A few weeks ago Bruce Gowans, a guitar-playing friend of mine, was beaten and left unconscious by someone who got away with it. A week in the ICU, rehab, the works, and no insurance. So nearly the whole lot of Southern Maryland musicians (some of them here: notably missing is Dave Houghton, who did a magnificent job putting things together) threw a benefit yesterday, hosted by Bowens Inn — no web site or I'd add a permanent link — which donated food for more 300 people in addition to the space. Many other local businesses supported the event with items donated for raffles. We raised almost six thousand dollars, which is amazing but which barely nibbles at the medical bills.
I was asked to write a poem for the event. I said I'd try. Occasional poetry used to be part of the job description, but it's not much done anymore. Oh, there was that dreadful Poets Against the War and the equally dreadful responses to it — even Fred Turner, one of my favorite writers, managed only to demonstrate how much he'd been taken in by the "honest officers of the state." (But I trusted Colin Powell, too.) The only fairly recent poet I can name who consistently managed to make good poems on the most unlikely public occasions was Paul Goodman (Collected Poems out of print but available here):
Adlai Stevenson
We told the old ambassador to quit:
"These brutal lies you have to tell defame
us and you." "No, I am on the team,"
he said, and was unhappy saying it.
Now he has dropped down in a London street
and every one is weeping over him.
He said, "It's not the way we play the game,
to quit to make a point."
The flag is at
half-mast in Springfield. A bombardier reasons
loudly for us in Asia. Our sons
will be commanded to the senseless war
—but many will not go—that does not cease
generation after generation: this
has been no worse, but there may be no more.
October 4, 1957
A new thing with heavenly motion made by us
flies in the sky, it is passing every hour
signalling in our language. What a power
of thought and skill has launched this marvelous
man-made moon! and from this day the gorgeous
abyss lies open, as you spring a door
to enter and visit where no man before
ever came.
It is a mysterious
moment that one crosses a threshold
and "Have I been invited?" is my doubt.
Yes, for our wish and wonder from of old
and how we patiently have puzzled out
the laws of entry warrant we have come
into the great hall as a man comes home.
I'm no Goodman, and even he can seem a little uncomfortable with that public voice. But here's the thing: people do turn to poetry when the world gets especially awful or wonderful, and if I can't write a piece to comfort my friends, then what the hell good is my poetry? I wrote the poem, printed it, made 20 copies on very good paper and 30 on not-so-good paper, read it at the benefit, and gave the good paper copies for a dollar donation and the not-so-good paper copies for whatever was offered. I have no idea if it's litrachure, but Bruce (his girlfriend had to read it to him) liked it, and nearly all the copies were gone by the end of the night.
I won't post it here, but drafts are at the Draft House.
6:25:07 PM 
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