Clearing the Sill Of the World - Key West 2

I have spent a beautiful sunny day in the Florida Keyes indoors, in a dark cavern called the San Carlos club, with 200 of my closest friends, listening to an All-Stars Game of Poetry:
Rachel Hadas - A bit academic, but honest and adroit. She, the burden of opening and so at a disadvantage. Brilliantly trained in the classics, she is the ground wire amongst so much lightning.
Erica Dawson - A mere 30 years old, and pursuing her Ph.D. at the University of Cincinnati, Ms. Dawson naturally coheres language, ideas, and format. Her hard work never shows. She makes a triple axle look like a dance step. An everyman engaged in the work of masters . . . she succeeds. I'm a bit jealous of her ease, and innate intelligence. She just arrives, and bears light without self-consciousness.
James Tate - My favorite of the day. Brittle and elderly, he needed help to climb the stairs to the stage. Once seated he read humorous poems in a deadpan-comic Richard-Wright style. His common language conveys large concepts using vernacular characters and dialogue. Amazing, accessible. I laughed regularly throughout his reading!
Robert Pinsky - A genius whose intelligence is akin to defense mechanism. He's like a magician that keeps you mesmerized by the energy and activity in his right-hand . . . while he arranges a surprise below his cape. I have the involuntary desire to sit him down . . . slow him down . . . lead him back to his heart. Wind from that path that bears complex and unaddressed issues. I wonder if his intent isn't to inspire repeated inspection of content. Rich with layers nevertheless.
Rita Dove - Whose new book is my next purpose - had the most interesting subject matter: A biography of a baroque mulato violinist who traveled Europe during the age of slavery, held court with kings, was a friend of Beethoven, and eventually lead the Price of Whales orchestra. What an amazing life!
Mark Strand - Funny, but not hilarious. He had one or two classic lines from his early work (to represent the celebration of 60 years of American poetry). He is a humble and generous poet, who was more interested in his peers than himself. Also someone I'd like to take to dinner.
Tim Steele - Did the BEST job with the most difficult subject. He spoke intelligently and engagingly on meter and rhythm in verse . . . and enabled me to access every point without losing my attention. I hope a transcript of his presentation is made available. It was that good. Sterling!
There were also four panel discussions of various formal topics: Influences, Poetic Mechanics, Form, and Process. These were interesting, as I'm a poet. Panelists spoke extemporaneoulsy and informedly . . . but I was self-reflexively aware that the audience was full of poetry "groupies" chomping at the bit to repeat some of their ruminations at the next book-club meeting. Still good stuff for a poet, priming himself to gestate in a workshop next week. I should have been subjected to a complete Survey of Modern American Literature by the time I have to explain my stinking attempts at immortality (turns out Vampirism is involved . . . and I'm just not that straight!).
The average age in the room is 60. I mean who prizes poetry enough to miss a week of work, and has the income to migrate to Key West at peak season. The greatest generation is also the greatest audience. They laugh freely and typically swoon a long suppressed "MMmmmmmmmm" after poetic flourishes by which they are moved.
I did manage to get Richard Wilbur (*the* 89 year old guest of honor) to sign the title page of his anthology. I asked him to inscribe something inspirational, but he only signed his name. I think the autograph was involuntary in that public-speaking thanks-and-here-you-go kind of way. I'm told this will be worth billions one day, but I'm not the type to haggle with sacred texts.
Tonight, I will attend the performance of a staged reading of Richard Wilbur's translation of the Suitors (French farce), and attend a cocktail party. The food and company has been lovely, but alas, a day of vacation has flown by. I feel stimulated, but not refreshed. If the weather is not freezing later in the week, I may play hookie and sit out in the sun at the beach. More soon . . .

