This gift is a gifter being gifted. No grifters allowed here.
The best guess on the origin of “grifter” is that it is a derivative of “graft,” corruption. It came into usage at the turn of the last century in circuses where the glitzy promise of payoffs in the arcades and peep shows were ways to get people to spend their money in the hope of securing a “gift” as in “get a gift for the little lady, son, she needs that big teddy bear!” Of course no one manages to win that big teddy bear. If you were lucky, you might walk away with a cupie doll or two. But you knew after that failed promise of a prize for your sweetheart, the grift rather than a gift, you needed to come up with something, and since you’d squandered what money you had at the circus/carnival maybe you could make a gift for her. That said, not being a painter or craftsman or maker of much outside of mischief, you had to come up with an idea that expressed romance, a gesture from the heart, and knowing you were a decent bullshitter, you might have tried your hand at writing her a poem as a personal gift.
Your gift of a poem could have been a “grift” if your intentions were seeking a payoff, only penned to yield a Pussy Pay Day. We know that poems are not typical material for the serious grifter since there aren’t two nickels to be scraped up in a “poetry” con. It has a reputation for incorruptibility because everyone knows there’s no money in poetry. But as an effective tool for romantic persuasion most agree it carries weight, has proven it’s power and reach across cultures from Shakespeare to Cyrano, so a good ode to a would-be lover is almost guaranteed to improve one’s batting average in that game. A true love poem might even insure a trip to the playoffs.
Writing a poem that flirted with that old metaphor of referring to love making as a game of baseball, might convince an audience that the poet had intentions. It is common to assume that the speaker in the poem is the writer, so publishing a poem about sex intentionally disguised as baseball is a great way to fuel the rumor mill when the poem is dedicated to someone. Those two dots are easy to connect. I wrote one because it was fun and dedicated it to a fellow teacher I was workshopping poems with who happened to be a female fellow. The spark of that act set off a brush fire in the small town we lived in. Turns out even comic poems can be taken seriously. One of the great things about poems is that we take them personally. Dedicated poems expand the possibilities of a backstory, particularly if you know who it’s dedicated to.
Swinging for the Fences Stuck on first base since junior high, I was determined to score, no more strike outs or leaving men stranded. I'd kill, sell my soul for a homer or grand slam. She swore that she was hotter than I was for her, so I poked a one-hopper off the tip of her mitt, then blew her mind when I broke wild for extra bases. Her teeth knocked against mine in the squeeze. I saw the cut-off sign, set my cleats. My tongue made the dive to collide with her catcher stance, and I slid safe into second, walleyed and shaken, rolling her nipples like a rosin bag. Then I pulled a rookie move, took a stab at stealing home but was thrown out at third, cursed fate. Again I was beaten and denied outside those pearly gates. Those girls, goddammit, were tough as nuns on defense, but I knew they'd eventually come around and feed me a fast ball low and away after heedlessly loading the bases. Then cutting the air for all I was worth, I'd park it deep behind the bleachers, take their diamond nice and slow, still packing the crack of my bat in my hands. Finally, when I'd cross home plate, they'd hold out a hand, wink a mocking eye while pitching the gibe, “Nice wood, Slugger.”
Gifting, grifting, what are your intentions? Since I was named poet laureate a couple years ago, I have gotten emails from people I don’t know reaching out to me about different things in regard to poetry. I got one this week from a man in Wisconsin who had the idea of making a gift of poems for his wife’s birthday since she loves poetry. He wanted to compile a collection of love poems, bind them, and present it to her as a present. They are not young people, and he claimed he was doing this, reaching out to “experts” because he didn’t know much about poetry. He figured he’d contact some “poetry folks” and see what he could assemble. How could this go wrong I asked myself? Every time I’m contacted out of the blue by someone I don’t know I figure this is may likely be a grifter rather than a gifter, right? But we’re talking poetry here. What is there to get from poetry besides poetry? I decided that this guy was just a goddamn sweetheart of a husband who wanted to give his wife a heartfelt gift that she would love and he could afford. Not only that, but by involving all these other people he contacted for contributions, he enriched all our lives, too, because we love to believe poetry matters. He’s certainly enriched mine. I’m in love with this guy and I will never know him. And isn’t that a gift that keeps on giving?
So I sent him a couple of poems. One is a poem I wrote for my lifelong lover to celebrate one of those silly first date anniversaries that took place some 53 years ago.
FIRST DATE for Pam When I forget that night at the State Drive-In with you in the backseat of Christ's brother's '68 Wildcat, Elvis ministering to Mary Tyler Moore's Change of Habit . . . nothing will matter anymore. When I forget the smells of your hair and the Wind Song on your neck, the Coppertoned skin of your legs & arms against that tight-white terrycloth shorts & top outfit, our blood throbbing, the trickling sweat . . . nothing of me will remain. When I can't recollect the fullness of your mouth hungering to devour mine, the anxious embrace of your arms, your breasts pressing into my chest, and our tongues tangoing the ballroom of yes . . . nothing will be left of my mind. So, today, when you ask me if I remember this anniversary, the 43rd since our first date, I laugh at the silly romance of it all, duck my head as if someone lurking overheard—afraid to be found out a dream lover like you . . . nothing else has mattered more.
So, Tim, thank you for reminding me how kind and generous we can be in this world that seems to be darker and meaner than it should be. I hope Amy enjoys all the poems you collect from all the folks you reached out to. When I was telling a good friend of mine about Tim’s request and the response I sent back to him, I mentioned how Tim’s request had made me think about what I value most from a poem, how it feels like special gift to me when I read one. And ultimately when I find myself in one, writing one, how satisfying it feels to ride along and then share with the world. My pal, JimBo, asked me, “Have you written that poem yet?” I hadn’t since it just happened, so there was another gift for me. My life is full of gifts. Thanks to Tim & Amy and JimBo. The more you give, the more you get. I can do that math, so I keep on giving. And we’re not talking anything to do with money necessarily, though it always comes in handy. Grift is sad, poison for the soul. Gifts feed everyone. Here is the poem Tim and Amy and JimBo and Pam inspired, helped me to write today. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope it sends you in search of more poems or maybe prods you to pick up a pen and score your own love poem to give away. Thanks in advance for all you give. Peace and poetry.
a poem is a secret message meant only for me, all mine, a gift only I can open and consume privately, unless I decide to share it with others, often aloud when I feel like tipping my hand, confessing “these words are important to me,” revealing what I find to be uncomfortably difficult to explain, let alone express, gut face to face. It's hard to articulate how I feel, find the words to carry that weight. A poem on a blank sheet of paper helps me focus, try to fill the white space, communicate what I can't but need to say. Poems provide room to explore what isn't there. Slowly they speak courageously, allowing me to stand behind them, strong as my mother's legs, and let my love bleed out onto the page, maybe hear it breathing, whispering backstage. Mark Gibbons
A gift from JA. Olson-McDonnell, a longtime Magic Friend and pen and ink master.
Sweet Sunday morning reminder from a master of giving. Thanks, Mark. Very much.