More than once I judged friends who are parents
for being, to the best of my knowledge, willfully lame.
Zombie drones bandaged in sweat shirts and sweat pants, but no apparent sweat.
Lethargy, apathy, anomie–insert parents here–save for
the busy pursuit of comforts like
infinite TV, real estate, a four door sport sedan,
vacations, lots of groceries, and…sweats,
with haircuts crowning resignation or imitation,
with purchased asymmetry and poofy bang formations.
But, the teeter totter now has tipped, and
all my judgments dissolve into the thick brine of first-pain experience
Addition of one to my family added vantage by which I see
in the pessimistic checked out zombie stares of parents
a triumph
against odds waiting to crumble anyone who lets up for an instant.
Abrupt detour to every selfish moment:
booby trapped gauntlet of scheduling,
puzzle of a home that doesn’t stay–
no peace in a house of ever scattered pieces
as your children–desperate for knowledge and experience
dismantle and reallocate every (micro and macro) crumb, particle,
groveling hands to know and be
the something their DNA tells them to expand into
without concern for the ones who got them here,
gave them this, and may or may not get
up enough energy to teach higher hierarchical needs
beyond survival. In the crows feet
of parents’ unkept faces
I see a strength that could break at the point of impact
between the overstretched now and whatever comes next,
but won’t,
because it can’t, because the kids are depending on you,
and the powdered backbone you feed them when you’re out of food.
I see people
who lay it all down, all day
to get few to no thanks or hours of sleep
after the kids doze/before the kids wake.
It’s not sustainable, but has to be,
has always been, the only way we’ve gotten here,
rising on the sore backs of those who bore us in to the now.
It’s no wonder I judged my friends who were parents;
no one’s parent ever got enough sleep
or time or space to articulate what it’s like for them.
No one will ever believe me either
as I can’t seem to wrap my tired arms around much of anything
but the magnetic, gravitational light
radiating from the eyes of my child.
Author Archives: Garret Potter
Those Who Launched The End Of All War
Those Who Launched The End of All War
-for Jimmy Wales and Larry Sanger, founders of Wikipedia.
I.
A time line pamphlet accordion unfolds
the entire history of human civilization–
all our story in context. Beautiful print.
Bound truth. Liberty in hand. Men want it
destroyed. It gives children a chance.
II.
We finished painting the nursery today.
Took nine months. No baby seals or cumulus
skies, swallows or safari animals, arbors or arks.
A time line. All of it, from door hinge to handle,
from hardwood flooring to textured plaster ceiling,
four walls depicting the recorded history of humanity:
exploration, invention, myth making, agriculture, technology.
It is done. Now only to teach the child to read before grandparents
attempt to blind and shutter out information that surrounds
save the twelve by seven inch segment they will to accept.
III.
A fifty-foot flat bed diesel parks
on the corner of State and North U.
Two forty-foot telescopic masts
elevate at its ends. A banner is raised,
200 square feet taut between uprights.
A time line. The history of humanity
in plain sight. The bullhorn preacher
out front of the pharmacy is first to drop
his jaw. It rains astonishment and silence.
Krishna chanters across the divide
drum no more, but rise. Sidewalks
and lawns superimpose with mandibles
and discarded misinformation.
All bodies shape to ear and eye.
Heartbeats syncopate. Language
marked with only questions met
by epiphany. Air, the taste of truth
without argument. From here,
there is only we.
in my hands (handbreadth)
He wakes from slumber
his bed only feet from mine,
and cries, whimpers, a monkey
or puppy sound. If I do
not go to him he will full on cry
out to communicate displeasure.
I pick him up and he quiets.
In my hands he calms,
rests, smiles—in my hands.
One day he will hate me,
loath the sight, fear these hands,
shame them, embarrassed at their limits,
their only one finitude.
But for now he is happiest,
happy only, in my hands.
Shirley Temple Drinks
My life is a bowl of cherries
atop a farmer’s family
tablecloth, at an orchard
in Michigan, first grown
in Washington, packed
in plastic, foam, foil,
and wood, gasoline,
spark plug combustion engine
exhaust pipe emitting
carbon monoxide and
carcinogen smoke.
Mmm. Pure Michigan.
Delicious. All natural.
Fresh. Septic refuse.
