Hollowed Oak
by Maureen GlaudeThis Oak harbours
a huge hollow now,
the poets finding only
the ghost
of their host,
the veteran ring
on the trunk.
Amid all the sameness
of the ritual readings,
from around his long-frequented
front table,
they still bring
the rustles of papers
bearing their scripted hopes,
tinkles of ice in glasses
and endure the bangs
against walls by staff,
working behind the pantry door
during performances
on that same tiled patch
that serves as the stage,
by the mock fireplace
beneath the mantlepiece lamps.
Theres a sign-up sheet
still circulates around the room,
featured guests needing introductions,
a mingling of familiar faces, voices
among regulars, warm welcomes to novices,
discussions of embryonic dreams
of novels, poems, and publication,
or memories thereof.
But this old Oak seeps with
a smouldering absence now
when Juan ONeill's comments,
emceeing, songs and poems fail to be heard.
His laughter or overt first reaction
by facial expression, gesture
point made or question raised
in response to a moving, unique
or provocative piece,
his advice to first-timers to project,
his hushing finger a reminder
for listening courtesy,
are gaping empty gaps.
But the works must fly on,
the new blood and old
flow forever from the pages
out through the mouths,
across the cavernous room,
or for as long as each poets
own forever can last,
and the writers must re-unite
for another season,
their first full one without him.
But the founding original
(in more than one sense)
of Sasquatch and Tree,
surely holds court
over us from his boxed seat on high,
in avid audience to our
attempts and achievements.
It would be out of his character
to miss all the growth.
And though haunted
by the hollowness
the poets all know
when the applause rings out
his hands must be clapping,
and hed heartily cheer
that were continuing
to land near one another,
over fresh drafts, manuscripts
water and beer,
to keep climbing up from the roots
that he helped plant right here.
09/14/2006