Sunday poetry: "Singer on River Street, Savannah, Georgia"

I have never given a performance in Savannah, Georgia, but I have given performances, and I have been to Savannah, and that was inspiration enough to write “Singer on River Street, Savannah, Georgia,” my poem that appears this week in the Journal of Radical Wonder. The subject matter here is interchangeable. Instead of a musician onstage, it could be an athlete entering tryouts or a politician attending a PAC meeting. Savannah might be exchanged for Boston, New Orleans, or the metropolis of your choice. Any activity or location that fires your imagination will do. The poem is about starting something, or trying to, and that concept transcends any time or place -- although, if some times and places didn’t particularly bemuse us, Savannah wouldn’t have such a shimmering night life.
 
This poem first appeared in The First Thing Mastered, a book that contains 44 poems advancing chronologically from birth to middle age. With that collection, I tried to eschew cynicism and irony and capture life as it feels in the moment. No emotion is frivolous when we feel it deeply. The lead character in “Singer” (referred to in the poem as “you,” not “I” or “he”) is a college student who has succeeded in booking a small gig in Savannah’s historic district. Perhaps he is a good musician, perhaps not. Perhaps the show will be his last. The future is unknowable, but he relishes his ability to shape the present: He made this show happen, first by learning to play and forming a band, then by texting the drummer who texted someone else. His thumbs on the iPhone started a chain that eventually led to a show being booked and a listing in the newspaper. Now, between songs, he surveys the crowd (however big) and notices a woman who seems interested in him. Has he found a lover, an agent, maybe both? His mind, and possibly other parts of his body, throb with questions. Then he realizes that it’s time for the next song, and he gives his band the cue.
 
I remember that feeling. For years, I operated Moon Tide Press, a small press that published three or four books a year by Southern California poets. (The press continues to operate under the esteemed leadership of others.) When a new title saw release, I felt giddy. The poet was excited; sometimes it was his or her first book. We sent emails to old college friends, press releases to newspapers, inquiries to mom-and-pop bookstores. Any of those outreaches might have led to an interview, a front-page story, a reading with a sold-out book table. Would the Poetry Foundation take notice? Was an award somewhere in the offing? I have never played the lottery, but I understand the appeal that every ticket may be the one worth $1 million. It is the same with any poem, song, painting, short film, text, tweet, or email. Moon Tide Press was small, and so were Elvis Presley's Sun records and Walt Disney’s first studio. If our initiative turns into legend one day, we want to have bragging rights.
 
Of course, “Singer on River Street, Savannah, Georgia” ends before we know if there is anything to brag about. The poem has no resolution, and I wouldn’t want to write one. Let’s indulge the singer, though, and give him what seems to be within his reach at this riverside club: a contract, a wife, the adoration of strangers. As readers, how much more do we want? I think of the words of Byron in Don Juan:
 
        All tragedies are finish'd by a death,
        All comedies are ended by a marriage;
        The future states of both are left to faith,
        For authors fear description might disparage
        The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath,
        And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage;
        So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready,
        They say no more of Death or of the Lady.
 
A lot comes after death or the lady, and it doesn’t have to be anticlimactic. For every Presley who finds superstardom a trap, there’s a Disney who seems to relish it to the end. Perhaps the key is staying hungry. Years ago, at UCI, I attended a campus poetry reading in which a professor -- 50 years old, at least -- came to listen to the undergraduates read. He shared a piece or two of his own, then gave a short, eloquent tribute to all those gathered. “I’ve always said that I learn more from my students than they could ever learn from me,” he said. In his mind, was he still a fledgling poet seeking the validation of others? Did he feel like his break was still ahead of him? Since “Singer on River Street” is full of unanswered questions, I’ll refrain from answering these questions too. But look -- I have now finished this blog entry, and I am about to hit “Post” on Weebly. This may be the start of something astonishing. If I didn’t believe in that possibility, I wouldn't write at all.