The third annual
Asheville WordFest happened last weekend. When I saw in the newspaper that there would be a Poetry Scavenger Hunt on Saturday (what might that be?), I called grandson Austin to see if he wanted to join me.
I didn't bother to tell Austin about the poetry part, just that "an event" was being held downtown at the
Thomas Wolfe Memorial. Author Thomas Wolfe's boyhood home, which he immortalized in his novel
Look Homeward Angel, is a favorite destination for Austin and me. One of the things he and I have had in common since he was about eight years old is visiting old houses and other historical sites. We've seen the log cabin birthplace of Civil War-era North Carolina governor
Zebulon Vance. We've been through the house and grounds of the
Biltmore Estate. And we both like to hear the story of how young Thomas Wolfe didn't know if he would have a place to sleep in his mother's boarding house on any given night, the house often being filled to capacity with paying strangers.
The Poetry Scavenger Hunt turned out to be a search for inspiration and ideas that would become a poem. We were sent out into the crisp morning air, on foot, with strict instructions to find three things each that came through our five senses. I immediately conjured up a favorite morning taste and smell, and suggested we find a coffee shop. Austin was agreeable and we set off.
The first place we came to was actually a favorite all-day breakfast restaurant, but the wait was 30 minutes (it being Saturday at 10:30 a.m., time for the Friday night crowd to be wanting their first meal of the day) so we moved on. Another place I had in mind had closed for good (Asheville is a town in flux even in the best of economic times), but just up the street was a place I knew would be perfect: lots of sights, sounds and smells.
It didn't take long, over coffee and lemonade, for us to have our list of 15 items completed. Then it was back to Wolfe House to put it all together into a poem. Here's the result:
The Coffee Shop
Mmm, coffee and brownies,
With sausage thrown in:
Three of the best smells.
Sour lemonade
In a cold, icy glass.
Conversation between families
All around.
The juicer, like a lawnmower,
Cuts greens into a glass
For the lady in the
Yellow and orange flowered pants.
The coffee maker gargles,
Rich and dark,
Into a warm mug,
Bringing good breakfast memories.
The kaleidoscope floor makes me happy.
Later, in the evening, the poetry continued at a downtown church. My morning poetry pal was not with me and I wished I had invited him because he might have enjoyed it.
Mark Doty was there, and Pulitzer-winner
Natasha Trethewey, along with a local favorite, performance poet and educator
Glenis Redmond. The last poet was
Flying Words Project, a duo: one hearing and one deaf who told poems in sign language. It was a wonderful experience, but it couldn't touch making a poem with Austin in the coffee shop with the kaleidoscope floor.
