A Dozen Poets
(for David Elsasser)
A dozen poets gathered in Central Park
for an Open Reading and a pop-up Book
Launch for a colleague who supplied
folding chairs, read, and sold his books.
They were on a gentle hill under
a tree, just in from Central Park West,
between an AA meeting and a birthday
party where the boys tried to steal our chairs.
We made sure to occupy them all
and listen to our host using a mic
meant for karaoke but it did the trick
if you listened intently under the falling leaves.
Police on horseback soon appeared
and singled us out among all
the other gatherings on this incline.
They asked to see our permit. We had none.
Tempers flared and harsh words flew
when they told us to disperse. We would
not go down off the hill so easily.
They persisted; we grew angrier.
No! we cried, we will not go gentle.
Never, no way, we will not yield.
No poets: no drums. No writers:
no trumpets announcing our news.
We began to recite from memory
the truths of Whitman and Plath,
the revelations of Rimbaud and the language
of Adrienne Rich and Langston Hughes, Ginsberg.
The cops sat dumbfounded. Their horses
shook their heads and neighed in agreement
with us. We hurled haikus at the cops,
spit out images, catapulted metaphors.
They sat in shock. They called us
Crazy Bastards—and moved on.