ALBANY POETRY EXAMINER
Poetry in Berkeley
I call myself a poet. Does that mean I write poems? Or that I see things
poetically? Sometimes they form a poem together – such as my poetic day.
I call myself a poet. Does that mean I write poems? Or that I see things
poetically? Sometimes they form a poem together – such as my poetic day.
The California sky blazed through my waking lids in Caribbean blue. I
caught a glimpse of Karolyn pattering past my door. When I said, "Good-
morning," she came into the room. Began exploring Daddy's desk and its
forbidden drawers.
"This is important," she told me as she displayed his pen.
caught a glimpse of Karolyn pattering past my door. When I said, "Good-
morning," she came into the room. Began exploring Daddy's desk and its
forbidden drawers.
"This is important," she told me as she displayed his pen.
Our day began. A "must" that she wears the artist's smock and pants I brought
her. We headed up to Walnut Square – she, her mom and dad, and I. Coffee all around. Except of course for Karolyn – not quite three. Oatmeal scones and sticky buns – that sprout in Berkeley like beans in a jar of water.
Not far now to the bookstore where we browse. Meet a poet friend. End up at
the Postal Station. Queue California-style, traditionally polite. A sight to please my Floridian eyes – accustomed to rude "Snow Birds" from the north.
Back to the flat on Spruce – three flights up on blue-veined legs. A bit of
cheese and salami, loaf of sour dough, bag of chips, jug of water into the faded
pack. Up through Strawberry Canyon behind the UC campus for a botanical treat in the gardens. California chaparral, redwoods, desert blossoms growing on spiked cones like headstones in a graveyard garden. Humidity and hothouse plants – like my home in Florida. Plots of purple flowers bordered in bright reds. Orange California poppies. Then past the giant bristle cone, standing guard with drooping jowls like some Siberian troll. It's a trip around the world with a stop for lunch where some tourists join us at our table. Disturb our quiet calm.
The day is not over. We wait for Mom to have a run. Leave her for a nap with
Karolyn. Next stop – West Branch Berkeley Library where we join local poets
for an open reading. Maggie, the leader, strews cuts of home grown roses on the floor. We circle them with chairs. My arm hairs and my son's stand on end at our audacity. Yet we are warmly greeted. I proceed in turn to read my poem. So far from home – where readings are among familiar faces and raccoons grace our outdoor amphitheatre seeking treats from poets.
Strange people – poets. They come in sizes and shapes to match their themes.
Some poems emerge in form and meter, some flow free – a rap, a dialogue, a
ditty. Each one is received. A poet's paradise where the stream of words waters our parched hearts like the Euphrates watered Eden.
My son must drop a manuscript at the designer's. More coffee now from
Betty's. A slow window-shopping tour of decorator's row. Back into the car for home. I am glad I read my poem.
Poets must also feed their palates with a sense of taste. This day is not
complete without a treat of Thai cooked food. The waiters smile as they watch
small Karolyn devour their exotic samples.
We amble home through UC campus. Green grassy leas spread before High
Halls like a picnic cloth – in spite of dire draught. Karolyn's joy explodes. She balances on each narrow wall demanding not to miss an inch. At last the promise of Rainbow ice cream diverts her energies.
She sits at the table like a queen. Her golden hair ripples on her prim blue
dress. She looks at us with a brilliant smile and announces in a loud voice, "I made a stink."
her. We headed up to Walnut Square – she, her mom and dad, and I. Coffee all around. Except of course for Karolyn – not quite three. Oatmeal scones and sticky buns – that sprout in Berkeley like beans in a jar of water.
Not far now to the bookstore where we browse. Meet a poet friend. End up at
the Postal Station. Queue California-style, traditionally polite. A sight to please my Floridian eyes – accustomed to rude "Snow Birds" from the north.
Back to the flat on Spruce – three flights up on blue-veined legs. A bit of
cheese and salami, loaf of sour dough, bag of chips, jug of water into the faded
pack. Up through Strawberry Canyon behind the UC campus for a botanical treat in the gardens. California chaparral, redwoods, desert blossoms growing on spiked cones like headstones in a graveyard garden. Humidity and hothouse plants – like my home in Florida. Plots of purple flowers bordered in bright reds. Orange California poppies. Then past the giant bristle cone, standing guard with drooping jowls like some Siberian troll. It's a trip around the world with a stop for lunch where some tourists join us at our table. Disturb our quiet calm.
The day is not over. We wait for Mom to have a run. Leave her for a nap with
Karolyn. Next stop – West Branch Berkeley Library where we join local poets
for an open reading. Maggie, the leader, strews cuts of home grown roses on the floor. We circle them with chairs. My arm hairs and my son's stand on end at our audacity. Yet we are warmly greeted. I proceed in turn to read my poem. So far from home – where readings are among familiar faces and raccoons grace our outdoor amphitheatre seeking treats from poets.
Strange people – poets. They come in sizes and shapes to match their themes.
Some poems emerge in form and meter, some flow free – a rap, a dialogue, a
ditty. Each one is received. A poet's paradise where the stream of words waters our parched hearts like the Euphrates watered Eden.
My son must drop a manuscript at the designer's. More coffee now from
Betty's. A slow window-shopping tour of decorator's row. Back into the car for home. I am glad I read my poem.
Poets must also feed their palates with a sense of taste. This day is not
complete without a treat of Thai cooked food. The waiters smile as they watch
small Karolyn devour their exotic samples.
We amble home through UC campus. Green grassy leas spread before High
Halls like a picnic cloth – in spite of dire draught. Karolyn's joy explodes. She balances on each narrow wall demanding not to miss an inch. At last the promise of Rainbow ice cream diverts her energies.
She sits at the table like a queen. Her golden hair ripples on her prim blue
dress. She looks at us with a brilliant smile and announces in a loud voice, "I made a stink."
Perhaps she is a poet, too.
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