from alder street
for eileen and Richard
who first shared with me
the magic of alder street
and of course for saladeen
late last saturday night
as i was leaving richard’s
ice crystals in the air
portending
the fast approaching winter solstice
and all it signifies
(eva half indian
astrologist who squats
compassionate and wise
in the abandoned house
across the street
understands the power
of such times)
there was a man
solitary
in the darkness
down the block
sitting on an upended can
on the broken sidewalk
(on this broken street
part of a broken world)
under the stark
december moon
merciless and white
and he was drumming
a man
sitting
all alone
in the darkness
behind crackling orange flames
leaping
like laughing demons at a pagan orgy
(whatever that is
karen get a grip)
from burning trash barrel fire
and he was drumming
loud and sure and steady
simply drumming
BOOM boom boom boom boom boom boom BOOM
the insistent rhythm
resonated
over the cracked uneven sidewalks
reverberated
down the ragged street
starling the stray cats
who squealed and tails uplifted ran
wide-eyed
past the burned-out empty shells
that were once houses
past a couple of junkies
nodding in the shadows
who once were men
on by the bursting couch
and mismatched kitchen chairs
lined up in a neat row
where the street’s old ladies
sat out
with grace and dignity
all summer long
and well into the fall
presiding
over their poor and broken kingdom
like royalty
smiling teasing calling out
her dearie
whatchya gonna cook today
always pretending
they wanted some
drumming
someone was drumming
without apology
drumbeats hard and pure as truth
requesting—no demanding
our full attention
BOOM boom boom boom boom boom boom bah bah BOOM
gathering momentum
the sound snowballed
rolled
between two facing rows
of ten foot tall
multicolored
sentinel tile angels
silent gentle guardians
in the ungentle time and place
stationed on their walls
by either God or lily
maybe both
messengers
of peace goodwill
from another world
symbols
of the strange and special
sense of blessing
of protection
that pervades the area
as palpably as the smell
of wood smoke
from a trash barrel fire
BOOM-ety boom boom boom boom-ety BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
the drummer’s solitary song
of praise and desolation
fit accompaniment
to any angel’s trumpet blasts
goes on
staccato bursts of music
swell
to fill the lots turned “mini-parks”
of alder street
where huge free-standing sculptures
god-like freeze in flight
their reigns unchallenged
by the needless and broken glass
which ruled there in an earlier time
the gift
of a chinese artist far from home
and not
to the poor children
of the neighborhood
to all of us
her vision clear and universal
as that of dostoyevsky
of a world
whose poverty despair and deprivation
can somehow be redeemed
—or at the very least forever changed—
by beauty
slowly solemnly
with sure deliberation
the repeating drumbeats roll
as though the sounds proclaimed
a great event
as though a great eventï
depended on the sounds
BOOM boom boom boom boom boom bah BOOM
rhythmic
percussive waves
rising falling
reach richard’s open door
door to his hermitage
his lonely monastery
a home and status
of deliberately chosen
low degree
by one who “could do better”
or so folks think
where gaping holes
in plaster walls
and whole steps missing
from the battered staircase
point the way
ADDENDUM:
A Personal Note
“A Song of the Season” is a Christmas poem—about a very real, desperately poor North Philadelphia street—little more than an alley, actually—which happens also to be a place of great power.
Not surprisingly, the wonderful message of Christmas is very clear there.
Magnificent outdoor art created by the people of the neighborhood under the direction of the artist Lily Yen and her Village of the Arts and Humanities, fills its formely vacant lots and covers bare building walls.
The street’s tiny houses are inhabited by a gloriously eclectic mix of humanity of all ages and shapes and colors—a mix which includes struggling single mothers, an iridologist, a self-styled Christian hermit or two, people battling life-threatening physical illnesses and addictions or various sorts, a music teacher, older fold who have lived on the block for the better part of their lives and several peace activists.
It is a place where life, stripped of its masks of privilege, status and exclusivity, is lived on a very real and basic level. A strong-black-coffee sort of life, as opposed the frothy-flavored-cappuccino variety.
I have loved Alder Street since my first visit there. Sometime between the Advent evening described in the poem and the day near the end of December when I finished “A Song of the Season,” I received an extraordinary Christmas gift. A friend told me she was moving and offered to rent me her house.
My new address (as of January 15) will be 2510 N. Alder Street, Philadelphia, 19131.
I plan to be at home more often than I have been of late, and I promise to be more responsive to the phone and the doorbell.
And almost always on Saturday night there will be prayer in Richard’s stone chapel at 5 PM and dinner afterwards—nothing fancy, just whatever we have—to which you are cordially invited—(bring some fruit or bread if you like, but it truly isn’t necessary.)
And—I can’t promise this of course, but maybe—if you’re lucky and your ears are sharp—Saladeen will be out at the end of the block, drumming, and we may even dance.
May all the very special joy and deep peace of this Holy Season be yours in a special way today and throughout the coming year.
PS: Karen Lenz’s move to North Philadelphia’s Alder Street had been quite short-lived. However, she and Richard, “the hermint,”remained friends until her “promotion” in 2009.
karenblenz45 