I was in Dingle, Ireland recently to teach poetry in an American MFA program abroad. Some of my workshop sessions were held at An Diseart, an Irish spiritual and cultural center that shares the grounds with St. Mary’s Church. On those grounds is a tiny cemetery where lie the nuns who over the centuries have run the church convent. Flying back to Boston, thirty-five-thousand feet over the Atlantic with two weeks in Ireland behind me, my thoughts kept drifting back to that cemetery, and to the time when the Catholic Church ruled the country with an iron hand. Church dogma dominated civic life; no Catholic politician would consider any action without knowing “his” (the Cardinal's) thoughts on the matter and making sure he approved. But modern Ireland has broken those shackles: In 1985 it legalized birth control. In 1995 it revoked the constitutional prohibition against divorce. In 2015 it became the first country in the world to legalize same-sex marriage through a popular vote. And then the most remarkable development of all: in June, Ireland elected Leo Varadkaran, an openly gay man with an Indian immigrant father and Irish mother, as “taoiseach” (prime minister). Later that month Mr. Varadkaran proudly led Dublin’s gay pride parade. Today’s Ireland is one the Sisters of St. Mary’s of olden days would neither recognize nor condone. The world in which those women lived symbolizes the profound contradictions of Irish history—the mix of beauty and ugliness, the capacity for both gentle lyricism and stone-hearted cruelty. They spent their days in quiet contemplation, surrounded by the serene beauty of the green hills, floating like black-clad ghosts through the church corridors, secure in the rightness and beauty of their vocations. But they were complicit in a system of rigid patriarchy and repressive moralism in which sexual abuse was endemic, physical violence against children was standard disciplinary practice and unwed mothers were virtually imprisoned to provide slave labor for the Church. It was a system whose deep wounds to the country's psyche are only beginning to heal. The idea of modern Ireland, a country that could turn away from the Church’s “guidance,” would have been inconceivable to the Good Sisters of St. Mary’s. Inconceivable to those women for whom the Bishop’s word was the unquestioned word of God. Women, souls committed to their vision of Christ, whose mortal remains now lie shaded beneath the oaks… Poet and writer Charles Coe is author of two books of poetry: All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my Parents and Picnic on the Moon, both published by Leapfrog Press. He is author of Spin Cycles, a novella published by Gemma Media. His essay Hill of Dreams, about his travels through the Soviet Union in 1988, appears in Inspired Journeys: Travels with the Muse (University of Wisconsin Press 2016). Peach Pie, a short film by filmmaker Roberto Mighty based on his poem Fortress, is currently showing in film festivals nationwide. Charles is the winner of a fellowship in poetry from the Massachusetts Cultural Council.... Continue reading

I was walking downtown Boston in a post-apocalypse (umm...I mean "post-election") funk and passed a couple of scruffy-looking young white guys in Red Sox gear standing in front of a convenience store. As I walked by one muttered to the other, “Aw man, he wouldn’t know. He’s a college professor or sumpthin.” I stopped and turned back with a smile. “Gimme a shot. What are you looking for?” "We’re trying to find some beer” one said, giving the store the evil eye, “but we don’t know this ‘hood.” They were very appreciative when I told them about a package store a couple blocks away. “So, are you a college professor?” the other asked. I told him no, but I’m a writer and poet and teach part time. “A poet, huh”? he said, then took a breath, straightened up and let loose with the following, without hitch or hesitation: ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. “Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!” He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy. ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.' His friend and I listened in amazement, and he finished with a grin. “Didn’t expect that, didja?” No, I didn’t. He breathed life into the cliché, “Never judge a book by its cover.” And he reminded me once again that no matter how bleak the world might look sometimes, there are wonders all around if we just stop, look, and listen… Charles Coe is author of two books of poetry: “All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my Parents” and “Picnic on the Moon,” both published by Leapfrog Press. He is author of "Spin Cycles," a novella published by Gemma Media and is included in "Inspired Journeys: Travel Writers Searching for the Muse," published by The University of Wisconsin Press. Charles’s poems have been set by a number of composers, including Beth Denisch, Julia Carey and Robert Moran. “Peach Pie,” A short film by Roberto Mighty based on his poem “Fortress” was featured in the 2016 Los Angeles Short Film Festival. He was selected by the Associates of the Boston Public Library as a “Boston Literary Light for 2013,” is a Fellow at Boston’s St. Botolph Club, a... Continue reading

