November 21: "Drinking Alone," Out Loud, After

I am writing this post after hosting a monthly Zoom open mic called Out Loud. This monthly gathering of creatives was started by my good friend Helen, and, since her passing a couple years ago, I've upheld the tradition. Sometimes there is two people present. Sometimes six or seven. And, sometimes, it's just me, reading poems to an empty screen. Out Loud always goes on.

And, after Out Loud, as is the custom, we stick around, talking more, laughing more, and becoming more inappropriate. It's raucous, sometimes dirty, but always soul-enriching.

Billy Collins writes a poem after Li Po . . .

Drinking Alone

by: Billy Collins

     after Li Po

This is not after Li Po

the way the state is after me 

for neglecting to pay all my taxes, 

nor the way I am after 

the woman in front of me 

on the long line at the post office. 

Li Po, I am not saying 

“After you” 

as I stand holding open 

one of the heavy glass doors 

that divide the centuries 

in a long corridor of glass doors. 

No, the only way this is after you 

is in the way they say 

it’s just one thing after another, 

like the way I will pause 

to raise a glass of wine to you 

after I finish writing this poem. 

So let me get back 

to sitting in the wind alone 

among the pines with a pencil in my hand. 

After all, you had your turn, 

and mine will soon be done 

then someone else will sit here after me.

So, this is a post after Out Loud after Li Po after Billy Collins.

In the conversation we had after the open mic, one poet friend asked, "What is everyone having for Thanksgiving?"  This question prompted a long discussion of foods and problematic relatives and politics.  Then we ventured into our middle school experiences of sexual education in the classroom.  By the time we were done talking, I was hungry and my sides hurt from laughing so much.

It was a good night, filled with good people and good conversation.  Our friend, Helen, would have enjoyed it immensely.  In fact, it actually felt like she was present in all her exuberant joy.  She loved poetry and storytelling and people and laughing so much.  

I'll never forget the night of the 2016 presidential election, when it became very clear that our candidate would not be moving into the Oval Office the following January.  Helen and I were texting each other, and we both went to some very dark places, using the word "fuck" a lot.  The next day was even worse.

Then Helen did her Helen thing.  She sent me a text the following evening:  "Marty, we can't give into the darkness  Light is coming.  Light is coming."  And that is how she survived those long, bleak four years, and she brought me along for the joy ride.

After we ended Out Loud, I went and grabbed the rest of a pecan pie that was in the fridge.  All the food talk had made me hungry.

Now, after I type the last word of this post, embed the last period at the end of the last sentence, Saint Marty will eat some pie.  And then someone will come after Saint Marty and write something else.  

After . . . after . . . after . . .