I’m looking forward to Wednesday evening. Vermont’s Poet Laureate, Chard deNiord, will be giving a reading at The Galaxy Bookshop in Hardwick. I know much of his work fairly well, have heard him read several times, and have had several brief conversations with him including encounters at both the Brattleboro Literary Festival and a reading at the St Johnsbury Athenaeum. Readings at the Galaxy are typically fairly short, but that doesn’t matter much to me in this case because I’d enjoy hearing even just a couple of poems from this particular author. He’ll be sharing the reading platform with Z.G. Tomaszewski , a Michigan writer with whom I am less familiar but eager to get to know better.
BONUS! I work in Hardwick, where the reading will happen. I get out of work around 3:00. The reading’s at 7. That gives me plenty of time to maybe take a little unwinding backroads cruise before I head on over to Main Street’s Positive Pie, for a couple brews and slices. The pie’s always perfect, and a couple of Switchbacks after work is always a welcomed treat.
BONUS! BONUS! BONUS! The bar at Positive Pie is one of those places where I inevitably pick up a good writing vibe and usually fill up at least a few pages in the ever-present journal. Several of these entries have evolved into published poetry, most recently my poem All The Phones At Positive Pie, which was published back in June at In Between Hangovers.
All The Phones At Positive Pie
All the babes at Positive Pie have
phones that go unanswered, phones
that bleep and glurg incessantly;
insistent phones that flash and flash
and stab their heedless owners’ eyes
and ears and only add to the general
beer-filled boisterous brouhaha, add
to the overall overkill of noisiness
to no avail:
…………….all the babes at Positive Pie
ignore their phones. The more they ring
the more they get ignored.
…………………………………The old man
at the end of the bar, at the bitter end
of his working Wednesday, watching,
has seen the babes ignore their phones
before, has heard the glurg and buzz
and, buzzed, he works to find the words
to turn it into certain verse, to turn the
worst of sounds around, to make the
endless ringing sing a song.
He finds, at last, the ink. He sings along.