Chris Dean at the 2024 National & International Beat Poetry Festival

 

Group photo Saturday 

Photo by Chris Dean

My husband and I are born and raised Hoosiers who've never done a lot of traveling outside of the state, but Labor Day weekend, we found ourselves in Connecticut for the 2024 National & International Beat Poetry Festival.

We weren't there just to hear great poetry read by some amazing humans, but because I was on a mission to be a better poet and find ways to help my local community grow. I'd been assured by U.S. National Lifetime Beat Poet Laureate Ron Whitehead that the festival was a good place to start.

Friday's festivities began with a dinner hosted by Deborah Tosun Kilday in the back room of the Crown & Hammer. I tried to hide in a corner and quietly people watch, but this wasn't a crowd that let anyone hide for long.

One by one, the poets found me, introducing themselves and drawing me out of my shell. Mark Lipman, newly inducted National Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2025), was kind enough to give us a tour of his Big Red Poetry Bus, talking about his plans for an onboard poet's library, web series and cross country poetry tour next year. (His excitement was nothing short of contagious!)

A little before 7:00 pm, the group that had formed beside the bus wandered towards the Canton Town Hall Auditorium for an evening of readings from the current Laureates.

I wasn't expecting stuffiness from the night, but I wasn't expecting what I got, either. The poems were a mix of fire, passion, joy and a call to rise. They were life! As was the music that accompanied Paul Richmond, Tony Vacca and John Sheldon's “Do It Now” with Tommy Twilite joining in on percussion from the audience. The entire night hit me like a heartbeat.

Before we went back to our air b&b for the night, we were invited to arrive early Saturday for breakfast at the gorgeous home in Barkhamsted that was hosting Saturday and Sunday's events, as well as housing many of the Elder Statesmen of the weekend. Nerves be damned, that's not an invitation anyone could say no to.

Which is how I found myself sitting at a table Saturday morning with Tommy Twilite (US National Lifetime Beat Poet Laureate), Paul Richmond (US National Lifetime Beat Poet Laureate) and Bengt Bjorklund (International Lifetime Beat Poet Laureate of Sweden) discussing organizing and hosting open mics and poetry festivals.

These Poet Laureates were kind enough to take the time to talk about what had worked, what hadn't and good places to start. These conversations, which popped back up over the course of the weekend, were my favorite part of the festival!

None of them were concerned about how big or small our group in Columbus, Indiana was or if they'd heard of us. It was about, to paraphrase Tommy, sharing the gospel of poetry, each in our own way.

The rest of Saturday was a blur of more poets arriving, open mics before and after the Induction Ceremony and conversation.

I read at each of the open mics that weekend, not just because I'm a poet and there was a mic and an audience, but because there wasn't a poet in attendance that wasn't “encouraged” onto the mic at least once.

Despite another morning spent with Paul Richmond sharing his knowledge with me and another open mic in the afternoon, Sunday was hard. (And not because of the flight delays getting back to Indiana.) It was hard to leave.

I know it's cliche to say, “I found my people,” but I did. It wasn't just the love of words. It was the fact that Chris Vannoy (National Beat Poet Laureate 2019) can hold entire conversations quoting poetry and music lyrics. It's that I gave Claire Conroy (State of Maine Beat Poet Laureate 2024-2026) a crystal point and she didn't think it was strange. (And was gifted one of her bracelets in return.)

It's the fact that Beat poets seem to be a breed of Magpie and I wasn't the only one with a pocket full of found feathers. (I have eyewitness testimony that Ron Whitehead had pockets filled with buckeyes and stones.)

It's also, more than anything, the shared belief that we can use poetry to make the world a better place to be.

As for that crystal point? It was placed at Jack Kerouac's grave by Claire Conroy, thus rendering me a small link in part of history’s chain that never would have been forged if I hadn't stepped out of my comfort zone, bought the ticket and taken the ride.

The festivities kicked-off Friday, August 30, at the Canton Town Hall Auditorium in Collinsville, CT with an evening of readings from Beat Poet Laureates from around the world. Founder and President, Debbie Tosun Kilday, opened with the poem “When Twilight Comes,” followed by Chris Vannoy, Ron Whitehead, Linda Bratcher Wlodyka, Tommy Twilight, Lee Desrosiers, John Burroughs, Sandra Feen, Annie Petrie Sauter, Virginia Shreve, Chryssa Velissariou, Joe Kidd, Bengt Bjorklund, George Wallace, Carlos Raul Dufflar, Patricia Martin, Lily Swarn and Clive Matson. 

The night ended with “Do It Now” featuring Beat Poet Laureate Paul Richmond, percussionist Tony Vacca and guitarist John Sheldon.