Certified organic without
mentioning how I am
a petroleum product:
the pipe, the pipeline
the cancer hole in lung,
in ozone, in your family’s empty
armchair built by your forefathers’
hands. The pacific coast, the great
lake shore, the wild rushing pollutant,
bacterial microbe, protozoa, faucet
piping to households, to farmyards,
like this one in Michigan. I am
the bowl and its cherries, the freckled red-
headed little girl, her checkered dress―I am
in her hands―Shirley Temple drinking
a “Shirley Temple.” All smiles and lips stained
pink cherry mustache unaware, her early
onset diabetes, the insulin syringe. I am
delicious, our unsated appetite for
everything out of season, all of it
right now, without asking
at whose expense.
A Friend Found Today
–for the great comedian Stephen F. on his birthday
The good old days depend
on how old you are and
where the endorphins
are stored in your memory bank.
Kenny Loggins, Phil Collins,
Ghost Busters, and the movie Rad—
details scribes might do without,
but you remember, and surprised,
all the skin creases and nodding
his face affirms—you are not the only one,
which takes both of you in and out-
side yourselves, on a tour
made up of your own
milestones, Rolling Stones, and Flintstones
somehow breaking through the clouds
of stress, strain, and complaint
to instead create—make up something
all together new, to approach the risk,
voice your invitation
to the game—volleying comedy,
to shoot so much breeze
that all goes clean, mind swept,
for a sea of thought to be explored
by open sail or submarine. Most
of those you’ve loved and laughed
with are gone—out of sight, not mind.
But you’ve found a friend today
who mentions many good old days
the same as those you can replay,
and find in him a truth:
to have a friend
who enjoys
the experience of any moment
the same as you do,
makes life—all of it—
worth remembering.
2015 Tour
Hello friends. I am at it again this year with more exciting poetry performance encounters across the continent.
January (Sundays) – Ann Arbor – Silvio’s – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam
February – Ann Arbor – Pioneer High School – Creative Writing Workshops – room C309
February 15 – Detroit – Hopcat Bar / Huma Room – Drunken Retort w/ Marcel Fable Price
February 16 – Grand Rapids – Stella’s – Drunken Retort w/ Shawn Michael Moore
February 17 – Kalamazoo – The Mix / Grind – Put Up or Shut Up w/ Mitch Burns and Marcel Fable Price
April 18 – Ann Arbor – Grand Slam Poetry Finals w/ Jamaal May
April 27-30 – Boca Raton, FL – TBD
June 5 – Detroit – Manila Bay Café 8pm.
August 1 – Ann Arbor – Literati Book Store – Ann Arbor Poetry Slamiversary Celebration w/John Buckley & Karrie Waarala
August 11-15 – Oakland, CA – The National Poetry Slam
September – Ann Arbor – The Ark
October – Ann Arbor – The Ark
October – Ann Arbor – Espresso Royale – with Danez Smith & Austin Gorsuch
October – Ann Arbor – Skazat – Sweetwater’s – with Tarfia Faizullah & Marlin Jenkins
November 12 – Lansing – Michigan State University
November 15 – Ann Arbor – Espresso Royale – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam with Safia Elhillo
—2016—
February 23 – Montague, MI – The Book Nook – White Lake Arts Council Lecture Series
Garret Potter featured on Nate Allen’s Kickstarter Mixtape
Minutes before midnight, my deadline to decide between a full year farm internship or doing a national performance tour, I happened to run into my friend Nate. He was working on a presentation for his class and updating a band bio/press release for his new folk/punk album. I was painfully anxious and indecisive. Nate asked why, then responded with more than enough encouragement, that I decided to publish my first book and go on tour.
After two years, more than 25,000 miles toured, over 500 performances given, more than 700 books sold, I realize now how impactful Nate is–a friend with encouragement, kindness, and generosity. Along that first full tour, several of my shows came together by opening up for Nate and the band Destroy Nate Allen. From Nebraska, to New York, to North Carolina, Nate and Tessa demonstrated honoring generosity.
Today, Nate sent me a message saying that he wrote a blog about me on his website ( http://iamnateallen.com/garret-potter/ ) as part of his new album release campaign. With thirty of Nate’s recording artist friends, I contributed a poem or song to his mixtape. Nate says everyone can get a copy for a dollar. My track itself normally costs a dollar. Nate’s crazy. He loves playing music for people, mostly, I imagine, to make people smile and feel better about what’s possible. I welcome you to read what he said about me and learn more about what he loves. Thank you. Thanks Nate.
