Newtown Literary #9 and Lending/Returning Books

Newtown Literary had a launching event for issue #9 (buy here!) a couple of days ago, and I was one of four contributors who read their included piece and a little more. NL is a dynamic small press journal that promotes writers from Queens and has been around since 2012; considering small press poetry journals arrive and often quickly disappear (no matter how good the collected work), its longevity alone is an achievement. It has a good young professional crew behind it; and with continued public funding, it is bound to grow in stature. The event was held at Terraza 7, a cozy, artsy, two-level jazz/immigrant folk bar in Jackson Heights. It is a sweet place; just wish I had remembered the dim lighting and brought reading glasses! I heard a rumor the club is closing soon because of rising rents. Say it ain’t so…take a look in case it is. 

It was surprising to see Newtown Literary use my poem “I Love My Car” since I say some colorful things about genitals in it, and I submitted other poems that I thought were more likely to be accepted. This one would be considered a little risky for most magazines receiving public funding—not the kind of piece one would choose to read at a public library open mic.

With “I Love My Car” and a long list of other political poems listed in my C.V., my chances of ever being considered for Queens Poet laureate are non-existent, no matter how strong my work were to get. This piece is a young man’s poem coming out of an old man’s body at a time he should be exhibiting some literary gravitas. Nah…how else sustain my underemployment and starving artist status into spotted mango-ripe old age? As if I were ever interested enough in reading to become a literary person anyway. I’m happy to simply be reading a little more poetry, trying to keep up with the news, and finally getting interested enough in grammar to begin making sense of it. Speaking of literary persons…

My former teacher, Kimiko Hahn, has her poetry, as well as a brief interview, in issue 9. I read she recently moved to Forest Hills; there is certainly a future Queens Poet Laureate position for her if she wants it.

Seeing Kimiko in the journal reminded me (ouch!) that I had held on to two of her books for nearly two years; I recently emailed to say the books were in the mail;  I priority mailed them yesterday and will check to make sure they are received. I don’t know how many books I have loaned out over the years that were never returned. This book lending that teachers do reminds me of one my first published poems and gives me the chance to name drop again. It appeared in a 1999 issue of Long Shot (sadly, folding a few years later); I was very excited about being in Volume 21. It began with a tribute to recently deceased underground outlaw poet Jack Michilene and included the work of H.R. Giger, Wanda Coleman, Allen Ginsberg, Pedro Pietri, Janine Pommy Vega, Edwin Torres, A.D. Winans, Tony Medina, Nancy Mercado, and Amiri Baraka. The poem has to do with a moment when Allen Ginsberg offered to lend me  one of his books a few months before he died. I sent a copy of this issue along with the books I mailed back to Kimiko; I’m not completely sure why: has to be more to it than another look-at-me moment. 

I hope you enjoy the video of my Newtown Lit read and the poem in Longshot; I’m wondering again if my grammatically incorrect rather personal meanderings on this blog, the videos I post, are going to help or hurt my chances of finding work, especially in the conservative climate that is heating up (to a boil?); there must be a decent theme or two running through this post. Survival? Lending and borrowing? Freedom of expression? State/Public Funding? Longevity? Or what? Happy that you’ve read this far.

 

 

Reading
                    for Allen Ginsberg

 

Ambitious
you called my

long poem

coming back
to your small
kitchen table

with T.S.
Eliot
in hand.

I had hoped
you would read
for me,

like the time
you read
Reznikoff;

I know not
just for me—
to keep alive

perhaps
an old
friend.

You read
Prufrock
now, softly,

until I
heard the song—
aloneness

that arrives
with old bones
and tired heart.

In the middle
of your
offering,

I said, “I
have the book
at home”— Afraid

I would lose it:
afraid
it was not

replaceable,
that I would owe
too much.

You said, “it
just cost
a buck or two,

found it used
in an old
book shop

years ago,”
looking
a bit sad.

 

 

 

Until next time,
keep writing.

Peace,
Andrés

Skip to toolbar