edward steinhardt

Atlantis Rising (New Poetry)

2010-06-09T23:22:00.000-07:00

So what'ya lookin' at?

Nothin'

Big ocean, ain't it?”

Nobody's emptied it

For a while...

(Pause)

That's true. Think

There's anything

At the bottom of it?

Sure

Like what?

Treasure.

Think so?

Yep...

How you reckon'?

There's more to find

Of what's been found.

Things always repeat.

Oh... So what do you

Make of this place now?

Rough Sea. Hard waves.

Yep. The Atlantic.

Tough business, this water.

How so?

Ya don't want

To be found lacking.

How's that?

Keep skippin' stones

Fifty miles that way,

You have Bimini.

(Momentary silence)

Little Place

Of big things:

Record fish,

Hemingway,

The Bimini Road;

Lost worlds found.

Not followin' ya...

That's the point.

Everything's lost

Until it's found again...

You can take my word for it.

I can tell you

How Bimini is,

But you have to go there

To see my prophecy.

Like a prediction?

Only if seein'

Is for the one-time

First-time.

You kinda lost me.

A truck drives

Down a road twice

The same way once.

The Birds—

The sea gulls there—

That's uncharted faith,

Flying without a flight-plan.

Or the sound of the surf?

Maybe... Locked

Into someone's memory.

More like the memory

Of Atlantis lost.

The city?

A whole continent,

Lying out there

Past the swimming markers,

Past the ghost ships,

Past the past of time, even.

You believe in it?

Time?

Atlantis.

Depends. Depends

On my faith forward

Receding.

Ah...

You gotta step back,

Sometimes, to go forward.

And is that you?

Maybe. When you are in

The world of maybe's,

There's a lot of marking time.

The sun's going down.

Exactly, that's my point.

You're pretty deep.

Not as deep

As Atlantis' bathtub.

You do some mushrooms

Before you came out here?

No. Sitting here as I am

I am sensing time.

(Pause)

To go forward

You must know

Where you have been.

Kinda like crossin' the street?

Yeah, you're gettin'

The picture now.

You gotta look both ways.

(Silence)

There are white-caps now.

Yeah, it's pushin',

Pushin' like it did

When it gave us life;

Spit out like Jonah

Out of the mouth

Of the whale—

Or worse, shipwrecked,

Finding your head

On a pillow of seaweed.

So you're going to wait...

Maybe.

In the world of maybe's

This might be Atlantis risin'.

Think there's a chance?

No such thing as chance.

Chance is opportunity

Embracing reality.

And Atlantis, like I said?

No one thing

Is two times told.

The old of everything

Is new to all.

(Pause, then)

The sun is almost down...

What is the greatest question,

Do you think?

That's easy.

Where do the seagulls

Sleep at night...

You know, I think I need

To go get that beer now...

See? The sea pushes

Everything farther

And farther out.

See you around, maybe?

Maybe not.

To go is not to return the same.

(Pause)

Ever notice the waves

Only come to shore?

There's no drain

In this here tub.

The first man is left alone;

Like the first time,

Where, in the darkness

Of his mind

There were mysterious

Wheels within wheels.

And this man Ezekiel

Looked out

Upon the dead light

Of a very great moon.

He stood up on the shore

And began to walk.

Maybe.

"Dog Tags" New Short Fiction

2010-03-09T16:20:00.000-08:00

Short fiction is very gratifying to write. In this instance I just had only the small germ of an idea of what I wanted to do; namely 1) a soldier's habit of putting a dog-tag in his left boot, and 2) the reminiscence of my injured dog Lassie when I was a kid in Alaska. Five hours later, this is what transpired via the pen.

I've never written war fiction. I've written a poem or two about war, but not fiction directly related to armed-conflict. Now and then I return to the fiction of Ernest Hemingway. For some reason reading Hemingway trips a switch. His use of dialogue and imagery (which at times is a very poetic imagery) tickle my muse. I am also caught-up his cadence of short sentences. They are rather mesmerizing. They are sharp and to the point.

When I am immersed in that style that was Hemingway's, that is when I best achieve what my friend Richard Wilbur calls "good, spare writing." The short story "A Square Green Patch of Earth" (in Standing Pelican: Key West Poems & Stories) is an example. That award-winning piece came to me quickly and effortlessly after reading To Have and Have Not.

This new piece is also the result, in part, of writing "what you know." I think it is rare, indeed, for an author not to write autobiographically. I believe bits and pieces of a life emerge in one's work, albeit in clipped transcript. Such life experience, if done well, integrates imagination and reality for the larger purpose of creating a new work to convey, impart and inspire. That is the magic of fiction.

I hope you find this story readable and interesting. I enjoyed writing it very much. Forgive me in advance for the language. Remember, this is war fiction! I dedicate it to all our fine men and women in the Afghan and Iraqi war theaters.

—edward steinhardt

Dog Tags

They took fire for a long time. They were pinned-down in a fox-hole. And it was hot.

"Fuck Afghanistan," said the Corporal. Anyone who knew the Corporal was used to his pronouncements.

Georgia Jim ducked his head down as more fire came in close. Dust rose where the lead strafed the ground above them.

"You've got that right. I get one more turbaned head in my cross-hairs, I'm gonna empty my gun on 'im."

"We gotta be careful. Easy on the ammo, man," said the Corporal. "We don't know how long we're gonna have to live in this here hole."

"Shit," Georgia Jim muttered. Georgia Jim was thinking how this wasn't too good a situation.

"Okay, cover me again," said the Corporal. After a pause, the Corporal did a one-two-three count with his fingers. The two men jumped up, aimed and fired. They came back down into the foxhole as fast as they'd gone up. Automatic weapon fire strafed their area again. They could hear a new sound, too. It was mortar fire. The blast was a ways off, but it shook the ground.

"Jesus," said Jim, "how much weaponry did the Soviets leave these guys?"

"Yeah," agreed the Corporal, "or how much they're still buyin' from the Russkies."

"What'ya think they're usin'?"

"AK-47 probl'y," answered the Corporal. "Twelve-seven."

Jim considered that. Then, "Wasn't Putin KGB?"

The Corporal was putting some new chew in his mouth. He nodded his head. "Hell, yeah, he was."

"I'd still like to get me a Russian," said Georgia Jim.

The Corporal gave him a sideways glance. "Cold war's over, there bud. You missed your chance."

Another mortar blast came then, only closer. Dirt shook loose from the sides of the hole. The two men ducked their heads even lower. Their helmets made them look like tall, receding turtles.

"Fuck me," said Georgia Jim. "Where's our air cover?"

"Your radio's still not workin'?"

"No," said Georgia Jim. He looked over at the Corporal. Jim's radio got shot up when they dived in the hole. Or maybe the transmitter just got jumbled-up inside. Kinda like how Jim felt now.

The Corporal stamped the heel of his left boot several times from his sitting position. Georgia Jim jumped slightly. He looked at the Corporal warily.

"Dog tag," said the Corporal. He stamped his boot heel again. He looked over at Jim. "They didn't tell you that?"

"What?"