Key West Literary Seminar

I spent Thursday evening directing my VW Passat from Orlando to Key West, Florida, despite a pesky check engine alert on the dashboard. Volkswagon assured me that my broken thermostat (repair fee $250) would not impact the operation of the car, just the fuel efficiency. The car it appears has decided to run "cold" during the longest artic cold snap in a decade. Go figure.
I spent the first three hours flying across the pine pampas and cypress land listening to Johannes Sebastian Bach (played by Glenn Gould - delicious!) and when traffic started to ramp up around Miami, I converted to the Emmerson String Quartet w/ Clarinet (Mozart). This lasted until I hit the overseas highway. I do not know what possessed me, but I put on the Bee Gees, and expressed my inner disco as I floated about the tourquoise glass that is Florida Bay. "Tragedy! When the Feeling's Gone and You Can't Go On . . . Tragedy!" I love it. Two favorites are "How Deep Is Your Love" and "No One Gets Too Much Heaven", which I shall not profane on the Blogosphere.
Upon arrival in Key West, I met my roomie Micah - a New York City Librarian - and my room. Old Town Manor. The B&B is a typical bungelow conveniently set at Eaton and Duval (read as perfectly central). The rooms have no heat, and few blankets (as they unnecessary most of the year) and so last night I spent a cold dark in a single brass bed. The thankfully hot shower this morning has revived me for the first full day of the "brain-i-mar".
Highlights last night:
1. Hearing about the Cuban-American poetry community that populated Key West in the first half of the twentieth century.
2. Listening to Robert Pinsky ruminate on memory, forgetting, phonics, and his curratorial interest in obscure poets of all ages, from all corners of the world. He is a phenomenal thinker, but I was at at six hour drive disadvantage. I let the cerebral discussion wash over me like a tide.
3. The late night reception at the Audobon house was excellent. Champagne, Flamenco music, Audobon's botanical gardens and famous poets of all shapes and sizes. I met Judy Bloom (famous author) and joked with her for awhile (suppressing my need to say Hello God, this is Margaret!).
Now I must skidaddle! Stay tuned campers, more comedy is on the way. And if you get bored, check out the online journal "Rose and Thorn". I gave the editor my book this morning.

Other Words 2009

November 6 – 8, I attended the Other Words Conference sponsored by the Florida Literary Arts Coalition and Flagler College (http://www.floridarts.org/). This literary seminar and writer’s workshop is held over a long weekend in ambient St. Augustine, Florida.
St. Augustine, continental North America’s oldest city, is a charming, if asymmetric, collage of colonial Spanish, French and English buildings, set amongst monuments to Victorian robber barons, mid-century modern Florida, and sad1970s attempts at urban planning. Bridges soar, lighthouses haunt, museums punctuate, Formica proliferates, and tourists wander like beasts off the Serengeti (belching, running, wailing, and circling the crumbling Castillo de San Marco).
Flagler College is a gem in the diadem of Florida’s Victorian heritage. The juxtaposition of sandy coquina walls and dark russet terracotta ornamentation is striking. The dining hall was replete with Tiffany windows, and the faux filigree of a different age. The atmosphere of these hallowed halls lends an air of academic dignity to the conference dialogue.
Highpoints of the conference included:
- Frank Overview of the Biases and Assumptions of Literary Editors
- Discussion of the Long Poem
- Introductions to Breakout Poets
- Community Outreach by the Poetry Society and Crazyhorse to their respective communities
- Side by Side comparisons of Literary products from the Florida Review, Tampa Review, Anhinga Press, Miami Poetry Collective, Greensboro Review, Crazyhorse
- Collaborative work with other artists and media.
Best Speakers Included:

Elena Karina Byrne, Regional Director of the Poetry Society of America in Los Angeles, and Carol Ann Davis, Co-editor of Crazyhorse, spoke about fostering a literary community in Charleston and Los Angeles. Both have done so much for specific communities in their respective literary capitals. I was inspired to make a larger effort in Central Florida.

Ira Sukrungruang, co-editor of University of South Florida's Sweet, read an excerpts of his writing on being overweight in different genres. He is a powerful and articulate speaker, and his discussion of presentation and genre was very insightful.

Rhett Iseman Trull read from her collection, The Real Warnings. Wow! So young, and such a confident voice. She is a rising literary star, as is Ken Hart with his collection Uh Oh Time. Both won the Anhinga Prize for Poetry . . . and it leads me to look to this publisher for more great work.

Meghan Brinson spoke on the long poem in contemporary literature, and her efforts to coordinate and link found long poems on the Internet.

It had been a long time, since I felt so integrated into a community of like-minded, creative and genuinely good people. Other Words positively reinforces all the sacrifices made in pursuit of a literary life.

Ghosts of Color

Last weekend I flew to New Hampshire. It was the apex of autumn. Villages of white clapboard stood watch over slate cemetaries, pumpkin patches and wreaths of corn.

