Dear Butte,
I was ecstatic to finally arrive here or in Walkerville and find this perfect little house to camp out in for the next ten days, all alone, just me with myself, and nothing in front of me but an “endless” landscape of possibilities to mine, whatever I could find in my head and surroundings, an extended and uninterrupted imaginative tour. Big talker, right? Like my old Butte pal Ed Lahey, I came with big plans, aimed to get some work done.
My main goal was to get a handle on what I am calling a memoir made up of mostly poems. “Podunk” would be my take on growing up in Alberton, Montana, the small Milwaukee Railroad town where I lived for twenty-five years in the 50s, 60s, 70s, and 80s. I got this idea after reading a couple hybrid books that acted as memoirs. I began putting together this kind of poetry-memoir in a stream of consciousness fashion: no order except one thing leads to another, somewhat similar to the script for “My Dinner with Andre.” Remember how successful that was? Truth is, I loved that film. If you’ve seen it, that gives you an idea of the tedium involved in my project. If you haven’t seen the movie, take it from me, you haven’t lived (or possibly died) till you do.
It’s been five or six years since I began Podunk. Many of my friends and family, the people I grew up with, kept asking when they could expect to see the “Alberton novel?” My first reaction was, “obviously my poems don’t float their boats.” But probably I was just afraid of failing. I’ve written several short stories, a couple I like, but I’ve always felt like a short-form guy, get in and get out, a stand-up, a fucking poet. I told myself I didn’t have the time (which had some merit) but mainly I just didn’t feel it. And I’ve always felt right working with a poem, a tight little package I could crawl under a bed with or into some hole or closet, a hiding place. I loved those spots as a kid, places I could be alone in my head. So, it was a natural “aha” for me to think I could write a book on my “podumk” life composed of or framed by poems.
I love putting together collections of poems, so it didn’t take me too long to assemble a mass of Alberton poems and write some prose pieces in between them. I had a 450-page file when I stalled and wondered, now what? Where do I go from here? I showed it to a few writer friends who made suggestions, and some who said let ‘er go. I wasn’t sure where to go or how to feel about it, so I left it to ferment or hibernate for a few years. When I received a Montana Arts Council Grant a year or two ago, I dug into it again. And once again, I came away dissatisfied. I felt like I really needed some unlimited, uninterrupted time to figure out what I wanted to do with it. That’s when I heard about Dear Butte. Chris La Tray had done it a few years ago and raved about how great it was for him. So, when I saw it was open for applications, I threw my hat in, hoping my family connections to Butte my grease the wheels and let it roll my way.
When I arrived at the house in Walkerville across from The Lexington headframe, there were a couple inches of snow on the roof and picnic table in the front yard. I unpacked and checked the place out, settled in. I decided to wait on starting the “big project” till tomorrow morning when I’d have the whole day in front of me. So, as I considered what to do, I thought about not being home on Mother’s Day, which prompted me to write the “old girl,” the love of my life and mother of our children 9now middle-aged) a poem as a “thinking of you” card. I’m a Hallmark kind of guy.
But how do we write anything about Mother’s Day without considering the shadow of evil cast over all of us who “didn’t make good choices,” literally all of us except the selfish wealthy who can buy anything they want but love. My Butte blood boils when I consider the choices these fascist pricks are making in the name of balancing the books as they prepare to cut the taxes of the richest fucks who already pay less than the poor bastards who produced and then bought them their profits before they decided they don’t need us. Really? Good luck with that. Remember Mussolini? Ever read about the guillotine? Obviously not, or they‘re so arrogantly ignorant they won’t see the train before it hits them. Empire Builder, my ass!
Anyway, I hope you treated your mothers well.
