Notes on Notes

The Poet Returns (see previous entry first. (you must)

He's back, hooray!  (Sorry about boldface type, can't get it to regular.)  The golden lampshade beckons in the doorway.  Beckons me, anyway.  I ran over (probably bad manners) to show him "Where the Crawdads Sing," because he's probably familiar with Carolina marshes culture and vegetation, and who doesn't like a rhapsodic courtroom drama.  That book, which I read twice, takes place in North Carolina--but he explained that he's from S.C.  (Like it's a different place, says he to a hopeless New Yorker, who probably couldn't pick either off a map.)  He politely said he'd put it on his list.  He's finished the Brothers K and is having a grand creative time here, but will go home to wife and dogs periodically.  Hope he quarantines when he gets back here to pure-air land.

So back across the lane I flew for a joint session (with Mike) of sniffing out this guy's life.  His name is not Daniel at all, but Charles Danzler Alb- (something, see poem by him below) the III.  His father (Jr.) is buried in Mount Hope Cemetery in Florence.  His grandfather (Sr.) is in another cemetery in the area.

But he's called Dan, and as a man of letters, has explored the work of whoever wrote "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck" and done other stuff.  Definitely established.

Here's something of his that Garrison Keillor once read on his program, that coincidentally holds suggestions for pandemic activities:

 

Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale

by Dan Albergotti

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.

“Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale” by Dan Albergotti from The Boatloads. © BOA Editions, Ltd., 2008. Reprinted with permission. 

Thoughts on a Departed Poet

Daniel has vanished.  In early July he moved into the small gray and green house across the lane, which had  belonged to the poet Amy Clampitt.  In her memory, her late husband established a fund, in the mid 1990s, to sponsor a nominated poet to work in it for six months or a year.

Daniel is middle-aged, with dark hair and a short white beard.  He's from South Carolina, he may have said near Myrtle Beach.  I don't remember anything much, including his last name, because I thought I'd have all summer to get to know him.  It's not Danielpour or Hasselhoff, but one of those types.  Hollenbeck maybe.  He was nominated for this residency by the previous poet.

His plan was to first read The Brothers Karamazov.  His front door was always halfway open, and there was a lamp near it.  I imagined him reading, and promised myself to get back to that book someday.  I looked forward to hearing what he thought.  I considered dropping a favorite poem at his door, but decided it was pushy.

Our most substantive interaction was on garbage day during a power outtage, when I couldn't get the garage door open and asked him if we could dump our garbage in his cans.  He was very nice about it.  His car was always in front of his garage, with a sun paper on it.

Friday he was gone.  No car and the door was closed.  I thought he'd taken a little trip, or perhaps gone home to see his family briefly.  He looked like a family man.

The giveaway was when two cleaners showed up the next day.  Since then, the house has been still.  Where'd he go?  Did he need help?  I would have helped.  Like, what a great thing to live near a poet.  Did he finish the book?  Decide he couldn't write poetry?

I have to stop doing this and look him up.  Hope I don't find him because I'll be tempted to call, and that won't do.