Dear L

I have come to know you through your many stories,

and as I close my eyes, I envision your experiences

as prophecy, blood soaked rice paddies, washed away

by monsoon rain. Then war comes again. And fresh blood

runs through crimson streams anew. I have respected you

from the outset, yet at times I think you’ve taken mysticism

too far. However, I have only become world-wary abstractly,

and can count the number of dead bodies

I’ve seen in the flesh on one hand, unlike you. Some people

are possessed with an unhealthy obsession of death,

and in the process forget about life. You’ve taught me

that the two are intertwined, and even though you’ve witnessed the unspeakable,

you still somehow find the lost grain of hope in any dire situation.

I want to thank you for your sable hand of guidance,

always grasping an ebony cane crafted in the cradle of humanity, Africa,

the continent whose descendants you have taught me more about than anyone else.

I am grateful.

“Walk in Beauty” and endure.

-your loving friend,

sw

almost forgotten

the wind yells at trees

for abandoning children

before it began

Deep Inside a Trash Filled Mind

I’m just an animal searching

and not minding

all the dirt and scabs out loud

When the days no longer

last long

I no longer

last

even though I am nocturnal

Poetry is the tiny scraps

of food found in piles of trash

A Taste of Hidden Culture in America’s Most Dangerous City

Camden_NJ_poverty

An almost completely abandoned block in Camden is not uncommon.

It’s 7 pm on a frigid Wednesday in November on 3rd street in downtown Camden. It’s dark and
the streets are mostly empty, but there’s a little bit of light and sound coming from the pizza shop
called Little Slice of New York. No, it’s not a bunch of rowdy Rutgers students on break from
partying in order to get their drunk-munchies fix, it’s a bunch of poets eating pizza, sipping on
wine, and singing along to classic folk and Bob Dylan songs. Many of the attendants are
baby-boomers or older, but there is a consistent influx of Rutgers students who come to read and
listen at this casual open-mic as well, both undergraduates and graduates.
Who is responsible for this outrageous display of, (could it possibly be?) culture in Camden?
The man’s name is Rocky Wilson, and he’s been the host of Pizza and Poetry for almost as long
as Little Slice of New York has been open. And the before and after photographs hanging on the
right-side wall of this small pizza parlor portray the two buildings that it now occupies,
previously boarded up and abandoned, now a thriving business. The same goes for the monthly
Pizza and Poetry event, in the seventies Camden’s movie theaters closed, along with many of the
other businesses and factories that made this city a bustling center of industry and culture in
South Jersey. The amount of success in the mayor’s agenda of supporting the universities and
medical centers in the city may be debatable, but the mission of a few Camden residents to
establish art and propagate peace has become undeniably more and more apparent in this city.
Mr. Rocky, (as his former students call him) was born at Cooper Hospital, but grew up in
Haddonfield. However, Rocky has been living in Camden for thirty some odd years, and his
house is appropriately situated on Penn street, right behind the Walt Whitman Center. Even
though Rocky’s business card reads “The Puppet Laureate of Camden”, he’s most well-known
for what he calls being a Walt Whitman interpreter. This means that he’s frequently invited to
events where he is called upon to dress up as America’s greatest poet and recite classic poems
such as “Song of Myself” and “I Sing the Body Electric” with stunning theatrics. Mr. Wilson is
also a formidable poet himself, and has had his poetry published in reputable journals, such as
Painted Bride Quarterly. His first poetry collection, much of it involving the desolation and
hidden beauty of Camden, will be published in the spring of 2014 by Whirlwind Press.

Rocky Wilson isn’t the only Camdenite who is responsible for a resurgence of culture in this
troubled city. Cassie MacDonald, a frequent attendee of Pizza and Poetry, hosts writing
workshops and spiritual healing meetings at her home in South Camden, which she calls Brigid’s
House. Her home is down the street from Sacred Heart Church, which is on the corner of
Broadway and Ferry, in a struggling neighborhood that these local artists call “SoBro” (south
Broadway). This run-down and dangerous part of Camden has benefited from Sacred Heart
Church and Father Michael Doyle’s mission to support the downtrodden community through art,
charity, and activism. Cassie MacDonald hosts an outdoors poetry reading and barbecue in the
summer months at what is known as “Peace Park,” a circle of stones on a well-kept triangular
field of grass on what used to be a vacant lot. MacDonald and the community have been slowly
transforming the park into a safe haven for locals, and next year plan to officially name the park
after the late nationally renowned poet and pacifist, William Stafford.
Close by, on the corner of Jasper and 4th Street, lies the South Camden Theatre Company, a
“nonprofit professional theatre company dedicated to helping revitalize the City of Camden,
New Jersey by producing meaningful, professional theater in the City’s Waterfront South
District.” The theater is in its ninth season, and has produced high quality plays that have caught
the attention of local and regional theater enthusiasts. Downtown Camden is just a short trip
north up Broadway, however, what lies in between Rutgers and “SoBro” will dishearten and
frighten anyone, as Camden’s rampant poverty and drug epidemic is absolutely evident even on
what’s supposed to be a main street of the city. Although another cultural event that is meant to
alleviate the despair of Camden, the 3rd Thursday Art Crawl, occurs every month at Gallery
Eleven One, Rutgers’ own Steadman Art Gallery, Filbert Studio, and other venues that can be
found on art11one.com.
It’s getting late on November 20th, and the host of Pizza and Poetry keeps humorously
reminding everyone that it’s a school night. The main themes of the night are the celebration of
two birthdays, that of Rocky’s childhood hero, Roy Rodgers, and Father Michael Doyle,
Camden’s real-life hero. A few poets read in tribute to the famous Irish Catholic priest and
activist, and Cassie MacDonald reads some of Father Doyle’s own poetry, which was published
in a book of poems and letters called “It’s a Terrible Day: Thanks be to God.” All of a sudden,
Michael Doyle himself makes a surprise appearance, and the priest (who’s known for being
among the Camden 28 Vietnam activists) ends the night by reading several moving poems and
expressing his gratitude in his gentle brogue to Rocky and company for helping to make Camden a
better place.

Photo by Colin Archer/Agency New Jersey.

Photo by Colin Archer/Agency New Jersey.

I in Relation

Speaking about how schools kill creativity.

And touching on the subject of industrialism

fostering a hierarchical mode of education,

with art on the bottom

of an abstract pyramid.

 

I can’t help but to be wary of listening to comfy “knighted” doctors

making profit off of selling books on educational theory.

 

There isn’t anything wrong with this not being a poem.

Just like there isn’t anything of substance inside those

capsules we give to the little ones,

besides it being addictive medication.

 

I would have preferred you to not just prod at the truth,

but make a fist and hammer at our decaying machine.

 

I guess that’s why I’ll never be a mainstream or alternative anything.

Since both are one and the same.

Since I’m not kosher.

 

I am a pig.

My poems are slices of bacon.

My words are gray dull grease.

The effect of which is a blissful heart attack.