Susan Allison's long-awaited collection of poems has just been issued by Antrim House Books. "Down by the Riverside Ways" has been, at least, a decade in the making and is well worth your perusal. Separated into 4 distinct sections, from the one-poem "Prelude" to the hard-edged "War No More" section that closes the book, these poems are a clear-eyed look at the world in general and the poet's reflections upon life in Middletown. Allison, the co-founder of Ibis Books, the storefront on Rapallo Avenue that morphed into The Buttonwood Tree, loves this city but is no innocent (see the poem at the bottom of the column.) It's her home, flaws and all, the poet seduced by the river and the sunlight on the old brick buildings and the people who survive as well as the ones who thrive.Where better to launch the book than at The Buttonwood Tree this Sunday (April 5) at 2 p.m. Susan Allison will read from the book, be happy to sign copies and talk about the pieces or whatever crosses your mind. For more information about the poems and Ms. Allison, go to www.AntrimHouseBooks.com.
At the same time (sigh), The Middletown Symphonic Band, Marco Gaylord, music director, presents is Annual Spring Concert in South Congregational Church, 9 Pleasant Street. The MSB, now in its 30th season, will play music by Beethoven, Saint-Saens and others. Joining them will be Professor, composer, and, on this occasion, pianist-organist, Neely Bruce. For more information about this free concert, email middletownsb@yahoo.com.
Later Sunday afternoon (6 p.m.), The Buttonwood hosts the JJ Diamond Band "Farewell Performance." Vocalist and co-founder Judi Neal has taken a new job outside of Connecticut - the band will continue on and will soon post details on its website (www.judineal.com/pages/jjdiamond/band.htm.) In the meantime, the Sunday show will feature the band's fine mix of "...folk, country, 60’s rock, 40’s jazz, reggae, and originals." For more information, call 347-4957 or click on the website above.
As promised, here's a selection from "Down by the Riverside Ways", courtesy of the poet and Antrim House Books.
Out this Window: Patient Record
The same beauty and pain as anywhere.
The golden Maxfield Parrish light
on the building across the street
and the way the pigeons reflect
the sun and send their shadows
in brief array as they circle and return.
There is always beauty. There is always pain.
There is an emaciated prostitute
who sits on the geraniums
in the window box. She is not here now.
I can see the broken stems.
She is dying, will not speak to us.
From this window I see people
who have no money in the richest state
in the richest country in the world,
no homes, no futures, no jobs:
addicted to crack, alcohol,
abuse. Some are dying
and they either know it or don’t.
There is the girl with the colostomy bag
selling herself for a hit. There are the old men
waiting for the next high.
These are not the hollow men—
they say hello every day, they are kind,
they have howled in the wasteland.
They are not evil, just incurably lost. Meanwhile,
the scavengers of the new wasteland are many—
the creeps and the politicians and the buyers
and the sellers and owners and even some of
the social workers in their brand new jobs.
And all the suits walk by so quickly, can’t say hello
because they are card-carrying members of
the time-is-money cult or the efficiency cult
or the just plain nasty folks cult.
Two men on the corner, both dying, ragged, slow,
smile at each other and join in warm embrace.
The same beauty and pain as anywhere.
The golden Maxfield Parrish light
on the building across the street
and the way the pigeons reflect
the sun and send their shadows
in brief array as they circle and return.
There is always beauty. There is always pain.
There is an emaciated prostitute
who sits on the geraniums
in the window box. She is not here now.
I can see the broken stems.
She is dying, will not speak to us.
From this window I see people
who have no money in the richest state
in the richest country in the world,
no homes, no futures, no jobs:
addicted to crack, alcohol,
abuse. Some are dying
and they either know it or don’t.
There is the girl with the colostomy bag
selling herself for a hit. There are the old men
waiting for the next high.
These are not the hollow men—
they say hello every day, they are kind,
they have howled in the wasteland.
They are not evil, just incurably lost. Meanwhile,
the scavengers of the new wasteland are many—
the creeps and the politicians and the buyers
and the sellers and owners and even some of
the social workers in their brand new jobs.
And all the suits walk by so quickly, can’t say hello
because they are card-carrying members of
the time-is-money cult or the efficiency cult
or the just plain nasty folks cult.
Two men on the corner, both dying, ragged, slow,
smile at each other and join in warm embrace.
2 comments:
Susan Allison is my favorite Middletown poet. Her poems are best experienced hearing her read them.
Hope everyone leaves the rosebush pruning for an hour and comes to see her. Congratulations, Susan!
Susan, thank you for this poem. I have struggled to find words for all this, but you have captured it. When I came back from India in 2006, so many people said "How did you stand the poverty, it must have been so terrible and sad, was it hard to see it" and I tried over and over to explain the baffling reality that I feel so much worse about the people I pass every day on Main Street Middletown who seem just gone, lives lost, wasted and in danger, their individuality crystal clear but their problems rote -- I feel no less responsibility for them than I do for the poor of India. The poverty I saw in India was not stagnant, and it did not vibrate with the sense of lives broken. Main Street, on the other hand, sometimes just breaks my heart. Sometimes its all I can do to just bear witness to it and continue to be here, because I certainly don't have any idea how to fix it.
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