2014 Tour Stops
January 4 – 6pm – Jackson, MI – The Book Exchange w/ Jessica Campbell & Caleb Lange
January 5 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – Silvio’s – w/ Sabrina Cook
January 12 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – Silvio’s – w/ Allie Reynolds
January 19 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – Silvio’s – w/ Brother Gabe (Gabriel Green)
January 26 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – Silvio’s – w/ Jozer Guerrero
February 1 – 8pm – Detroit – Trinosophes – 2 Wins & You’re In w/ Ethan Rivera and Brian Sullivan Jr.
February 16 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – Silvio’s
March 4-9 – Victoria, British Columbia – The Victoria Spoken Word Festival:
March 5 – 8pm – Victoria – Intrepid Theater – w/ RC Weslowski, Steve Currie, Cathy Petch, Brendan Flaherty, and more
March 6 – 8pm – Victoria – Metro Theater – w/ Tim Gosley (Fragle Rock, Sesame St. Canada), & festival ensemble
March 7 – 8pm – Victoria – Metro Theater – w/ Johnny Mcrae, Shayne Avec I Grec, Sabrina Benaim, & Chimwemwe Undi
March 8 – 8pm – Victoria – Metro Theater – w/ Barbara Adler, Sebastian Wen, Audrey-Lane, and more
March 9 – 7pm – Vancouver, B.C. – BedRocc Poetry Slam at Prophouse – w/ Moe Clark and Scruffmouth Scribe
March 16 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam at Silvio’s – w/ YOU!
March 18 – 7pm – Ann Arbor – Skazat! Poetry Series at Sweet Water’s Coffee – w/ Lizzie Hutton
March 23 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam Wildcard Slam #1 at Silvio’s – w/ Ethereal & Rachel
March 30 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam Wildcard Slam #2 at Silvio’s – w/ Inam Kang
April 6 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam Anything Goes Slam at Silvio’s – w/ Fiona Chamness
April 12 – 7pm – Ann Arbor – The Neutral Zone / B Side – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam City Finals w/ Marc Smith
April 15 – 7pm – Ann Arbor – Skazat! Poetry Series at Sweet Water’s Coffee – w/ Lindsay Stone
April 26 – 11am – Chelsea, MI – 2014 Midwest Literary Walk – w/ Diane Seuss, Harry Dolan, and Mona Jean Cedars
April 27 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam – w/ Stephen Meads, Chris Leja, and Mark L. Anderson
May 4 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam w/ Simon Mermelstein and Sarah Melendez
May 9 – 6pm – Ypsilanti, MI – Feature Performance for Washtenaw International High School’s Grand Slam
May 11 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam – w/ Brother Gabe and Todd Askew
May 12 – 9pm – Ann Arbor – Heavenly Chain Mixup @ The 8 Ball w/ Luis Anderson, Fiona Chamness, and Simon Mermelstein.
May 18 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam – w/ Tariq Luthun and Brigitte Demelo
May 25 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam – w/ Lindsay Stone and Luis Anderson
June 1 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam – w/ Simon Mermelstein and Alex Duncan
June 8 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam –
June 14 – Detroit, MI – Rustbelt Midwest Regional Poetry Slam w/ Phil Kaye, Sam Sax, and Hieu at 1515 Broadway
June 20 – 9pm – Ann Arbor – Ann Arbor Book Festival – @ Babo Grocery – w/ Scott Beal & Brother Gabe
June 22 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam – w/ Azira, Brigitte, and Alex Duncan
June 29 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam –
July 6 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam –
July 13 – 6:30pm – Ann Arbor – Zen Buddhist Temple – Empty Hands music project w/ Nimo, Jill Halpern, and more.
July 20 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam –
July 27 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam –
August 3 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam –
August 4-9 – Oakland, CA – The National Poetry Slam – w/ McKendy Fils Aime, Hieu Nguyen, Toaster, Jeremiah The Fluent One
August 10 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam –
August 17 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam –
August 24 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam –
August 31 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam –
September 6 – Ann Arbor – Homegrown Festival w/ local bands and song writers
September 7 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam – w/ Ethan Rivera
September 12 – 7:30pm – Ann Arbor – Silvio’s Pizza w/ Michael Joseph and Lindsay Stone
September 14 – 8pm – Ann Arbor – The Ann Arbor Poetry Slam – w/ Carrie Beattie
Diapers. + Talking to plants.
The diapers. I change.
I change diapers.