"The dog tag. You put one in your left boot." The Corporal could tell Georgia Jim didn't have a clue. He smiled slightly. "It's in case you do an IED. Not much left. But there's always a boot left over."

The Corporal slowly stuck his mirror over the edge. "Can't wait for the Land Warrior system," he said, as he telescoped it back. "Well, they're stayin' put. They aren't gettin' any closer."

"Too bad this thing don't go down and 'round some," said Georgia Jim of their accommodations.

"I rather think this is a latrine."

"No shit." Georgia Jim scooted back to a corner.

"No," laughed the Corporal. "I think they were diggin' it. It ain't finished yet. Prob'ly was gonna be a base. Maybe even one of ours."

"Oh." Georgia Jim nodded his head once in assent. His eyes looked left out the corners of his eyes. "Well, it's too bad the thing ain't longer. I could give 'em fire from different spots." Jim still wanted to make his point. "It would'a been nice to get 'em thinkin' there was more than just you and me."

The Corporal just let Georgia Jim run with that thought. He let it be his one consolation prize. This thing, the Corporal knew, could go either way. Poor kid. He was getting spooked.

"Want some?" The Corporal held out his packet of chewing tobacco.

"Hell, no. But thanks. That stuff'll cancer your tongue and cheeks from the inside out in two Sundays." Some more bullets strafed the ground above them. "Shit," said Jim.

The Corporal gave him a look. Georgia Jim's eyes weren't too steady. They were starting to dart back and forth. "This your first time?" he asked.

Jim just nodded. He sat there, his trigger hand holding onto the stock of his weapon real tight. Too tight.

The Corporal shifted slightly and Jim jumped. "Where you from? Jim, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. Jim. Georgia Jim."

"So you're from—"

"No," interrupted Jim. "I'm not from Georgia. They stuck that on me in basic."

"Ah, the accent... How long ago was that?" the Corporal asked. He was trying to occupy Jim's thoughts.

"Three weeks ago."

"Ah..."

Georgia Jim gave a wry smile. "Three weeks ago. Nine weeks basic. They re-wire you, man. I never thought I'd make it."

The Corporal spit out some tobacco juice. "Yeah. They play with your head in there, that's for sure." He paused, chewing thoughtfully. "How'd you pick Army?"

That got Jim to smile just a little. "Army recruiter's my cousin."

"Oh, that'll do it. That'll do it every time. 'll bet he got a nice big bonus for you..."

"I guess so. Was going to pick the Marines. Glad I didn't."

"Why's that?" The Corporal shifted so he sat on his rump, back against the wall, weapon across his knees.

"Predictions, maybe. Their slogan."

The Corporal was silent. He just let Georgia Jim talk.

"Was a little ominous, that's all. The few, the proud, the Marines. I believe in startin' out with your best chance. You get my drift?"

"Yeah, I gotcha."

There was a pause. In the interval they could hear shouts in Arabic way off.

"What those rag-heads up to?" Georgia Jim started to get up.

The Corporal reached over fast and grabbed Jim's elbow. "Stay the fuck down, man. Whatcha doin'? They do that so they can pop you through your Adam's apple."

Georgia Jim sat down. He was relieved. But he felt like a tossed-salad inside. "Shit. that would've been really stupid. I sure would've fucked things up."

The Corporal gave him a speculative look. "That's okay. Just lay low. The Taliban—or whatever the fuck they are—they're probably just as—nervous—as we are."

"Think so?"

"Why sure. They're probably just kids. Prob'ly got recruited yesterday from Jalalabad."

"Oh." Georgia Jim pondered this. He was adding this to his litany of calculations. The ins and outs. Pros and cons. Percentages...

Just then a low whine could be heard.

The Corporal got into a crouch. "Thank God, Almighty. 'Bout time they sent one."

Georgia Jim made like he was going to do something drastic again. The Corporal gave a cutting motion with his hand. Translated, it was, "stay where you are."

The Corporal was fumbling in his pockets. Then hands to his belt. He produced what he was looking for. "Stay down," he hissed. He pulled the pin and threw the smoke grenade. A plume of violet smoke drifted back over them.

The whine was loud now. Appreciably louder, the Corporal thought. "Fuckin' eat that, Little Osamas," he yelled.

There was automatic weapon fire. Then there was an explosion as the UAV delivered a Hellfire to its target.

"Yeah, Hellfire and brimstone!" the Corporal yelled with a follow-up.

The two men scrunched-down, holding their helmets in place as a spray of rock, gravel and sand descended from the sky.

As the dust settled, they could hear the sound of the drone's engine become fainter and fainter. Then there was just silence. The hot sun magnified the dust particles that floated aimlessly.

"You think that got 'em?" asked Jim.

"We'll soon find out." The Corporal tried to extend his mirror gadget. Then he noticed the mirror was broken. "Fuck," he said. "Gonna have to do this the old-fashioned way." He paused. To Jim, he said, "Ready?"

"Yeah."

The Corporal did the three finger count again. They rose. But Georgia Jim levied an inordinant spray of lead where the enemy would have been.

"Hey, you don't need to—."

Jim turned to look at the Corporal. Then he turned completely around and started firing. A silhouette fell into the hole, writhing. Jim started to point his weapon down.

The Corporal jumped towards Jim. Jim fired. The Corporal's "Nooooo—" became a yelp as he completed his lunge at Georgia Jim. The Corporal lay atop and slightly to the side of Jim. Jim lay there, his eyes huge and blinking hard.

The Corporal's voice came hoarse in his ear. "What the fuck you doin'? He's one of us."

The Corporal slowly rolled over. Then he groaned. "Jesus, you shot me. You dumb-fuck."

Georgia Jim threw his weapon away from him and scooted back against the wall of the trench. He sat there, his arms around his legs, his knees drawn up to his chest. His eyes looked down.

The Corporal had risen to a sitting position. He ran his hand along his mid-section. His hand came away with blood. Fuck, he thought. The Kevlar vest had rode up his chest when he lunged at Jim. He got it square in the lower abdomen.

He looked over at the prone man next to him. He reached over and checked for a pulse. Nothing. Shit, shit, shit! He looked over at Georgia Jim. Their eyes met. Then Jim looked quickly away. Jim slowly grabbed his helmet with both hands and tried to pull it down as far as he could over his face. If he was a turtle, he'd been in his shell by now.

The Corporal sat back against the opposing wall of the trench. He could see Georgia Jim every second, every minute of his miserable fucking, putrid life now. Jesus H. Christ.

It hurt to move, so the Corporal said, "You're gonna have to help me bandage up." He ran a hand past his abdomen again. Sheee—it, he was losing too much blood.

Jim peered out from under his helmet. He was shaking.

"First thing, get his radio."

Jim looked confused.

"His radio. The guy you shot." The first guy you shot, thought the Corporal.

The idea, the plan, was slowly being born in Georgia Jim's brain. He squinted in thought. But he was still shaking.

"His radio. You gotta call for help. A medic... You know?"

Jim seemed to finally understand. He slowly moved over to the dead man. Jim's hands shook as he held them out over him. He could see the profile of the man's face. Jesus, he was just a kid. No older than him. Jim just hovered over him.

"The radio," repeated the Corporal.