The pretense of my trip was the wedding of a lifelong friend, Charlotte, to her beau and (now husband) Dwayne. The wedding was moving and relaxed, punctuated with excellent food, the brilliance of a hardwood deciduous forest aflame with color, and two families uniting through their children. Wonderful.

Icing on the cake, was wandering with lifelong friend, Joy, into the trails of the White Mountains, the farmstands of Hollis. The beauty and happiness that is New Hampshire washed over me like a memory.

On Columbus Day, I set off alone to haunt the places where I had once laughed, and loved. I set off down remote trails, photographing the trees, streams, and lakes south of the Franconia Notch. My subconscious percolated the past into the present, using the timeless consistency of the autumn woods as a bridge.

Here, once upon a time, I had been fully present. I loved life deeply . . . forgot that I was vulnerable . . . and then suddenly was vulnerable. I had wanted to reclaim the colors, the granite, the trails, the mountains. I had wanted their sensation to belong to me in a new context. However, everywhere that I went the past presented itself.

I realized that in everything, every day, one must choose to live fully present and completely vulnerable, regardless of the consequences. The option is to spend your life sheltering yourself, mitigating risk and pursuing control. This option might be safer, but the memories would be of fears and strategies, instead of experiences and offerings. In any case, it was too late for me. New Hampshire is a place I poured myself out, and there I was on fire in the trees.

The Fallen

by William Drew Weinbrenner

In careful folds

on rounded mounds

stand forest clouds

of ruby red.

Through and under

circling ceilings,

brittle brown

and dead.

Shuffled feet

crush and crunch.

The puzzle plowed

to mossy bed.

We're m i l e s a p a r t.

Our hearts resound.

But not a word

was really said.

Beauty pulls

a vacancy,

wrapped in wool,

a single thread.

Three years distance

I put between

unravels

in my head.

For Immediate Release!

Central Florida Poet Wins Gold Medal at FPA 2009 President’s Book Awards

Florida Publishers Association awards Central Florida poet William Drew Weinbrenner gold medal for anthology EAST OF POURING during 2009 President’s Book Awards

Sarasota, Florida USA (Ahewlu Productions, LLC) September 26, 2009 – The Florida Publishers Association awarded Central Florida poet William Drew Weinbrenner a gold medal for poetry during the FPA 2009 President’s Book Awards banquet at the Helmsley Sandcastle Hotel this evening. Weinbrenner received the medal for his 27-year anthology EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007.

EAST OF POURING is a collection of eight chapbooks developed between 1980 and 2007. Its author, William Drew Weinbrenner hails from Ormond Beach, Florida, where his early work is situated. But the poetry, like Weinbrenner, eventually circles the earth, describing all seven continents and his search for love and peace during the advent of the 21st century.

With the help of his father, W. D. WEINBRENNER wrote his first story at the age of six. He was introduced to poetry, drama, music, and design through the United States public education system. In 1981 Drew won the Florida Council of Teachers of English (FCTE) Contest for the autobiographical short story "He’ll Get Over It," and then consecutively won the FCTE Contest for poetry in 1983 and 1984. He is a University of Florida, Florida Player, and received his Bachelor of Fine Arts in Filmic Writing from the University of Southern California, Lucas School of Cinema-Television. By the time he was forty, he had visited all seven continents, lived abroad, and forged a career as a technical writer. Throughout his life, he continued to write about his eccentric, dramatic, and often comic experiences around the world. East of Pouring, his first book, is a retrospective of twenty-seven years of poetry, written from ages fifteen to forty-one. Drew is a musician, writer, poet, screenwriter, photographer and designer who lives and works in Orlando, Florida.

EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007 is available at Urban Think! Bookstore in Downtown Orlando and can be ordered online from Barnes and Nobles:
ISNB-13: 978-0-9817880-0-5
Title: EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007
Author: William Drew Weinbrenner
Illustrator: David Hunter
Pages: 360
Price: $22 USD Hardcover
Publisher: Ahewlu Productions, LLC
Publication Date: November 2008

Contact via: dweinbre at ja who daught calm (spelled this way to foil a spate of spam)

This Blog: http://drewskidoo.blogspot.com/
Florida Publishers Association: http://www.flbookpub.org/

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Auld Langs, Bitte (or is it Old and Bitter)

Last weekend was my . . . cough . . . 25th high school reunion. . . . Wheez . . . I cannot believe that 25 years has passed. I remember 1984 as though it were yesterday.

