“A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.”
-Robert Frost
I was for a while a resident of a very high-end retirement community in Folsom California called Revel Folsom. I had selected the place after visiting a dozen others. My wife of 37 years had died after a long lingering decline. I was looking for the next adventure, the next way of living in the new uncharted waters in which I found myself. I was tired of houses, rental properties, unruly tenants, all of that. So that was disposed of and I moved to Revel seeking a life style that included – in addition to beautiful facilities and restaurant quality food – a chance to interact with residents who had lived interesting lives and were looking, like me, to find community and friendship.
The center of activity at Revel was the happy hour, starting at 4:30pm every day in the bar area next to the restaurant. Amenities there included a full bar, a skilled bartender, a baby grand piano for anyone to play, a bar food menu for snackers, and a wait staff to bring you any food or drink you wanted. As I said, a high-end place with a high-end price. For me with my one-bedroom apartment it was $6,000 payable at the start of every month, worth it, I thought, until I didn’t. But that’s a story for another day.
Happy hour was usually well attended, There were about 100 residents in the facility and on most days 20 or 25 would show up. Regular attendees included Dick, a loud garrulous man who, as he quickly revealed to new acquaintances, was a poet. He claimed this distinction by virtue of having poems published in the Revel newsletter, a monthly listing of local activities and also articles of interest to the 14 Revels around the country. Dick, to his credit, had asked the staff to add a Poetry Corner to the newsletter. When I moved in to Revel Dick was the only contributor to the Poetry Corner.
Dick’s métier was haiku, an exacting Japanese poetry formulation with strict rules: 17 syllables divided into a first line of 5 syllables, a second line of 7, and a third line of 5. Great Japanese poets had spent years trying to master this very difficult and limiting form. Dick had not mastered it. His haikus were – to be completely clear – terrible. When I made a comment about the haikus to the staff person who oversaw the newsletter I was indignantly informed that Dick was a published poet and why didn’t I submit a poem? So I did, despite the fact that I hadn’t written poetry before. I took it as a challenge and also, to be honest, a chance to show off a bit for my fellow retirees at my new community.
My first entry was a limerick with a tie to Revel:
A daring grayed lady from Revel,
One midnight did dance with the devil.
She was heard to exclaim,
As she vanished in flame,
Well, that was another whole level!
But the story’s not told till we write it,
And the lady said…well I quite liked it.
With a face rosy red,
She rose up and said,
Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it.
This bit of doggerel was well received by the crowd at the next happy hour with much laughter and many ribald comments, but Dick was silent. I decided to submit another poem, in free verse this time, which appeared in the next newsletter:
Her 15 minutes of fame had ticked away,
Dripped away
Slipped away.
Yet here she was, eager – even anxious – to tell me about the beauty contest she had won.
Or was it her ice skating trophy?
Or her showing at Wheel of Fortune?
Or the rich husband she had captured then lost?
She mentioned them all.
I think.
Beautifully dressed and coiffed,
Shod in Ferrigamo,
Perfumed by Dior,
Botoxxed a little too much.
I bought her a drink,
politely lied about another entanglement,
and took my leave.
While I received kind words and complements at the next happy hour Dick, who’s latest haiku had been published next to my effort, wasn’t getting much response from the crowd. I was starting to feel a little sorry for Dick and some remorse about intruding into what had previously been his fiefdom.
Nevertheless, I submitted another entry the next month, this time in rhymed couplets, which was duly published a week later:
As evening approaches you load up the car, with tents, blankets, coolers and fry pans and more.
You check the reservation, you’re proud of your score. You got it, the last one, there weren’t any more.
The drive is a pleasure, the car hums along, you crank up the music, it’s a Boss sing-along.
Your timing seems perfect, you could want nothing more, 111 at home, and it’s now 64.
You start to unload, it’s the middle of the night, your flashlight is failing it’s job to shed light.
The trouble starts quickly, the raccoon is the cause, as she opens the trail mix with her delicate paws.
The dogs rush in to defend us from damage, but suddenly those claws look too long and too savage.
The coon slides away, disappearing from sight, while the dogs keep barking on into the night.
The whole campground’s awake now, with some muttered anger, while we are pretending there’s nothing the matter.
But after a while it’s quiet and calm, and the sounds of the surf are soothing like balm,
As we drift off to sleep I’m thinking once more,
As the silence is leavened by a delicate snore,
That despite all the hassles that once you swore,
You’d never again set up camp by the shore,
Yet here you are now, and you’re wishing for more.
I saw Dick that evening. He congratulated me on my poem, and I praised his haiku. I resolved right then that I’d publish no more poems at Revel. I found that I had no heart for a poetry war.