Georgia Jim reached for and unhooked the transmitter. He pressed the button. "Hello?" he said, almost in a whisper. "Hello?"

"Alpha Base here. Who is this?"

"This is Jim," he paused. "Georgia Jim."

"Well, hell, we wondered where you were Georgy Porgie. What are your cords?"

Jim looked helplessly over at the Corporal. The Corporal nodded. He was losing steam.

"Fifty yards off the main road," said the Corporal. He paused for breath.

Jim was completely silent.

"Repeat what I just said."

"Fifty yards off the main road."

"Two kilometers past the Nangarhar line," said the Corporal.

"Two kilometers past Nangarhar line," repeated Jim.

"A hundred yards west of your drop. We had smoke out."

Jim repeated all of it.

"We gotcha. We're not far off. A unit'll be there in a jiff."

"We need a medic. Two... one down," Georgia Jim corrected.

The Corporal nodded his head slowly, then grimaced.

"Will do," came the voice through the radio.

Then Jim just let the transmitter fall from his fingers like it was a yo-yo with no climb back up. He sat back and just stared down at the dead man.

"Okay, you gotta help me get my armor off. I gotta—we gotta—stop this bleeding."

The silence was interrupted by more Arabic in the distance. Georgia Jim's eyes darted in panic. He looked at the Corporal, then to where his gun lay on the other side of the Corporal.

"No— don't! I can half-understand what they're sayin'. They're in worse shape than we are..." His voice trailed off.

Jim scooted over to the Corporal. He sat there on his knees, awaiting instruction. The Corporal adjusted himself slightly, so he could lay down in the trench. He winced "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he breathed.

Jim hovered over the Corporal.

"Take my flak off."

Between the two of them, the armor was soon off. The Corporal raised his T-shirt as he lifted his head to look. Blood oozed from the abdominal wound. His head fell back with a weak, "fuck."

The Corporal rested a minute. "I need your shirt."

Jim looked puzzled.

"We need to rip your shirt in a couple strips."

Jim seemed to then understand. He unbuckled his gear; got out of his vest and pulled his T-shirt over his head. He held it in his hand and stared at it dumbly. Then very slowly he began to tear it into strips. His eyes now seemed to just start to glaze over. It was as if he was on automatic pilot. Or piloted by that inner spring that, when so wound down, can never be turned quickly to life.

"You—need—to," the Corporal breathed heavily, "wrap me to staunch the blood flow."

Georgia Jim just sat there on his knees. He wadded up the strips he'd made and gently lay them on the Corporal's abdomen, then sat back quickly as if he'd touched a flame. His hand darted forward once to move the wad of cloth more directly over the bullet's point of entry. Then he sat back on his haunches again.

The Corporal reached down with one hand and pressed the cotton over the wound. He was getting severely light-headed. He turned his head to look at Jim. He had adopted his original stance of sitting, knees pulled up into his chest. But this time he looked strangely—vulnerable. Shirtless, helmet-less, Georgia Jim sat there and began to rock, his eyes focused somewhere out ahead of him—in the dirt— in the sand and gravel that separated them from the life they once knew, before... before everything, before everything went to hell.

The Corporal turned his head to look straight forward. All he could see was sky. And one wisp of a cloud, one orphan of a cloud.

The Corporal coughed, then winced. "So—," he said at last, wincing again as he moved slightly, "you're from Georgia?" There was a long silence. "You sound like you're from Georgia."

"No," came the soft reply.

The Corporal just listened, as he watched the low wisp of a cloud float above him, almost motionless.

"I'm from Missoura," said Jim, with an accent on the last 'i' that made it into an 'a.' "Sikeston."

"Cotton."

"Yeah," Jim said flatly. Then more cognizant, he asked, "You been there?"

"Sure, kid. I've been there." But the Corporal's words came out labored now. "I'm from Memphis..." He paused. "Originally."

Jim's eyes slowly strayed to the Corporal. Then he quickly looked away. He had stopped rocking while talking. But now he started again. The hot sun fell on his blond hair, making his hair seem even blonder.

"What did you do?"

Jim's eyes faced forward again. "My dad's cabinet shop. He made furniture."

"I see," the Corporal's voice said slowly. "So he was good with his hands..."

Jim slowed his rocking and slowly looked toward the Corporal. The Corporal knew—resisted—saying the son was not as good with his hands in turn. He winced as he changed hands to hold the cloth against his wound.

"Put your helmet on."

"What?"

"You heard me."

It took a few moments, but Jim reached over, picked up his helmet and put it on his head. Then he commenced to rocking again.

The Corporal looked over at him. Then he looked up at his cloud again. The cloud had moved. It was nearing the two o'clock position of the rectangle he looked out of. By three o'clock it would be out of view.

"So tell me something."

"What...?"

" A story. Tell me some story. 'bout when you were a kid."

The silence deepened between them. When the Corporal thought Georgia Jim, who was not from Georgia, was not going to say anything, the kid's voice started off.

"When I was 'bout six I got off the bus from school and found my dog. He was in the ditch. He'd been hit by a car." He paused a long time. He was trolling through his memories, to see what memories he could produce. "His name was Black. But he was a dog with white hair. Curly hair. A mongrel dog."

The Corporal waited.

"His name was Black..." he repeated again. "I carried Black up to the house. Dad came out and—," his voice trailed off. "He said Black was hurt real bad. Too bad. He said he wouldn't get any better... He, he wanted to... shoot 'im."

The Corporal lay there, watching his cloud, trying to envision the scenario. He placed it into his own catalog of memories; the context of his own childhood. The dog whining. Maybe a wind blowing through the brace of pines alongside the house in Memphis...

"But I told 'im no, that Blackie would be all right. So dad says, 'Well, we'll get two aspirin down 'im and lay 'im here.' So we lay him next to the porch. But we could tell his hind legs weren't workin'."

The Corporal could see it. The dog. A bowl of water placed next to him. A blanket, maybe. Yeah, and some food.

"So I sat with 'im there til dark, til I got called in..." His voice trailed off. "In the mornin' Black was gone—kinda. He'd pulled himself under the house. Dad said animals did that, retreat like that when they were hurt. They either get better, or they—." Jim paused. His eyes darted over to the Corporal. The Corporal had been trying to unhook his canteen, but he gave up and lay still, exhausted. And the effort evaded Jim's... comprehension.

"But in a few days Black came out draggin' his back legs to eat. In a week the back legs started to work a bit. Dad couldn't understand it."

The Corporal watched the small cloud reach the edge of the rectangle of sky. He could see the dog pulling himself along. He could feel the resolve. Even though he now had none.

"Black got most of—his legs—back. He limped a little."

The Corporal was watching the cloud ease slowly past the boundary of his view of the sky. He could almost reach up and touch that cloud. Or the dog. Blackie. Yeah. The dog that was black but was white... He'd reach out and pull that dog to him. The thick white curls. He could feel them. And the wind blowing through the pines. Yeah, the wind. He could hear it, faintly now.

"What's your name?" Jim asked softly, slowing his rocking to ask. He repeated it two more times. "What's your name?"

There was no answer.