In Butte Mother’s Day Snow on the picnic table One week into May This Sunday is Mother’s Day And I’m away in Walkerville Both sons putting out fires Set by White arsonist bums Burning down The House And the Tenants’ Agreement We the people need to read The stories of Butte immigrants Organized miners’ Free Speech Workers of the World Unite Big Bill Frank Little and Joe Hill Bowed to Elizabeth Gurley Flynn As countless muckers died Underground and widows keened Women raised-up Butte Spoke in kitchens and pulpits On soap-box street corners Demanding their rights to vote And create the day honoring All mothers crying for peace Sadly—in most of the men I know There’s a lion inside ready to go The aggressive protectors Of that bloodline in the sand My wife and mother can’t Understand why men send Boys off to war to cripple and kill Die for nothing more than pride And their unconscious impulse to Shadow Evils Mothers won’t abide Mark Gibbons
The next morning I’m full of promise, dig out the “podunk” binder (I’m a tactile beast) and begin reading, revising, reshuffling, cutting and adding, making sections framed by poems. I was in it, cooking, on a roll. Hours passed. I ate a quick sandwich and dove back in. More hours. I was closing in on being halfway through the book, and finally after eight hours, I had to back away. I felt like I’d lumped furniture all day or spent eight hours with pick and shovel digging a sewer line. I was tired. It felt good. And I was looking forward to getting after it again the next morning.
Day two on the project was as productive as the first. I was in a groove, and by the end of the day, another eight-hour slog, I had what I believed was a beautifully massacred three-ringed binder of scribbled-up paper that I could call a draft. I was over-the-top satisfied with my efforts on the production line.
On day three I needed to make the changes in the file in order to get a clean copy and see what I’d done. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I’m not a great typist, and this was mainly secretarial exercise I needed to gird my loins and get done. When I opened the file on my laptop and began reading, I couldn’t figure out what was going on: this wasn’t the same as the printed file I’d just reworked. Maybe I had the wrong file? So, I opened another file under a different name, an older one, but it was yet another version of the same and entirely different material. That’s when I noticed the date on the first file. I’d obviously revised it when I had the grant a year ago or more and didn’t print it. I now had three different versions of the same material, each way different from the other.
You can see where this is headed. Some thought it was thunder in Butte that day. I was fucking dumbstruck. You could hear the sound of the plane nose-diving into the pit and the blast of air rushing out of my puffed-up ego. Fuuuuuccckkkk!!!! Then the silence that settled in. I sat there staring at the screen. Yes, I thought about whiskey, at least two or three to calm me down and zone me out. Decided to go for a walk around Walkerville. I headed north toward the Alice Pit since I’d walked down to the Granite Mountain Memorial the first night I was here, something I always do when I’m in Butte, go check in with my Great Uncle Tommy Joyce who died that night, June 8, 1917, working in the Speculator, one of 162 miners, a story that shaped my family who arrived in Butte from Ireland in 1916. On my walk I saw maybe three vehicles, no humans, and one dog keeping an eye on Walkerville.
After an hour or so I came back to the house and had something to eat. I glanced at the laptop and knew I didn’t have it in me. I had to give it a rest. After all, I told myself trying to give myself an out, that I was a poet. So, I ate my salad, and looking up I noticed a small image hanging above the stove. I got closer and saw it was titled “La Luna.” An almost engraved-looking metallic-colored image of the moon. That’s when I noticed the painting above the kitchen table on the yellow wall was a yellow moon or sun in a pale-yellow sky filled with a flock of birds, distant black birds, gulls maybe? And my child easily distracted child became excited and wanted to write a poem. The “Oh, woe is me” forgotten.
La Luna I am told To never write About the moon Or wolves Or birds Or the sea Overused Is what they tell me When I ask Why Really How about the sun A mountain Can I use Journey or quest The seasons or God Are they too Off the table And most certainly Never repeat Clichés Repetition Poems are passe Okay I say And keep on Writing Each day Watching the sun Breakover The horizon The moon Still In the sky Birds Gulls I think Flying low Above the surface Of the glassy Sea A wolf-like dog Is eyeing me Behind a fence Beyond the Reeds I stroll the shore Slowly My breath visible Early spring Listen to the lapping Gravel wash Inhale the morning air Pale La Luna Whispers to me Shhh listen let it Be Mark Gibbons
Now, I was almost halfway into my stay, and there was more to say. And I don’t know about you, but I need a break. I’ll be back. Later.
Sincerely, Mark
I, for one, say there are not enough poems about wolves. Howl on, Brother!