Arc of the Poet, Part 10: Good Poetry

I may never become famous as a result of a poem I’ve written. I reluctantly accepted that probability some time ago, but only after mounting great, concentrated efforts designed to place my poetry within well respected literary publications… most of which failed.

I’ve always been a sincere fan of my mother Lila Darnell’s direct, powerful and stylized creative writing. Through my high school and college educations, exchanges with many other colorful and smart friends and family members, and lifelong exposure to magazines, radio and cable TV broadcasts, I developed a pretty strong sense for good poetry, and where that odd form of writing fits into the world. In my early 20s, I was introduced to the works of Charles Bukowski, who appeared to me as a 360-degree representation of the life of a successful poet… and who wrote books I loved instantly, due to them being so human, approachable, funny, well written and good. My friend Hardy Edwards introduced me to Bukowski’s books, and he later made a short film based on his work. That project put me in direct contact with the writer and his publisher, agent and friend, John Martin. For a couple of years, I sustained irregular contact with both gentlemen, and oddly, in my day-to-day dealings, I was often thinking of my next letter to Hank.

Meanwhile, the parting days of 1993 had me thinking about my own writing in new ways, under these and other influences. As mentioned previously, Tom Tilford at Midwest Poetry Review (MPR) had recently opened his door to me, and I wanted to write something truly great, and go for the win. I wrote this on December 27.

Ever since meeting in Alice Wright’s Advanced Placement English class during our senior year of high school, my friend Jay Lerew has shared and stoked my enthusiasm for great literature. He remains the only person I know who can recite long passages of A. E. Housman poems, including but certainly not limited to “Terence, This is Stupid Stuff.” This common appreciation for fine writing brought us together often over the years to laugh, drink coffee, and share prized literary gems. From 1988 to 1990, my last years at college, Jay and I were roommates. Together we amassed vast book collections, with many acquisitions made for the sole purpose of impressing each other and our friends. Between us, I’d say we completed a decent pass of classic and contemporary literature. When Hardy introduced Bukowski to me, Jay and several more friends also got hooked right away.

After writing the poem above, I don’t recall how quickly I sent it off to Tom at MPR, but I’m pretty sure it was only a matter of hours. But even before doing that, I showed it to Jay. To me, his response is an excellent testament to his friendship, although I also like to attribute it to his great taste in literature: He asked me for a signed copy, and told me he intended to frame it and hang it on his wall.

My wish is for you to have such friends as this!

In March, 1994, Hardy sent me the news reporting on Bukowski’s death. I wrote the poem below in June. The November issue of MPR carried “Ethereal Stones,” representing a personal triumph for yours truly. God bless you Tom Tilford… and that goes for you, too, Mr. Bukowski, Mr. Martin, Mr. and Mrs. Darnells, Mrs. Wright, Mr. Lerew, and Mr. Edwards. I thank you all — and many others — from the bottom of my heart for all the inspiration.