GAS Featured Poet: Richard Stimac

 Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.

Six Flags

 

There were six flags out front of Six Flags,

one for each nation-state’s claim of ownership.

 

Inside the gate (re-entry was free), mistrals sang

“Camptown Races.” None of them danced

 

on the concreate false cobblestone street

along a facade of 19^th century storefronts.

 

To the right, a pair of lawn jockeys stood picket

before the path to the miniature Model-Ts.

 

The Log Flume made everyone all wet

past carboard pine trees not yet clearcut.

 

The Mine Train thrust deep into the earth

for gold, coal, copper, what did it matter?

 

On the Buccaneer, all the pirates were dark,

as if the Barbary migrated to Bermuda.

 

A French log stockade fired cannon

at the River Boat. A canoe of Indians

 

crept from a blind, then retreated.

And then Injun Joe’s Cave, a tunnel

 

of love redone apropos Mark Twain.

That’s where the boys of Mary

 

Magdalene assaulted the girls. It was

enough to make Injun Joe blush.

 

He was quite a character. In a novel way,

we read the same stories today,

 

but, now, we are told they are true,

which makes them harder to believe.

Memory of America

 

My father’s body is the memory of America:

thin limbs; swollen belly; weak and resigned,

stored in an institution away from public sight.

 

My father’s body is unexploded munitions

buried in a farmer’s field. One day, a plow,

a tire, a foot will find it. We will not hear of that.

 

My father’s body is an artifact

only academics and clinicians probe

for secrets. They will publish their findings.

 

My father’s body is a documentary,

in many parts, shown consecutively.

Critics and viewers alike praise it.

 

My father’s body is a family photo album.

There he is, shirtless, in a bunker near Saigon.

Here my mother, with me, in Illinois.

 

My father’s body is a relic I contemplate.

He feels himself barely more than an object.

My father’s body is the memory of America.

 

(Memory of America won the following:

·       “The Memory of America” 2024 Deane Wagner Poetry Contest Winner, St. Louis Writer’s Guild)

GAS Featured Poet: Patrice Boyer Claeys

Patrice Boyer Claeys is a Chicago poet with five published collections, most recently two photo-verse books in collaboration with photographer Gail Goepfert (Honey from the Sun and Earth Cafeteria). Her work has appeared in numerous journals, including Tupelo Quarterly, North Dakota Review, Burningword Literary Review, NELLE, and Blue Earth Review. She enjoys writing centos, a patchwork form in which the combined chorus of other poets' voices amplifies her own to elevate familiar subjects. Patrice has been nominated for Best of Net and Pushcart Prizes. More info at www.patriceboyerclaeys.com.

Unwanted 

gold clusters

on the grass.

 

Wild green shoots

aspire upward

 

become the lion

sunwheels relaxed in wide

offering—

 

over time

transforming into pearl puffs

and fine, ashen fluff

 

dispersing into wind

like bursting pillows

of moonlight and dust

or

torn webs of shadows. 

Cento sources:  Mary-Kim Arnold, Amy Lowell, Kirill Medvedev, Hershman John, Peter Hargitai, Tracy Brimhall, May Swenson, Arden Levine, Martha Collins, Semja Brown, Denis Johnston, Jennifer Forester, Joyce Sidman, Helen Mort, Thomas Sayers Ellis, Helene Johnson

 

Deep Code 

There is a fan

the sweet but sharp edges

a sword thrust

 

then

a stem

stands fast

with all the grace and power

of

a saint or a great

queen.

 

Rainbowed amethyst, azure, blue

petals   

collapse in flounces

intricately ribboned like a secret

deep code

 

telling the bees

the beautiful

history of its heart.  

    

Cento Sources: C. D. Wright, William Saphier, Matt Rassmussen, Melvin Tolson, Ciaran Carson, Henry van Dyke, Anita Endrezze, Jana Prikryl, Derek Mahon, J. M. Synge, Sylvia Legris, Amy Lowell, Rae Armantrout, Ellen Bass, John Coletti, Lizette Woodworth Reese, Kirill Medvedev, Robert Pinsky

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.