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Most people have
developed their own rationalization for not entering civil society as an engaged
citizen, such as lack of time or know-how, or concern about slander or
retaliation. [...] It was almost as if our community had the town citizen, the town
drunk, and the town fool as unusual spectacles.
What is a poet who cannot speak his or her mind in public, who cannot be him or
herself? I'm not really sure... perhaps a wordsmith, not much else. As a poet, I am compelled by inner Socratic daemon to
speak my mind aloud, not the groupthink-poet mind, but my mind! As
a poet, I am compelled to be myself... and if that might offend a poet or group
of poets, so be it. Let them
ostracize me. I don't give a damn. When I arrived at the Emerson Umbrella Center for the Arts, the parking lot was almost empty. It was about 6:30, an hour prior to the event. Already, it was pitch black outside. Around my neck, I placed the cord of a placard, then put on my poet’s hat, and walked across the lot with a handful of flyers and two other placards, quotes by Emerson and Thoreau. I walked into the Emerson Umbrella, noted that the two flyers I’d placed on the bulletin boards several days before had been, unsurprisingly, removed. So, I hung two more, then stepped back outside, and placed the Thoreau placard on a step, leaning it towards the eventual flow of incoming poets and poetophiles. “LET YOUR LIFE BE A COUNTERFRICTION TO STOP THE MACHINE” would remain predictably unread and unheeded throughout my protest.
What constituted literature for the common, incurious, group-think poet and poetophiles of the safe zone? What constituted poetry for them, if not disengaged, intellectual, diversionary entertainment? The Aeolian side of Thoreau attracted them, sure, but not the counter-friction side. Indeed, they were not whole. Houlihan, looking much older and dowdier than in her internet photo, appeared and spoke.
—Are you the protester, G. Tod Slone? —Yes, would you like a flyer? —No, I already have one. —Ah, did you tear it down from the bulletin board in the name of free speech? —No, someone gave me one. I thought the likeness in the cartoons of me and Franz was good. —Thank you. So, you’re Joan Houlihan.
A month before I’d informed Houlihan, Senior Poetry Editor, The Del Sol Review (webdolsol.com), and columnist for The Boston Comment, that I existed as a local dissident editor and poet, had been jailed for protesting the lack of free speech at Walden Pond State Reservation, and would be protesting the opening of the poetry center because of her selection of an establishment poet as guest speaker. She wrote back “We welcome dissidents! All the best poets were dissidents.” I thanked her for the brief response, sent my 20-page poet manifesto on rude truth, parrhesia and risk, rejected by over 40 establishment literary reviews, and noted: “Just the same, I shall be staging a nonviolent protest at your opening.” She responded: “What are you protesting? Seems like you’d welcome a place in your area for poets who are not part of the poetry establishment.”
—Do you know this quote by Emerson? (I held up the Emerson placard.) —Yes, I do. You made me aware of that one in your email. So are you just going to stand there? —Yes, I’m going to hand out flyers to anyone who wants one. I’m not going to bother anyone. I wouldn’t want the police to interrogate me.
—Well, that’s good. Houlihan was quite preoccupied with the organizational aspect of the event and walked back inside, entirely un-inquisitive. That would be the last time I’d speak with or see her during the evening… or ever again. Interestingly, we had emailed back and forth for nearly a week. I’d suggested she invite me to speak on socio-politically engaged poetry at the center. Her response was noted above under reasons for the protest. I’d often wondered how individuals like Houlihan thought. Over the years, I’d run into many poets and academics with similar thinking patterns, marked by curious breaches in logic.
So, if I protested poetry, then the poetry director would not permit me to teach protest poetry. I wrote Houlihan, asking if in fact she had erred vis-à-vis her statement. But she wrote back noting she did not have time for such debate and permanently truncated our brief exchange.
By the front door, not blocking it, I stood with my placards and flyers. An old fellow slowly moseyed by and cast a gray glance at me. I spoke.
—Nobody seems to like this quote by Emerson, for some reason. —Oh, so you’re the protester. I’ve read the emails you’ve sent to Joan and me. —Well, maybe you should have responded, being a public arts director.