Returning to Ormond Beach, I was in awe. What a beautiful place I'd grown up in. The town is truly beautiful - an oaky jungle that spans three peninsulas, backed up to the Atlantic Ocean.

The favorite thing I did all weekend, was to swim in the 72 degree water, and get a sun burn on my vampire technical writer skin. It was a thrill to be alive, in the rolling summer saltwater, to feel the sand, and smell the ocean. I was invigorated.

Ironically, during my youth in Ormond Beach, I couldn't wait to escape. I believed that the outside world held adventure and wisdom for me . . . and I'm sad to admit that I never appreciated who I was and where I was when I was young.

Knowing who I am now may have helped me to steele myself and enjoy the class reunion. Although most of my very closest high school friends could not make it to the reunion (... and as an aside, I'm still in touch with most of them and visit them regularly...), it was nice to re-meet familiar faces 25 years later.

The children who were my peers, were now the adults who were my peers. They had spouses and children - some who were now in high school (ouch!). I forgave the bullys, admired the cheerleaders, laughed with the generous of spirit, and simply was who I was, where I was. I think, along with the book, that I have come to peace with my past. It has closure and structure. I have brought order out of the chaos of random teenage experiences.

I'm also glad to believe that my best days lie ahead of me, instead of behind me. I hope to find a spouse, to live more adventures and make a difference. Auld Lang signe, indeed.

My Red Chair Affair

For the purposes of promoting the artistic efforts of Ahewlu Productions, we decided to participate in the Red Chair Project's silent auction. Participants in this silent auction decorate a small childrens chair from IKEA and provide an artistic experience for the auction winner.

At first it would seem obvious, that I should do a poetry reading from East of Pouring as my artistic offering . . . until it occured to me that few people in Orlando, Florida are going to want me to come to their house and read poetry from my "head in the oven" period. Slightly more, may enjoy erotic gay poetry . . . but I've sworn of Bridal Showers . . . since "the incident." (joking)

What could I do to make poetry . . . sexier?

Looking in the mirror, it was clear that I probably would not be able to lose 25 pounds before September 19th, so the whole stripper pole, hot oil rubdown and elaborate puppet show idea will have to wait for next year (yeah, that's the ticket).

I finally decided that I make killer sangria . . . and that if I was successful in getting my patrons drunk they, sedated, would be more likely to sit through a poetry reading . . . and if the heckling got to bad, I could at least outrun them. If the event became superlatively bad, then I could as a last resort . . . join them in inebriation - and care a lot less about how I've suffered for my art.

I submitted my idea, and wonder of wonders I was invited to join the silent auction. I was given three weeks to decorate a red chair. No problem right? No. Problem.

My red chair took every minute of three weeks, and was scaled back twice to adhere to the laws of the space-time continuum.

First I had thought that I would cover the chair with text from my book, and then have the elements of sangria orbiting the chair on very thin wire. My chair would be the magical chair of fruits with poetry by fruits. Heck, maybe Carmen Miranda would buy the chair, and I could read her her rights.

The first reality check was painting a white chair red. The chair absorbed red paint like a sponge, so that many coats were necessary. And have you ever considered how many surfaces there are on a chair. It's a cubist nightmare. Painting the chair red took two weeks. I realized it was going to take every fiber of my being to get text on the chair, so I jettisoned the flying fruit and committed to high quality text alone.

The second reality check was decal transferring text to the chair. Oy, veh. The text had to be printed as a mirror reflection, so that when it was applied to the chair it ended up right-side out. Microsoft Word does not enable mirror text. So I had to type all poems in Paintbrush and invert the text as graphic. Once printed on the decal material, the double adhesive text had to be surgically removed from wax paper and placed on the chair with tweezers.

One poem and I was out! I had two days to finish, and had only covered half of the seat with text. . . The book title was inadvertently glued to the newspaper on the coffee table.

I retreated to Plan 3: The white paint pen. This for the most part worked . . . but imbued the chair with the atmosphere of a subway train, instead of the throne of poetry and fruit I'd previously envisioned. Sigh.

But art is about manifesting ideals as physical, tangible objects. Successful artists respond with pragmatism to the pitfalls of the physical world. So, in the end the chair is more than a compromise . . . it was a learning experience. Stay tuned, to hear who the final winner of my Poetry and Sangria event is . . . and what the chair "went" for.