Finding poetry in Queens trash

From [cutting the cord] by Matthew Kremer:

in my experience, new yorkers
seem to have an unarticulated
and unappreciated tradition
of substituting ordinary
shopping bags for
regular trash bags.
i know the process:
you make a huge stash
under the sink, which
builds day-by-day and
covers your cleaning
products, enough that
the collection discourages
the act of cleaning at all.
around once a day, you
bend half-way over
and stretch your hand
into the assortment,
feeling around for
fine distinctions
between grocery
and mall-grade plastic,
and use the one you've
settled on for the category
of needs that ensue.
i would like to
see some trash bag
statistics in the metro
region in the effort to
corroborate this hunch,
but where would i look?
but it is likely in the more
apartment-centric corridors
this thing exists--not in
communities around flushing-
corona park or the waterfronts.

Out come the wolves

From [on riker's wolves] by Matthew Kremer:

the costliness of imported cloths
had induced the practice of
making domestic woollens,
and the raising of sheep
for that purpose,
riker describes in one
of the opening segments
of his Annals of Newtown,
a record of the founding
of the settlement that would
centuries later become elmhurst.
the depredations of wolves offered,
however, a serious impediment
to the safe rearing of flocks.
this comedy occurred
in and around
the first few decades
of the dutch settlement,
when the terrain was dominated
by natural elements whose threat
outstripped the reach of man.

i like to walk around the parking lot
of the georgia diner and feel how
it would be to have been prone
to such a fantastic death
in a new, empty land.
the area would have abutted
horse brook, of course, so
it's likely that predators
would be lurking nearby.
now, there's only an
indonesian grocery store
with decent prices on meat
and a stretch of tall weeds
along a chain-link fence
on the southern side
of justice street.
and though the inhabitants
of this town were less annoyed
by these midnight prowlers than
their neighbors of the adjoining towns,
they found it necessary, in february, 1692,
to offer twenty shillings a head
for every wolf killed within
the limits of the town.

John J. Haspel: gone but not forgotten

From [in memory of buddy haspel, co. E, 165th inf.] by Mathew Kremer:

two men were rescued
and five bodies recovered.
the voices of other survivors
could be heard from the dugout.
all told, john had been gone
only a few short months when
news of his end reached the wires.
at the time of his enlistment,
he was employed at a
munitions plant in brooklyn.
how did he commute there, i wonder?
after hours of intense rescue efforts
and under heavy enemy artillery fire,
they finally had to give up any hope
of reaching the remaining soldiers.
the bodies of fifteen men still
remained in the dugout, but
recovery was impossible due
to mudslides and enemy shelling.
only days later after the attack
had subsided were they
able to dig him out.

haspel's commemoration was
quite the affair in elmhurst
when his remains came home.
all day sunday neighbors and
visitors visited the home of
the dead soldier on wool street,
to express their sympathy with
members of the immediate family.
there were three landaus of floral
tributes from friends and elmhurst
organizations, the large standing
tribute with the inscription,
'for god and country' contributed
by the residents of the neighborhood.
after these preliminaries, the casket
was placed on a gun carriage
drawn by four horses.
from there, it was
taken on a parade route
throughout the neighborhood,
from wool street to st. adalbert's
catholic church, where the
remains were blessed.
making its way down grand
and over to newtown high
where at one time haspel
was a student,
the funeral continued
to st. john's cemetery where
a squad of ex-service men
fired a volley over the grave
and taps were sounded.
when his bones were
finally interred, the party
made its way back to wool street,
where a white sateen banner hung
from the front rail with the letters,
'we speak his name with pride:
buddy haspel, co. E, 165th Inf.'

Remembering Vincent Seyfried on the anniversary of his passing

From [horse brook sketch book] by Matthew Kremer:

seyfried's text is most useful
for the insight it provides
into the various changes
in infrastructure that
occur in the latter half
of the 19th century
and beyond in elmhurst.
following an account of the
great storm of october 1903,
he notes, which gorged its
waters with a raging torrent,
horse brook faded gradually
out of the news, and the housing
developments covering its sources
in woodside cut off all flow of water.
to this, the historian laments,
almost all trace of the old-
time brook is obliterated.
as an author reputed to have
written the most formidable history
of the LIRR currently available,
as well as other monographs
about the growth of queens,
it is strange that seyfried's
study of elmhurst doesn't
have an index of any kind--
it just sort of ends after a
series of haphazard photos
of cord meyer and
other local ephemera.
the narrative proper,
alive for centuries of
increase and progress,
draws to a close in the 1920s
in a foreboding prologue:
once the subway structure
was completed, new buildings
arose behind a new curb line
and elmhurst no longer looked
the same. the modern era--for
better or worse--had begun.

