Why I Don't Write Children's Literature (16 page)

The band, hired by the city of Orinda to liven up the plaza, had already been playing but not, apparently, to any screaming fans. The outlook for that possibility brightened upon our arrival and increased further when, a few minutes later, two women appeared. Sadly, the women had neglected to dress in hippie getups; they were attired in polyester pantsuits and carried large shopping bags. One pointed to the bench next to ours. With a newspaper, she whisked the bench of leaves and dust before settling, hen-like, on the bench.

The band began to play “Michelle,” a song considered French-y in our day. The bass player who sang did not actually resemble the real Paul McCartney; he looked more like our insurance agent. Ringo tapped a simple beat and George played rhythm guitar. As Paul thumbed the bass, the three-chord melody touched me, touched us — even touched the pigeon, who began goose-stepping in a circle. Carolyn scooted closer to me.
This is going to be nice
, I purred, an evening to remember. We were among an audience of four, not counting the pigeon, at a Beatles tribute concert. When would such a thing happen again?

The song ended with a Beatlesque bow. Carolyn and I clapped and beamed. I couldn't help but notice, however, that the two women — rude sourpusses — had talked during the song. True, they'd occasionally stopped their gabbing to look up at the band, but neither showed any joy. Their faces were like clouds struggling over a hill, dark and ominous. I surmised that they had probably lost the love of good men —
yes
, I told myself, that must be it.

Carolyn and I cuddled, both of us delirious with happiness. We were a couple and this was the music of our generation, when love was mostly free, just like this concert!

When the band played “Twist and Shout,” we figured out that the guitarist was not George, but John. This song was John Lennon's signature piece, with raw vocals and teenage angst. My head bobbed and our knees jerked to the beat. I turned to my wife and smiled, spying her breasts: the nasty girls were pitching left and right.

During this raucous anthem, the manager of the Orinda Theatre appeared. After the song ended with a gutsy twang, she approached the band with husky steps; her body language meant business. She complained, not quietly, that the music was too loud; it was upsetting her patrons in the theatre. She instructed the band to please lower the volume.

The band members looked at each other with the sadness of henpecked men. John stepped over the cables to the amplifiers and played with the knobs. After the manager left, the band started giggling among themselves. I was afraid that they might unplug their guitars, disassemble the drum kit, and go home. But they were troupers. Their next number was “Help,” which John sang, ironically, in a near whisper.

Carolyn and I laughed. We sang what lyrics we could remember, louder than the band. When the song ended, we applauded quietly, as we didn't want that theater manager to return. Then I thought: if she did return, maybe she could bring a bag of popcorn for the pigeon.

The band played “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” a cue for me to hold Carolyn's hand, and “Drive My Car,” in succession. I raised my hands and wrapped them around an imaginary steering wheel, twisting it wildly. I could be silly. After all, there was no one around — or hardly anyone.

Carolyn called out, “How 'bout ‘Norwegian Wood'?”

Paul and John blinked at each other, then Paul said, “We only do early Beatles.” He hesitated before explaining, with a chuckle, “We're not that good.”

“Nah,” we — their fan base — crowed in harmony.

“You're good,” I corrected.

“You're
real
good,” Carolyn agreed.

Ringo did a drum roll, and Paul thumbed his bass. They appreciated our eagerness.

“What's your name?” Paul asked Carolyn.

Carolyn told him, and Paul dedicated the next song, “I Saw Her Standing There,” to her, saying, “This one goes out to — ” He took a swig of bottled water, then capped the bottle; he had already forgotten her name.

Carolyn supplied it.

“Carolyn — that's right.”

The band started loudly, then remembered their directive —
shush
, or else! They played the song softly, while we clapped along. When it was over, we applauded softly — this was too much fun.

“Where's George?” Carolyn asked, figuring that, with so few of us, we could talk to the performers between songs.

“He had to work,” John answered.

George is moonlighting?

John strummed his guitar, ready to kick-start another song. He stopped when the women next us rose to leave, one of them noisily twisting the top of her plastic shopping bag. They had been rudely yakking domestic triviality throughout the set. Couldn't they sense that this moment would never happen again? Still, I was troubled by their imminent departure.

“If you two leave,” I said jokingly, “then there will be only half an audience.” The pigeon had already winged itself away.

One of the women squinted at me as if her eyes were binoculars. “It's not my responsibility to be the audience,” she said curtly.

