Putting the pieces in place

Nov. 6, 2003

Dear Ken,

One of the two photographs on my desk at home is a picture of two of my heroes. They are sitting on a wooden step behind the Jambalaya, my old hangout in Northern California. On the left, inhaling deeply from the dregs of a cigarette he rolled himself, is John Ross, trouble-seeking journalist and poet. His poems talked about "The Revolution" and the joy of being able to buy a can of Dinty Moore stew because your government check just arrived.

John sometimes performed his poetry at the Jambalaya backed by a standup bass player. He was one of the last of the Beats. When he gave me a copy of his old poetry book, "Jam," the inscription read: "Journalism does not prevail." He more than any journalist I've ever known lives as though it still might.

Jerry Martien sits on the right in the photograph. His skinny legs are crossed, he is clothed for hard work. He does not fit most of the images for a Washington University PhD in literature, but when he moved to Northern California in the 1970s Jerry chose a life of making houses and poems. Some of his poems described how similar the two processes were. But mostly he wrote about this numinous outpost on the Pacific and about the difficulty and necessity of finding a place in the world and someone to love.

At the Jambalaya he read his poetry to an ancient cadence that evoked craggy rocks and unfinished people standing up to the sea.

The photograph is about 30 years old. The Jambalaya has become an upscale bistro now. John Ross has been covering the Indian revolt in Chiapas, Mexico, for years. People who know him wonder that he hasn't been shot. He has been shot at.

Jerry Martien is still building houses and writing poetry, but he's married now and teaching California literature at the local university. Some sort of loop has been completed.

My old friend, Julie, in Trinidad is still putting up the good liberal fight while expanding her string of design stores. Julie remains aghast that I became a golfer after leaving California. I left her a copy of "Golf in the Kingdom," hoping it can explain for her the appeal.

In Arcata at Northtown Books, the tradition of selling books that matter and supporting local authors remains. When asked about Jerry Martien, the sales clerk smiled and produced a copy of Jerry's new poetry compilation, "Pieces in Place."

In part of a new poem titled "Cake and Ice Cream," he writes:

"we light a narrow candle

for every turn around our little sun, make a wish

and try to blow them out in a single breath.

between the near stars and the ones we take on faith

there is no middle distance. no halfway measure

of the years they say light takes to get here.

souls are said to journey from other lives to get to

this one through what we call living there then

on to the next thing we don't have names for.

there appears to be no reason to hurry.

no need to fear we're going too fast.

we travel in constant nearness. it is always now.

we are here. then we are here.

the farther we go the more we are home."

The other photograph on my desk is of DC and someone in a big mouse costume at a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant. The mouse is hugging DC. She is smiling. It makes me smile. This photograph somehow captures her essence. She is someone to love, and for now we have found in Cape Girardeau a place in the world.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.