Poetry Up Your Ass

It's been a while since we celebrated poetry around these parts. Last time we tried, some of you troglodytes found it less than macho. I trust you've all grown up. Ish.

As you know, I went to my first poetry reading a few weeks ago. Enjoyed this up and comer, who goes by k. Just k. You'll need to turn the volume way up, because the videographer isn't very good and videographing.

Here's "Broad Broad Broad":

And this one is entitled "Incantation for the Changing of the Seasons":

The Elegy for a Dive Series, Pt. 1

Peter Meinke is from Mountain Lakes, NJ. He is an author, a professor, a Florida resident, and an American poet of some acclaim. According to Wikipedia, from 2003 through 2005, he held the Darden Chair in Creative Writing at Old Dominion University here in Norfolk.

In 1983, he composed "Elegy for a Diver," a piece oft-referenced online, which begins:

Jacknife swandive gainer twist
High off the board you’d pierce the sky
And split the apple of the devil sun
And spit in the sun’s fierce eye.
When you were young you never missed,
Archer-diver who flew too high
So everything later became undone.

Lovely and blue, as Ryan Adams would say.

The elegy, as most of you probably remember from English class and Dave could possibly tell you, is a poetic lament for the dead. Surely you recall Thomas Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" or Walt Whitman's "O Captain! My Captain!" for my buddy Abe.

Fans of the underrated 1994 classic Four Weddings and a Funeral undoubtedly remember this dusted-off elegy in the film's saddest moment.

Anyway...

I come here not to bury you with English Lit, but to praise long-lost loves. Like an elegy.  Understand, good people, that:

"For modern and contemporary poets, the elegy is a poem that deals with the subjects of death or mortality, but has no set form, meter, or rhyme scheme."

Well then. Smell the smell-egy. The lame lament. Enjoy my bloggy version of what is another recurring segment destined not to recur:

The "Elegy for a Dive" Series

Wherein we pay tribute to dingy bars of yesteryear which served us well on many long-forgotten nights of revelry-cum-debauchery.  Three at a time, like shots of Jäger.

The Village Idiot
New York, NY
Closed 2004

First in Greenwich Village, obviously, but then in the Meatpacking District.  I was introduced to this joint a couple of decades ago by Dave's professor buddies, a crew of elders who'd perform their own elegiac tribute to a fallen comrade with a bar crawl down Broadway. Like all the way down Broadway and then some, ending in Battery Park. Along the way, the Idiot was a stop. Oh, my.

PBR in the can before it returned to glory. 70's porn on the TV in the corner of the bar. Smoke in the air before it got banned -- a death knell for the Village Idiot, since it smelled of upchuck. My dad once pleaded with my sister not to let me go there, as he'd read a review that called it a "vomitorium." Sorry, Dad. Leave your credit cards at home. Leave your bra in the rafters. For several years, this was home whenever I was in NYC. May my friend the Idiot rest in peace, as they'll say when I'm gone.

Lord, what a pity it
Is to hear the Idiot
Is finally closing her doors
Wretched refuse cast asunder
That pungent Pabst chunder
Lost for evermore.

The Dixie Grill
Washington, DC
Closed 1996

I moved to DC in the fall of 1993 and took a job that paid $11.53 an hour. I had it made. Three of us split rent of $1000 (somehow Rob got the big room), and we ate cheaply, (more than) occasionally splurging on Cowboy Cafe burgers or Lost Dog sandwiches.  For beers, we drank Natty Lights at home with Sega, Beavis, and Butt-Head, and when we went out we looked for deals. And then we stumbled upon an extraordinary one.  The Dixie Grill, 10th and F across from the Ford's Theatre (you know, where what happened gave Walt Whitman an elegy to write).

Pitchers of Pabst, before its return to commercial success (recurring theme) were $4.In DC! That's what pitchers at the College Delly had been when we started college. (Dean jacked up prices to $4.50 and beyond after that.) They had crappy pool tables, dirtbag decor, country music, and those cheap suds. And drunk people, naturally. More than one among our enthusiastic group of Dixie Grill fans went home with a bad idea and a good story. Well, some months later, prices got shifted, PBR turned to something even swillier, and it just faded out of our rotation. A couple of years later, it was gone. But for a brief instant, it was too good to be true, and we were all over it.

Lord, what a travesty
A place with zero majesty
Has ceased to open its taps
Hard not to think of Lincoln
At Dixie with $4 drinkin'
Still, I won't miss the craps

The Atlantis
Nags Head, NC
Closed 1996

The very first Outer Banks Fishing Trip was in 1994. 17 jackelopes from various points elsewhere
descended on a stretch of beachy community that I had known growing up; that many of us had visited for Beach Weeks; and that Dave, Rob, and others had called home one dingy college summer. The locale is blissful anyway. Pack in our merry band of misfits, and it's unbeatable. Add in some rock and roll music in a beachfront dive bar, and you truly have yourself somethin' special. The Atlantis.

This article appeared last weekend, and it's what prompted this post. A grimy music venue that hosted the likes of Dave Matthews Band, Widespread Panic, and yes, Blue Oyster Cult, were among the acts that played there. I usually made it there for lesser-knowns like the All Mighty Senators, Awareness Art Ensemble, maybe the Poetics or Connells. Much was consumed there, and the stories flowed like wine. The OBFT II tale is one for the ages, best resurrected over a cold one on the deck. I'm not sure I'll come across another joint quite like the Atlantis. Lo, she is missed.

Lord, what a tale of woe
The Atlantis, not here no mo'
Beach life's become more dismal
The ladies, lewd but leggy
My rap, over low-fi reggae
Was even more abysmal


So begins this segment. Reflect with me, shed a tear, share a story, crack a beer. I fear we are going to lose a few more of my favorites this year.

Penance

Apparently, people don't much like seeing their cartoon heroes bathed in blood. My bad.

In an effort to cleanse this space and restore some beauty to it, today we discuss art, poetry, and history, all in one of my favorite places in the world.

Here's a video preview of the Twenty Summers program, an arts education effort initiated just a few weeks ago in the renovated Hawthorn Barn in Provincetown, MA. The barn has been a place of congregation and learning for such luminaries as Stanley Kunitz, Norman Rockwell, Jackson Pollack, and Norman Mailer. Seven years ago, it was at risk, as the development of that unique Cape Cod town threatened it. Today, it's been revived and restored.