Saturday began with an open mic in Barkhamsted, followed by the Induction Ceremony for the Beat Poet Laureates and readings by each one.

Tommy Twilight  New Generation Beat Poet Laureate (2024-Lifetime)

Danny Shot  State of New Jersey Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026)

Mark Lipman  US National Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2025)

Angel Martinez  State of New York Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026) 

Sheila Lowe-Burke  State of Michigan Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026)

Ron Meyers  State of California Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026)

Jeff Weddle  State of Alabama Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026) 

PW Covington  State of New Mexico Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026)

Claire Conroy  State of Maine Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026)

The evening ended with an open mic and celebration.

Deborah Tosun Kilday presenting Tommy Twilight his US National Lifetime Beat Poet Laureate award.

Photo by Sandra Feen

Ron Whitehead reading “Shootin’ up Poetry in New Orleans” at Friday night at the Canton Town Hall Auditorium 

Photo by Jeff Weddle 

Chris Vannoy

Friday Night's event

Poems I read

wild child

Wild hair

Wild eyes

Wild heart

You were born 

To be wild among the trees

Wearing leaves in your curls

With ivy pants

And thistle down shirt

Sipping nectar from honeysuckle 

Speaking the language 

Of trees 

And stealing songs 

From the birds

But we'll teach you better

How to speak without singing

Sit up straight 

And say please

We'll put socks on your feet

Cover your paws with

Shoes and gloves

And your wildness

Will become a memory

That only speaks to you

In your dreams

And you won't even remember

Why

Because we are a civilized people

Who eat the poor

And cater to the rich

And there's no room 

For wildness

Or birdsong

Or trees

Only for the polite predators 

That hunt

In boardrooms

We'll teach you to call sir

5am on a couch in rural Indiana

Frigid fingers of wind slip through

the cracked window behind my head,

tickling the hairs on the back of my neck.

I smell Spring, just around the corner,

the way you could smell dinner from your room

before mom called you to eat.

I ignore my neck growing colder,

lost in the thought that some small part

of this morning's wind 

could have blown through the years,

collecting particles and cells

from everything it touched.

How many trips around the globe 

could it have made

just to come through my window 

at this place in time,

trading molecules of history 

for a little part of me?

I turn to breathe in as much of the air

as my lungs can hold

and think I'm inhaling tiny pieces

of everyone I've loved,

bits of people I've never known

and every single event

that's happened in between.

I’m shivering now,

but open the window wider,

allowing the world in

to chill my coffee and numb my toes.

It’s 5am and the last of Winter's wind

is keeping me company on a couch

in rural Indiana.

And I am the least alone 

I will ever be.

whimper

Mine's a generation 

of youth-worshippers 

playing Fight Club 

with middle age.

Hidden and haunted, 

we work to find a way 

through our anger

and make peace 

with our lives

or adopt the mantra

“I deserved more,”

and drown the disappointment 

in apathy, dollars or hate.

So welcome to Gen X, y’all,

the shit-show generation,

bottle fed fear of the bomb

mixed with neutral neglect.

Armed with MTV attention spans

and mad latch-key skills.

Raised with the push 

to “be more”

in a repressed

50's kinda way.

We're the pickpocket gen

who found our truths

in rockers and peers,

lifted individuality 

from the 60's

and stole our values from

Madonna and John Hughs.

We are the recipients of

trickle down theory,

economics, trauma and pain.

So don't talk to strangers.

Don't ask and don't tell.

Suck it up and keep going,

because boys will be boys

and that's just how it is

if you're gay or a girl.

We are overachieving 

“you can have it all”

Dance Moms and Soccer Dads.

We are plastic 

“love is all the things”

because time equals money

and the lines became blurred.

We are wine with friends

and complaining 

that they never come home

while we laugh about Glory Days

and wonder if a “side dick” or “chick”

would make us feel 

just a little less alone.

We are the lost and the lonely

still trying to figure out

who the fuck we are,

ignoring the mess

the greatest gen left 

and an environment the boomers

forgot they wanted to save.

We became or raised

the monsters hiding under the bed

and the only legacy we'll leave

is Kurt Cobain, more debt

and hollow, self centered greed.

And if Ginsberg's 

Beat generation 

cried out 

with a HOWL,

then this is the sound

of generation X

standing in the back

with a whimper.

GAS Featured Poet: Mitch Corber

 

I am Mitch Corber, veteran NYC multimedia artist—poet, filmmaker,

songwriter, producer of the weekly cable show, "Poetry Thin Air,”

still on the air since 1989.

In 2020, I was awarded the prestigious NY Kathy Acker Career

Poetry Video Award.