Georgia Jim pulled his helmet down over his forehead. He kept whispering the question as he continued to rock, his arms locked around his knees pulled up to his heart. And the wind was blowing.

Passages: Charles Erwin Neighbors: The Giving of Our Guiding Lights (1947-2009)

2009-09-09T20:16:00.000-07:00

There are so many people in a life that make such a difference. There are a few who merit being called Guiding Lights.

When I first met Erwin Neighbors he was teacher and I was an 11th-grade high school student. Mr. Neighbors taught English, American Literature in particular.

As a junior in high school I was extremely shy. I kept to myself. I was quiet, so quiet, many of my fellow students thought I was on the Honor Roll just as they were. But I wasn't. In fact, I never really liked high school.

The one thing I liked to do was write. It was poetry. And short stories. Writing was my outlet, how I converged with the world. Donald Spoto said of Tennessee Williams that Williams, while living in St.Louis was “painfully shy” growing up. That was me, as well.

But one way I could express myself, was through writing. Mr. Neighbors saw that and singled me out with quiet attention. He expeditiously had me join his Creative Writing Club, which met monthly after school. The club put out two magazines a year which were sold to the student body. And also a Christmas issue.

Mr. Neighbors was one of those rare teachers who made literature relational. Mr. Neighbors taught American Lit. my junior year. He not only taught us about our early American literary masters, but showed us photographic slides of the places we were learning about. We had read “Walden's Pond,” but Mr. Neighbors had been there. He had actual photos of Henry David Thoreau's place in the woods. There was real, present-day photographic evidence of the pond!

I remember to this day the entire school quarter we spent on reading and dissecting Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. It was about the genius of the book more than anything; the great symbolism it contained. Maybe that was why I did a book report that year on The House of Seven Gables. I didn't get the “E” I wanted, but the “S” or “S-” was good enough.

The other remarkable thing Mr. Neighbors did for us was to show us that writers—especially—were once living and breathing beings. It was so much more than the author's name in the Lit. book, followed by a birth-date and death-date. Again, he made literature relational, in this case taking us to hear a living and breathing poet at a near-by junior college. This was someone who didn't have a death-date under their name in the American Lit. book!

We found the grey-haired poet before us funny. “What is a pocket but a hole,” he quipped on stage, and we laughed. Or “Why are stamps adorned with kings and presidents? That we may lick their hinder parts and thump their heads.” (“Power to the People”). And we laughed again from the front row of the auditorium. Little did I know that I would 13 years later produce two Howard Nemerov poetry readings, the latter being his very last...

But back then I was just a shy, acne-covered high school student. And like my fellow Creative Writing Club members, trying to find a way into the world through a pen and a typewriter. And lots of mimeograph ink on our fingers...

Erwin Neighbors was the very real, but quiet, meticulous—but better—version of Kevin Kline in Dead Poets Society. We did indeed bloom under his guidance. He had an affinity and love of education, anything smart, and students who at least tried their very best. Even as he once quietly corrected my spelling of “seperate” to “separate” in study hall once. He never made me feel ashamed for the miss-spelling.

Perhaps it was also because he was a fisherman, a hunter and archaeologist and lover of history that he understood the often still and quiet nature of young people. He was an observer. And he was able to solicit from us our very best. And seek us out. He was a proud father of the flock of writers that he so carefully guided and cultivated at Hermann High.

I think Mr. Neighbors had a certain facility to understand the angst of youth, as all such young men and women go forth to flex and try their wings from the nest that every high school is. Certainly his guidance went a long way to help a gaggle of 14 young people achieve their disparate but collegiate identities that school year. In his (our) issue of Counterpoint that year, Mr. Neighbors summed up the process in verse on his dedication page:

The Vernal Urge

In the springtime of years,

A migrant flock of chosen words

Are launched to test their wings,

Hoping that someone in darkness

Will hear their wild call

And pause to scan his sky

And think of that North of dreams

Toward which we are all drawn.

I truly hope that there are many more Erwin Neighbors out there in our world today. I certainly have been blessed and splendidly influenced by his brief but patient attention. My first book was dedicated to him.

In the succeeding years we infrequently shared correspondence. One thing is for sure. Erwin had the most extraordinary and beautiful handwriting I've seen, then or since. But then again, can any less be expected of a Guiding Light? Probably not...

Thank you, Erwin. You will be missed. And you are...

_____________________

Many, many thanks to Jessica Neighbors Hill for supplying the obituary and photograph of her father! Thank you, Jessica!

Charles Erwin Neighbors, 61, passed away May 3, 2009 at University Hospital in Columbia, Missouri. He was a resident of Moberly, Missouri.

Erwin was born August 11, 1947 in Unionville, Missouri to Chester V. Neighbors and Vivienne A. (Halliburton) Neighbors and grew up on a farm near Pollock, Missouri. He graduated from Green City R-1 High School in 1965. He attended college at Northeast Missouri State University, Kirksville, Missouri, graduating with a Bachelor of Science in education in 1969, a Master of Arts in 1971 and an Education Specialist in 1991. He married Jolene M. Emel in 1971; their marriage ended in 1995. His twin children Byron E. Neighbors and Jessica M. (Neighbors) Hill were born in 1977. At the time of his death, he was engaged to Dr. Patricia A. Miller, with whom he shared 13 loving years.

Erwin was a teacher, school administrator and professor. He taught secondary school English and social studies for 15 years, and was a secondary school principal for six years and a school district superintendent for six years. After his retirement, he became an adjunct instructor at Moberly Area Community College, where he taught English for eight years.

An avid hunter, outdoorsman, conservationist, archaeologist, historian, genealogist and travel buff, Erwin was dedicated to his many hobbies and associations. He was active in Optimist International, where he had served as Governor of the East Missouri District, and the Missouri Archaeological Society, where he had served on the board of directors. He was also a member of the Archaeological Conservancy, the National Trust for Historic Preservation, Defenders of Wildlife, the National Wildlife Federation, the National Muzzleloading Rifle Association, and the Truman State University Northeast Missouri Alumni Chapter. He was a long-time member of the First United Methodist Church in Kirksville, Missouri.

Erwin was a dedicated father and proud grandfather. He was preceded in death by his parents, and he is survived by his son Byron and wife Kimberly Neighbors of Columbia, Missouri; his daughter Jessica and husband Jason Hill of Owasso, Oklahoma; his two grandchildren Jacob Paul and Caitlin Marie Hill of Owasso, Oklahoma; his fiancé Dr. Patricia Miller of O’Fallon, Missouri, and many friends.

The Dedication Page, A Minor Poet's Tribute to a Major Poet: Richard Wilbur

2009-08-24T23:10:00.000-07:00

“It is true that the poet does not directly address his neighbors, but he does address a great congress of persons who dwell at the back of his mind, a congress of all those who have taught him and whom he has admired; they constitute his ideal audience and his better self.”

--Richard Wilbur

Remarkably, one of the finest gestures any man bestowed on me was one by Richard Wilbur. In the early 1990s we were pouring our tall frames into my car. As I got in behind the steering wheel, I noticed Dick reach down and pick something up from the seat, then sit down. Before I turned the ignition, Dick reached a hand over, saying, “Whenever I find something like this, I like to give it to my nearest friend.” I dutifully held my hand out. He dropped a dime from his hand into mine. His earnestness and my smile have stayed with me for years.

