Poetry New York

Erik Podhora

Reviewing the Goldwater Hospital Writing Project Benefit Reading

Thursday, April 24, 2008, 7PM

Fearing that entrance into Vanderbilt Hall might be limited to NYU students, I strolled passed the security guard and took a hard right. I stumbled into Greenberg Lounge, complete with NYU-LAW emblems and portraits of old men in suits. At the door two young women in evening dresses passed out tape bound catalogues of poetry entitled: A Plaything of the Muses- The Golden Writers’ Anthology- Spring 2008. Inside the book there was a donation envelope and a program.

The essence of this project is the powerful certainty that creative talent can be nourished regardless of traditional boundaries and that the process of self-expression through the written word is healing. While some patients cannot vocalize their ideas and must communicate via computerized devices and others, unable to physically write, must dictate their drafts and revisions, they all create poems that are vital and meaningful, enriched by their drafts and revisions, they all create poems that are vital and meaningful, enriched by their triumphs, frustration and self-reflection. The workshop welcomes everyone, regardless of our challenges, into the creative writing community and permits a wonderful validation of the human spirit.” –The Benefit Program

So, the reading has a cause and (hopefully) an audience of wealthy attorneys.

Coupled with the Golden Writers’, the event honored Marie Ponsot: Recipient of the 2008 Jean Kennedy Smith NYU Creative Writing Award of Distinction. At a quarter past seven I really need to pee, but the restroom has a long waiting line.

As Deborah Landau read the “Welcome” portion of the evening’s events, she used the words “amazing” and “marvelous” frequently enough to convince the audience that the “Golden Writers’” were going to be so bad that there were no other words to describe them or their work.

Ron Villanueva, the Student Coordinator for the Golden Writers’ program, didn’t help the situation with his speech beginning with, “we gather here,” and following with “we honor.” Either the man thinks he is royalty (using the “we” as a king’s way of saying “me”) or he simply gave up on writing a good speech. Together, these two speeches staged an event akin to a kindergarten learning exhibition.

The first reader was Theresa Awoonor-Williams who admitted she was nervous. I would be too with an introduction like she had. As she read her poem You and I the audience finally stopped chit-chatting.  She described a certain kind of realistic love relationship in the poem; one the audience was very familiar with as they laughed when she paused and quickly hushed as she began to read before the laugher had stopped. She used a series of “you are” and “I am” statements and paused only when her poem created laughter by likening the “you” to slush, rather than snow.

The next reader was Warren Colbert, who also goes by “Mr. Wonderful” on his Smooth Jazz radio show. He read a poem entitled That Small Box. The poem was immediately complicated by this line “That woman’s small box is greater than Pandora ever dreamt.” Which, given the poet’s robust voice and powerful delivery, made “box” sound like slang for a vagina. The poet never escaped this theme, nor was it his intention. The poem may well be a reflection on a man’s desire for a woman. The humor in the poem came from these lines,

“You can call it a special name.

You can call it Lord have mercy, Jesus.”

The poem took an autobiographical tone, or at least a tone of self-inclusion in the final lines,

“Whether you’re walking

or in a wheelchair

it’s all the same

you cannot escape the small box

that Lord have mercy, Jesus.”

If for no other reason than the poet himself was in a wheelchair. The poem got applause. It was a relatively long poem, so perhaps the audience got over the shock of the subject matter faster than I did.

Next was a reading by Ron Villanueva of Alisterville Jones’s poem, Resurrection. I could tell Ron had rehearsed the reading as he only glanced at the paper in front of him, and he paused at every line break. I had a tough time getting past Ron’s automated-poet presentation. But I think the audience would disagree with me as they responded to Ron’s reading with applause.

Ann Lawrence’s poems were next in the anthology, but a wisp of a student took the podium instead. The small young woman who introduced and read Ann’s work had an incredibly hoarse voice. She seemed to be in pain as she was speaking, but she did not give herself a break. She read Ann’s poem, Waiting For Snow

I am waiting each day

for my sister to come.

It is a cold day.

It’s still winter.

I see snow

not falling.

The simplest of words, the most lonely and inhospitable scene created by these six lines makes me think of Hemmingway’s “Six Word Novel.” This would be a six-line novel, but the simple position of “not” in the poem does most of its creative work. To see snow not falling recalls a child’s unfulfilled wish for a “White Christmas.” At the same time, the lonely and literally absent reader creates an image of someone who is waiting for another person, rather than snow.

Kwok Yi Mui can hardly enunciate the syllables of his words. However, he managed to read all the way through his untitled poem. After reading the poem, he managed a smile. Within his autobiographical, contemplative, often self-deprecating poems one gets that sense that Kwok may not smile very often. So, to see him respond with a smile to the audience’s loud applause was evidence of the Golden Writers’ Program’s true merit. The program gives these poets the kind of support and assistance they need in order to do their work. For Kwok, there was a sense of gratefulness for this program; it gave him a chance to have his voice heard.