I change the children’s diapers.
I lift them onto a cushioned table designed for said purpose,
adorned with blue disposable gloves,
and remove any clothing in the way,
until behold! Alas:
the Velcro-sealed, padded, body trash bag
known as a diaper.
I peel it back—each one a surprise
depending on limitless combined factors of diet, digestion, biology, and chemistry:
like the magenta remains following beet day,
or aqua-marine after eating artificially colored birthday cake frosting—
each unique in consistency, color, and stench.
My job, as a preschool teacher,
is to wipe the
soil, we shall say,
off and out of the still forming unmentionables
of these two and three year old humans
while holding my breath for as long as I can
to hurriedly deposit the wraiths like a ghost buster
deep into the odor-sealed storage containment diaper pail,
then breathe a half-fresh, half-
lingering breath of
what I hope is mostly air,
distracting my gag reflexes from launching the contents in my stomach.
How both the child and I come out of this clean
is no mere success,
but a small miracle.
But, even there on the changing table,
every moment is a teaching opportunity,
so I inform the child of how poop is made,
saying: “The good food goes in up top
and the bad stuff comes out the bottom—
your bottom that is my friend.”
And they respond with infectious giggles
and clever inquiries like,
“Can I touch it?”
To which I reply,
“I, the Diaper Swiper, find germs might hurt you who peruse your gooey poo,
so no, you cannot touch it!”
To which they respond,
“You silly Midder Garret.”
And I know,
multiple times per day I perpetuate this;
I feed them.
I supply these fecal factories the stuff they need
to keep producing more.
And yet how could I not?
How could I help myself
with each curly or straight lock of their crowns,
each small-toothed round dimple-cheeked smile,
each mirror-image daybreak flashlight eye gleam?
How could I resist perpetuating their changes
from bottles to blocks to balls to ballet
to bikes and beyond?
Could I forget that not long ago
I was helpless, vulnerable,
dependent on some older, wiser, more-able being
I, with the spark of life
without the knowledge of how to keep fire going.
Could I forget each maternal or paternal sacrifice
or the faces of each of the people I peed on?
The fire of me tended with care so long,
how could I not lend mine to fuel theirs?
When I signed up for this job,
I knew my hands would serve their turn at the changing table,
but never could have known what would happen there.
For it was there where countless children forgot I was an employee,
forget my name,
and called me “Dad.”
It was there where Weston told me that he loved me more
than a monster truck shark,
giving me the highest possible compliment in the known toddler universe,
ushering me to tears,
not only from an olfactory response to the death in his diaper,
but also from cardiac growing-pains—
my heart enlarging.
When I accepted this position
I agreed to feed and nurture,
teach and train,
and yes, to change their diapers,
but there were no notices
warning how
these new to life half-lings,
these my new friends,
would so greatly
be changing
me.
How you move
You can tell a Birch tree
by the peeling white,
scroll-forming pages of its bark,
the clothes it wears to cover up its truth,
like I wore as an elementary student
dressed in construction paper and staples
for the school play.
You can tell a Magnolia
by its giant white,
purple-lined blossoms,
the way your irises take them in with tired but desperate hands,
the way tears come at the dawn of hope
after Winter’s harsh bone gray.
You can tell a Blueberry
by its flowering white
bells.
The way they hang
like silken slips beneath the hip, hip-shaped skirts
of ladies in the fifties,
briefly adorned in Spring before disrobed
to bear their ripened fruit,
providing relief to thirsty tongues
of birds,
or bears,
or boys.
You can tell an Apple
by the crisp white
flesh within its star seeded pomes
the way its arms hold such peel-wrapped,
juice-packed fruits,
an offering for bugs
and free school lunch kids,
and kings.
But if you tell any of these plants
anything
(with speech)
I don’t think they’ll understand.
Your words
will only prompt,
“hffuhhhh, ahhhhhh,”
fresh breaths of air:
their inhalation,
your carbon dioxide exhaled.
Your words, to them,
are miracle grow, 1-up, health-boost respirators
supplying the very essence of warm nourishment.
And I can tell that you
already know this.
But I’ll tell you again to remind,
that sometimes it’s not about the words that you say
but the way you move
the ones you tell.
The Seattle Round
Last night, I was given the chance to perform at The Fremont Abbey of The Arts in Seattle, for the 94th Seattle Round. The space is an excellent, old chapel style structure with great acoustics. The vibe was warm, inviting, and anticipatory. Nathan Marion invited me to share spoken word poetry alongside musical guests The Maldives, Erin Rae, and Star Anna, as well as a painter named Savy.
