Steven Gulvezan, born in Detroit, received his bachelor’s and master’s degrees from Wayne State University
and has worked as a journalist and library director. He continues to live in Michigan with his wife, Karen and his dog, Yogi. His book, The Dogs of Paris, is forthcoming from March Street Press.
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WALT WHITMAN AT THE BEACH WITH A MARTINI
It took me three days
To get my biography
Exactly correct
I sifted through my memories
Selecting the quirky
And unusual jobs I held
Many years ago
When I was young
While conveniently
Forgetting
The mundane position
Which has put bread
On my table
For thirty years
I revised
Amusing anecdotes
About my life
That reveal
My rebellious self
In all my James Dean glory
I leafed through my collection
Of photographs of famous writers
So many looks to choose from
Edgar Allen Poe
Walt Whitman
The young Ernest Hemingway
The middle-aged Ernest Hemingway
The old Ernest Hemingway
Jack Kerouac
Raymond Carver
Through a process
Of trial and error
I created
A sort of a mélange
Deciding that
The hairstyle
Of Gertrude Stein
In Paris
Above the spectacles
Of James Joyce
In Switzerland
Just before he went
Almost completely blind
And the smile
Of Malcolm Lowry
Posing
Outside his shack
At Dollarton
Surrounded by the beard
Of Walt Whitman
Blowing in the wind
On some Manhattan
Street corner
Gave me the look
Of a man possessed
By genius
Next
I bought my wife a camera
And posed for her all weekend
Sitting in an outdoor café
Sipping a martini
A la Scott Fitzgerald
On the Riviera
Hanging from the ladder
Of a Los Angeles
Railroad car
Like Charles Bukowski
And standing in the sand
Not unlike the Tangier
Beatnik beach
Of William S. Burroughs
Under my direction
My wife
Clicked the shutter
Perhaps a thousand times
I scrutinized the photos
Until I finally found one
That revealed
The true, absolute, inner me
All that’s left
For me to do
Is take an hour or two
To knock off
A few poems
To include with
The biography
And the photograph
Jack Kerouac
Raymond Carver
Through a process
Of trial and error
I created
A sort of a mélange
Deciding that
The hairstyle
Of Gertrude Stein
In Paris
Above the spectacles
Of James Joyce
In Switzerland
Just before he went
Almost completely blind
And the smile
Of Malcolm Lowry
Posing
Outside his shack
At Dollarton
Surrounded by the beard
Of Walt Whitman
Blowing in the wind
On some Manhattan
Street corner
Gave me the look
Of a man possessed
By genius
Next
I bought my wife a camera
And posed for her all weekend
Sitting in an outdoor café
Sipping a martini
A la Scott Fitzgerald
On the Riviera
Hanging from the ladder
Of a Los Angeles
Railroad car
Like Charles Bukowski
And standing in the sand
Not unlike the Tangier
Beatnik beach
Of William S. Burroughs
Under my direction
My wife
Clicked the shutter
Perhaps a thousand times
I scrutinized the photos
Until I finally found one
That revealed
The true, absolute, inner me
All that’s left
For me to do
Is take an hour or two
To knock off
A few poems
To include with
The biography
And the photograph
TO THE EDITOR WHO SAID HE CAN’T STAND POEMS IN WHICH THE LINES BEGIN WITH A CAPITAL LETTER
For you
Chaucer’s roads
Remain untraveled
Milton’s paradises
Are neither
Lost nor found
To your ears
William Blake’s
Songs ring hollow
Coleridge’s
Weary old mariner
Is beached upon the shore
John Clare
Is merely a crazy old man
Without an I Am
The mouths
Of Elliot’s mermaids
Gag with peach juice
And the slouching gate
To the Babylon of Yeats
Is forever slammed shut
Sometimes
People get
Hard rocks
Stuck inside their heads
And are left
Spinning in the world of
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
And possibly
Bukowski’s bluebird
Perched upon their shoulders
Trying hard
To remember the origin
Of his chirp
EXERCISE IN RESTRAINT
My famous poet acquaintance
Put up a video
His latest triumphant reading
At the Naropa Institute
Many of the great man’s
Sycophants
Have already posted
Overwhelming approval
To the magnificence
Of his genius
I pity them
Their smallness
Still some inner demon
Compels me
For the hell of it
To compose my own comment
Not sucking up
Like the others
Simply a small nod
To the great one
Where is the harm
In laying the groundwork
To perhaps curry
Some future small favor?
I gaze at my words
Not over-the-top
Simply an acknowledgement
Of his greatness
And he is great
Isn’t he?
Before I post my comment
I pause and stare at the screen
Realizing that sooner or later
I will have to face myself
If only in the bathroom mirror
Still I post it
And immediately understand
Before I sleep tonight
I will need to imbibe
Something stronger
Than self-deception
While I ponder
The sort of man I am
SONG OF MYSELF
I freed John Lennon’s mind
On the road to Ann Arbor
For the John Sinclair bash
And grew my beard
Before he grew his beard
And mentored Herbert Huncke
Who studied at my feet
While Bob Dylan washed my feet
At the River of Jordan
Where I met Walt Whitman
He said “I am ghost immaterial
You must carry the mantle
Of the cross divine and
Bring poetry to the faceless
Sing hallelujah!”
So I carry my heavy load
It is a burden I must bear
Crier of the working classes
Chanter to the masses
Did I mention Janis Joplin
Blew me
At the Chelsea 1969
While Leonard Cohen waited in the hall
I was fathered by Jack Kerouac
Out of Edie Parker
At the Wildwood Inn
Dogs barking in the pen outside
When he ejaculated
Charles Bukowski was a mental virgin
Until I hooked him up
With Jane Cooney Baker
In Los Angeles in 1948
I cleaned toilets with my beard
At the Serbian Hall
In Detroit, Michigan
My wise uncle was Karl Marx
I offered my seat on the bus
To sweet Rosa Parks