I am like my father. My dad relished and valued friendships with people older than he. We both had an affinity for absorbing and learning from the life experiences of others. There is something to be said for mentoring. Perhaps it is Socratic. Perhaps it is influence from a distance. Or maybe it's just being there, like many writers are, an example of how we should be. It's also, in a small way, about heroes.

My first literary influence was that of Howard Nemerov. Howard was also one of the venerable masters of his craft. But he could sometimes be gruff. On one occasion, we sat at breakfast. We were waiting for his wife Peggy to come downstairs. Howard was direct and to the point. In his deep, sonorous voice, he said, “I read your book last night.” In the space of a very small pause, I replied, “You mean all of it?” Of course, that gave Howard his chance. He became professor

Nemerov. “Now, Edward,” he said sternly. “When you read a book of verse, do you read all of it in a single sitting?” Plainly I was being chastised! And he was right of course. I offered, if I recall, a soft, timid “No.” We had another pause then, he gauging me with that quizzical look of his. He softened. “Well, I read the poem you wrote to me, and I was deeply moved by it.”

Blessedly, after Howard died, Richard Wilbur consented to pick up the baton of that yearly program I produced. And our resulting 20 year friendship has been truly a blessing. He has a genuine, earnest approach to life and communication. His approach is both contemplative and almost gleefully interested at the same

time. Perhaps it has more to do with his positive approach to life, much like Tennessee Williams who heralded the ability to still “be surprised” by life, particularly as one ages.

In a day and age when we have truly seemed to have lost the capacity to have heroes, Richard Wilbur remains the gentleman and scholar one should emulate. His dedication to his art and his craft is so focused-- his literary output so vast-- he is truly one of the most very remarkable and gifted writers of our time. Simply, we are fortunate to learn from such undisputed Masters. We are emboldened by such grace... Or grace of space...

In a way, it is a truly remarkable journey we take in this life of ours. A great many people come into it. Sometimes they are also great. They are sometimes large of heart. And they give unselfishly of the noble ideas and formulas that form the inertia of their art. We are lucky, in regard to the truly great of mind, to be allowed a more-or-less generous peek into the process. Or a good word.

Once Howard, Peggy and I were in my car. Howard was sitting up front. As I prepared to turn the key, I could not help but tender an analogy, to which the former WWII fighter pilot responded. “Ignition,” I said. “Contact,” he said. And we were off.

It's all about momentum. And thanks.

Thanks, Dick. This new book is dedicated to you...

Photo Captions (Top Down):

1) Cover of Standing Pelican: Key West Poems & Stories, dedicated to Richard Wilbur. Foreword by JOHN HEMINGWAY.

2) Edward Steinhardt and Richard Wilbur, 1992.

3) Edward Steinhardt, Howard Nemerov, Margaret Nemerov, 1991. At the conclusion at the last poetry reading Nemerov would ever give.

4) Letter to Steinhardt from Richard Wilbur

5) Nemerov inscription to Steinhardt, 1991, University City, Missouri.

6) Robert Frost and Wallace Stevens at the Casa Marina Hotel, Key West.

7) Richard Wilbur, courtesy of Secret of Salt: An Indigenous Journal.

It's easy to order a copy of Standing Pelican: Key West Poems & Stories. Send check or money order in the amount of $13.95 (plus $4.00 shipping) to: MARGARET STREET BOOKS, P.O. BOX 23314, ST. LOUIS, MO 63156

The Armory of Widowed Sons: When a Poet's Father Dies

2009-08-12T18:06:00.000-07:00

I learned today my father died yesterday. My father had been suffering from emphysema for many years. He died at home early yesterday morning reaching for the cord of his Nebulizer machine. He was 70.

My dad and I didn't always get along. My dad was a carpenter. In a way, he and I were unfinished parts of wooden toys he would make for his grandchildren and nephews and nieces. We were members of the same working project, but still independent, with our differences.

The older you get, the more you find sometimes that you are more like your father than you intended. When you reach your forties, your dad seems to look back in the mirror at you: the look, the forehead, the receding hair, maybe even the walk.

When I visited with my father a couple weeks ago, I was acutely aware that my father and I were more alike than I ever knew. When I first arrived, we sat at the kitchen table. He cupped his hand over mine on the table, maintaining a male decorum. We both sat there silently crying, because we had not seen one another for a couple years. He also knew his time was short. I was home briefly, running away from a Key West love-affair.

In 2006 I was severely injured when I was hit head-on by a car while I was driving a scooter down Simonton Street in the Southernmost City. I received many broken bones including severe head injuries. A kind KWPD officer cradled my head until the ambulance arrived. He told me several weeks later that I had repeated two things laying in the street, "Where is Lukasz?" and more importantly, "I want my Daddy..."

When I was seven years old we lived outside Palmer, Alaska. We had just moved there, my just having my seventh birthday in a campground outside Edmonton, Canada, on the way up the old AlCan Highway. My dad at last had his cabinet shop, in a large quonset building. I remember the house and the shop were heated by coal, because the circle drive consisted of cinders.

I remember walking down the long drive after school and going into the shop where my father was making kitchen cabinets. My father was always a stern man, something he had adopted from his father. I was always in rather a fear of him, since he was quite the disciplinarian.

So I had to work up great courage to initiate conversation with him. When I detected a spot of time where his work had slowed, I told him my dilemma, how the other boys at school no longer called their fathers "Daddy." I finally posited my question, "Daddy, can I call you 'Dad?'" His response was to the affirmative. And I went to the house, relieved that I'd gotten that over with...

Some 15 years ago, my father and I were talking. The subject was my youngest brother and some trouble he was in. I remember remarking, "Boy, if I'd done that, I would have been murdered for it!" My dad paused, then said softly, "Eddie, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't regret how hard I was on you."

For many years, I thought I was totally opposite of my father. In recent years the commonality of our traits and blood showed me how similar we were. We both, I found, were ultra-sensitive, both within ourselves and toward others. We also shared the challenge of depression, something in retrospect my grandmother battled. My dad lamented that there were no readily available anti-depressant medications like there were today. Two weeks ago, I asked my father, "Dad, how do you keep from going crazy?" He quickly answered, "I keep busy." He was always an early riser and at work in his shop. In recent years he had excelled in carving life-sized herons and doing canvas painting, in addition to his trellises and other projects.

While I was growing up, my father was an unwitting influence on his young son, his son who stuttered, who was exceptionally sensitive, cute; and conversely every teacher's pet without ever trying. The first thing of importance I can recall was when we lived in the old rural Larsen, Wisconsin schoolhouse that my dad had converted to a house. I was very cognizant of the fact that my father had had a Letter to the Editor published in the local paper. He was (and remained) quite the American patriot, while in those days he was a member of the John Birch Society. A Navy veteran, my dad had a published work in the newspaper with his name at the bottom. And at six years old, I was very impressed. Someday, I thought, I would like my by-line in the paper, too. Much later, I would write for a newspaper for ten years.

