August 14: "Reader," Four Shillings Short, "Barred Owl"

So, I had a poetry-filled day.

Started out by writing poetry on the roof of the library with one of my best poetry pals.  (See the end of this post for one of my rooftop compositions.)  Then I wrote an email to a poet I admire, hoping to book this person for next year's Great Lakes Poetry Festival.  After that, it was a lot of busy work, helping move shelves and books for a library remodel, answering other emails, arranging concerts.

This evening, I hosted a concert by a Celtic group named Four Shillings Short (a lovely husband/wife team--Aodh Og O'Tuama and Christy Martin).  I spent a couple hours speaking with them both, and I found out the Aodh Og's parents were good friends with Nobel Prize-winning poet Seamus Heaney (one of my poet gods).  Aodh Og met Heaney a couple times in his life.  Imagine this news being shared with me nonchalantly, like talking about a good cup of coffee, while the top of my head comes off.

After the concert, I went to another event to share some of my Bigfoot poems.  My daughter and son came for the reading, and we had some cider, ate pizza, and listened to music.  When it was my turn, two musician/artist friends accompanied me with guitar and saxophone.  It was a wonderful way to end the night, and there were a lot of people there to listen.  (Maybe they were simply there for the kombucha, but I like to think they showed up for the words and music.)

In today's poem, Billy Collins addresses one member of his audience . . . 

Reader

by: Billy Collins

Looker, gazer, skimmer, skipper,

thumb-licking page turner, peruser,

you getting your print-fix for the day,

pencil-chewer, note take, marginalianist

with your checks and X's,

first-timer or revisiter,

browser, speedster, English major,

flight-ready girl, melancholy boy,

invisible companion, thief, blind date, perfect stranger--

that is me rushing to the window

to see if it's you passing under the shade trees

with a baby carriage or a dog on a leash,

me picking up the phone

to imagine your unimaginable number,

me standing by a map of the world

wondering where you are--

alone on a bench in a train station

or falling asleep, the book sliding to the floor.

I just got home after this long day of poetry and music.  I'm a little exhausted, but also quite filled-up.  For the most part, I often don't feel like a real artist in any way.  My job is all about supporting and helping other artists and musicians and writers.  Rarely do I get a chance to share my work with an audience.  It was a wonderful gift.

So, looker, gazer, skimmer, skipper--Saint Marty felt like a real poet today.  

Barred Owl

by: Martin Achatz

Who cooks for you?  Who cooks for you all?

In the night, I hear the question

echo through the pines.

It's 11,000 years old,

has been heard by tyrannosaur,

stegosaur, mammoth, dodo.

Who cooks for you?  Who cooks for you all?

Like a mother seeing a crowd

of kids, worried over their health, safety.

Think of those ancient birds

circling, circling the horny backs 

of giants, crying out their concern, 

extinction just a Pleistocene

chipmunk that can be hunted, caught,

shredded with beak and claw, eaten

as the glaciers slowly crawl by.

Who cooks for you?  Who cooks for you all?