So, that was Richard Fahlander, Program Director of the Emerson Umbrella. He entered the building incurious and chuckling without a response. I wondered how much chitchat had gone on behind the scenes with regards my imminent protest. Well, I’d never know.
—Professor Slone, how are you? Remember me? I was a student in your night class. —Yes, I do sort of remember you. That was about five years ago, right? —Yes, don’t talk about it! (Two other women were with her. She introduced them to me.) —You want a flyer? They’re free.
They took flyers. My former student attempted to read the placard around my neck.
DEMOCRACY NEEDS POET PARRHESIASTES NOT PULITZER-PRIZE POET COURTJESTERS! POETRY NEEDS TO BE MORE THAN DIVERSIONARY ENTERTAINMENT LET IT SERVE AS WEAPON OF COMBAT AGAINST OUR CORRUPT SOCIETY!
—Do you know what that word means, parrhesiastes? —No. —Well, let me at least teach you a new word for the evening. Parrhesiastes was an ancient Greek custom of speaking the rude truth to power. If power proved benevolent, it wouldn’t punish the parrhesiastes. If it proved autocratic, it just might kill him.
The women left chuckling and entered the building. I’m not sure if they had any idea what I was talking about. It was a lovely autumn evening, the air pure and crisp, though not cold for mid-October. A young woman, wearing a little name tag, indicating membership in the poetry center, stepped out of the building to chatter on her cellphone.
—Hi, how are you? Do we have a three-prong extension cord? —That’s about as inquisitive as the poets get nowadays. Don’t you even want to take a flyer?
She didn’t respond and walked back inside. Would she call the police? Had my question constituted verbal harassment? A few more people arrived and stood in front of me jabbering. Another poet organizer stepped out, a tall fellow with a gray ponytail and gray face. He ignored me. I simply did not exist for the fellow.
—Don’t you want a flyer, man? They’re free. I don’t have a gun. I don’t have a knife. I’m just protesting the poetry center and its aversion to protest poets.
The ponytail chap walked back inside, then soon reappeared. He saddened me. The soft, gregarious team-thinking type, ever careful not to offend, seemed so prevalent today. Well, he offended me.
—Hey, man, don’t you want a flyer? Aren’t you at all curious? How can you be a poet and not be curious?
But the ex-hippie turned poesy organizer-bureaucrat refused to acknowledge my presence. He walked down the pathway, made a brief cellphone call, then walked back towards me.
—Boy, you’re incurious, are you the director?
He entered the building without a word. Was I badgering him? Perhaps. Then he came back out again. I couldn’t resist. How could I resist?
—Are you a poet, sir? Are you the director? Are you a poet director?
Still no comment. The female-cellphone poet stepped out to yap again. I asked who the guy with the ponytail was. She responded.
—He’s one of the committee members!
Two females walked towards the front door and me.
—Can I interest you in a quick read? Emerson. This is the Emerson Umbrella for the Arts, isn’t it? So why not read a quote by Emerson?
—“I AM ASHAMED TO THINK HOW EASILY WE CAPITULATE TO BADGES AND NAMES.” —So, why are you capitulating? The badge is the Pulitzer and the name is Franz Wright, the Pulitzer poet.
They both walked up the steps and into the building without a response. They hadn’t understood. Yet, the concept seemed as simple as the night sky and was helping to undermine democracy. It was just too easy to become mesmerized by the familiar face and fame and money. A young woman walked by.
—How about a flyer? They’re free! —No thank you! Franz is a friend of mine!
Wow! Now what would it be like to have a Pulitzer as a friend? I’d never know. A young man stepped out of the building.
—Would you like a flyer? —I’m just smoking, dude! —Well, good for you… dude!
He looked at me with a tint of anger in his eyes, walked off into the darkness and lit up under a tree. Another young guy stepped outside, dressed in sports jacket and looking quite functionary and satisfied… the complete man, indeed.
—How about a flyer, man? It doesn’t hurt to be curious.
He refused and ambled slowly away—another incurious poet? Then he ambled back looking at me, sizing me up bizarrely. Good for him! I spoke.