Poem about an historic pome

From [on the matter of the newtown pippin] by Matthew Kremer

the 'newtown pippin'
is a species known
within the growing
community as a cultivar.
now, apple gardening is
admittedly far beyond
my powers as an armchair
moralist to comprehend,
but it seems powerful enough
of a phrase to think about
on a figurative level--
a matter of evolution
within confines.
the slow crawl.
as years went by,
aficionados took the tree
to virginia and renamed it
the 'abermarle.'
the origin of the thing
began at the farm
of gersham moore,
which occupied the corner
of broadway and 45th ave,
near present-day 'winner's bar,'
where few winners are.
the last time i was there
was during the nfc
divisional playoff games
in mid-january during a storm.
the man next to me placed
a $500 bet on philadelphia
to cover the 4 point spread
and was buying drinks for
anyone in his vicinity.
i took a stella artois
from him and sat there
for most of the contest
encouraging his resolve.
as the game slipped away
and new orleans piled on
a late insurance touchdown,
i saw him slumped over
on the stool texting away
and didn't say goodbye.

"Hello Mary, this is Macy's..."

Excerpt from [in memory of mary sendek] by Matthew Kremer:

waiting for the light
to cross queens boulevard
holding my onions
i remembered i was standing
near the site of the old
mary sendek house.
as the story goes
it was a modest parcel
owned by a hungarian lady
who refused to sell to macy's
back when the mall site
was first being planned.
from what i've read
she became rather infamous
in her prolonged refusal
to meet their demands.
her house transitioned
into a landmark of sorts
for the locals--one you'd
gawk at each time you passed
on foot or in the family car.
even as the boulevard
hardened into ten lanes
mrs. sendek stuck to her guns.
she was offered what seems
a decent relocation sum
but to no avail.
this lasted for decades.
you can see pictures of her
in Life magazine hanging
her laundry as the strange
UFO-like structure of the mall
looms ominously in the background.
what's best of all
is that she never really
gave a rationale for the act--
no agenda, no grandstanding,
just a person who didn't
feel like leaving.
a modern day bartleby.

Dutch Reformed Church cemetery poem

From [the graveyard at newtown church] by Matthew Kremer:

i am not one of those people
who is capable of flushing
a friend down the toilet.
and so it occurred to me
in my walks up broadway
to try and bury him in the graveyard
at newtown church
which is this historical site
of sorts that nowadays functions
as some sort of community center.
at least i think so anyway.
maybe it's still an active parish.
i could never think of an excuse
to go into it myself.
the headstones in its little cemetery
section are the old chipping
slate variety.
they look like they're straight
out of the seventeenth century.
there is surprisingly little of this stuff
to be found in new york city
being a town that just tears things down
and builds them back up again.

And now for something completely different

I have been sent some links to poetry centered around Elmhurst. Here is a sample from [the light at van horn] by Matthew Kremer:

anyway i should say
that a minute or so ago
i observed a sedan creeping
to the light at van horn
in a manner that was odd.
he did not speed to the light
but rather seemed to decelerate
from a considerable distance.
what is strange about this
is that most cars in this town
have this habit of racing
to red lights as if their speed
is going to have some effect
on the duration of the interval.
i observe these things quietly.
here was a man who had perhaps
perused the AAA literature
about how slow accelerations
and decelerations are actually
easier on one's gas mileage.
and having not so nice of a car
he was exercising prudence and
frugality instead of needless haste.
that was my theory at least
for the forty-five seconds
i thought about it.
perhaps i have been reading
too much francis hutchinson.
i admired him and felt the need
to reach out in appreciation
for his moderation, i admit.
but then the thought came
that this was entirely dissimilar
to my car-driving days.
likely the case was that
having seen the light he elected
to decelerate as a means of checking
his smartphone or something.
this disappointed me.

DOT gets even flakier

From NBC New York:

New York City is using poetry to boost traffic safety.

