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Popular Culture Review
early on the failure of words to convey the immediate, perhaps like Joey does. I
write at the end of the poem, after being tied up and asking for the gags:
Then, muffled, incoherent,
the poems will come forth;
and we'll repeat it. Louder,
more private than before.
And between the two o f us
struggling toward each other
that guttural lyric will become
all the belief and desperation we were
unable, ever, to put into words.
I know now, as I listen to Anton’s poems, there is something of me in him.
In his description of me leaving home, he writes “It was your choice, god
damned irresponsible asshole.” And along with his guttural outburst, the lyrical
lines “the wind blows west, and blows back nothing, my resentment calmed in
the cool.” I picture Joey sitting there, saying nothing, knowing everything.
Anton ends his poem with the lines “I learned from your mistakes, and I'll
always love you for it.”
Perhaps I am trying to say that it is the impact of literature, a short poem, or
a novel, that should remain constant —something that makes a difference in our
lives not only for the moment, but for the long subconscious haul as well. What
stayed with me, going back to my final year in Wisconsin, when poetry seemed
to be everything, were the moments when writing and sharing words had a
purpose and made sense. I won the literary award from the university student
literary magazine that year. The Crosscut Literary Prize. To tell the truth, I don't
remember the poems I published in the magazine to win the award; I do
remember thinking that a sophomore at the time, some kid named Scott
something or other, was a better poet than I was, and probably deserved the
award. But even then the system was in force, and I've seen it happen over and
over with significant awards for writers throughout the years — and I was the
right person, did the right things, made myself sound confident and selfimportant, and the award came my way. But when I close my eyes to remember
the event {...and take a good look at myself), I see the thing that gives this
“literary moment” its true meaning: a blue and red, button-down, paisley shirt!
During the week I won the award George Gott and his wife Dorothy invited
me over for dinner. Before dinner George handed me an envelope which
contained the official certificate for the award with my name written beautifully
across it. Then he handed me a brown paper bag tied with a red bow. He told me
in his kind and humorous way that usually the award didn’t come with anything.