He encouraged us to collaborate, improvise, and accompany each other–to embrace the occasion and create an experience that could not be done otherwise. I told him that I typically perform solo, and that my poetry varies in time-sequence and form–I have a conversation with the audience. He still encouraged me to collaborate.
I didn’t realize it ahead of time, but I had met and performed with Erin in Nashville, Tennessee on tour last Summer. She opened the night up with gentle, beautiful guitar and vocals.
Next, The Maldives came into play. Only two months ago, I went to Bellingham, WA to perform. While there, I attended my friend Sara’s show, where she happened to be opening up for The Maldives. I didn’t know we would perform together soon after. Last night, they bantered with the crowd and played excellent guitar, accordion, and vocal songs. I really enjoyed their performance.
Third, Star Anna played her soul out on her guitar and microphone.
And finally, I came in with a poem. We did this rotation five times. On the final round, rather than close with a comedic poem solo, I invited the Maldives to play again the music of their final song that shared the feel of “Not Yours, Truly,” a serious poem I tell from the perspective of a giraffe. It went beautifully, wonderfully–memorable. It happened. We shared in an experience that was unique and special to that space and that night.
When all was said and done, I was fed, compensated, supported, encouraged, and moved. I was sober and high off of the experience for hours into the night.
I am grateful.
A photographer and cinematographer named Eratosthenes Fackenthall shot the entire night. If and when video becomes available, I will post it for you.
A boat for my heart
After four summer months of poetry tour adventures all over the US, I returned to Portland, Oregon. And the rain and clouds were there, ready to greet me with their cold, wet immersion and embrace, more than I had expected or welcomed. At the same time, hurricane winds, rain, and flooding hit New England–these were called Sandy. Feeling, I wrote. And feeling I came upon an idea for relief …our ears, eyes, and minds open. our hearts beat, held in palms, gently. a boat approaches, to carry us through the storm… Kelli Schaefer offered to join me in a show named…
A boat for my heart
I built a boat for my heart,
and tried to send it to myself in the mail,
but the post office closed
when the storms came
and I had to carry it in my palms—
my heart
my vulnerable.
God build a boat for my heart,
entrusted men to bring it to me,
in due time,
but the men got all the directions mixed up and varied–
confused assembly, confusing themselves;
I only got pieces
that might make a boat,
that might be from God,
but might not.
I built a boat for your heart,
but you kept it inside,
wouldn’t come let it out, at the dock,
didn’t trust,
wouldn’t chance;
so I rowed it alone,
carrying nothing but my solitude,
me and the oars, o’er and o’er.
But, my heart build a boat for itself
out of all the charred remains,
found them strewn about my sensory memory,
plucked them out from its sides and feet
and put them together to make new moments.
In the new moments,
my heart remembers how it never was but ought to have been.
It is a beautiful heart-boat
floating, sailing on the seas.
The wave-waters shimmer,
the moon is out,
it is rocking me to sleep.
Copyright 2012, Garret W. Potter, Portland, OR.
The individual World Poetry Slam, 2012, in Fayetteville, AR October 3-6
Hello friends.
I am headed South to Fayetteville, AR tonight.
Tomorrow begins day one of competition for the individual World Poetry Slam.
While touring in Arkansas in September, I qualified to compete in the tournament.
Now, the time is at hand. Seventy-two talented poets from all over the world will convene.
Each day there are competition rounds, seminars, work shops, and open mics.
The top twelve poets will advance to the finals on Saturday.
I have been working steadily in preparation and I am excited to share the experience.
Thank you for all of your thoughts, prayers, support, and encouragement.
So many of you are with me in this season, out on the road–you are vital, keeping me going and sharing each day.
With anticipation, appreciation, and love,
Garret
VIDEO!
Thanks to Kirk at ArtSpeak Design (http://www.artspeakdesign.com/),
a new video for the poem Reconciling My Apartment Complex is alive online now!
Garret Potter – Reconciling My Apartment Complex
I had a great time working with Kirk in his space in St. Louis, MO.
We were roommates in college until he traded up (roommates) for his wife.
We hadn’t seen one another in about six years. I am grateful for his friendship.
This morning over breakfast we discussed how special, valuable, and important friendships are (and old friendships especially).
Enjoy!