Presenting my story: Poetry Nights and Tim

This is the story of my experiences of attending Poetry Nights when I lived in Henderson, Nevada (just south of Las Vegas) where I was raising my young family: 2-1993 to 2000.  These experiences took place 1995 or 1996.  Today, I view Poetry Nights as a place to grow; by allowing your belief system to be challenged:  an opportunity to know compassion for your “fellow-man”.

Enjoy!  Sincerely, Gwen Newclear The Poet

Poetry Nights and Tim

One great thing about living in Las Vegas was the culture. There were so many funky little entertaining groups that passed through; everything from classical to jazz. We could experience so much by just going to Border’s Bookstore on a Saturday night. Our family favorite was this one guy who was a percussionist solo act. I believe he was Hebrew. He had all kinds of instruments with him that he would let the kids try out. We became friends with him and at my daughter’s four year old birthday party we had him as entertainment.

Our children, Nick and Brooke, took chess lessons at Barnes and Noble on Sunday afternoons. Many times during the week, we would go to Border’s and the kids would play chess in the café. Several men played Brooke in chess. One day I noticed a young college guy. It looked like he was studying; he had a backpack at his feet. Then he started noticing Brooke playing chess (she always stood out). He came over to watch her; and with his hands in his pockets, he looked at her in disbelief. He finally played her a game. After about the third time we ran into Tim at Border’s, he told me that he would be performing a poetry reading there that Friday night. I was surprised to find that he was a poet. I told him that I couldn’t make it that night. But I also told him that I went to the Sunday afternoon readings at Barnes and Noble Bookstore. I suggested that he join in the group sometime.

That next Sunday, I went to the poetry group as usual. A guy just a little younger than me led the group; his name was Author. This particular Sunday, there were only two other people; two elderly ladies. Author’s favorite poet was Alan Ginsberg, a beat poet from the fifties. I couldn’t stand Ginsberg and I’m sure these elderly ladies didn’t have any interest in his work. Author had no formal education in poetry, which was fine; it was his passion. Author was one of these guys who believed that poetry shouldn’t say anything; it should just sound good. I never told anyone there or at any of the other poetry groups I attended, that I had a degree in English and I thought that 98% of everything I read in these modern poetry magazines was a bunch of nonsense.

About ten minutes into our poetry session, Author was reading Alan Ginsberg when in stumbled Tim with a friend of his. Tim was wearing an oversized army jacket; and his boots that were way too big for him, were unlaced. Right away he introduced himself and his friend. He told us that his friend was a free verse poet, and this guy just happened to bring some of his own work to share with the group. Then Tim just sort of took control of the group by promoting his friend to all of us. It wasn’t long before Author jumped up in an explosive rage and disappeared (you know how men are).

Tim’s friend was either of French decent or of some Romantic heritage. He definitely was not Native American. Tim figured that: Hey, with Author gone, his friend could read all of his work. So his friend opened this bulging notebook of pencil hand written lined paper and started reading the most sensual verse about everyday pleasures that we all take so much for granted; like the feeling of sliding out of bed in the morning and putting your feet down on a cool hard wood floor. This guy had page after page after page of this stuff. He read his work with such passion that he literally had these elderly ladies on the edge of their seats: dazzled and wanting for more. Every time he finished a verse, they clasped their hands in delight begging for another. All the while that this was going on; Tim just sat there looking at me with a hungry, desperate look on his face. I had no idea what I could possibly do for him to help him out of his misery. As I sat there witnessing this scene, I didn’t know whether I should have been amused by these old ladies, or swept away by the passion of such a talented young man, or be concerned for Tim. I guess I ended up doing all three. What an experience!

Finally, about the last ten minutes of the poetry group, Author returned in a state of composure. He thanked the young man for sharing his work with us, and invited him to join us again. The young man jumped up, held out his overstuffed notebook before him and said, “I wish someone would take all of my work and destroy it! I would gladly start from scratch and write it all and more over again.” I believe it was at this point that the six of us experienced a group orgasm.

I had brought my Hummingbird poem to read to the group. I never did read that poem out loud.

We went to Border’s as a family just about every Saturday night. Sometimes Tim was there. He would always shake Matt’s hand and then follow me around like an amorous puppy dog. I liked Tim. I thought he was cute. I would have given anything when I was his age to have met a guy like him. I never met any guys my own age back then that were Humanities majors. It felt great to be appreciated for once.

