AA: Tell us about some of the poets you’ve met. I’m interested in authors whose personalities “fit” what we see in their poetry – either its tone or subject matter. Maybe people who don’t fit their poetic personas would be more interesting. You decide!
MZM: Meeting poets after you know their work is always intriguing because you never know what you are going to get. Mark Doty (pictured right at a 2008 Dodge Festival panel) exudes the intelligence and humanity of his work, but his surprise is a drollness I do not see in his work. Edward Hirsch is surprisingly hysterical. He totally caught me off guard. Gerald Stern [AA: one of my favorites] still has the energy of a 20-year-old.
Lucille Clifton (pictured left) [AA: a Howard County, MD local and another fave], the only poet to attend every single Festival, is a total charmer. After meeting her, I was better able to see the sly humor in her work. All of these poets relate to the high schoolers as though they were old buddies.
AA: The Dodge Poetry Festival has been compared to a rock concert or music festival. What is it about Dodge that invites the comparison?
MZM: The beautiful outdoor setting is certainly one contributing factor. And there is music throughout the festival which comes as a surprise to many people.
A concert is a focused event because attendees are, for the most part, fans of the musicians. It is no different for poetry. Those who avoid it, and suffer for the loss, don’t attend. Those who love the stuff, come to hear the stuff, and they know that every other person they pass on the winding trails to various performance spaces also loves the stuff. It does a body good.
In addition to being a Festival Assistant for Dodge and a communications professor at New Jersey's Union County College, Michael is a wonderful poet.
He’s sharing a recent narrative poem about a childhood experience. The title says it all…but look for Michael’s use of detail to anchor us in elementary school.
SHOW ‘N TELL DISASTER
By Michael Z Murphy
My hands held the smell of death
One shouldn’t do what one shouldn’t do
They were robin’s eggs in the nest
Prettier and smaller than the pictures
The color as delightful as Lady’s
Collar and leash—robin’s egg blue
Patent leather with rhinestones
Not so many though as to be tasteless
I held one up to the light
Still it was opaque
As I turned it between
Thumb and forefinger
A sickening sounds and goo
This death burned me
I replaced the disaster
I returned to my seat
I do not like the smell of death
No amount of finger rubbing on creased
School pants could rub out death’s smell
Enough so my chest would not seem to crack
I could not hear about borrowing
From the tens column--the merry semicolon
Never existed—Johnny Tremaine moved on
Without me—the boy with death on his fingers
Cramping began at once
Within the hour I leaned over
And barfed cheerios and milk
All over creation Children slide back
Mr. Wilson said without missing a beat
Young Man, to the boys’ room fast
Fred, here is a pass—ask Mr. Byrd
To please come here quickly
I returned to class ashen and still 
Stinking of death so strongly
That even Mr. Byrd’s pine mop water
Could not overwhelm death’s perfume
As he walked out Mr. Wilson asked
What else happens on Friday
I knew the answer:
Friday is when I murder
Michael Z Murphy, thanks for visiting! I'll say goodbye with a virtual hug.
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