It was late night in a gritty little Roxbury convenience store, winter of '83, years before the Boston real estate boom that brought a flood of young professionals, when most blocks had at least a few boarded-up brownstones and you looked over your shoulder when you walked around after dark. The store was a demilitarized zone for hookers and cops and drug dealers and drug addicts and night crawlers of every description, a joint where you could hand over a ten and they'd slip you a “dime bag”—a tiny yellow envelope with four or five joints worth of mediocre pot. The guy who worked the register looked like an out-of-shape college linebacker, with coal-black shaved head and shiny gold tooth. Suddenly “Little Red Corvette” came on the store’s sound system and he jacked up the volume to sing along. Not lip synching—a full-throated, out-of-tune bleat—going nuts over a song by a skinny androgynous kid from Minneapolis, someone he probably would have beaten up in high school. A kid who wasn’t doing rock or R&B or funk exactly, but some crazy-ass, impossible-to-resist mash up. Genre-blending and gender bending like no one had ever seen. At the bridge (…“and the ride is so smooth…you must be a limousine”…), cash register guy COMPLETELY LOST HIS MIND. Head back, shoulders bopping, wailing like a wounded moose…while the grinning white cop waited patiently to pay for his Coke and Slim Jims… Charles Coe is author of two books of poetry: “All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my Parents” and “Picnic on the Moon,” both published by Leapfrog Press. His poetry has appeared in a number of literary reviews and anthologies, including Poesis, The Mom Egg, Solstice Literary Review, and Urban Nature. His novella, "Spin Cycles," was published in November, 2014 by Gemma Media. He is the winner of a fellowship in poetry from the Massachusetts Cultural Council. Charles’s poems have been set by a number of composers, including Beth Denisch, Julia Carey and Robert Moran. A short film based on his poem “Fortress” is currently in production by filmmaker Roberto Mighty. Charles is co-chair of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union, a labor union for freelance writers. He was selected by the Associates of the Boston Public Library as a “Boston Literary Light for 2014.” He is currently an artist fellow at the St. Botolph Club of Boston. Continue reading

So here I am in the drug store once again, staring like a sunstruck mole at dozens of men’s deodorants, trying to find a single unscented one. Men’s deodorant comes in mind-boggling variety: “Wolfthorn”. “Swagger”. “Adventure”. This puts me at a disadvantage, because I’m not really in the market for “adventurous” pits. My main goal is to keep the person sitting next to me on the train from edging away. Just then a seedy-looking young gent walks up, reaches up for a can of Axe spray, pops the cap and spends a good five seconds hosing down his coat—arms, chest, and back. In case you’ve never noticed their TV ads, Axe deodorant spray is marketed to young men between 18 and 25 on the premise that any attractive female Earthling within ten yards will insist on mating with them immediately. I am now collateral damage in the War of the Young and Horny--enveloped in a cloud whose aroma suggests the dance floor of the hottest dance club in Paramus, New Jersey. Or a Chippendale’s green room. The young gentleman gives me a conspiratorial grin. “Smells good, huh,” he says, and puts the can back on the shelf. My central nervous system is in vapor lock, as if I’ve been hit with a mild dose of nerve gas, so I’m unable to speak. But he’s fine carrying on a conversation without any help. “Yeah man,” he continues, “I’m mad at these people. I tried to return something and they gave me a buncha noise.” He leans back and eyes me speculatively. “You buyin’ anything? Payin’ cash? Want me to buy it for you?” My Axe-addled brain’s unable to sort out exactly what kind of scam he’s running, but I manage to find enough oxygen to say “No”—the only sensible answer—and he harrumphs and walks away. As he exits stage left a young store employee comes over. “Pretty stinky stuff, huh? You know which one he was using? I point to a can of “Anarchy” with the back facing out and she takes it off the shelf. “Yeah, he’s in here all the time, she says. "He’ll buy something with manufacturer’s coupons, bring it back an hour later and try to return it for cash.” As she saunters off I get to thinking: Now that I have my own Axe force field maybe I should go find an attractive young female Earthling who’ll insist on mating with me immediately. But I end up going home, eating a bowl of lentil soup and catching a Law and Order rerun. Charles Coe is author of two books of poetry: “All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my Parents” and “Picnic on the Moon,” both published by Leapfrog Press. His poetry has appeared in a number of literary reviews and anthologies, including Poesis, The Mom Egg, Solstice Literary Review, and Urban Nature. His novella, "Spin Cycles," was published in November, 2014 by Gemma Media. He is the winner of a fellowship in poetry from the Massachusetts Cultural... Continue reading