At age seven, my father would have me type his infrequent business letters on an old manual typewriter. And then, when we lived on Bodenburg Creek near "The Butte" outside of Palmer, Alaska, I began to read and collect books. It was a practice my father did not defer; every time it came time to order books through the Scholastic catalog at school, my father generously ordered up to five books. My collection soon became the "Bodenburg Library," on a shelf under the stairs. Library stamps consisted of a Dudley DoRight stamp...

My father finally mellowed in his later years. And in time our differences became similarities. I was never the fisherman or hunter my father wished of his eldest son. His son instead was slightly frail, already having survived two bouts of pneumonia. Sensitive— and yes— maybe percocious. Sometimes favored children know of their status early on. And my grandmother absolutely adored me, as she and my grandfather shared in raising me those first six years.

The hunter? No, that I never became. I was too squeamish. My father took me only one time Caribou hunting. It was near Lake Louise in Alaska. We trudged through the snow, me following in my father's footsteps. After about 15 minutes, he slowed and said to me over his shoulder, "Are you cold?" I shrugged, because it would have been treason to admit a Steinhardt male was not a hunter and was cold. We continued on. Another 15 minutes later he stopped and asked me again. "Are you cold?" My little body was shivering like a little birch tree in the wind. I could only nod in the affirmative.

We retraced our steps back to the truck then, me dreaming of the glories of the truck heater, but also cognizant that my father was abbreviating his hunt for a prize caribou to care for his eldest son; not unlike the time we hit a deer in Wisconsin when I was three. "You don't remember that, do you?" I would always shake my head. "You were standing on the seat and I had to reach over to catch you."

The sad part in losing your father, is there is no longer that familial familiarity. I remember Ramsey Mason, who owned the first movie theater I worked at. Ramsey taught me how to be a 35mm projectionist. One day— about mid-day—I was in the lobby of the old theater, having just finished cleaning the auditorium. And I remember Ramsey coming in. And he was shaken, for his mother had just died. "Ed," he said, "It's a terrible thing to lose your last parent. Because then you can't go back home and you're truly alone..." And he was crying. And I didn't know what to say. What was I, maybe 19?

Two weeks ago at my father's house, my dad asked me, "Is there anything you want in the house?" I demurred. Then I thought of the Gray squirrel. My dad had shot it when he was 13 and taxidermied it himself. "I would have liked the squirrel," I said. 60 years hadn't been kind to the old squirrel. "Oh," he said, "the hair started falling off so I threw it away." I said maybe I'd like the arrowheads he found when he was a kid.

* * *

For all of our years, my father and I had a remarkable bond. We were compatriots of a sort when for my first six years he was a single father and I was his only child. He professed to have a psychic link to me that was quite unique. My father told me several times that if I was going through hard times or was depressed he could feel it. Sometimes it would wake him up. Although I did not share such a link, I was appreciative of that bond; not unlike the care he showed early on before any differences became manifest; like when he reached over and caught me when we hit that deer.

That's the sad part in all of this, when you lose your father. You can no longer go home, and there is no longer anyone to catch you when you fall.

So this is what I record as a new inductee in the Armory of Widowed Sons. I must close now, for I have resisted tears today. I sit in a recliner in a rented room in a boarding house in St. Louis. And await the long cry...

IN MEMORIAM: Lee Benedict Steinhardt May 12, 1939-August 11, 2009

Going Through My Father's Things

His glasses,
A half-dozen watches;
Old photographs.
My brothers get
The black-powder guns.
I choose a few things:
A clock he made,
A heron he carved,
A painting he painted.
We find old driver's licenses,
Deer tags from the 50s;
An arrowhead he found
When he was a kid.
My brother Wally gets his dog-tags.
I insist on the old wooden cigar box
My dad found in the Mojave Desert
When he was 16...
This is what happens
When you join the armory
Of widowed sons,
When a poet's father dies.

At home I am going
Through old photos
And I reach for my phone
To call my dad and say:
"Guess what I found,"
And I can't.
The entry in "Calls Received"
In my cell-phone for Friday
Still says, 'Dad';
By Tuesday he is gone.
On Friday we lay his hammer
Alongside a cedar box
Not much bigger than a book
In a hole in the ground.

--Edward Steinhardt

Photo Captions (Top Down):

1) Lee Steinhardt and Eddie Steinhardt, driveway of Allenville, WI grandparent's house.
2) Lee Steinhardt, Aged 16, ROTC
3) Navy man Lee Steinhardt aboard the U.S.S. Somers
4) Lee Steinhardt and son with Pinnochio, Allenville
5) Eddie Steinhardt, Allenville
6) Drawing by Eddie Steinhardt, age 3, preserved by Lee Steinhardt
7) Eddie and Wisconsin frog, photo by Lee Steinhardt
8) Letter from Eddie Steinhardt to grandparents concerning Palmer, Alaska
9) Color photograph Eddie Steinhardt, age 16.
10) Photograph of Edward Steinhardt. What buying too many Scholastic books for a child will do!

Standing Pelican: Key West Poems & Stories is Now Released!

2009-05-31T10:39:00.001-07:00

"...Thoroughly entertaining, well-written collection, highly original in its scope and style. Steinhardt "reads" much better than many, if not most writers- even (at least to this reviewer) better than Faulkner."
- CHARLES GUENTHER

"A subtropical alfresco that has all the heat, ambiguity and humor that first attracted my grandfather to the island in the 1920s... a true traveler's narrative."
- JOHN HEMINGWAY

Edward Steinhardt's new book, Standing Pelican: Key West Poems & Stories, is ready to order! Remit check or money order in the amount of $13.95 (plus $4.00 shipping) to Margaret Street Books, P.O. Box 23314, St. Louis, MO 63156. Multiple copies (of up to ten) are shipped for just the one flat fee of $4.00! Sales tax is included.

Is your order a gift? Send a note along with your order giving the name for whom you would like the book inscribed.

Guardian of Grief: Poems of Giacomo Leopardi, Translated by Charles Guenther, is now Released

2008-08-09T20:56:00.000-07:00

"Lucid and

graceful..."
—Richard Wilbur

I am pleased to announce as Charles Guenther's last publisher and editor that Charles Guenther's new book, Guardian of Grief: Poems of Giacomo Leopardi, has now been released.

As you may know, Charles left us in late July, leaving many friends, colleagues and readers of his work. The world of literature mourns the loss of this great man.

Conversely, we now celebrate the publication of Charles' new book, a collection of translations of the Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi. The book, although slim (64 pages) is much-heralded. Richard Wilbur, in endorsement remarks, says, "Charles Guenther is a rightly honored translator of French, Spanish and Italian poetry, and it is good indeed that his lucid and graceful renderings of Leopardi have now been gathered into a book."

William Jay Smith, also one of the great poets and translators, says Guardian of Grief "...succeeds brilliantly in retaining the flavor of the great Italian poet's work while carefully avoiding the grossly archaic language that mars so many of the previous versions."

The book is now released and available for order.

____________________________________

Send $12.95 plus $3.95 shipping (this also includes sales tax) to MARGARET STREET BOOKS, P.O. Box 23314, St. Louis, Missouri, USA.

