The Poet
IT’S SNOWING; HE’S in Washington, D.C., carrying his radio news equipment back to the office (heavy tape recorder, mike and mike stands, tapes, extension cords, briefcase of books, newspapers, magazines); gave up on finding a cab; snow slashing his face to where he can barely see two feet in front of him, must be eight to ten inches on the ground already, twenty inches or more are predicted. Snow started this morning when he was taking the trolley to work, let up, his boss told him to go to the Capitol, which was his regular beat, and get a few stories and interviews and about ten choice minutes apiece from some hearings going on, then from the office window of a congressman he was interviewing he saw the snow coming down blizzardlike. “Oh, my God,” he said, and the congressman said, “What’s up?” and turned around and said, “Holy smokes; well, worse comes to worst, if I can’t get to my apartment across town I’ll spend the night here on the couch.” He called his editor, it’s around 3 P.M. now, and Herb said to hustle right back, government’s been shut down, “You might as well get here before you can’t get here, as we’re short of air material and can use whatever you got so far.” Called cabs, waited for cabs he called, went into the street and tried hailing the few passing cabs, for they’re allowed to pick up four different fares at four different spots: nothing. So he’ll walk, he thought, slowly make his way back till he finds a cab or bus going his way. It’s about a mile to the office on K Street from where he is now. Or even farther — two miles — for these streets are so long. No bus, and when he stuck out his thumb several times, no cab or car stopped. Well, who can blame them, nobody wants a sopping-wet fare or stranger in his car with all his sopping-wet gear. Walked about a half hour in the snow, only has rubbers on (“trudged,” he means, instead of “walked”), feet are frozen, hands will be next, pants soaked to the knees, doesn’t see how he can make it to the office with all this equipment — it must weigh sixty pounds altogether and is cumbersome to carry. He might have to go in someplace, a government office building if one’s still open or a museum, and plead with someone there to store his stuff till tomorrow. Should have left it in the House radio/TV gallery while he had the chance, then walked to the office with just the tapes to be edited and aired, and he might have got a hitch without all the gear — when a car pulls up, driver leans over the front seat, rolls down the window, and says, “Need a lift? I’m heading toward Georgetown, I hope I can get there before I have to abandon this car, but you seem stuck.” It’s the new Poetry Consultant to the Library of Congress, did an interview with him a few months ago, same outfit and tobacco smelclass="underline" tweed jacket and button-down shirt, bow tie, pipe back in his mouth, smoke coming out of the bowl. “Gosh, you bet, but I’m awfully wet and I’ve got all this stuff with me,” and the poet says, “So what, this rattletrap’s seen much worse,” and puts his blinkers on, jumps out of the car, and helps him stick the equipment into the backseat; they both get in and the poet says, “Where to?” and he tells him and the poet says, “That on the way to Georgetown? I still haven’t got my bearings in this town,” and he says, “It’s sort of, with a slight diversion, but I wouldn’t want you going out of your way — you’ve been too kind as it is,” and the poet says, “Ah, listen, you help a guy in need, you earn a few extra coins to use in the slot machines in heaven, so why not? If it’s at all feasible, I’ll take you to your door, and if we get stuck in a drift, you’ll help push me out. You must have a ton of belongings back there, what do you do? A TV repairman?” and he says, “Radio, a news man, you don’t recognize me, sir?” and the poet says, “Why, you famous? Someone I should be listening to to know who’s who in town?” and he says, “Me? Just starting out, but a small news service, so I get to cover just about everything. I interviewed you when you took up your position. Your first news conference. I mean, you gave one, right after you got to Washington, also read a poem for the TV news cameras, and then I asked you for a more personal interview and you granted me one in your office.” “No kidding. I did that? Did I say anything intelligent? I must be a nice guy, seems like, but a forgetful one. Maybe it’s your hat and your snowy eyebrows,” and Gould takes off his hat and rubs his eyebrows, and the poet says, “You want to shake the chapeau over the backseat?” and he does and the poet says, “And the snow on your shoulders and hair — you’ll catch a cold,” and he says, “Sorry, should’ve brushed myself off before I got in,” and the poet says, “Don’t worry, nothing’ll hurt this heap and these are intemperate times where just survival is in order,” and looks at Gould and says, “You look a little familiar. What’d we talk about? Did I dispense my usual nonsense? I tend to freeze up before you electronic news guys when you jut your paraphernalia in my mug,” and he says, “No, you were fine, my boss said. He was afraid, in his terms, I’d get a supercilious literary stiff, since I was the one who suggested my going to your press conference, your building being so close to the Capitol, which I normally work out of. But you know: about your job, what you’ll do in it for the year you’re here or two years if you feel like staying on. What poetry means in America — there never was a time it commandeered, you said, anything close to center stage in the States. And how you plan to make it more a part of the mainstream — your primary goal,” and the poet says, “I propounded the possibility of that? What an idiot! And of course I gave no ways how I’d go about it. Listen, poetry will always be for a small devoted clientele, and nobody in government’s interested in it in the slightest. My position’s a sham — no one consults me and I can’t find anyone to consult — and it took a coupla months to learn that. But I
am getting plenty of writing done — teaching’s much tougher and more time-consuming — and meeting a few nice people, though no one who’s read a stitch of my work or knew me from Adam till I arrived here, and I know they think anyone calling himself a poet’s a joke, except Sandburg and Frost, because they were homespun and made it pay. Next time disregard any poet who takes on a government sinecure, even with the word ‘poetry’ in it, or holds a press conference, at least during the first two months of his job.” The drive’s slow, the poet’s funny, garrulous, and lively, slaps his knee, relights his pipe several times, offers him a candy and, when he refuses, a mint and then a stick of gum, drops him off in front of his office building. Gould shakes his hand and says, “I can’t thank you enough, sir. I would’ve frozen out there if you hadn’t showed.” The poet says, “Drop in on me if you like — when I’m there, door’s always open. I can use the company; all the officials and librarians in the building stay away from me as if I’ve the plague. I won’t have anything to say into your machine, but we can have a coffee and chat.” He tells his boss what happened: “I meet him in a blizzard and he turns out to be the nicest guy on earth.” “Did you get another interview with him? Would have been a good bit; Washington conked out by its worst storm in twenty years, but it doesn’t stop the muse.” “Oh, come on, the guy helped me out of a terrific spot.” “You could have put the recorder on the floor, held the mike up to him while he drove. He would have loved it, maybe composed a sonnet about the storm, on the spot. Poets die for such attention, and like I told you on the phone, with the Hill probably shut down the next two days, we’ll need more tape than you ever could have brought in,” and for the first time since he got the job he thinks he has to get out of this profession.