Yesterday while I sat at my computer writing I could hear through the floor, in the basement, two giant gladiator robots pummeling each other with sledgehammers. Actually, what I heard was a couple of plumbers replacing my landlords' ferkatka water heater. The noise wasn’t constant but every once in awhile so loud I felt vibrations through my feet. I could have de-camped—taken a laptop to the library or a coffee shop—but the beating and banging didn’t actually bother me that much. Some writers are hyper sensitive to extraneous noise; they flinch when dust motes hit a shag carpet. But I was cool with the robots. What I can’t tolerate when I’m trying to write is people talking. I know a writer who listens to National Public Radio while she works, and that would distract me to the point of madness. It’s always interesting to find out what writers and poets consider the ideal work environment. Some of us need complete isolation in a room quiet as a church. Others can put up with—or even prefer—noise and activity around them. Western novelist Louis L’Amour once said, “I’m not picky when I write. I could be happy at a desk in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard at noon.” Maya Angelou couldn’t write in a fancy, well-appointed space. She preferred ratty hotel rooms. Eighteenth-century German poet Friedrich Schiller found inspiration from the smell of rotting apples in his desk drawer. Whenever the wife tossed his current crop he'd grab a new batch from someone’s trash. Some writers require absolute silence; others need music to set a mood. I have one friend (who might be reading this) who listens to Chopin piano etudes; he never listens to anything else when he’s writing and he never listens to them any other time. He’s a husband and father with a full-time teaching gig, so when he manages to carve out an hour or two to write he can't mess around checking email or watching cute emu videos or googling vacations spots in Costa Rica. He’s setting up a Pavlovian response; when his brain hears Chopin it says, “Okay, time to get to work.” Since retiring from my full-time job I love writing at home in my cozy, messy office off the kitchen. And I need music, but I’m picky; it needs to be instrumental and melodic: early Miles Davis, Mozart, Erik Satie solo piano, classical guitar, Ben Webster sax…a pretty long list, but nothing loud and frenetic. (I save the head-banging rock and funk for when I’m doing housework.) But it can’t be TOO mellow: no “soft jazz” or goopy New Age California hot tub music. According to Virginia Woolf, “A room of one’s own” is the writer’s most important tool. We all need that sacred space—whether it’s a desk in the living room or a “lucky cubicle” in a quiet corner of the library. We might have very different needs for our work environment, but the one thing we all have in common is that... Continue reading

Nowadays just turning on TV news or glancing at a newspaper headline is enough to make you want to hide in the broom closet or go work on a ferret ranch in Montenegro. The people need a new distraction. Something beyond rhinos in helmets and cleats and hourly updates on the Kardashians. So I think it’s time to bring back the mullet, that "Business in front, party in the back" classic. Mike D of the Beastie Boys is generally credited with coining the term in his song “Mullet Head,” in which he described the haircut and the fashion-forward pioneers who wore it.(Apparently there was some French fashion dude in the early seventies called "Mollet" who invented it.) Back in the day, celebrities like Billy Ray Cyrus, Hulk Hogan, Rod Stewart, and Patrick Swayze all rocked awesome mullets. And maybe the King of Mullets was pop crooner Michael Bolton, whose combination boy perm/mullet set a standard for the ages. But it wasn’t just guys. At one time Lady Mulleteers Cyndi Lauper, Rosanne Barr and even Ellen Degeneres all sported the look. Sadly, the mullet has all but disappeared from the urban scene. But beyond the sidewalks, especially below the Mason/Dixon line, it lives on. As William Faulkner once said about the south in another context, “The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.” Down there one can still spot the occasional mullet at a duck hunt or tractor pull without too much trouble. So like I was saying, I need something new to distract me from the world condition. The mullet seems like just the ticket, and I know exactly who should spearhead the campaign: today’s generation of young hipster dudes. Here’s why: 1. Hipster dudes are into retro. Their Victorian beards and moustaches, topknots, skinny ties, pegged pants and so forth all harken back to days of yore. For these guys this kind of trip in the Tonsorial Wayback Machine would be a natural. Of course, we’d have to train and sedate (not sure of the proper order) a new generation of barbers to master the nuances of the style. 2. Hipster dudes are into irony. And what could be more ironic than reviving the mullet—the most entertainingly awful fashion felony of the twentieth century? It would only take a few strategically placed photos on Instagram of prominent hipster style-setters (whoever the heck they are) out for a night on the town while sporting mullets. In no time, dudes across the land would be getting buzz cuts or bangs in front and letting the back run wild like hipster versions of the Chia pet. And when the plan reaches full flower a grateful nation will enjoy hordes of fashion-forward young gentlemen in mullets, staring at iPhones and sucking on eCigs and eggplant-raddichio lattes, marching across the land like hairy locusts in flannel shirts and Doc Martins, letting their freak flags fly and providing the unhip masses with much-need diversion. I can’t wait. The National Council of Hipster Dudes needs to... Continue reading