I had another friend there on Saturday nights, her name was Millie. She was usually there with her husband. They were opinionated, outspoken Jewish people and they loved to get into heated debates about religion. This suited me just fine. I always wanted to know the Jewish view of the Catholic Church. It really bothered Matt though. He would always disappear and I would find him later in the spiritual section reading the Catholic Catechism. I started to realize something about Matt. First of all, I couldn’t even remember him ever talking about what he believed. All of the sudden it hit me; Matt doesn’t even know what he believes. He was just another mechanical Catholic going through the motions, believing that alone made him a good person.

I knew Matt from the time he was 17. At that age, he could write better than public school kids and he did have some knowledge of the history of Western Civilization of which public school kids are completely ignorant. But he didn’t even have the slightest comprehension about the atrocities committed by the Catholic Church over the ages. He didn’t even seem to have a clue as to what Vatican II was all about. And here he was a Catholic High School graduate. I guess those fancy-dancy Catholic schools weren’t all what they are cracked up to be. They don’t teach belief any more than the public school system.

Millie and I had absolutely nothing in common. She was into kid’s parties and decorating; and of course, I had my poetry. I read all of my poems to her and she would patiently listen to them. Her biggest criticism was that poetry was supposed to be about love and beauty. She really didn’t care for my environmental poetry. She thought that I had really crossed the line by writing a poem about the buffalo slaughter in Yellowstone. She might have had a point there! Well, anyway I could always count on Millie to be honest. But she was always my biggest fan on “Friday open-mic night.”

Tim was the one who turned me on to a great poet, Charles Bukowski, by first recommending that I read one poem in particular. I believe it was in his famous book of poetry called The Postman. (Charles Bukowski was a postman a good portion of his life and his education was through City College). This poem was about the poet being in a Catholic Church alone with implements of the sacraments and clothing for the mass. The poet drinks the wine and does disrespectful acts toward these symbols of the Catholic Church. Tim and I never discussed this poem; but I have been haunted for years about it. I found myself asking the question: Just what is it about the Catholic Church? At the time, I didn’t have Mother Teresa but had I known her work then, I would have pointed Tim in that direction.

Tim recommended that I read one of Bukowski’s works. This poet published 60 volumes of poetry. The one Tim insisted on that I bought and read was The Last Night of the Earth Poems. The work was autobiographical. The poems were generally about a promiscuous man’s “one sexual experience after the next”. For this guy, having sex was just a biological function, much like taking a piss.

What astounded me about Bukowski was his simplicity of style and his concise clarity. This type of tight writing is a gift from God. God wanted us to see this man. Of course, Bukowski violates just about all grammar rules. But I agree with Shakespeare whose philosophy of writing was simply:

If it communicates ——- it’s right.

Bukowski does communicate his thoughts very well. He communicated so well that I attempted to emulate his style in a first attempt to write “My Story of the Workplace.” I wrote quite a volume. Then I was dissatisfied with it and trashed the whole thing.

I literally went from Bukowski to Mother Teresa when studying styles that led to my short story format that I write in today. Boy, what a transition! The amazing thing is that I see them both saying some of the same things; expressed through their individual life experience; which was drastically different to say the least!

As long as I live, I will never forget this one “Open-Mic Night” at Barnes and Noble. Those Friday night readings had grown from just a hand full of people to the whole outside patio being full; every seat taken with people standing everywhere. This one night I was not reading. Tim was sitting in a chair and I was standing before him. He reached out and took my hand. We just looked at each other for a moment and then he motioned for me to look out away from the building. I had heard of harvest moons, but I can’t say I had ever experienced one until that moment. The moon was a golden color resembling the sun. What staggered me was just how enormous it was. I was truly overcome.

A few minutes later, I was standing near Matt. A strange man walked up to him and said, “You know that guy over there wants to screw your wife.” Matt said, “So.” The man said, “You mean you are just going to sit there and let him?” Matt said, “She can do what ever she wants to.”

I knew Tim when I wrote my poem “Halley’s Comet and Mark Twain”. In fact, I wrote it as though I was trying to interpret Huckleberry Finn directly for him. This is how inspiration works. I believe that God fully intended us to inspire and be inspired by others. It is always a spiritual experience for me.

We only had “Open Mic Night” once a month. Author had another coffee house where we met twice a month. It was located more in Las Vegas and a little different crowd met there. It was at one of these meetings that I decided that I would read my poem, “Halley’s Comet and Mark Twain.” I asked Tim to be there but I never told him that poem was intended for him.

I knew as I was planning for this night that this would be one of the greatest nights of my life. This was one of the few times in my marriage that I actually went out and bought myself something really special to wear. I told Matt that this purchase would be for Brooke’s dance performance that was coming up. A lot of women dressed up for that. I didn’t tell Matt the real reason for buying myself something so special because I knew he would never understand: I mean, he didn’t understand my writing poetry let alone understand a single poem I wrote.

