INTRODUCTION

 

 

“This is the way the word ends
This is the way the world ends.
Not with a bang
But with a whimper.”

T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

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The 48 th annual NYC Poetry Festival came and went with a whimper—Covid 19, a virus, took over New York City and the world, with sometimes deadly consequences. New York City public school students went home, turned on their computers and proceeded to meet their teachers on the screen. The City College closed its doors on the academic calendar, and all celebrations ceased to exist-except online. As director of Poetry Outreach, I had to abandon the idea of a high school contest, since many of the poems were “quarantined” in the mailroom. A grief took over the City, and loneliness lingered in the air like another layer of skin, one that could not be lifted. During this time, young people had to dig into their deepest resources to help anchor them in the world, to provide connections. During the bleakest month of April, I asked my granddaughter if she wanted to write every week, and was met with a resounding, “yes!” Thus, the narrative/poem “The Ballerina and the Cupcake” by Ella Reiser was born (part of the piece included):

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There once was a vanilla cupcake that was lonely, and who found a friend who was a ballerina./The ballerina, Glitter Pen had a family. They danced all the time. Glitter Pen heard about cupcake in uptown NYC, who was so lonely and wanted to see kids play. She asked Minnie to pick up Cupcake./ Cupcake was so excited. She told Glitter Pen, “I have been so lonely.”/ Glitter Pen said, “I will be your friend.” / They went on the swings and the slide and laughed and laughed./ Cupcake was no longer lonely. Glitter Pen invited her to her house./ They made rubber-band bracelets together in Glitter Pen’s house. What a great day! No one should ever have to be lonely,” said Glitter Pen./And cupcake was so happy!!!!

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Intrinsic to this piece is the necessity of language as a vehicle to help transcend the sorrow, “No one should have to be lonely.” In the absence of friendship and companionship, words acquire a new power; words are all we have.

So writers attempt to dig themselves out of despair with diction. While I mourned the absence of my beloved festival, rather than weep, I wrote a ghazal: (partial)

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Poetry Outreach 2020

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Last year we had a festival

words went wild

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poetry is language

of words and wild;

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now we hibernate at home

words that whisper

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we’re muted into silence

in words that whisper

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when can words come out again

outside the whisper

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words unsheltered

wild, unwhispered.

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Words are clamoring to get out, which is exactly what they do; they want to be unsheltered. Seventh grader Tessa Kolovarsky from East Side Middle School had her poem for essential workers featured on NBC nightly news. Mentor Megan Skelly, an MFA student, worked with the young people on Zoom. Tessa wrote a slam piece, thanking everyone, asking the people of New York to slam their hands together for the heroes of New York, for the 7 PM workers, “slam your hands for the educator, the baker, the caretaker, the pharmacist, the doctors, the nurses….” The list is endless. Even with the relentless horror, so many good people rose to help comfort their fellow New Yorkers.

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Writing communities also grew out of the depths of despair. Emily Moore, a poetry teacher at Stuyvesant High School and City College MFA alum, employed Google classroom to teach her high school poetry class. The students wrote collaboratively, and were inspired by Walt Whitman, using the first line of Stanley Moss’ poem “Subway Token.”:

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If Walt Whitman Were Alive and Still Living in Brooklyn

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He would have entered a coffee and bagel shop for breakfast/ Walt would have seen the beautiful, pale-blue morning New York sky hanging above the streets he knew and loved/ now empty/ but he could have lived to see it return to its familiar liveliness, too. Seen a cloud of misfortune and panic blanket the state he loved. / He would have sneezed and gotten fearful and suspicious looks from everyone. / He would have heard the rustling of leaves in the trees that watched over empty sidewalks./ He would climb onto his fire escape or rooftop to feel the wind and cheer for the city./ If Walt Whitman were alive today, he would see an empty NYC where people are able to survive the loneliness with screens and new Netflix shows./ He would take morning strolls in Prospect Park./ He would have climbed onto his roof at &PM, banging spoons against pots, making music for the children leaning out their windows./ Feel the growing divide even during trying times./ He would have ventured the “Abandoned” city and look up at the skies for ideas./ He would have found no sweeter fat than what sticks to his own bones./ He would have seen the piercing needle of the Freedom Tower. He would have seen dark streets and empty alleys./ He would have not heard sounds of human voices as the streets were filled with emptiness./ He would have seen the empty streets devoid of life./ He would have watched a store get robbed by three men./ Walt would have written epic poems in quarantine.

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And, with the help of all my mentors and my two terrific assistants, Gregory Crosby and Amanda Reiser, poetry still thrives in the pages of these books. Stephanie, my intern, has always been an asset.

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Many thanks to my department-Elizabeth Mazzola, English Department Chair; Michelle Valladares, Director of the MFA Program; Yana and Jasmine, our office staff, and Moe. Thanks to our president, Vince Bourdreau, and also Dee Dee Mozeleski and the provost, Tony Liss. Erec Koch, Dean of Humanities and the Arts has always been a major supporter of Outreach. Taki has often helped designing great posters and flyers. Annika Ludke, The Foundation for City College, and Diana, her assistant, have helped secure the much needed financial support for Outreach. And, of course, a shout-out to all our terrific sponsors and donors, all listed on the acknowledgments page.

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Thank you, dear poets, for making your voices heard, for helping us to rise, like a phoenix, from the ashes. There is always art and hope and a future. There will be a festival next year. Gardens will grow, trees will get bigger and poets will bring us to that better place. In Apple Tree, poet Isabel Acuapan-Santos from Edward R. Murrow H.S. asks that : “Night/please pass a little gentler. Unwind the matches that we see/like the ones underneath my mother’s apple tree.” The poet beseeches the “unlit sky, make me flee/back to when I was free/underneath the apple tree.” In the end, the voices will break free of their whimper and shout out joyfully with a bang, since that’s what poets do. Words will come out of hibernation and will be performed, live, unsheltered, on the stage of the Marian Anderson Theater. See you at next year’s festival in May.

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Pamela L. Laskin, June 2020

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