The guy ordering his sandwich was swaying back and forth and slurring his words like a punch-drunk boxer, while the two young women behind the counter exchanged a “wish-we-were-anywhere-but-here” look. At first glance he seemed to be in his forties, but then I decided he was much younger and just hard used. There were scratches on his face and a big red bruise under one eye like a souvenir from a recent fight. His clothes were shabby but clean. He got his sandwich, plopped down at the table next to mine and leaned over to ask what I was reading. I was irritated for a moment but rebooted my brain and held up the book. “A mystery by Michael Connelly,” I answered. “First thing by him I’ve read. Great story.” “Yeah,” he said. “Guy who wrote The Lincoln Lawyer. Good stuff. Here’s what I’m reading.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a beat-up copy of Gone With the Wind. So then we’re comparing English and American mystery novels and Louis L’Amour and Rex Brand westerns. Just two guys in a sandwich shop talking about books. And ignoring the curious glances of people at nearby tables. He told me he's homeless and usually finds a place to crash outside, though he’ll sometimes sleep in a shelter depending on who’s there that night. “You gotta be careful where you crash,” he said. “You can run into some really messed up people in shelters.” “Yeah, life on the streets ain’t no joke. I got jumped by a couple of assholes just last week” he said, pointing to the bruise on his cheek. Sometimes in the middle of a sentence his voice would trail off, he’d mumble incoherently and his chin would drop to his chest. Drugs? Narcolepsy? Brain injury? I wasn’t going to ask. But if I quietly said something related to the conversation, he’d rouse himself and apologize for nodding off. When he got up to dump his trash and mine I slipped out my wallet, took out a ten and folded it in my hand. When he came back to sit I slid it across the table and said, “I hope you’re not offended. From one bookworm to another.” He glanced around and stuffed the bill in his shirt. “Thanks man. I’ll walk out with you.” When we got outside he said, “You know maybe we could get together once in a while, talk about books.” I thought it over for a split second and said, “Well you know I hardly ever make it downtown.” If he realized I was politely brushing him off he didn’t show it. “Hey man, that’s cool. Thanks for the conversation.” He patted his pocket. “And the help.” We try to remember that everybody’s a human being who deserves to be treated with respect and consideration, but we have to set limits. I didn''t think it would be a good idea to give him my phone number. But I don’t fault him for trying;... Continue reading

Yeah, yeah…I know. European colonialism resulted in the exploitation of virtually every indigenous population on the planet. Rape, pillage, appropriation of resources, elimination of local culture, customs and religions…yadda yadda yadda. And saying Christopher Columbus discovered America is like saying I broke into your apartment at three in the morning and “discovered” your hi-def television. But I think it’s high time we people of color got over it and moved on. Columbus and his posse won fair and square. Game over. On the other hand, turnabout is fair play. Which is why I got some like- minded red, yellow, black, and brown folks together to organize a little territorial expansion of our own. Over the Colonial Conquest Day weekend we bought three decommissioned Greyhound buses, dubbed them The Ella Fitzgerald, The Buffy St. Marie and The Aretha Franklin, and hit the road to reclaim the so-called “United States of America” for The People. But rather than motoring straight to Washington, we thought it best to start small and work our way up. So our first conquest was a country club outside Cleveland. We drove our buses onto the golf course and one of our members hopped out with a megaphone to make the following announcement: “We hereby claim dominion over this country club, including the golf course, swimming pool and cabanas and the parking lot in the name of ‘The Republic of Indigenous Peoples’. You are hereby ordered to surrender your car keys and sign over deeds to your houses and the contents of 401-Ks and savings and checking accounts, etc. etc. We also assume full control of your sons and daughters” Next we’re going to torch their churches; our new subjects will all be taught to worship The Flying Spaghetti Monster, the deity in whose name we have undertaken our sacred quest to establish dominion over these territories. The children will study Pastafarian theology every morning. Then we'll march them into the woods to play in drum circles and study Hip Hop. And there are always unexpected benefits when you conquer and subjugate another culture. I've heard the country club dining room throws down a serious Sunday brunch buffet. And I just got a great recipe for potato chip-crusted tuna noodle surprise from the little old blue-eyed slave lady who cleans our buses… Charles Coe is author of two books of poetry: “All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my Parents” and “Picnic on the Moon,” both published by Leapfrog Press. His poetry has appeared in a number of literary reviews and anthologies, including Poesis, The Mom Egg, Solstice Literary Review, and Urban Nature. He is the winner of a fellowship in poetry from the Massachusetts Cultural Council. Charles’s poems have been set by a number of composers, including Beth Denisch, Julia Carey and Robert Moran. A short film based on his poem “Fortress” is currently in production by filmmaker Roberto Mighty. Charles is co-chair of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union, a labor union for freelance writers. He... Continue reading