—You look like you’re a Concord Journal reporter. But why are you so incurious? —I’m not! I work in the mental-health field.
He walked off again, then reappeared. I noticed he too was wearing an organizer’s badge. He spoke.
—You know, I was the only poet this year to win a Massachusetts Cultural Council grant… who didn’t have an MFA!
Well, goll-ly! He was oozing with pride and satisfaction, and left me speechless. He handed me a little postcard of the poetry center.
—Well, if I take that, then you have to take a flyer.
He took a flyer and walked off. Communication between the establishment poets, who thought they weren’t establishment poets, and the non-establishment poet protester was indeed minimal. Later it dawned on me that Franz Wright was also a local mental-health worker. Aha! The connection, the piston, the networking and voila, the cultural council grant! Another guy walked by and spoke.
—You look like you’re having a good time. —Take a flyer. They’re free!
He took one and disappeared into the building. A young college-age black couple, rarity for Concord, approached.
—Would you like a flyer? They’re free.
The woman responded with a pout.
—Oh, no thanks!
Then the guy with two-foot long dreadlocks took one. I spoke, he remained silent.
—Glad to see that at least you’re curious.
A middle-aged couple approached. The man spoke, chuckling.
—Why are you protesting poetry? —Take a flyer and find out. —No thanks!
They entered the building, both chuckling. I supposed there was a fine line between the town idiot and town protester. From the darkness, emerged four guys, one of whom I recognized: the evening’s poet star, Franz Wright, looking like a diminutive professor with sports jacket and brown leather attaché case and a bit older and balder than in his internet photos, the ones I’d used to sketch a satirical cartoon for my flyer.
—Would you like a flyer? They’re free.
Each one grabbed a flyer, each one chuckling and entering the building. They remained just past the door. I observed them through the glass. They were looking at the flyer and chuckling up a storm. A Harvard-looking and sounding fellow approached with tweed sports jacket and elbow patches.
—Oh, how could you possibly protest poetry and the poetry center? —Well, for one thing, they hate free speech and probably democracy too.
He refused to take a flyer and entered the building. I opened the doors and spoke to the four guys still hovering in chuckles.
—Have you ever asked yourselves who the judges are for these prizes and contests?
They laughed, mockingly. Yes, for them, I was the town protester, or rather idiot. Franz Wright spoke and chuckled… probably nervously.
—William Sapphire! —Sure, and your father and George Will too. Don’t you ever question anything? Well, I suppose they’re feeding you too well for that.
They continued chuckling. Back outside, I resumed my post fully aware of the impossibility of dialogue with such poesy chucklers. They left me thoroughly saddened. How did the nation produce so many of them… and in literature and poetry no less? Well, they’d laughed at Dr. Stockmann, so they’d laugh at me too. Fuckem. That was part of the game… of life exterior to groupthink.
Later, Franz Wright stepped out alone, walked off into the darkness, lit up a cigarette, and prepared himself mentally no doubt for the evening’s feed, that is, read. A slight breeze wafted his smoke into my nostrils. When done puffing, he ambled back.
—You’re not even curious! Nobody wants to read my flyer! You’re not even going to read the flyer? —Yes, I’m going to frame that cartoon! Seriously, I’ll give you $20 for the original.
He chuckled, fumbling through the stack of bills in his wallet.
—I don’t have it with me. It’s in my sketchpad. —Who did it? —Well, I did. —A lot of people don’t like me either. I’ll give you ten dollars for another flyer. I want a clean copy so I can frame it! —Ah, you’re trying to trick me, aren’t you? If I take your money, the cops will arrest me for selling without a permit. Here! Take one!
But he insisted, so I grabbed the ten, and offered to send him a copy of The American Dissident, the literary journal I’d founded. Whoopee, protester makes ten dollars protesting! Well, it was for the cause.
—Look, I just want you to know I’m not saying your poetry is good or bad. A lot of people come to the wildest conclusions. I’m really here just protesting the poetry center… well, and the Pulitzer too. —Here, would you sign it? —Sure.
He handed me a red pen. I signed, thinking I should have charged him $25 for the signature. That’s what he was charging for his. He walked off, chuckling.