 

My published poetry books, "Quinine" (2009, Thin Air Media) and

"Weather's Feather” (2014, Fly By Night Press/Gathering of the Tribes),

were both lauded for my creative musicality. I am currently seeking

a publisher for my new poetry manuscript “Hummingbird Hearsay."

As of 1989, I founded the historic Thin Air Poetry Video Archives,

professionally videotaping 1,000 NYC poetry readings, featuring 200+

famed American poets. Up for purchase, my archives are seeking

the right home, an American university library willing to to house,

catalogue, stream and make accessible my poetry videos for posterity.

 LOUD POUNDING SONICS                          

 Portrait of Glenn Branca, Electric Guitar Mystic

   Written attending Branca’s Guitar Symphony No.8

 

Quiver-chords, craftily plucked at the pulpit

of passion, boast a rash reliance on a rev and a rip.

 

Abhor the war engine, but adore loud pounding

clingwrapped earbuds in the Stratocaster meat 

of the symphonic slapdash tin-can street.

 

Bright caskets lined with tinny bruises,

tonal signatures of demanding clef—this

metronomic continent of constant 4/4,

drowning a town in its mischief.

 

Redeem articulations, endure an infernal

battalion of echoes beckoning in Branca’s

Woofer-Tweeter Theater—brash cronyism

of cult dubloons in sync.

 

Thick in the subtle series of wicked wingspans

fanned by immortal tomtom throb,

daring drumsticks can dream the seamless

pranks of infinite blank verse.

 

Brace for a steady blistering, the deafening

flip-out of wrist slap — our drummer

changing snares — he must have rammed

it raw with his savvy stick attack!

I hear thrumming thirds on a higher register,                    

raunchy as a rabbit inhabiting the Fender furnace,

worshipping the boom-boom-boomerang

of hellbent decibels, rat-t-tat-tat.

 

Is this the clang of thankless serenades       

surfacing at once — the worm turning

the apple to butter, cascading up and down

the supple throat of rhythm pistons?

 

Along the cliff’s edge of sledgehammer hands,

maestro Branca calls for crowning decrescendo,     

winding down his hellcat storm of frenzied form

in the foundry of Rock and Raw Religion.

    Roulette Music Hall, Brooklyn NY  Nov. 2016

                (Glenn Branca  <> 1948–2018)

 

GAS Featured Poet/Photographer: Jerome Berglund

 

Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Kingfisher, and Presence. His first full-length collections of poetry were released by Setu, Meat For Tea, Mōtus Audāx press, and a mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika.

TWITTER, BLOG, INSTAGRAM, FACEBOOK

1.

2

I said Charlie Parker

not Katy Perry!

...yelling

into other room

at the NSA 

3

inventory

a man 

on the roof 

making

many bright X’s

4

that guy 

beating his kid in the supermarket 

going to kill him later 

in a short story 

our teacher confides

5

GAS Featured Poet/Artist: Lorie Greenspan

Lorie Greenspan is a poet and artist residing in southeast Florida trying to keep herself and her plants cool during the broiling summer of 2024. Her poetry, including her video poems, have been featured previously in GAS as well as other anthologies and poetry journals. You can see her art on Instagram: @loriegreenspan; her video poems are available on YouTube: @LemonDropPoet.

A tribute to those who climb

Three Studies From Inside The Room 

While Plants Try To Grow in Florida

When The Heat Index is 109 

 

1.

If I were a garden I’d grow

texture out my ears, fluffy velvet

nostrils welcoming shade

my arms would be full hydrangea

a crush of petals

dried out just as pretty, dried out

still strong enough to stand solid in a vase

my face a daisy

my legs tall foxglove

curvy stripes of floppy green

dead all too soon

free of things that annoy.

We all have those flecks

we’d like to pick off ourselves but can’t, our arms

don’t extend that far, remember,

we’re hydrangea puffs,

soft as bubbles             afraid to be crushed.

 

 

 

 2.

Nothing as green ever breathed here.

Clamped tight, trapped in prison

wanting for water

grumpy from air-conditioned air

full-on fists seeking their space

then music floats through walls, and

makes their days steady in pulses

of rhythm light, enter

Bach’s soothing caress

these plants on stands

should thrive in summer

now behind shades cutting the sun’s glare

ungiving these walls but the melody of the violin

takes the air and plumps each breath, if only summer

were as forgiving

if soldiers could hear such music

there would be no war, instead

orchestras on battlefields

boots marching toward Bach

and his violin

in heat of summer, loneliness and anger

a riot of heady fists, all leaves await their time,

oxygen fingers and bayonets, not captured but four walls for a cell –

music calms

green nothings. Wait here, breathe.

 

 

 

3.

