Words Wild With Bloom
An Oral History Poem Biography of Max Ellison, by Terry Wooten
Intro: I hate poetry, so if I like it, it’s gotta be good. That’s my test. I find the two great things about poetry for a poetry-hater are: when it’s good it’s quick’n’easy to read. –Quicker than regular reading, which is good, since haters are usually busy. Secondly, when it’s good it packs more in than an equivalent 20 pages or more of regular reading [which they call ‘prose’] as far as imagery and mind travel go. This is somewhat related to the first good thing, and is also good for busy moderns. Anyway, Terry’s stuff passes both these tests. You get to know him and it’s a good story.
But the subhead is important here. You might not get it if I don’t remind you: Terry is writing about a buddy poet of his who’s old and dying. OK, I can’t always follow who’s who, but it makes no difference to me. I think it’s mainly Max talking. It’s all good.
Lastly, these stories relate to a Reading Event which happens up in Elk Rapids every Saturday all summer long. People gather around an old stone ring and read stuff out loud. The official event is a couple hours long, but it goes all nite anyway. I believe it takes place at the old Frog Holler stone circle, where an old town used to be, out a two-track aways way up North. I haven’t been there, but durn want to—I bet it’s good, too. Terry has books for sale, if anyone wants more, lemme know. JP
1
They told me he died with my
book of poems on the nightstand
next to his bed. Too weak probably
to read it, or throw it away.
When they told me my poems
weren’t good enough for The Third
Coast anthology of Michigan poets,
I was so damn mad I drove all the
way home, composing an angry letter
on the way.
By the time I got back to Frog
Holler and copied it down, I wasn’t
mad enough to send it anymore. But
I’ve got the letter. It’s in the
Pauline notebooks. Some of my best
writings are letters in those
notebooks.
These academic poets, they make
the money and get the grants, but I’m
living the poet’s life. I’ve sold more
books than all of them put together. I’m
the one out there with my sleeves rolled
up, doing the real work.
There are less than a dozen
poets in the United States who,
without any backing from grants,
universities, or whatever, have
managed to make a living off poetry.
I happen to be one of them.
2
I got to thinking I wanted
to be a well-known poet, and
the best way to do that was
to get in with the kids. So
I started reciting poetry in
schools. Pretty soon one school
led to another. I’ve always said
if you want to get along in an
area, get along with the kids.
As they grow the rest will come.
I walked into the bookstore
in Petoskey the other day, the
store one of my daughters manages.
They’ve got Jim Harrison books a
half foot thick in a long line on
display. Do you really think he’s
sold more poetry books than me? I
never met him, but I sold a book
to one of his daughters once.
I keep telling myself I’m not
going to jump up and down anymore
when I get to that part in The
Star-Bellied Sneetches where the
star-off machine jumps and bumps,
but then I do anyway. I can’t help
myself. That poem has done me more
damage, physically, than any I’ve
ever performed. It’s where all my
physical troubles started. I got
carried away and jumped off a step.
Right then I felt something like
a little spring snap inside me and
I’ve been winding down ever since.
3
My youngest grandson took my
old empty shotgun outside to play
and lost it. It laid in the woods
all summer until I finally found
it the other day. Even though it
was all rusted, I took it rabbit
hunting to celebrate. I had to
track down the same rabbit and
shoot it three times before the
gun fired.
4
I think I had a mild stroke or
something. Standing up there
in front of the kids, I just went
blank. I excused myself and left.
Now, three days later, I can’t
remember what school it was, or
any of my poems. Sometimes I can’t
even speak sentences together.
What a beautiful sunset. Florence
has been here three or
four times. About the closest to
my words. What I mean.
Spirits cuddle.
5
So here I am on top the scrap heap
wired for plumbing. Excuse me if I cry
a little. I can’t hide my feelings as
easy as I used to. Life is hard and I
guarantee that none of you will get out
of here alive either.
I’m writing a poem about dying.
It’ll be called “Fancy Pants,” after
these diapers I’m wearing, but you
might have to finish it. If I get any
thinner or weaker, I’m going to go right
through the window.
When I die I’m going to a better
place, and if I don’t like it there,
I’m moving on.
