Cymbal Monkey

This is holding a place…(hey, is that a good first line?)

Rovinj

                                                      for the summer-lovers

Stay with me now.

Imagine a set of stairs, in a warm seaside town

in summer.  They are stone steps made dark by a roof

shared between the buildings on either side.

The cold you perceive is the welcome relief

of that shade.  No more, no less.

I am going to count backwards from eight.

Go down.

Eight.  Look down to the water below you, and the blazing day.

It seems far, but it isn’t.

Know that your feet will land on solid ground when you step.

Seven.  See the open boat, gently swaying on the surface.  Maybe

your lover is there.  She calls out to you.  Her voice

is sweet and faint, like perfume on the wind.

Six.  Linger on this moment.  Remember mayflies.

Five.  Halfway down, you can see below the arched stone overhead.

Beyond the boat, beyond the bay, beyond…

Four.  Between you and the sun are only three steps.  Choose.

Three.  You hear the tiny swells lapping at the foot of the wall.

What does the water want?  Nothing.

What does the wall want?  Nothing.

Two.  In another moment, you will wade in the Adriatic.  You will reach out

for your lover’s hand, step into the boat, take the sun, take an oar.

One.

***

This poem is the fourth in my marathon of poems (plus 3.8) for Tupelo Press’s cool fundraising project 30/30.  You can view the poems I and the other “runners” submit every day during the month of March, at

http://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/.

Please follow our work, and if you find it even the slightest bit entertaining, engaging, thought-provoking, or just generally worthy, donate to Tupelo Press, an independent literary publisher.  Sponsor me by entering T. Thibodeaux Baar in the “in honor of” line on the donation form, which you can find here:

https://www.tupelopress.org/donate.php

(Scroll down; it’s a form!)

Thanks for stopping by!  I am happy to hear from you via email or comments.

LouLou (the main monkey)

Around the lunch table today, the consensus was that this cold snap… sucks blows …is for the penguins. We’re over snow, sleet, polar vortices, arctic gusts, and mid-term apathy. We want our Spring!  I thought maybe a sun dance (which I intended with “Rovinj”), while not precisely a warm weather front, could effect a bit of an internal climate change.

Although these photos are several years old, I’ve always liked their contrast. The day I shot them was very hot, but I remember the cool under the arch on the stairs–it was nearly a chill in the center of the flight–as a welcome respite. Sort of the reverse of what we need now.

Sometimes the Ghosts

 Sometimes the ghosts, finding it is spring again,

take to the street, strolling through the lamplit dusk

to the old magnolia park.  They sit on benches they don’t remember

being there, they linger on the bridges over the creek.

They wonder aloud about the bicycles ticking past,

scandalously-clad runners on the path,

people picking up after their poodles;

and their murmurs stir the blossoms,

scenting the air.

Sometimes the ghosts frolic so splashing

in the Neptune pool that the smell

of summer meanders up the hill.

Sometimes once the sun fades, the ghosts make light

in the windows where no light has burned for decades.

And the glow is warm, and there is almost an audible

tinkling of laughter, a shade of melody,

almost.

Sometimes the ghosts catch a glimpse of fire out the fifth floor windows.

But that is only the blaze

of October’s splendor on the hillside

across the avenue.

And the dancing resumes.

Sometimes the ghosts sit so thick

at this cafe table that our conversation cannot be

private.  Our now is infused with the past

Magnolia fragrance and October senescence.

And when we walk away we feel relieved

but we are not really alone.

***

This poem is the third in my marathon of poems (plus 3.8) for Tupelo Press’s cool fundraising project 30/30.  You can view the poems I and the other “runners” submit every day during the month of March, at

http://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/.

Please follow our work, and if you find it even the slightest bit entertaining, engaging, thought-provoking, or just generally worthy, donate to Tupelo Press, an independent literary publisher.  Sponsor me by entering T. Thibodeaux Baar in the “in honor of” line on the donation form, which you can find here:

https://www.tupelopress.org/donate.php

(Scroll down; it’s a form!)

Thanks for stopping by!  I am happy to hear from you via email or comments.  🙂

LouLou (the main monkey)

The structure that burned last week was actually one building in a complex which was started in 1893.  The original building, which includes the hotel lobby and what I imagine are the original guest rooms, still stands, and this signpost along the Historic Hot Springs Baseball Trail (only about a year old) still stands, too.

I shot this photo on my walk today.

It is hard to imagine today what the old baseball diamond at Whittington Park must have looked like.  The park trail where I am accustomed to walking with the Gaul is an elongated track which seems ill-suited to the circular-shaped ballpark we are used to.