The Story Behind the Book

This project began some six years ago. Charles and I were prodigous correspondents, even when we both lived in St. Louis. With one letter Charles included one of his translations, as was his most-welcome habit with me. We were frequently sharing each other's newest work.

This time it was a poem by Giacomo Leopardi, a poem I found intriguing, mostly because its style seemed so much like my own: introspective, sensitive and rather melancholic. Plainly, I wanted to see more from this poet. I was hooked.

I wrote Charles and asked if he had any more. He sent several more. And I began to see the possibility of a book, one certainly that would showcase Charles' great gift of translation. The nation of Italy, mind you, had already awarded the St. Louis poet their highest award in the early 1970s for his many translations over the years, a special Order of Merit of the Italian Republic, Rank of Knight Commander.

So began a careful project of getting the book to print. Great care was taken by Charles and I to ensure typographical accuracy. We also wanted the best presentation possible. And to familiarize readers as to who Giacomo Leopardi was, Charles obliged to my request to write a biographical introduction on the 19th Century Italian.

Not only does the book entertain by virtue of reading a great Italian's work, but it also educates the reader as to who the young Leopardi was. Charles, at the end of his excellent introduction, is hopeful of this vision, "I hope they (the poems) may bring a renewed interest in, and appreciation of, Leopardi, his life, his times and his work."

While the book is no Three Faces of Autumn in size, Guardian of Grief was extremely close to Charles' heart, despite the fact that these poems were translated some 40 years ago. This is the first time many of these poems have seen actual publication. Poems include "The Infinite," "On the Portrait of a Beautiful Lady Carved on Her Tombstone" and "Hymn to the Patriarchs."

One poem, which closes Guenther's selection of translations, seems apropos in light of Charles' so very recent death. In fact the poem "Calm After the Storm" was read at Charles' funeral. And it is no wonder. It is a case, in the timelessness of poetry, that a poem made so immortal by Guenther's pen served also to celebrate his life as a fallen poet...

One line from that poem reminds me so much of Charles, his love for poetry, and certainly his craftsmanship. "When else does man turn to his studies with such love," the line goes, "or to his work or begin something new?"

In fact, the last stanza of the poem seems as pertinent to us the living (in losing Charles) as a thought can be, when it comes to grief, a subject with which the young, sensitive Leopardi was very familiar.

"O kindly nature,

These are your gifts.

These are the delights

You offer mortals. It's a pleasure

For us to be relieved of pain,

You spread pain freely; grief

Rises spontaneously; and that bit of joy

Which by miracle and prodigy sometimes

Is born of anxiety, is a great gain. A human

Progeny dear to those eternal ones! You're lucky

Indeed if you can breathe again

After some grief: and blessed

If death heals every sorrow."

from Guardian of Grief: Poems of Giacomo Leopardi,
translated and copyright by Charles Guenther

This book certainly brings to life one of Italy's most-revered poets. The book equally demonstrates Charle Guenther's exquisite and careful craftsmanship in translation.

A quote in the beginning of the book summarizes what Charles has accomplished in Guardian of Grief. "Past and present and future are not disjoined but joined," Walt Whitman wrote, "The greatest poet forms the consistence of what is to be from what has been and is. He drags the dead out of their coffins and stands them again on their feet."

See also the advertisement in the next issue of The American Poetry Review.

FROM DODWELLS ROAD: Friends, Frost & the Love Lost

2008-08-04T21:26:00.000-07:00

We are accorded a few good special friends in a life. Among my literary friends is the poet Richard Wilbur. Our friendship goes back to 1992 when I produced a series of poetry readings, the last of which had been vacated by the untimely loss of U.S. Poet Laureate Howard Nemerov.

Dick allowed me to do a feature piece on him in 2007, an interesting piece concerning he and his wife Charlee's experiences wintering 40 years in Key West. He also talks about his home in Massachusetts, and his long love and passion for writing and translation. And the loss of his dear wife of 64 years...

This great piece on Wilbur is available in the splendid literary & photographic journal called Secret of Salt: An Indigenous Journal, published by the immensely visionary Kim Narenkivicius. This publication is available through the Key West Film Society for $21.50 (including tax and shipping). You can buy the book online http://store.keywestfilm.org/servlet/Categories?category=Merchandise&searchpath=16706817&start=9&total=10 or send a check or money order. It also helps a great non-profit.

In the same book (288 pages) is my feature piece on Tennessee Williams and his first visit to Key West in 1941. The article is called "Hell's Hammers: Tennessee Williams' first visit to Key West."

But don't take my word for it (no pun intended)... There's a wonderful potpouri of verse, essays and stories in this handsome book. One of my favorite aspects of this journal are the great color photographs throughout the whole thing. My favorite is a series of photographs by James Leo Herlihy, including images of Tennessee Williams. A great photo of the painter Henry Faulkner and a group of sailors is particularly captivating (one of those photos within a photo type of thing). There are shades of Diane Arbus all through the series.

If you have ever wanted to read something that is patently Key West, this book is it! All the charm, eccentricity, passion and calamity of one little island crammed into a hefty book.

THE SECRET OF SALT: AN INDIGENOUS JOURNAL
Issue 3, 288 pages, Paper, 6.5 x 8 inches, $21.50 (includes tax and shipping)
Check or money order to Key West Film Society, P.O. Box 1283, Key West, FL 33041 USA
or purchase online at http://store.keywestfilm.org/ and use your credit card or Paypal.

Standing Pelican: Key West Poems & Stories, Foreword by John Hemingway, A REVIEW

2008-08-02T23:23:00.000-07:00

For this, my second blog, I tender what may be one of the last reviews Charles Guenther ever wrote, written just a few months ago. This will complete the introduction of edward steinhardt into blogdom...

The Unique Voices of Edward Steinhardt

A Review by Charles Guenther

Many if not most writers have more than one voice—lyric, dramatic or narrative. Few have succeeded in all three, but it’s always a joy to find such an emerging talent. Edward Steinhardt is an experienced poet, editor and journalist, with just the background to write well in any voice. Standing Pelican: Key West Poems & Stories shows a talent unique in its many modulations in poetry, fiction and drama (or docu-drama).

The opening section of Standing Pelican contains a dozen poems, most with Key West settings, and all strikingly different. Steinhardt’s poetry celebrates today’s Key West in Narrative imagery and dialogue. The lines are spare, cinematic, on themes of a Tarot reader, urban bars, and Key West settings. Emotion is tempered, unlike that of modernist Wallace Stevens in whose "Farewell to Florida" (a century ago) "Key West sank downward under massive clouds," and who "hated the weathery yawl" and "the vivid blooms" of that city.

Contrast also Steven’s "The Idea of Order at Key West" which begins with a singing woman (the Sea) and ends almost romantically by summoning a fisherman (Ramon Hernandez). Steinhardt’s "On the Pier at Key West" sings a real man and woman who "Methodically cast/ Their blind lines into the sea."