—I’m going to frame it! —Hey, the original is in color, you know… the blue suit and red superman cape.
He continued chuckling and entered the building. Maybe that would give him a little excitement for the night. Maybe he’d even use it in his introduction, yeah, the town protester outside.
—I’m protesting the Concord Poetry Center, mam. Would you like a free flyer? —Why are you doing that? —Well, they don’t like protest and I don’t think they like democracy either.
The woman took a flyer. Another approached.
—They don’t like dissident poetry here! —Really?
She refused to take a flyer. Another approached.
—Would you like a flyer? —Thank you, but I already read your flyer and think it was very funny. —Oh, how funny, indeed. But it’s really tragic… piteous!
A man walked by, took a flyer and chuckled.
—Well, I’m glad I can at least give people a chuckle, sir.
Another woman approached scurrying rapidly.
—Oh, I’m sorry but I have to get inside quickly.
A squad car drove by slowly. I brandished my placard and flyers. The lot was now full and the street too with parked cars. The center would be making a ton of money. That was what poesy was all about today—ten dollars a head and $25 for the reception and book signing… of the “prize-winning Walking in Martha’s Vineyard.” Now, why weren’t they doing that for my Martha’s Vineyard novel, Total Chaos: Behind the Scenes of a National Blue-Ribbon High School? Ah, it hadn’t won a prize. Hmm. How amazing it was that a name and badge could draw out the mobs like bloodsucking flies, gnats, and mosquitoes. There must have been at least a hundred people present. A female cop approached from the darkness. Was that it? Was it time to leave?
—Would you like a free protest flyer, mam? —Oh, no thank you. Not right now. Thank you very much.
The woman entered the building. The females in blue were certainly much less intimidating than their male counterparts. She’d almost seemed friendly. Who’d called her on the cellphone? Or was she there because of all the money? One of the poet organizers, a different one, stepped out to see if it was the end of the money trail. She squinted at my Emerson sign and chuckled.
—Why do people seem to think that what Emerson said is so hilarious? I find it piteous!
She walked back inside without comment. The cop stepped back out.
—Have a good evening, sir! —Thank you, mam. You too.
Nothing like a friendly exchange! Perhaps, though, they ought to require police officers to manifest interest in protest flyers. Yes, they ought to require them to actually read the flyers as part of their civic education. A woman and teenage daughter approached.
—I’m protesting the poetry center. Would you like a free flyer? They don’t like protest here. —But how do you know they don’t like protest? —Well, read the flyer and find out. Obviously, I wouldn’t be here if they did. Take a flyer. You might like the cartoon.
They walked inside without taking flyers. Another small group approached from the darkness.
—Would you like a flyer? They’re free! I’m protesting poetry! —Oh, no thank you! —Curiosity didn’t kill the cat, you know. Hell, I’m still living!
True, what relevance was any of it? The dark inky sky. The absence of stars. The leaves on the trees illuminated by the lone street lamp, a touch of damp odor in the air. Those leaves were my stars for the evening, as I walked back and forth pacing in the night alone. No doubt a reporter for the Concord Journal had walked past me to cover the event… and not a word from him or her, of course. In today’s Concord, such protest was news unfit for print. I peered inside the door. On the top of the stairs seated behind a long table were two faceless poet organizers counting money. Wow! It was odd to perceive such a spectacle—poets holding fistfuls of green bills. The night had been a great success… for them and for their poetry center! But with people like them and the bulk of the mob who’d passed by my eyes, the nation truly deserved, in the words of Nader, a Tweedledee or Tweedledum.
The stragglers had finally dried up. The evening had been successful for both the poetry center and me. They’d collected plenty of money, while I’d handed out plenty of flyers. Just the same, not one of the poets or poetophiles present would ever contact me.
Well, the reading had begun, so I walked back to the lot, opened my car door, and drove back home through the darkness of night. Inside, I turned on the tube and poured a glass of cheap red wine, while the celebrity poet basked in the darkness of fame, toasting champagne.
Cartoon Comparison: In the Dark vs. In the Light
B.
In the Light
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