The Night Birds is the affectionate monikor for five poets who meet regularly with our mentor poet, Sarah Maclay, to share new poems, thoughts on revision, what we’re reading, where we’re workshopping and sending submissions, where we’re stuck or flying high and basically roll like happy horses in the dust and mud and wonder of poetry. Night Birds is comprised of Barbara, Hilda, Michael, Stephany and myself. We were fortunate enough to be invited to read at The Coffee Cartel by our hosts from the Redondo Poets, Jim Doane, Larry Colker and our own, Stephany Prodromides, as a feature for their weekly gathering on Tuesday evening. Each of us have all read at different venues over the last few years, but this was our first foray as a group.

Starting from varying points we all began the evening by plowing through pre-Thanksgiving traffic, trekking south on either the 405 or Hwy 1 or winding through clogged city streets. It took Barbara and I a good hour-and-a-half of mostly bumper-to-bumper before we slid into a parking spot on Cataline Avenue, half-hour late for our dinner date with the group at the ZaZou Bistro. We quickly shed the traffic tension and relaxed into good food and even better conversation. Stephany brought her husband, Chris, Michael, his beautiful young daughter, Isabella and Hilda, her friend, Wayne, who agreed to be our official photographer for the night. Sarah had come to introduce us at the reading and proceeded (with a substantial twinkle in her eye) to pass out index cards and ask us each to write down a color, tree, flower, musical instrument, season, and clothing part, pass them to the left or right or across, setting us up to do a writing exercise for the next time we met. This kept us well occupied and filled in the gap between when we ordered and when we were served our food.

After dinner we walked two doors down to The Coffee Cartel and settled in on the scattered couches and around the small tables while the sound system was set up and people signed on for the open mic portion of the evening, which began at eight. About 8:30 the five of us were introduced as a group by Sarah (always eloquent and generous) and then as each of us took our turn reading, beginning with Hilda, then me, Michael, Barbara and Stephany. We each read about for four minutes (4-5 poems), then went one more round with a poem each at the conclusion. The crowd was friendly and appreciative. I think they might have enjoyed the variety of hearing five different voices in one feature reading. It keeps the interest level a little more acute, possibly, than hearing one poet for the full thirty minutes. Anyway, we all agreed it was a triumphant night, on a personal and poetical level. I toast my fellow Night Birds for their poetry and their panache! And to Sarah for taking time away from her incredibly demanding schedule to join and support us. And to friends and family who showed up that night and all the days and nights that we give to poetry.

Below are photos of the reading which, cosmically turned out to be in this golden, muted, slightly blurred form, possibly due to the lighting in Coffee Cartel or Wayne’s unfamiliarity with my digital camera (which I can barely operate myself). I kinda like them, actually. It gives the whole thing a surreal touch, as poetry readings most often feel like when you’re standing up there. I’ve also included a selected poem by each poet, with their kind permission.

*****

Chris (Stephany’s husband) was great moral support for all of us.

Isabelle, (Michael’s daughter) who is an artist and musician in her own right.

The cozy confines of Coffee Cartel.

Sarah introducing The Night Birds.

Hilda went first and fearlessly.

Moi

Michael, who had his poems memorized!

Barabara, who won the prize for best patter between poems.

Stephany had a substantial amount of family in the audience, plus she co-hosted the night and arranged for dinner. Wonder Woman!

Group pic with only the sleeve of Stephany on the right.

Group pic with Hilda hidden behind Stephany.

Jim, our lively emcee.

Larry, gracious co-host.

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Poems by The Night Birds

Almost

One
sum-
mer morn-
ing: a matted grass of legs and arms
and slow waves
of breath—yours with mine—
lean together as we climb
in and out of sleep—and dismay:
Bacon. Must be breakfast in the house next door.
(Nothing matters anymore.)
Someone’s car door slams.
Magnolia leaves
scatter on a lawn.
What can’t be counted can’t be gone.

Hilda Weiss

1968

May and dappled horses in the field
and a white cotton spread,
giving the one virginity I have
on creaking bedsprings,
under the four-paned window,
twisting to say darling and love
like Warren Beatty might say to Natalie Wood
before there was a man
on the moon,
before there was a Woodstock
nation.

Out in the grass, knobby-kneed foals
squeal after the spill,
the plucking,
and he sleeps
and I stand
with a cigarette and no clothes,
not foretelling my future,
swallowed by the way
his hair falls across his forehead,
casually,
as if everything were perfectly in its place,
as if there had been no trembling.

Hari Bhajan

The Temple Dogs at Selinunte could be

Lizards
On the flat stone
–August grinding hard light
into blades against the columns—

In the dust of all these human tribes…

Their tongues are different though from reptiles’—
Vaguely fecal silt choked through a many-headed fountain

Spit in rainless air

They could die out in the violence,
An afternoon like this,
Flies already pecking at their blistered sweaters

Still, they avoid the shade

And we are careful too,
Stepping just between the animals
And the shadows that are tumbling down their empire of white

and holy, broken things

Michael Child

Deep Blue Morning

When I get up before dawn and look for scissors
to slice the early morning papers from their sleeves,
the sky begins, beads of water spreading across
the slate, little showers of water as I fling down the papers,
– it’s time to start the coffee, mop the water
left by tight plastic bundles, street lights shining,
my hands still wet from dawn. Giddy, a little unstable,
the day begins like a drop of bleach.
Barbara Blatt

Nail Polish Geisha

Hey—pick a color.
The lacquer flower garden
blooms beneath clear glass.
My geisha smiles and bows.

Lotus fingers
knead my calves and
soften kneecaps;
the afternoon sun
glows, streaking us with fire.

Yes, there’s intimacy,
but only of a kind.
It’s a language of strangers—
exchange of touch.

She gestures, You want flowers?
Yes, white on a blackberry field
silver inside them,

and blessings float, green, from my hands:
she loves me, she loves me not,
she loves me.
If the Buddha is leering,
let him smile.

We bow, wordless in the moment
of our parting—
her cherry toenails, white tea,
daisies.

Stephany Prodomides