This photo is taken from about fifteen feet off the trail on the right.  The trail across the way is about eight feet beyond the left side of that bridge.

Here is the opposite path, during warmer days.  I always think as I walk this trail during summer of all the people who must have enjoyed the sunshine in Whittington Park, in centuries past.

Detour for Idiom:  Overheard in the Neighborhood

 You could meet your ass end comin’ around them back streets on the detour.

Yeah, our little neck of the woods doesn’t see as much traffic in a month o’ Sundays

as since that old hotel bit the dust.  Now it’s

busier‘n a one-armed paper hanger over here,

what with the lookey-loos.

 I know.  Hey, I heard Gary allow

they burnt it down for the insurance.

Dunno if I can cotton to that, though.

 Nope.  That dog don’t hunt.

***

This poem is the second in my marathon of poems (plus 3.8) for Tupelo Press’s cool fundraising project 30/30.  You can view the poems I and the other “runners” submit every day during the month of March, at

http://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/.

Please follow our work, and if you find it even the slightest bit entertaining, engaging, thought-provoking, or just generally worthy, donate to Tupelo Press, an independent literary publisher.  Sponsor me by entering T. Thibodeaux Baar in the “in honor of” line on the donation form, which you can find here:

https://www.tupelopress.org/donate.php

(Scroll down; it’s a form!)

Thanks for stopping by!  I am happy to hear from you via email or comments. 

LouLou (the main monkey)

Once I saw the extent of the fire, I understood that Park Avenue would have to be closed. It was, for about a three-block stretch.

Many people who live off of Park–and others who are local enough to know the route–were forced for several days to detour through some usually-quiet neighborhoods.  Quite a few of those travelers (probably taking advice from their cell phone navigation) found themselves lost, making the same block over and over until they solved the puzzle.  I can admit I had to run the Whittington back-cut twice, myself, the first time out.

I have little doubt the residents of those less-traveled streets, like those who live on my own block, were a little surprised at the upsurge in traffic.

I’m glad to report Central and Park are back open this evening.  Thanks to the City for keeping motorists safe during the fire and subsequent demolition at the Majestic.

In the Old Hotel

                                –for the Majestic, 1893-2014

 1.

She doesn’t check in, but sneaks. (There is no one

behind the front desk anyway.)  She takes the stairs, slowly,

keeping close to the side, where the wood

bears her weight without peril.

It is a copper mine now, tapped out.  Frozen radiators

hold the corners of guest rooms where the window glass

still grows fields of frost before the February sun.

Drafts like icy shards through the gaps in the frames.

Should’ve picked a room lower down, but then again, cops.

And the street, and real wind through broken panes.

And cops.

 2.

At ninety-six, the old ghost is still pretty spry.

Still, too, the celebratory whiff of cigar, and brandy—

curfew be damned!—who needs Spring Training

when he already smashes ‘em right out of Whittington Park?

The game’ll never be the same, Babe, so run

those stairs, man, masseuse on one arm and

the world on the other and

the whole empty place to echo back.

3.

“Once Al Capone decamped for Arlington 4, the Majestic welcomed Bugs Moran.

Although the two were sworn enemies, no violence broke out between them

as they trod the neutral ground of Hot Springs.”

4.

Park Avenue is quiet now, and the sun replaced

by copper-colored street lights,

softer by far, and safer.

Even the police won’t be much of a threat this time of day.

But the splintery cold still pricks me

and I weigh the prospect of sleep against

the last half-inch of Sterno in the can.

And it’s been days since I’ve slept indoors,

days since I even could

close my eyes

to the Park Police and thieves and raccoons.

I light it, scoot it close to my pallet,

rest my head.

5.

Other occasions bleed over.

Reunions, a wedding by the spring-nymph fountain:

each has its own spirits.

Briefly, the Babe pauses, annoyed at the intrusion,

competition.

He glances over his throwing shoulder

at the nymph, gleaming in his 1918.

Nobody, he thinks, and starts back up the stairs.

On the third floor, a shade of Bugs Moran

pours a whisky to toast the happy couple.

6.

When she arrives at the old hotel,

she doesn’t check in, just enters.

She takes the staircase, slowly,

admiring as she goes the rich

brocades and polished mahogany.

She considers for a second going back down,

crossing the long lobby to stand

before the spring fountain.

But she is tired now, and the sprites

will always wait for her, after all.

On the fifth floor she finds her room

unlocked—cover turned down already

but curtains open to the warm afternoon outside.

She hears laughter, and it catches.

She smiles.  She will never see the ashes.