The bird

is a scream

from a mouth

darting

diving

from the light

pole,

who bleeps

at light

when they

need to see?

Who cries

in birdsong

when life

isn’t hard enough?

If birds

were vowels

they’d be

never-ending

oooooooooooooos . . .

a sound

the heart

makes

when

it’s done

screaming

GAS Featured Poet: Jan Wiezorek

 

Jan Wiezorek writes from Michigan. His debut poetry chapbook, Forests of Woundedness, is forthcoming this fall from Seven Kitchens Press. Wiezorek’s poetry appears, or is forthcoming, in The London Magazine, The Westchester Review, Lucky Jefferson, The Broadkill Review, LEON Literary Review, and elsewhere. He taught writing at St. Augustine College, Chicago, and authored the teachers’ ebook Awesome Art Projects That Spark Super Writing (Scholastic, 2011). Wiezorek’s poetry has been awarded by the Poetry Society of Michigan.

Not the One to Ask

 

I am not the one to ask about that. 

And I don’t know why life goes 

as it does, or where to put emotions, 

how they fit, if they do, in my brain 

like omens from a brown hawk called 

Northern Harrier, circling around, 

circling back, ten feet off the ground, 

as prayers heard in the sometime 

heights of me—where I can’t seem

to relax on a page of word-wings—

no, I am not the person to ask omens 

to show us how, partially, and then 

in full confusion, winging, dipping 

our way, shaking the limbs, no one 

asking why because we’re not 

the ones to ask. Even so, even if you 

were, how could you speak the words

—or even tell me what they mean?

With Evidence

 

After weeks with no evidence

of activity, I removed twigs

from the wren house. I cleaned

and rehung it outside the gazebo

near the back porch. It caused 

the wrens to sing and, it seems,

to panic. So many sticks to fill 

the house again. So many hours 

of fidgeting with the smallest 

pieces, to fit them through the hole. 

This is what celebration is in song

—like dryer lint traded for spider’s 

egg sack. But, I hope, it will be

a fit home. With so many dummy 

houses—wrens filling birdhouses 

with twigs so other birds can’t use 

them until such time as this—

maybe this is the time and place 

for birds to live here—so we can 

make writing the social act it is 

meant to be. You read and listen, 

and I sit with you, on a porch 

—with evidence.   

GAS Featured Poet: Gale Acuff

 

Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in a dozen countries and has authored three books of poetry. His poems have appeared in Ascent, Reed, Arkansas Review, Poem, Slant, Aethlon, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, Roanoke Review, Danse Macabre, Ohio Journal, Sou'wester, South Dakota Review, North Dakota Quarterly, New Texas, Midwest Quarterly, Poetry Midwest, Adirondack Review, Worcester Review, Adirondack Review, Connecticut River Review, Delmarva Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Maryland Literary Review, George Washington Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Ann Arbor Review, Plainsongs, Chiron Review, George Washington Review, McNeese Review, Weber, War, Literature & the Arts, Poet Lore, Able Muse, The Font, Fine Lines, Teach.Write., Oracle, Hamilton Stone Review, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, Cardiff Review, Tokyo Review, Indian Review, Muse India, Bombay Review, Westerly, and many other journals.

     Gale has taught tertiary English courses in the US, PR China, and Palestine.

F-150

 

After Sunday School today I was so absent

-minded as I walked home I walked clean by

my house, my father's house that is, that is

my parents' house but maybe my house, too,

I've lived there only ten years but still filled

it with a lot of life or all I could

in a decade's worth of time so how come

I walk right past without realizing

where the Hell I am? I was damned near down

-town by the time I caught myself gone too

far so I turned around but instead of

marching back home I froze in position

like a good little Christian soldier might

and awaited my next order but it

never came until I saw Miss Hooker

driving toward me and of course past and

if she'd wanted to run me over I'd

have helped her, helped her like a target does

the archer or shooter, at least sometimes,

by just standing there ready to take what

-ever's fired its way but Miss Hooker drove

her Ford F-150 right past me and smiled 

and waved and slowed down and waved some

more but I didn't move even my face,

I just stood and gazed through her and saw

us together in the future, married

I mean, and that's a lot to see in just

a split-second but more than I've ever

seen before, don't ask me why I can't make

sense, I'm in too much love, what's wrong with that

 

is that I'm 10 to her 25 and

though we have a future we can't share it

like I'd like to and what I saw inside

her eyes was I saw myself being

buried and Miss Hooker standing over

me, crying like crazy, weeping it's called,

and me old but looking asleep but I'm

dead, I guess you had to be there

and I almost was but then I came back

from the dead or almost-dead and hurried

home and just barely avoided missing

Sunday dinner. Tuna casserole. Christ.