry 

for pain, like those flowers of Baudelaire, 

that’s what appears.) I wished I had read 

my short story ‘Bucket Head’ instead. 

I even brought it along just in case. 

Oh well. After a while, sitting on the log 

watching the riverlike flow, we felt better, 

it was time to go. Leaving Swinomish, 

a yellow dog tied by a rope, Jughead’s 

Fire Works, old trucks and boats buried 

in vines, a totem pole on top the hill. 

It was fun to drive around the farmland 

outside of town. The tulips have dropped 

their petals, there’s a purple crop of iris 

still, but I like the big farm trees, the 

poplars and those wide rhododendrons. 

JGenius pulled into a narrow road that 

took us to a field he wants to buy. 

It’s all filled in with tall green weeds. 

He wants to sell his house and move 

here and I can’t blame him. 

There’s Mt. Baker and all the hills 

of Skagit Valley. We crawled over the 

barbed wire fence and waded through 

the grass. There’s even a pond. It’s got 

a silver metal bridge connected to a 

rocky island. Taking steps out on it, 

a big frog hopped off into the thick 

water. JGenius wants to plant a stand 

of douglas fir and cedar, have his house 

facing south for the sunlight. It’s a 

good dream, a big open field and you 

can just picture the vast array of stars 

turning on at night. 

While he drove me back to Mt. Vernon 

where my car was waiting, he told me 

a joke about a man who ate a lot of 

dogfood. I sort of did a terrible thing 

and ruined the punchline. Actually, 

his punchline was ruder than what I 

predicted. We got out and strolled over 

to the bookstore. There was nobody else 

in the place, we were all alone. 

Somehow we were drawn, ending up 

at the back wall, looking at the poetry 

shelf. We both agreed those old Laurel 

pocket editions are great, but honestly 

by now I’m a bit poetry’ed out. 

 

today, I received this card with 

the frog that jumped into that pond