If I'd worn a toupee on my scalp, it would have flown off upon hearing that remark. I did
not
like this woman. As she and her friend walked away, I was glad that their polyester pantsuits didn't fit!

“This goes out to Carol,” said Sir Paul.

Close enough.

The band played “She Loves You,” this time a little louder. When that song ended, John said, “And this next one goes out to Carol.”

Carolyn smiled and felt special. They did “A Hard Day's Night,” followed by a reprise of “Michelle,” also for Carol, their dedicated groupie, who applauded slightly beyond the permitted sound level. During her eager clapping, I saw that my girl
had
decided to go braless — nasty thing!

The Beatles got loud on “Rain,” dispelling any notion that they were not good musicians. This song, a favorite of mine, is hauntingly complex, and they played it well, even with only one guitar. John's vocals measured up — who cared if his socks were white?

“Where you folks from?” Paul asked.

Berkeley, we answered.

“Do you have a business card?” Carolyn asked.

They shook their heads no, all three of them. They asked how we had heard about the concert, and we told them the newspaper.

They did “And I Love Her,” sung by Ringo, and “P.S. I Love You,” sung by both John and Paul, with harmonies added by Gary and Carolyn, their backup singers. The summer evening was silly, free, and memorable.

Carolyn and I snuggled against each other. We stayed until the very end because, as long as the music played, the Beatles lived on.

THIRTEEN STEREOTYPES ABOUT POETS

It's a disappointment that I'm not invited to parties more often because I possess an extensive social armor in the form of twelve suits, including a rare Paul Smith three-piece — rare in that there is only one other like it in the United States. To my mind, it's very close to “bespoke,” meaning that a tailor, working from my slender measurements, made it just for
me
. I'm disappointed because I want to be present at a party where a mid-level techie — wine glass in his right hand, cracker in his left — asks, “What do you do?”

“I'm a poet,” I would answer, nibbling on my own cracker, sipping from my own drink. “Gee, this is a nice party. Look, there's more food coming!”

And you live where?
the techie might wonder, in his semi-vegan heart. But aloud he says, “Interesting. I read a short poem about black birds once. Didn't understand it at all.” Cracker crumbs fall from his lower lip. His cell phone lights up and I disappear from his thoughts for seconds — no, for good. He turns away.

Still, I get to mingle with others at the party. I scan the scene and sip my wine. It's good stuff — a blend of silliness, with just a touch of hilly ravine.
Got to get a case of this
, I remind myself.

In short, poets are misread. We're like others in that we have hearts and lungs, money and then no money, and places to go — even if it's by foot. If you call with an invitation to us older poets, on a landline, we will make every effort to come.

Poets Wear Berets

We are no longer partial to berets, though we've all seen them tilted smartly on heads, both male and female. Admittedly, they're attractive head coverings, but only for the generation before 1960, and only if you were European with an owl-shaped face. Still, if a contemporary poet wears a beret it should be made of wool and smell of tobacco and worry — worry for the next poem and the next meal. When we do don hats, I'm afraid it's the dumbed-down baseball-cap look — or a beanie, like that guy in U2. People assume that's what poets look like — like the beanie guy. But no, that's more like a rocker with a really expensive guitar.

Poets Are Silent and Reflective Types

If drinks are free for more than two hours — and if the party extends to another venue, offering more of the same — a poet can get really loud. He might collapse to his knees, roll onto his side, and keep talking, even while the brain has given up and the eyes resemble salmon eggs. The collapsed poet does not go quietly into the night. Though crumpled on the floor, his lips are still moving slightly.

“Bush,” the poet mumbles, “George Bush started it all . . . Rosebud, rosebud . . .”

Some smarty remarked that we poets come into the world not knowing a single word. After we have honed the ancient craft, however, we won't shut up. But we also come into the world expecting a proper drink, right away.

“Where's mommy?” the newborn poet asks, then wails.

Poets Like Flowers

Sniffing them, we think of our future funerals, when an organ moans and the mourners, other poets in out-of-style ties, are keen to the aroma of vittles in the adjacent room. Flowers, of course, are beautiful in a vase, on half-price calendars, and when presented to us with the Nobel Prize for Literature. This big daddy of all awards most likely doesn't happen, however, and we will have no occasion to shake hands with a real king and bow to his wife, the queen, thin as a tulip. But if it should occur, we would wear a red boutonniere, the color of the blood we spilled getting there.

Poets Vote Democrat

Yes, most darken those zeros in the voting booth in favor of Democrats. But a few vote Republican. Generally, these poets iron their jeans and then re-iron them, with sharp creases. Republican poets are always men.