Joel Malament took the podium next, and began reading precisely when the applause had reached stillness. Not allowing the audience to pause, he began to build the cumulative force of the reading, a certain charisma where the group’s readings began to band together. His Sonnet To Rodney Dangerfield and subsequent Rodney’s Reply illustrated the difference between characters on the stage and the actors themselves. The success of Rodney’s Reply was the humble position that the poem came from. In a sense, Rodney’s Reply calls out Joel on his misunderstanding of the man for his character. The reader is left to ponder if the reply actually came from Rodney Dangerfield. But, the reply juxtaposed with the sonnet achieves a profound selflessness; a humility that allows the reader/audience to enjoy their own approval of the poet and his work.

William Schingler’s “curious and thorough excavations of his diverse experience” were shared with the audience through William’s quiet rasping voice. William is an old man and the tone of his poem Being Sent to a Judge to Lexington, Kentucky, at 21 is heavily autobiographical. I could hear the jazz in his voice. The poem is essentially the story of how William used drugs and got sent to prison. This poem, coming from a man who is no longer in prison, and who is confined to a wheelchair, commanded a certain kind of attentiveness from the audience. We were children listening to Grandpa. The audience held their breath when William gasped for air mid-sentence. The act of writing this poem allowed William to put the rhythms of his life into the rhymes of his poem.  I have never heard more ownership of the mistakes one makes in life. In this way, William continued to build a cumulative force of the reading. Although his poem was long and slow, it was a strong and egoless recollection that the audience paid attention to.

As Yvonne Smith read her poem, That Jazz, I was finally able to forget about the pretentions of this program. I stopped seeing the money all around me and began to see the joy that these poets took in creating and performing their work.  Yvonne was truly happy to be at this meeting. Perhaps the formality of the event is something she enjoys. If so, who am I to look down on it? What greater purpose could poetry ever achieve than to make people happy?

The next poet’s work was categorized as “love poems.” The graduate student who read The Poem to Figure Out said, “Antonio and I have written love poems to every attendant at Goldwater Hospital.” Given the predominant theme of rhyme in the poems, Antonio’s in particular, perhaps these poets really do desire a formal event with long applause after every event. Perhaps the applause and decoration that surrounded this event are things that these poets expect. At any rate, I was myself beginning to feel good about the work that this program does at this point in the evening. To embrace a cliché: you simply must see the smiles on their faces. It is easy to say, but to be in that room where the poets were not only given the assistance they need in order to show their work, but also the well-deserved praise for the work itself; it was a genuine experience. I stopped caring about the framing of the poets’ work as “amazing” or “miraculous” because these terms stop being cliché when one is allowed to be in the presence of what they describe. Perhaps there are no adjectives to describe the nature of the work because the work’s very existence is a triumph.

The final Golden Writer was Joseph Wright. His poem, People I Knew, played with the same kind of lonely waiting for company that Ann Lawrence’s poem did. Only with Joseph, there is something to be seen:

“I see white clouds turn blue”

And with this, the Golden Writers’ reading was over. I have heard old people complain about being alone before. But these people, many of whom are not even old, do not complain. Rather, it is as if the audience was shown images of what it is like for these people to live their lives. But, to experience it, to see the loneliness or the happiness or the freedom, one must come from a very humble place. The event itself provokes a certain kind of reaction, especially as it meets over a question of money. But, when I finally forgot about my reaction to the setting and the introductory speakers, I was able to see the goodness at the heart of the event.

Marie Ponsot understood this as well. She was not the magnet of the evening. She immediately recognized the Golden Writers’ and their accomplishments. “They took out of thin air.” She added, a worthwhile note, it is doubtful that any of those writers have any formal training. Everything they write comes from thin air; they become their own tradition.

Ponsot read from a new manuscript. She enunciated every syllable of every word, pausing to let the audience ponder the images of nature that she conjured. She drew heavily from her experiences in her garden and walking in Central Park. Her poems shared a thread of longing; a vine longing for the sun, humans longing to understand, farmers longing for rain… Ponsot’s images of nature and her somewhat linear progression of ideas allowed the audience to simply witness the poetry. In this way, listening to Ponsot was a lot like watching a good episode of NATURE on PBS. She does not step on anybody’s toes. She has a sensibility about her poetics that seems time tested and untouchable.

The final event was the Presentation of the Jean Kennedy Smith NYU Creative Writing Award of Distinction to Marie Ponsot. Thankfully this was merely a “cool down lap.” The pinnacle of the evening was the final applause of the Golden Writers’ reading. The tight grouping of the poems allowed the authors to build a voice, a cumulative force behind their language.

It turned out that I didn’t have to pee that bad after all. I rode the subway all the way home.