Not everyone’s happy with the Supreme Court decision that same-sex marriage is a right guaranteed by the Constitution. Enraged Wisconsin governor Scott Walker was overheard in a Madison restaurant saying that he’d like to “challenge the male justices who voted in favor to a fist fight.” When they heard about his comments the justices demurred. “I’m about thirty years too old to accommodate the Governor,” Justice Breyer said. “And besides, my sciatica’s been acting up pretty bad lately.” Nor was Justice Kennedy interested. “Never been one for fisticuffs,” he said. “If Governor Walker wants to settle the matter over a chess board he can name the time and place." But the five justices who voted in favor of the measure decided the honor of the Court must be defended, so they chose the toughest among them to pick up Walker’s gauntlet: Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who made a personal call to the Governor. “Yeah, I’ll fight you,” she said. “But boxing’s for wimps. We’re going to throw down Mixed Martial Arts style. In the steel cage. One walks out; the other's carried...” We take you now to Mohegan Sun Arena, Uncasville, Connecticut, for the play-by-play: “Ladies and Gentleman, there’s the bell! Walker charges across the ring and launches a flying kick at Justice Ginsburg’s head, but she dodges it and slams an elbow into his kidney. Now they’re circling each other cautiously…they’re in the center of the ring. The Governor tags Justice Ginsburg with a solid right to the chin and she’s down! He tries to stomp her and the crowd boos, but she rolls away and gets back to her feet. Justice Ginsburg throws a right cross and the Governor puts an arm up to block…but the right was a feint! She steps inside and shoots a stiff left jab and he retreats, shaking his head. Now they’re standing in the middle of the ring, trading punches. Walker throws a left hook that misses; Ginsburg ducks under it with a spin move and launches a roundhouse kick that catches the Governor flush on the temple! He’s down! Governor Walker is down! Justice Ginsburg drops to pin him and the referee slaps the canvas! It's over! Now she's dancing around, thumping her chest…someone shoved a rainbow flag through a gap in the cage and she’s waving it as the crowd goes wild…” After the match Justice Ginsburg, wrapped in the flag, was asked by the ringside interviewer, “Do you have any message for people like Governor Walker who are upset with the Court’s decision?” “Yes,” she replied. “Get over it. Find something better to worry about than what your neighbors do in the dark.” Charles Coe is author of two books of poetry: “All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my Parents” and “Picnic on the Moon,” both published by Leapfrog Press. His poetry has appeared in a number of literary reviews and anthologies, including Poesis, The Mom Egg, Solstice Literary Review, and Urban Nature. He is the winner of a fellowship... Continue reading

On a recent trip to New York City I was cruising down a side street off Times Square and stumbled on a sign in front of a Japanese restaurant advertising “Body Sushi.” The deal is that you get to eat sushi and sashimi off the body of a naked woman lying on a table. Maybe you’re thinking, “This sounds like something cooked up by a restaurant marketing guy after martini number six.” That's an excellent guess. But it's wrong; “Nyotaimori” (serving food on the naked body) is a Japanese tradition dating back to Samurai times, where after victory in battle warriors would dine off the body of a naked geisha. The practice continues in modern Japan, where strict rules of etiquette apply. The woman has to lie perfectly still for hours. She takes a bath with fragrance-free soap and gets splashed with cold water afterwards to keep her skin temperature down. She’s not allowed to speak, and it’s considered poor form for guests to speak to her. I don’t know if the restaurant I passed followed the same rules. It would be interesting to see how much decorum a bunch of young American insurance salesmen show after an hour or two of pounding saki. One can imagine some interesting scenes: One night, Richie decides to show some buddies a good time. He rents a stretch limo, makes a reservation for Naked Sushi, and the boys cruise in from Jersey City for a little fun. When they check in, the hostess calls for the manager. “Guys,” a little change of plans,” he says with a greasy smile. “You booked Darlene for tonight, but she had to take her cat to the vet. But I set you up with Rosanne, and she’s great. And I’ll give you ten percent off, just to make it up to you.” Richie looks at the guys, and they all seem okay, so he shrugs. So they follow the manager into a back room, where stretched out on a long table, on her back, covered with sushi from stem to stern… …lies Rosanne Barr. Charles Coe is author of two books of poetry: “All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my Parents” and “Picnic on the Moon,” both published by Leapfrog Press. His poetry has appeared in a number of literary reviews and anthologies, including Poesis, The Mom Egg, Solstice Literary Review, and Urban Nature. His novella, "Spin Cycles," was published in November, 2014 by Gemma Media. He is the winner of a fellowship in poetry from the Massachusetts Cultural Council. Charles’s poems have been set by a number of composers, including Beth Denisch, Julia Carey and Robert Moran. A short film based on his poem “Fortress” is currently in production by filmmaker Roberto Mighty. Charles is co-chair of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union, a labor union for freelance writers. He was selected by the Associates of the Boston Public Library as a “Boston Literary Light for 2014.” Continue reading

I stayed recently on Vermont’s Grand Isle, in the middle of Lake Champlain, a beautiful spot where spring had yet to show its face: cloudy, gray and button-your-overcoat cold, with patches of blue ice clinging still to rock faces lining the highway on the ride up. In the yard of the cabin where I stayed, rabbits rooted in piles of dried leaves for a snack, noses twitching, keeping sharp eyes for coyotes. The cabin belongs to the generous neighbor of my friends Ken and Rebecca, a neighbor who let me crash there while he was away. I’d come to the island for a weekend celebration of Ken’s mother Shirley’s 95th birthday. Shirley’s one of a kind: hysterically funny, independent (still gardens and hauls wood for her fireplace), fiercely opinionated, and smarter than a room full of calculus majors. The unquestioned matriarch of a huge extended family, a few dozen of had gathered along with friends from Massachusetts, Ohio, Oregon, D.C. and elsewhere to hang out, laugh continuously, share family stories (some of which might have actually been true) and eat too much. (One night, a vat of Ken’s killer New Orleans gumbo. Another, a mass assault on a local restaurant.) I’ve been going to Ken and Rebecca’s seder near Boston for a long time and met Shirley, who comes up from Atlanta every year for the holiday, at my first. There’s a Jewish tradition of adults giving children gelt at Chanukah: chocolate coins or actual cash. For Shirley, Seder’s close enough, so she was handing out ten-dollar bills to the kids in attendance. Then to my surprise she handed ME a bill…it felt a little like being adopted. I folded the bill and tucked it in a remote corner of my wallet, thinking it would be good to have in case of emergency, and forgot about it. Some months later I stumbled across it while hunting for something else. I'd had a rough day, but seeing that bill lifted my spirits. I realized then the REAL emergencies Shirley’s gift was meant to see me through were those times when we almost forget that in spite of all the cruelty and ignorance, this world is filled with moments of unexpected kindness, and generosity, and grace. Charles Coe is author of two books of poetry: “All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my Parents” and “Picnic on the Moon,” both published by Leapfrog Press. His poetry has appeared in a number of literary reviews and anthologies, including Poesis, The Mom Egg, Solstice Literary Review, and Urban Nature. He is the winner of a fellowship in poetry from the Massachusetts Cultural Council. Charles’s poems have been set by a number of composers, including Beth Denisch, Julia Carey and Robert Moran. A short film based on his poem “Fortress” is currently in production by filmmaker Roberto Mighty. Charles is co-chair of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union, a labor union for freelance writers. He has been selected by the Associates of the Boston Public... Continue reading

