Next week is the Dodge Poetry Festival—a bi-annual poetry extravaganza staged in the village of Waterloo, New Jersey. This will be my second pilgrimage. I went two years ago for the first time. It was a year of record rainfall on the east coast as a result of hurricanes blowing through Florida and then angling north into New England. The mud was thick, cars got stuck, shoes were gummy and the organizers had to lay tons of hay all over the fields so we wouldn’t all be sucked down into the squishy muck. For the first time in the history of the event it was held at an alternate site, the Duke family park/estate. Despite the best efforts of all involved, the grounds took a beating and it’s clear that it was thought better to return to the old haunts, even though they are smaller and the event has grown substantially over the years.

Being there, where poetry is spoken fluently and there are so many venues with so many different poets speaking, reading their work or dialoguing is–as these things often go—alternately exhilarating and exhausting. Some of the highlights I remember were the early mornings at the main stage under a gigantic tent with a hot cup of tea listening to Coleman Barks read Rumi, accompanied by the music of the Paul Winter Consort; crowding into under an overflowing canopy on a sunny afternoon to hear Mark Doty talk about how poetry is made and keeping us all enthralled and entertained; Seeing Lucille Clifton, Sharon Olds and Gerald Stern, who I had the privilege to work with at Squaw Valley. And, really the best was being there in a community of people dedicated to something that has very little to do with money or power—an art form that, throughout all history, has spoken for the lost, the repressed, the dreamers, to be with those who do not see the primary source of fulfillment as a human being as one of acquisition and manipulation but one where the interior world of the heart and the commonality of our grief and desire is given a voice.

Throughout the week I’ll be logging on with commentary, photos and poems to share the experience with those of you who would like to be there but can’t be and those of you who are just curious to see what it’s all about. I’m flying out on Monday, the 25th to Boston where I’ll stay a couple of days with my friend Liza and drive to New Jersey on Wednesday. The poetry fest starts on Thursday and we’ll be there when the gates open, rain or shine.

Waterloo Village