She never sees whatever comes next,

but always the Majestic.

***

This poem is the first in my marathon of poems (plus 3.8) for Tupelo Press’s cool fundraising project 30/30.  You can view the poems I and the other “runners” submit every day during the month of March, at

http://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/.

Please follow our work, and if you find it even the slightest bit entertaining, engaging, thought-provoking, or just generally worthy, donate to Tupelo Press, an independent literary publisher.  Sponsor me by entering T. Thibodeaux Baar in the “in honor of” line on the donation form, which you can find here:

https://www.tupelopress.org/donate.php

(Scroll down; it’s a form!)

Thanks for stopping by!  I am happy to hear from you via email or comments.  🙂

LouLou (the main monkey)

For a couple of weeks now, conversation around my town–and around the lunch table where I work, which isn’t in my town–has often turned to the plight of the Majestic Hotel, which had been recently boarded-up after the owner was issued a citation by the city for allowing a public nuisance.  The hotel, closed since 2006, had become a playground for urban explorers, copper miners and other thieves, and various kinds of vandals.  When plywood went up over the ground-floor glass, people other than the city and a few already-concerned neighbors took notice; I, for one, was optimistic that the renewed attention might motivate lovers of downtown, creative types, and investors to make a move on the property, whether that meant restoration or demolition of parts of the hotel complex.  I had hopes that this might mean something good for downtown, the Park Avenue community, and the Majestic itself, which has some lovely architecture and a charming storied past.  I was looking forward to a community meeting on Friday (2/28) to discuss other possibilities for the Park Avenue community–all in all, things were looking up for my neighborhood!  Then, Thursday.

As I came around the curve where Central turns into Park Avenue, a messy funnel of black smoke was rising up from the top of the Majestic, seemingly right over the corner where the Gaul and I have turned toward the park about a thousand times before on our walks.   A single fire truck was angled across the street out in front, and I took in a sharp breath before I thought, “Of course.” At that point, I could still drive past. At home, I parked the car, and before I even opened the house, I walked down the hill to see what I could see from the back side of the property.  Here is what that looked like:

So, all the way down the hill, I’d been stomping and cussing. But when I saw the flames reaching up out of the roof of the building, smack in the middle of the building, I stopped short.  I stood there dumb for a minute, and then I called my friend.  “The question of what’s to be done with the Majestic is moot now,” I told her.  “It’s burning down.”

  As I stood watching, the reinforcements began to arrive.  Firefighters from various other local departments bailed out of flashing red trucks and unpacked their equipment as their leaders were apprised of the plan.  I saw three firemen carrying hose up the hill to unroll behind the flaming hotel.  I felt reassured that they were mindful of the danger of fire running up the hillside atop which my house and others sit.  I went home. Half an hour later, I stepped out my kitchen door to see what I could see.  Since the trees are pretty bare this time of year, it is possible to see a little of the hotel from my yard, so rather than heading back down the hill, I just rounded the corner of the house.  Here’s that view, accompanied by a version overlaid with a daylight shot for perspective reference.  Notice that they don’t match exactly; the overlay (daylight) pic is taken from a slightly different angle.

Yeah, now I’m FREAKING OUT.  “They don’t have it,” I thought.  “They’ve lost containment, and that fire is spreading.”  I should’ve known better. Those firefighters were so on top of that blaze–I cannot tell you how grateful I am to all those emergency workers who responded so quickly, worked so tirelessly, and stayed so vigilant over the following thirty-six hours or so.  The smoke was pretty bad, the power was out, and there was some ash floating our way, but our house and all of those in our neighborhood were generally unharmed (as far as I know) by what could have been an utter catastrophe.

Over the course of the next few hours, I walked down the hill several times.  Partly, I need repeated reassurance that the fire was still contained to the structure.  Partly, too, it was so hard to believe, and sad.  Even though I knew that much of the old girl was already beyond repair, and that this disaster created new possibilities for the property and, ultimately, the area, the timing was a shock.  And the sheer destructive energy of a fire engulfing a building–even a small one, let alone one that spreads over such a large area–is simply overwhelming.  It’s upsetting.  It’s devastation, in full view.

This is the last photo I took that night: There are already lots of theories about who, and why, and under what conditions.  There are a variety of attitudes toward this loss, and whether it even is a loss.  I think it is.  I think of all the people–famous and completely unknown to all but a precious few–who stayed at the Majestic over the century-plus of her life.  I think of all the happy and not-so-happy events that took place inside those walls.  I can’t help but think some of that history will linger there, on the block, near the corner I have walked so many times with the Gaul, and will again.