I have a confession to make. I just ended a long-time relationship. I changed the voice in my GPS. For years, Ms. Cupstacker was the ghost in my machine. Ms. Cupstacker is the high school history teacher who always catches you passing notes, even when you think she’s looking the other way. She’s the bureaucrat who won’t accept those papers you HAVE TO FILE TODAY. "It's 5:02," she says with smug satisfaction. "The office closes at 5:00." She’d tell me to “turn right” or “turn left,” but didn’t really seem to care where I wound up; sometimes I got the feeling she would have been just as happy to send me over a cliff. When I missed a turn or chose a slightly different route than the one’s she’d laid out, there'd be an awkward pause, then her “Recalculating” would fairly drip with contempt. But I put up with her attitude because I thought I needed her to get where I was going. I was riding with a friend recently, and when we reached our destination (under Ms. Cupstacker’s stern direction). I shut of the engine. My friend glared at the GPS. “I hate that voice,” she said, “I don’t know how you stand it.” “Hey, chill out,” I whispered. “I don’t want to get detention.” I got a look of pity. “The thing’s off. She can’t hear you. There’s probably another voice in there. Let's check it out.” So we fished through the menu and sure enough, I saw I could replace Ms. Cupstacker with someone who spoke in a British accent. And that’s how I met “Enid.” Enid has changed my life. She’s cultured, gentle, good natured and supportive—everything Ms. C. wasn’t. When she tells me to “turn left” it sounds like “ton” left. Delightful. And when I miss a turn or choose a slightly different route, her “Recalculating” is patient and non-judgemental. She accepts me as I am, with all my faults. She's not just giving directions to some office park; it seems like she’s guiding me to her...to some little thatched-roof cottage nestled in the woods under a canopy of green. I park by an ancient oak, give a few taps on the lions head knocker and she opens the door. Enid isn’t beautiful in the conventional sense, and perhaps one beguiled by fashion models would pass her by without a second look. But I’m captivated by her smile, her gentle spirit, and the wicked twinkle in her eye. There’s a small fire blazing in the hearth, just enough to take off the chill, and I breathe in the aroma of fresh-baked scones. We sit to tea and Scrabble and as I scowl at my sad little collection of tiles, wishing I could convert consonants to vowels by sheer force of will, I realize Enid has yet to lay down a new word. I glance up, our eyes meet, and her expression makes it clear that one game is ending whilst another begins. She removes her... Continue reading

Religious holidays were a big deal when I was a parochial school kid in Indiana back in the early sixties. On Christmas Eve the church was packed for Midnight Mass, lit only with candles and filled with the spicy scent that trailed behind when the priest walked up the aisle swinging the incense holder. On Good Friday when we filed in for morning mass, as we did every weekday before school, all twelve Stations of the Cross—and all the other statues in church—were shrouded in spooky purple satin. (On Easter Sunday the shrouds were removed to celebrate the return of the savior.) Yet for the first- and second-generation Irish nuns and priests who had dominion over our school (where all the students were African-American) the most important holiday by far was St. Patrick’s Day. You never saw so much green in your life. There must have been a basement room somewhere in the school building filled with nothing but St. Patrick’s Day bling. Banners, streamers, posters, shamrocks, leprechauns…and hand-made signs the students spent most of the previous week crafting during study period. I wish I had a videotape of us little black kids singing "Oh the Sound of the Kerry Dancers" and "When Irish Eyes Are Smilin." Our keepers celebrated the birth and resurrection of the Son of God, but let’s face it; Jesus wasn’t Irish. The nuns never explained why St. Pat was such a big deal (something to do with snakes?) But then again they never explained much of anything. If you had a question about religion, you just looked up the correct answer in the catechism. The early sixties were something of a Golden Age for the Irish in this country. After decades of prejudice and repression they’d made amazing progress weaving themselves into the fabric of American life. And there was a son of Ireland in the White House! One who’d successfully challenged immigration policies that blatantly favored northern Europeans over Irish. And to many of these immigrants, sports were just as important as politics. The priests at St. Bridgets idolized from afar the Boston Celtics--winners of eight straight NBA titles starting in 1959. And they were out of their minds in 1966 when Notre Dame was rated number one by one sportswriters college football poll and second to Michigan State in the other. These Goliaths were meeting to settle the matter once and for all, and the Friday before the epic contest (that ended in a tie) our pastor Father Ryan made his usual Friday morning visit to the school. Here was the exchange as he stood smiling like a visiting dignitary at the front of our classroom: Father Ryan: “Is everyone studying hard?” Class: “Yes, Father Ryan.” Father Ryan: “Is everyone saying their prayers at night?” Class: “Yes, Father Ryan.” Father Ryan: “Good. Well, say an extra prayer tonight. Notre Dame plays Michigan State tomorrow for the National Championship...” Charles Coe is author of two books of poetry: “All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my... Continue reading

