The poetry community around these parts lost a stand out artist, friend, advocate and rabble rouser. Her name was Jennifer Bosveld. For almost 30 years she ran Pudding House Publications--the largest small literary press in the country. For hundreds of poets around the country she was a mentor, publisher, adviser, confessor, and co-desperado, rambling along the literary frontier in her poetry van, which she called Van Morrison, adorned with the vanity plate: POET. Heres two of my favorite poems from her wonderful book, From A Phone Booth in Paradise, published by Rank Stranger Press in 2005. Saint Noodle I took my dime store turtle for a ride in the basket of my Schwinn bike around the corners of my neighborhood-- his water sloshing over the side of his Pyrex custard cup until an hour later, after flirting with Steve Williams at the corner of Brownlee and Eastmoor Blvd. and an invitation for badminton from Mike Gould and Bob McCombs. I took him back to his place on my bookshelf where Ike and Mami Eisenhower, our parakeets, would not peck at Noodles head. He smelled like rust and lemon pie, a mutant coin, he couldnt be spent or saved. He died of the dreaded dime store turtle disease-- his eyes popped out. So Bob McCombs who did all my dirty work, gouged Noodles body loose and we had a funeral for the soft remains in Moms petunia bed where ten or so other kids on the block joined in cause that was neat. The turtles shell hung from my bike horn like Lynn Crowleys crucifix. I finally had something to pray to. And One Thing More under the gray sky high as the head tilts high clouds varied in grays out on the gray ice broad as the eyes gaze broad these three a red oboe yellow canoe
Posted on: Sun, 31 Aug 2014 14:08:05 +0000
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