Poetry Thursdays at Midtown Cinema's Reel Cafe

The Almost Uptown Poetry Cartel, a true American institution, has been at Harrisburg's Midtown Cinema's Reel Cafe since December 2008.

But they've been taking care of business much longer than that.
Since 1999 in fact, and gracing quite a few different venues.
Sweet Passions, 3rd St, Harrisburg, 1999--2001
Sparky & Clarks, 2d St, Hbg. 2001--2003
The Gamut Theater, Strawberry Sq. Hbg. 2004
Susquehanna Art Museum, Hbg. 2004--2007
The Crimson Frog, Cedar Cliff Mall, Camp Hill, 2007--2008




So, after an earthquake, hurricane & flood the cartel is back at it.
Poetry biz. Hip features & open readings.
Here's what Harrisburg Magazine had to say
about the energy at the legendary long-running Thursday gig:



‎"The real reward of my premiere experience of the Cartel was the ferocity.
… the feeling is vibrant. The lack of formality and sheer consistency bespeak the importance of art in this community." --Kari Larsen

Harrisburg Magazine: Spontaneity Theatre: The Almost Uptown Poetry Cartel
harrisburgmagazine.com





Featured performers coming to the Reel Cafe in October:

York, PA laureate, Carla Christopher, October 13.

And on October 29th-- Evan Cameron.

www.almostuptown.com
www.midtowncinema.com

Echoing Lake Country, country, Lake, lake, Echoes, echoes...

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.
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contemplando spinaci

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turning Javanese, and/or

Becoming Scandinavian:
A Stealth Fighter’s Existence on the Susquehanna Moors




1. Emily Dickinson never saw a moor but imagined it as wavy.
Do the math. Crystal blue persuasion, friendly persuasion. Suede.
Everybody was Kung Pao Chicken. And I was fighting stealth.



2. Coleridge & Southey, they imagined idling along the river banks.
Mike Banks dreamed of a intersection of gold, a laurel of silver.
Charles Dickens, Slim Pickens. Sesame oil, chili peppers, ginger, and
peat bogs, and/or beat boxes. Reet! Mike dreams a lot.



3. Norwegian wine and roses. Slow as molasses in January, each and
every year, Carlisle inches a little bit closer to the effervescent watercourse flowing gently to Chesapeake Bay.

4. Italian Lake, a short walk from the Susquehanna. A tranquil, brooding place with lush greenery and geese. Here I fed the ducks, I sketched the swans. Crossed the bridge. I hunted the alligator. I lusted for three nymphs still dancing in the middle of the lake. And I weep for the swans of my misspent youth.

5. Because of what I am becoming and all that weeping I vow to brood a bit
in a tranquil place near the long, crooked river and talk to other people in and around that space about the stuff just mentioned above. And maybe float a boat of two. I vow, therefore I yam!



Next up: Contemplating Spinach at Italian Lake. July 2011.
(note: actual spinach is not essential to an act of contemplation)

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Nature Can Be a Cruel Mistress

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Four Saints In Three Acts

But, who's counting?

Past is prologue.
Virgil Thomson. Gertrude Stein.
It is very easy to love alone.

Who's on First?
Where do we come from?
What are we?
Where are we Going?

What became of the early me?
asked a certain Howard whass-his-name
who wrote and questioned
at indiantown Gap
in the summer of 1964.

Time-lapse photography.
Head shot. Money shot.
Bang-bang, shoot-shoot. Shoot,
if you must, this old gray head...
Barbara Fritchie said that.

Shot Red Marilyn.

Young Elvis. Old Elvis?
We are large, we contain multitudes
thought Walt Whitman [by the power
of paraphasia] or somethin' very akin to that.

Soon you'll be telling me What's on second base!

Hey, I'll letcha be in my dream if I can be in yours.
Who makes whose be his. I do.
I said that. I did.

I said would some power the giftie gie us/ to see ourselves
as others see us. Well, sure, Bobby Burns said that.

Who makes whose be his. I do.


 
 


 
 

D'où venons nous? Que sommes-nous? Où allons-nous?
Les pieds, ne me laissez pas tomber maintenant!

Marty Esworthy does York Poetry Festival Beat Bash and it sounds like this...