Colorful 8-inch square signs featuring safety messages in haiku are being installed at high-crash locations near cultural institutions and schools, including the Bronx's Grand Concourse, MoMA, downtown Brooklyn and the Brooklyn Botanical Garden.

Transportation Commissioner Janette Sadik-Khan announced the new safety campaign, called Curbside Haiku, on Tuesday.

Funded by a state grant from DWI funds, the series includes 12 designs with accompanying haikus that each deliver a targeted safety message by focusing on one transportation mode.

Stars and Stripes forever?

When is a flag mural considered to be graffiti? When it's in California on state land, and after it's been there for 8 1/2 years.

Hey who knew this song had words?

THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER
(MUSIC BY JOHN PHILIP SOUSA, 1896
LYRICS BY JOHN PHILIP SOUSA, 1898)

Let martial note in triumph float
And liberty extend its mighty hand
A flag appears 'mid thunderous cheers,
The banner of the Western land.
The emblem of the brave and true
Its folds protect no tyrant crew;
The red and white and starry blue
Is freedom's shield and hope.

Other nations may deem their flags the best
And cheer them with fervid elation
But the flag of the North and South and West
Is the flag of flags, the flag of Freedom's nation.

Hurrah for the flag of the free!
May it wave as our standard forever,
The gem of the land and the sea,
The banner of the right.
Let despots remember the day
When our fathers with mighty endeavor
Proclaimed as they marched to the fray
That by their might and by their right
It waves forever.

Let eagle shriek from lofty peak
The never-ending watchword of our land;
Let summer breeze waft through the trees
The echo of the chorus grand.
Sing out for liberty and light,
Sing out for freedom and the right.
Sing out for Union and its might,
O patriotic sons.

Other nations may deem their flags the best
And cheer them with fervid elation,
But the flag of the North and South and West
Is the flag of flags, the flag of Freedom's nation.

Hurrah for the flag of the free.
May it wave as our standard forever
The gem of the land and the sea,
The banner of the right.
Let despots remember the day
When our fathers with might endeavor
Proclaimed as they marched to the fray,
That by their might and by their right
It waves forever.

Bloomberg seeking poets

From the NY Times:

the mayor’s office is soliciting wordsmiths via its Twitter account to send in 140 character poems in honor of Thursday’s city poetry day, some of which will be published in Metro New York that day. In case inspiration doesn’t immediately strike, the mayor’s office provides a few sample “poetweets”:

“I’m sorry this poem is a terrible mess/But what can you do in 140 characters or less…”

“If Tolstoy used Twitter to write ‘War & Peace’/The hours to read it would surely decrease…”

Tweet to @NYCMayorsOffice, or post your best efforts below.

And now, a poem

QUEENS LANDSCAPE

Along the avenue in our part of Queens

storefronts and buildings are closely aligned.

Was it sleight-of-hand or some other means

that caused this landscape to be redesigned?

I can’t read the signs as I walk down the street;

they’re in languages I don’t comprehend;

the old and familiar are not there to greet;

perhaps I’ll find something around the bend.

So I wonder today, as a tongue-in-cheek inquisitor,

Is this my neighborhood or am I merely a visitor?

Trudy Eichen in the NY Times

Are you a poet but don't know it?

From the Queens Courier:

Those interested in applying for Poet Laureate must have lived in the borough for at least the last three years and have “a significant publication record.” Along with being willing to make the three-year commitment, the individual must also be able to participate in a minimum of one annual event that the Queens Borough President’s Office sponsors.

According to a press release, “The judges want to know if applicants have published poetry collections; been included in recognized journals, anthologies, recorded spoken word presentations, and online poetry web sites; participated in poetry readings; and can articulate their vision for outreach to the Queens community.”

Potential Poet Laureates will have to send their poetry, including pieces related to Queens, a cover letter, bio and resume.

For more details on the application process, visit the Borough President’s web site, www.queensbp.org. The deadline for submissions is Wednesday, April 14.

Why not submit your poems here? I even accept limericks...

Rockaway Beach poem

From the NY Times:

A BRIEF VISIT

Warm air flies in on

The flapping wings of gulls

As they scream like fishwives

Crossing Rockaway Beach

Seeming to fight

Over someone’s leftover lunch

Taking time for a rest

Before flying on to

The next meal.

Ellen Fuchs