The outfit I got was just stunning. It was a black, Liz Clayborn, pantsuit I found on sale. It really accentuated my upper body. My figure had really shaped up and slimmed since the first time I met Tim. It is utterly amazing what a man’s appreciation will do for a woman’s body; naturally.

When I read my poem that night I was clumsy; I stumbled all over the place. I am not a great reader; not even with my own work. As usual, Author expressed his distaste for my work by shaking his head and looking at me as if to say, “Are you ever going to learn?” And I just looked right back at him as if to say, “There is more to poetry than assonance, a literary technique I never use (I don’t need it); and so what if rhyming is out of style!”

At the time, I wasn’t even sure it was a good poem. But I did know this: I had made every word count. The poem was tight, and as with all of my work; the logic could not be penetrated. The challenge of poetry is that it is so highly structured. If you can write poetry; you can write!”

I don’t know if my poem made any impact on Tim, but I know I did. He brought a date; a pretty young girl. They shared a little table with Matt and me. Tim and I held hands under the table, as we listened to the other aspiring poets.

After the reading, Matt and I stood outside and talked to Tim and his date for a while. Tim suggested that we all go out for Chinese food. Matt said that he didn’t think it would be a good idea and we all went along with Matt’s decision.

I don’t think Tim ever had a place of his own to live. He just bunked with whomever. I don’t believe he even owned a car. He struggled to find a job and when he did land one, he had a hard time hanging on to it. As a Humanities woman, I am well aware of just how hard it is to get by in this oppressive America of ours. And I also knew that Humanities men even had it tougher. I guess to avoid the service; Tim chose to take a job in Japan teaching English as a second language. It was really a pretty good deal for a guy like Tim. All of his living expenses would be provided for him and he could put away everything he made to create a little nest egg for himself. When he told me his plan, he was excited but I sensed sadness about him. I said, “Well Tim, I hear a lot of American men really like Japanese girls.” Bingo. I hit the nail on the head.

I put my hands on his shoulders and said, “Don’t ever underestimate what you will be doing over there. I can think of no cause nobler than the spread of the English Language.”

Just before he left, Tim told me he wanted to see me one more time alone. He said he wanted something to remember me by. He told me the day and time to meet him at Barnes and Noble. He also told me that if I didn’t show up he would understand. Of course, I told Matt about it. When the day and time came we were at a soccer practice. I told Matt I was leaving and he said, “See you.” When I drove by Barnes and Noble I didn’t even stop, I knew I wouldn’t. I didn’t need anymore memories of Tim. What I had of him already; would be with me always.

When I got home I was by myself and I felt elated. I realized that Tim had shown me that I had become what I always aspired to be; and no one had to give me a title or a big pay check for me to achieve it. I had become Dr. Austin, my absolute favorite professor from college. I thought back to when I was Tim’s age. I fantasized all of the time about going to bed with Dr. Austin. That is just a thing of youth. It is always up to the more mature, older person to keep things in perspective and not exploit youth. This is called “Responsible Leadership”. This is probably the reason you don’t see many college professors in their 20s.

When Matt got home, he acted as nothing had transpired and we had a wonderful evening. This is called “Trust”: the most important aspect in marriage. It is something achieved in time after witnessing each other in many, many, many situations.

Through the years, women have asked me: “Where are all of the good men?” If the woman is around my age I always say, “I believe all the smart ones are in Canada. They went there towards the end of the 60s and early 70s”. If the woman is younger I find myself saying, “You might try Japan.”

This is my masterpiece poem that Tim inspired me to write:

Halley’s Comet and Mark Twain

Mark Twain was born on the tail of Halley’s Comet.

He accomplished and achieved through his humor and his wit.

Across the 19th century sky, by comet it was written

That of Mark Twain, America would grow smitten.

One work in particular stands out from all the rest:

A novel famous for the friendship that withstood a loathsome test.

Through Huck and Jim’s relationship

Twain defined the ultimate friendship.

By helping Jim, Huck believed that he would go to hell.

Half the country, at that time, believed in this as well.

Who should ever have to risk his very soul for a friend?

This was a flawed society much in need of mend.

It took a deplorable civil war to bring slavery to end.

As to conceding it again, the Constitution will not bend.

From 19th to 20th century

Twain witnessed the transition of a nation, from slavery to free.

Halley’s Comet came again

In the spectacular showing of 1910.

Through its dazzling, heavenly tail, the Earth passed,

Being cleansed with a purity to last.

It was on that tail of Halley’s Comet then,

That Mark Twain, of his own desire, did decease.

And for the world he left behind the timely masterpiece:

Huckleberry Finn.

Gwen Newclear