Poets Don't Work

We are apt to work hard — as long as we don't have to bend over too much. We work for figures just north of minimum wage, correcting college papers that often begin, “In today's society,” and teaching creative writing workshops where babyish students complain, “You just want us to write like you.” We appreciate work that ends about five o'clock and committee meetings that take no longer than the time in which to eat a sandwich. We like paychecks, but fret at all the deductions on the paystub. All those taxes never benefit poets.

Unbalanced, Poets Must Hang onto Things When They Walk

Sylvia Plath put her head inside an oven — we know at least this much about her. Delmore Schwartz drank himself to death, and so did Dylan Thomas. Virginia Woolf, a prose writer with a poet's sensibility, put rocks into her apron and walked into a cold river. In short, the public thinks that we're unbalanced and steps back to give us room. But poets are well balanced. Consider how poets start off the day. We put on our socks first, then our pants, or maybe the other way around — pants first, then socks. We're able to dress ourselves.

Poetry Slams Are for Everyone

Poets in a slam rhyme like this: “I was a'gonna fall / before the call / but big beautiful doll / hecka pale and tall / you feel me, y'all?” After some soft clapping from the audience, the poet swings his hair from his right shoulder to his left. Then he begins another: “Skinny but mad / fruitfully glad / mom and dad / like frowned at ‘Brad' / but my words, sugar babe, ain't that bad.” These slams start at about 7:00 p.m. and end when we turn about twenty-five.

Poets Drink Too Much Coffee

Like the regular Joes and Josephinas of the world, we savor our morning brew. We drink two cups, get that sweet vibe going, then head to work on
BART
. In our office, we're blasted by fluorescent light bulbs, but on our desk we have a potted plant to soothe our eyes.

“How's it going?” a workmate asks.

“I stapled my tie to the desk — that's how it's going,” the poet answers. “You seen the scissors?”

We don't sit in cafes jotting down ideas for poems that may or may not happen. Poets like their coffee with lots of cream and with sugar — two spoonfuls will sweeten the day.

Poets Listen to
NPR

While driving a cheapo rental, poets may cruise the radio stations, halt briefly at
NPR
's “All Things Considered,” and growl, “Oh, yeah, a station for the Volvo crowd.” When a reporter begins, in an urgent voice, “Today in Australia a kangaroo was found sitting among rocks at low tide,” poets snort, “Yeah, but what about me? I sat there and no one gave a shit.” Poets search for a station with loud music.

Poets Need Sensitivity Training

A famous poet and his semi-famous friend commiserated over a prestigious prize that neither received. It instead had gone to a
very
famous poet.

“Get over it,” the famous poet scolded. “Bury the hatchet.”

“Good idea!” the semi-famous poet roared. “I'll bury in it in his forehead.”

Poets Understand Dreams

We sleep in narrow or wide beds and we dream narrowly or widely. To our analysts, we report with mild urgency dreams such as this: “When I went into the bathroom I saw a polar bear drinking from the toilet. He raised his face with little drops of water dripping from his chops, and chased me down the hallway. We both ran in slow motion, but since he was more powerful he caught me and, well, gave me a bear hug.”

Analyst (tapping pencil against his leg — so Freudian): “Were there ice cubes involved?”

Poets Live on the Top Floor of the Ivory Tower

We live in houses with lots of windows, or apartments with some windows, or shared spaces with only one window, which we climb through when we've forgotten the key. We live in tents when the going is hard or with our parents when the going is
really
hard. No poet lives too richly. We don't shine the silver or dust the chandelier or take tally of the Royal Copenhagen china. We seldom dwell in large houses with more than two bathrooms. When we do, it's because our wife or husband or lover is the one with money. Even then, we feel a little embarrassed when we show our guests the view from the great room.

Poets Smell

Ghastly rumor! We shower and we wash our fleshy mitts. Some solitary days we contemplate the grime under our fingernails, grime that if analyzed in a lab would reveal pencil lead. We write poems that work and poems that don't work. When we sweat, we provide the world with an unusual odor. “What's that?” a curious business-type might ask, as he sniffs the confines of an elevator. Dogs howl at our sides as they recall from their canine past some primordial longing that involved the first Neanderthal poets. People hurry out of the elevator before the poet can say, “It's me! I've just finished a poetry manuscript. The perfume is called ‘Essence of Limited Edition.' ”