I was clearing out my desk at home and stumbled over an old cassette tape—a dance mix that my friend and former housemate Lawrence Fine and I put together for our annual Halloween party. Had no idea what was on the tape but I dug out an old boombox that plays cassettes and popped it in. Here’s what we were shaking our moneymakers to on Halloween night of ‘89, just a few days before the Berlin Wall came crashing down... Chaka Khan – “Signed, Sealed Delivered” Greg Kihn Band – “Our Love’s in Jeopardy” Marvin Gaye – “Heard it through the Grapevine” Katrina and the Waves – “I’m Walking through Sunshine” Edgar Winter’s Band – “Give it Everything You Got” The Fixx – “One Thing Leads to Another” Power Station (with Robert Palmer) – “Some Like it Hot” Yes – “Owner of a Lonely Heart” The Kinks – “You Really Got Me” Wang Chung – “Everybody Wang Chung Tonight” Herbie Hancock – “Rockit” Michael Jackson – “Thriller” If you want a dance mix now, you get on your iPhone, pluck some tunes from your list and you’re all set. Takes fifteen, twenty minutes. Back in the day you had to grab an album, put the needle on the blank spot and turn on the cassette deck. And if the record skipped fifteen seconds before the end of the cut you cussed, backed up the tape and recorded something else over it. Lawrence and I spent a week making that thing. But it was worth it; our annual Halloween party was circled in red on our friends’ social calendars. The hangout, eat and drink area was on the first floor; the basement dance room was tricked out with lights and a killer sound system. And we had themes: one year it was the Wizard of Oz. I rented a scruffy Cowardly Lion outfit, but Lawrence wouldn’t settle for no steenkin’ rental. A master craftsman, he bought a roll of roofing tin and spent a month before the party making an incredible Tin Man outfit with articulated joints. He could have won any costume contest in Boston with that thing, but he was perfectly happy to wear it at our party, collect his rightful share of “oooohs” and “ahhhhs”, and hang it on the wall afterwards. One year I went as Tammy Faye Baker (big blonde wig, lavender gown, fake eyelashes and hyperbolic makeup.) Another time, in a nod to my Catholic schoolboy roots, I bought a nun’s outfit at a costume shop and wandered the party as “Nun of the Above.” Someone asked, “Tell me sister, which of the snacks your friends have provided does the Lord like most?” I calmly replied, “All snacks are created equal in the eyes of God.” Good times… Charles Coe is author of two books of poetry: “All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my Parents” and “Picnic on the Moon,” both published by Leapfrog Press. His poetry has appeared in a number of literary reviews and... Continue reading

It was only a glove. A single child’s glove lying in the middle of the sidewalk. But it sent me rocketing more than fifty years into the past, to a winter in the early 60's and my family’s kitchen. Mother was stirring a pot of soup when I walked in to confess that I’d lost yet another glove—the second of the winter. I was an absent-minded kid (not much has changed), constantly losing track of gloves, glasses, hats, you name it. (Everything but books. I could tell you exactly where any of the two or three books I was reading at the moment happened to be.) Money was tight in our family; buying another pair of gloves wasn’t going to keep food off the table, but still it was another thing item for a struggling family’s budget. Mother put down the soup spoon . “Maybe we should get you some mitten clips.” But I shook my head. “I’m not wearing mitten clips. Mitten clips are for babies.” I was a very well-behaved as a child. Never got in fights, played hooky, or talked back to my parents. But here I was, committing an act of mutiny. I usually stayed under the radar of the jerkier kids, but I knew that if I showed up at school with mitten clips I might as well have written “Tease Me” on my forehead with a laundry marker. So I took my stand: No Mitten Clips. I think she might have seen some of this in my face. She just sighed and turned back to her pot of soup. “When your father gets home he’ll take you out to pick up a new pair.” Some people have a hard time dealing with the pressures of parenthood; it doesn’t take much to bring them to a boil and turn a child into collateral damage in their lonely war with the world. I once saw a woman in a mall food court screaming at a kid whose great sin had been to knock over a cup of soda. The child just sat with head down as the woman ranted and angrily swabbed the table with a fistful of paper napkins. My mother had her own share of personal demons and I was never sure when one would come up for air, but this time things worked out okay. I hope the parent of the kid who dropped that glove on the sidewalk can shrug it off as well. Ruffle the kid’s hair, maybe make a little joke that ends with a hug. After all, it was only a glove. Continue reading

