I started POETS Day with the Idea that there’s a roguishness to poets that pairs well with the modern end of workweek encouragement to Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. I see them as day seizers.
They aren’t all outwardly roguish. It’s hard to imagine T.S. Eliot or Christina Rossetti so much as swiping a cookie, but I’m sure they had a mischievous side. Even poet by night and brisk morning walk to work/insurance agency vice president by day, Wallace Stevens, got rambunctious enough for Hemingway to punch, and he lived in Connecticut. They all have shades of misbehavior in them.
I think of them as blends, taking on, to degrees of little or lots depending on the poet, traits of three archetypes.
Happy POETS Day. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Get out of work as early as you can and steal a few hours of a weekend that’s never long enough to begin with. Next week’s taken care of because of Pilgrims. Happy Thanksgiving long weekend to come, by the way. This Friday can be a half holiday of your own making should you accept the mission.
Daylight Savings has put the crunch on a lot of POETS Day activities. Indoor stuff makes more sense. You can still skip out of work and go to the park, but it gets dark around 2:15 so watch out for muggers and if you plan to be outside, save some daylight for a little verse. You’ll thank yourself.
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My biggest problem with Dylan Thomas is that I keep calling him Dylan Harris.
Darren Harris was a guy I went to high school with. That’s where the confusion comes from. I didn’t know him very well; nice guy, we spoke at parties. His name sticks in my head because I heard a story about him a few years ago. He was involved in the student productions at Princeton when Roberta Flack held a concert there. She was so impressed with his management of the operation that she told him to get in touch after graduation. Eventually he became her manager.
I won’t vouch for any of that. He was a few years younger than I was, but I do remember hearing he got into Princeton. I don’t know if he was involved in productions, if he ever worked for Roberta Flack, or if she ever played an Ivy, much less Princeton. But I like the story and hope it’s true. I also hope he had a “Now that’s impossible,” Kramer to Bette Midler moment.
He was a nice guy; funny, too. The problem isn’t that Dylan Thomas brings up bad memories of Darren Harris. Not at all. I just keep saying the wrong name and feel like I should have worried grandchildren exchanging glances they don’t think I can see and wondering if it’s time for the talk.
The Columbo Game 