Steinhardt excels in the short story, with eight delightful examples. In his prize-winning "A Square Green Patch of Earth," are surprising transitions in the narrative, about an elderly couple and the stark, subtle symbolism of a dark ibis. The plot is quiet in tone and flow, and beginning and end are skillfully joined together.

The next story, "Julian," has crisp images of Key West, with intense personal observation and subtle characterization. Its plot involves fresh, moving memories and affectionate relationships of mind and heart.

The next tale is set in the Hemingway House; it is totally different, with almost continuous dialogue and authentic present-day exchanges on the old and new. Still another story unwinds with fascinating contrasts in age and youth, an old man and a young boy.

"The Rooming House" resembles Tennessee Williams’ style in a series of ruminations and musings on rooming house life and characters, reminiscent of Williams’ life in St. Louis and Key West.

The next story, "Johnny Bible" has an aura of mystery, with strong suspense and character contrasts. The plot revolves around an eccentric protagonist and a long-awaited letter—and an unusual ending.

The final story, "The Trials of January Jones," is longer and more intricate. ("January" is a woman.) The leading character’s trials are numerous, credible; yet she endures a life of sadness among the customers in her diner. The revelation of her secret past life will surprise readers.

Standing Pelican closes with a strikingly original one-act play, or docu-drama—a 45-page conversation with Tennessee Williams. Here, too, Steinhardt is a consumate craftsman as an interviewer of Williams, who vacationed in Key West in his youth and bought a house there in 1949. The play is titled "A Summer Place," a setting found in a number of Williams’ works. Steinhardt provides an enlightening introduction, with a cast of ten strongly delineated characters. Steinhardt is particularly well-grounded in this work, since he lived in both Central West St. Louis and Key West where Williams spent most of his life.

Altogether Edward Steinhardt’s Standing Pelican is a thoroughly entertaining, well-written collection, highly original in its scope and style. Steinhardt "reads" much better than many, if not most writers—even (at least to this reviewer) better than Faulkner.

Fathers and Sons... And for the Remembering...

2008-08-02T19:37:00.000-07:00

It's August now. And it's fall, at least in most places. Except for Key West where it is perpetually summer...

I am also reminded of the years. And age. And aging. And friends. And the remembering...

We have no guarantee of tomorrow. Perhaps the only guarantee is that there is a yesterday. And memories. All that is recorded and retained in the thing called the soul...

Friends enable and embolden us. The best friends make such a good difference in our lives it might even be said we become noble.

If one is lucky enough, one might be privileged to have a mentor. Or more than one.

A mentor is like another father. They are morally supportive. You always have their vote. They're behind you 150 per cent.

They also do what you do, or what you're trying to do. And they take the time to show you the ropes, or at least show you the direction in which you should go. It is a spiritual dance between the Greater and the Lessor. One bestows, the other learns.

It is a Teacher and Student arrangement. It is an old Greek way. It is a Roman way. And, given the right formula of time, place and literary ingredients, sometimes also the American way.

Charles Guenther has for me been one such friend, or Father of Letters. And fortunate for me, he sought me out.

I had had one other literary father, Howard Nemerov. He was my first influence, my first initial mentor or infrequent sounding-board.

Coming out of my teens I had promise in poetry, certainly. But the first poems were not necessarily good ones. Some, being born, could barely walk. The balance of those early poems would probably fall under the category of what Howard would later call "a very low form of literary life."

By the time my first book came out (The Painting Birds, Westphalia Press, 1988) my poems were doing better. Or rather I was getting better at my craft. Either Fr. William Barnaby Faherty or Sharon Kinney Hanson had relayed a copy of my first book to Charles Guenther. And Charles wrote me from St. Louis how he like my book and my style of writing.

That was the beginning of an incredible 20 year period of collaborative projects, correspondence and friendship. Charles, in the choosing, had chosen a poet who was eager to learn, to become better at versifying. After all, in the symbiotic dance between Teacher and Student, it's always about one thing (especially if it's about choosing a mentor); learning from someone who is a heck of a lot smarter than you are. After all, you want to achieve or become what they are, or do what they do.

Last month, right before this—the August of our year—Charles died. And a great grief came upon me, one in which I had not been visited with since Howard died in 1991. The depth of grief in this case was so great, it defies explanation. I think this quality of sadness can only be understood by other writers or artists, for they alone know the intrinsic strands of soul that bind one artist to another. Especially if such knowledge has been imparted or exchanged in the mentor/student dynamic...

My sadness is compounded by the fact that Charles died before I, as publisher, was unable to get his last book (Guardian of Grief: Poems of Giacomo Leopardi) into his hands before the cancer, so quickly announced, would also expeditiously overtake him.

It is equally amazing (knowing now in retrospect) what a difference of 15 or 30 days can be. In just a week or two Charles' latest book will be available to the public, a remarkable offering of some of the best poems by the Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi.

In characteristic Guenther style, Charles says in his introduction to his book of translations, "I hope they (the poems) may bring a renewed interest in, and appreciation of, Leopardi, his life, his times and his work."

Again, it was about a master teacher, critic, reviewer, poet and translator sharing his enthusiasm for the printed word. It was about being so enthused about something so subtely incredible (knowledge) that Charles dared not hide it under a bushel basket. Because he couldn't. And wouldn't...

Tangibly, I will miss our monthly correspondence, his counsel (to me, an avowed workaholic): "Pace yourself, don't work too hard," and his frequent praise. Most of all, I will miss our friendship. And for his care, his wisdom and perfect craftsmanship. And for his example...

* * *

Special tribute remarks submitted to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, at that newspaper's kind request:

A Prince of Poets

"A man may be counted for what he has done for others: selflessness, charity, sensitivity. And his body of work... Even though Charles should have been named Missouri’s first poet laureate; the naming is immaterial. For anyone who knew or knew of Charles Guenther, he was our poet laureate. For such a man is not made, he is born. That is why Charles Guenther was a prince of poets.

I am comforted by three examples from Charles’ work. One is from a poem of reminiscence, being a boy in Kirkwood, romping in the woods. "A man must remember his green," he said, "a runner in the woods, with the grass or the crisp leaves underfoot..." ("Triptych Written at a Myra Cohn Livingston Lecture").

The second is about sledding down a winter hill as a boy. But it is also about the challenge of going or looking forward:

What was the excitement of it? Each
afterwards around the fire, with flaring cheeks
and warming the other. Nothing else.
Nothing? I remember now the steel tracks
and the lingering scream of a train in the icy night.
Down there was a second hill/forbidden, where none of us ever coasted.
Now is the time to try it.

The third is a line from "Calm After the Storm" which Charles translated from Giacomo Leopardi. "When else does man turn to his studies with such love, or to his work or begin something new?" That, indeed, was Charles. And it is a lesson for us as we carry on—at least a portion of—his noble work.

Walt Whitman wrote, "Past and present and future are not disjoined but joined. The greatest poet forms the consistence of what is to be from what has been and is. He drags the dead out of their coffins and stands them again on their feet."

That's what Charles Guenther achieved, and much, much more. God bless you, Charles for gracing us with your quiet, stalwart presence. You were and always will be an inspiration."

for more information on Charles Guenther, see also my friend John Hemingway's blog at http://www.johnhemingway.blogspot.com/.