I have a friend who wants me to get a cat. Actually, she wants me to get two cats. “That way they won’t get lonely when you’re away,” she says. “They can keep each other company.” I try to tell her I’ll get two cats the same day Kim Kardashian gets invited to join Mensa, but she ignores me. “Can't you see them chasing each other around, batting a ball of yarn? They’d be so cute.” “You should bring a couple of kittens next time you come over,” I say. “They can ride little bicycles, juggle peanuts and sing show tunes. Now that would be cute. And when they're done you can pack them up and take them away.” She just shakes her head and sighs. “Absolutely hopeless. You don’t know what you’re missing.” She's wrong; I know exactly what I’m missing. Hair balls yakked up on the carpet during dinner parties. Furniture clawed to shreds. A cat sitting on my head at oh-dark hundred to let me know it’s time for breakfast. Cats work at acting cute and cuddly, but they’re really just a bunch of furry scam artists. Sometimes you’ll catch one checking you out with a look that says, “I’d have licked your bones clean years ago if only I could work that damn can opener.” I’ll concede one advantage cats have over dogs; you don’t have to walk them. You have to walk a dog twice a day—blizzards or monsoons, whether it’s raining broken toaster ovens or shards of broken glass. Now what's that you’re saying? A dog is a great friend? Yeah, but I already have friends. And I don’t have to walk behind them picking up their poop with a plastic bag. (But if you do that for your friends I won’t judge.) With a dog you always have to plan your time away. Say you're thinking of skipping town for the weekend. If you have a cat you can just leave out some food and water. Maybe ask a friend or neighbor to peek in once in awhile. But leave a dog alone for a whole weekend and you'll come home to a hazmat site. You could leave Brutus in a kennel for a few days but you never know what he’ll pick up there. The day after you bail him out you get home from work and he’s sitting at the kitchen table with a cigarette, a bottle of Bud, and Rush Limbaugh on the radio. He looks up, blows a smoke ring and says, “You know, this guy makes a lot of sense if you’d just listen with an open mind.” Your dog used to like running in the park. But now he’s all about gun shows and tractor pulls. If you’re getting the impression I don’t like animals, you’re mistaken. I’d just rather be an uncle than a parent. It’s like with babies; I enjoy making funny faces and tickling their chubby little tummies, but when they start to leak... Continue reading

When you visit a prison you leave all your valuables, your connections to the outside world, at the desk. Next you go through a metal detector, after which you’re carefully searched. Then you stand in the “trap”— a short hallway with a heavy metal door at either end.There are a few uncomfortable seconds when the door behind you slams shut and the one to the inner facility is still closed; your civilized brain knows they’ll let you leave at the end of the day, but your lizard brain wants you to turn around and scream, “OPEN THE DOOR! LET ME OUT! But as always, the door to the yard opens and I walk out with the guard to my destination—the auditorium where I’ll read my poetry along with inmates and several other poets from the outside. I’ve been coming to this particular Massachusetts state prison for some years, and am greeted by a number of familiar faces. The first time you visit a prison to do volunteer work, the inmates are pleased to see you, and happy you took the time to visit. The second time it’s, “Hey man, you’re back! Good to see you again.” But by the third visit, there’s a subtle shift; the conversations start to get real. No one with a lick of common sense would on short acquaintance ask an inmate, “So…what are you in for?” But at some point, maybe after your fourth or fifth visit, occasionally someone will just suddenly start to talk about it. I once had an inmate calmly describe how his “victim’s” wealthy and politically connected family had told his lawyer they’d make sure he’d never be paroled. But the calm wasn’t callousness; in a way he wasn’t even talking about himself; he was talking about someone who no longer exists. As if he was saying, “For you to understand who I am now, you have to understand who I was.” Obviously, not everyone in prison has reached that kind of self awareness; I work with a particular population: those who want to take part in a poetry workshop. Whatever they might have been on the outside, at this point none are hard cases or discipline problems. And it’s clear how much it means to them to share their writing with the visitors, and with each other. Poem after poem speaks of loss and regret, and hard-won knowledge, and hopes for a future—the hope to keep it together until THAT DAY comes. The one with the big red circle around it on the calendars they carry in their heads. For the men who don’t have that release date to look forward to, the ones in for life…I can’t imagine how they manage to cope. Some inmates whose fathers were never really part of their lives are now fathers themselves. They often write about the sadness and frustration of not being there for their children, of not being able to teach the lessons they had to get locked up to learn.... Continue reading