An afternoon with my people / Poem: Faure or Bach

It's good to be among poets, I said as I sat down in the tiny coffeeshop. I'd just spent the morning in the innards of my computer searching for my autobiographical bipolar piece to send Andrew of St. Petersburg, FL, whose BipolarPorch website plus blog I added to our New Directions list of favorite websites.

While searching, I discovered scores of poems I'd written and totally forgotten about. Ruthie, I said, you are good. Don't ever doubt it. Then I hastily printed out one - The Breasts of Linda Esposito - to bring w/me to the coffeeshop.

My powers of observation were never sharper than when I walked thru the door. I found myself scribbling notes as if I were writing a newspaper article. I didn't know a soul at the shop except for Linda who drove. I ordered a hot chocolate which was super-cheap and not that good. Poets don't throw their money around. None of us have any money. I'd never ever seen glasses of water - in real glasses - sitting atop the tables. The nice owners at the shop gave out water. I simply sipped the thick dregs of my cocoa and coughed silently and spasmodically into a torn-off lime-green patterned sheet I use as a hanky.

I sat at the table with the two featured readers. Each had books out. Each had won prizes and been well-reviewed. I thumbed thru Conrad's books. You have a great imagination, I said. He read sitting down. His blue fingernail polish glimmered in the gray light of the afternoon. Afterward I told him I was riveted, my mind never wanderered once, unlike when his partner read.

His partner was a great storyteller. He works as a bouncer at a downtown bar. As he himself said when a construction-worker patron read his poetry, "You're either a fucking genius or totally full of shit."

Depends on your perspective.

A young guy walked in with his pregnant girlfriend. The poet saluted them. Most of the men in the coffeeshop were fat. This guy was no exception but he looked like a virgin. And here he's walking with this very pregnant woman who looks to me like she's mentally ill tho I'm no expert. The two of them sit and fondle each other thru the whole poetry reading. I watch them de temps de temps in the reflection of the counter which, on that side, is filled with a tall iced cake, some dry-looking scones, and - get this! - self-serve cups of Sugar Pops and Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I guess they like serving healthy vitamin-added breakfasts that taste like crap.

Three people work behind the counter. My waitress is the enbodiment of the word DEADPAN. She never smiles. (Talk about mentally ill. I'd think that'd be a sure sign.) She watches the program with furrowed brow, eying everyone. Who knows? Maybe she's a poet waiting in the wings. She's chewing gum. In fact, half the people are chewing gum.

Later, I learn why. A salesman came in with free gum. Dentyne Ice. I popped two in my mouth. My eyes began tearing.

Strong, huh? said the shopowner.

Wished I'd chewn it sooner. Totally cleared up my sinuses. Bettern horseradish.

After the featured poets, everyone got to read one and only one poem. What was their rush? I mean, limits are important, but this was downright rushed.

A man about my age w/colored hippie beads read a poem. I didn't pay attention to it cuz I wanted to nurture my fantasy. I pretended to be married to him and walk hand in hand with him down the street, me in my regular unobtrusive attire, and he in his jeans n hippie beads. I wanted to pretend I'd feel proud walking down the street with a guy who looked like this.

No one commented about my poem. I asked Linda, on the way to the car, if she understood it. She did not. I told her it was about someone with breast cancer.

Here's another poem I rescued from oblivion.

FAURE OR BACH?

I was at war with a man at Tower Records
and wasn’t sure if I wished to win or surrender.

At issue was the Requiem of Gabriel Faure.
Bob was a retired insurance man, we met over the counter
where my deploringly overweight friend Marce
was getting me discounts on a stack
of records, CDs I suppose I must call them,
designed to tied me over, to give me strength
through one of my procrustean falls,
Dear God.

I asked my dear friend Marce
to select and gather some
Dave Matthews and Pearl Jam.
My niece asked me how I knew
the names of these modern bands and I said
it was just by accident I happened to
hear their names announced on the car radio
and memorized them.

Bob was standing there, too, with his stack,
all classical, and I remembered classical,
God! for the first time in all these years.
It is never too late to retract and I heard
Bob asking about some Haydn symphony,
there seem to be hundreds of them, and
he was looking for one particular recording,
one thing that meant more to him than
the whole world. He was a man of discernment
with his golden colored toupe and keen eyes.

I asked him, (I am not particularly polite
or girlsome) but asked him, as I was in a terror
trying to circumvent my fall,
if he could get me some music
some real good classical music,
that he was certain I would like
a masterpeice of great renown.

Without hesitation, Bob led me down
the escalator, a man on a mission,
o I was so unappreciative, and let
him get far ahead while I lingered
at the top of the stair chatting with Marce,
while he kept on and on,
never looking back
unlike Orpheus, never looking back to see if I
was following him, he didn’t care
only to get to the bin of his beloved.

And pulled out two versions of the Requiem,
stating they were both quite good, I would be
happy with both.
Faure? I said. Why is it I have never
owned a Faure, never pined for a Faure,
I know all the ones I love or wish to love
and Faure’s not among them.

You’ll love this, he said and did a dance
of faureism.
My eye forgot till then about Bach and Brahms
but as soon as talk about Faure got still and heavy
and I became mistrustful and didnt want to be
left in a room alone with Faure, frightenend
as fright could be, left alone with a bore,
a no thinker, endless sappy tones going nowhere,
the panic grew like a cyst inside and when Bob
wasn’t looking I hopped over to Bach and
suddenly a light went on and I remembered
the cello suites.
The sound alone is unsurpassable
Unaccompanied Suites for Cello.
o say it to yourself, roll the
words round and round your mouth
like shiny marbles that melt and go down
smooth.

I was doing that There wre many versions
and the only reason I ignored Yo-yo Ma is
that he is a modern man and I am never a
modern woman, so “not to tango with Yo-yo”
was my motto, and I selected among many
what else but Pablo Casals and saw for the
first time his rough face, like a Van Gogh peasant
potato eater. Yes, rough is the only word for it,
that thick unrefined nose like Genet’s, that bald
head that either means pimp or poet.

And bob was now discussing at the classical counter
other versions of other things. We had long since
stopped looking at one another. He got terribly
mad when i suggested Bach as an alternative
to Faure.

Too much counterpoint! he shouted.

Counterpoint! I yelled. Why that’s what it’s all about.
Fuck Faure.

Marce, add Bach to my account.