\u201cCartography\u201d and “Celebrating the Peace” by\u00a0Joel Oppenheimer\u00a0(Joel Oppenheimer\u00a0Papers, Box 11, Archives & Special Collections, University of Connecticut Libraries). All rights reserved. No unauthorized reproduction allowed by any means for any reason.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n 3.20.13<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Who would have<\/span><\/p>\n thought that<\/span><\/p>\n these papers,<\/span><\/p>\n with their typewriter<\/span><\/p>\n ink fading,<\/span><\/p>\n would see the<\/span><\/p>\n light of day<\/span><\/p>\n again, let alone<\/span><\/p>\n on this windy<\/span><\/p>\n Wednesday morning<\/span><\/p>\n in March?<\/span><\/p>\n When the poet<\/span><\/p>\n fashioned these words<\/span><\/p>\n 40 years ago<\/span><\/p>\n they were<\/span><\/p>\n nothing special,<\/span><\/p>\n drafts scattered<\/span><\/p>\n in the author\u2019s mind,<\/span><\/p>\n printed in a cluttered office,<\/span><\/p>\n gathering on the shelf<\/span><\/p>\n and the desk top,<\/span><\/p>\n in piles on the floor<\/span><\/p>\n against the wall,<\/span><\/p>\n and others in a stack<\/span><\/p>\n on the sill<\/span><\/p>\n beside a cactus.<\/span><\/p>\n The plant<\/span><\/p>\n (and the author)<\/span><\/p>\n have long since died<\/span><\/p>\n but today<\/span><\/p>\n I open a manila<\/span><\/p>\n folder and the poetry<\/span><\/p>\n comes alive, quite<\/span><\/p>\n a miracle, actually.<\/span><\/p>\n His words of reflection<\/span><\/p>\n and longing, poems<\/span><\/p>\n commemorating seasons,<\/span><\/p>\n and scenes<\/span><\/p>\n in New York City<\/span><\/p>\n that the poet likely<\/span><\/p>\n saw each day, planes<\/span><\/p>\n rising above the<\/span><\/p>\n Financial District,<\/span><\/p>\n papers blowing<\/span><\/p>\n on the sidewalk,<\/span><\/p>\n a bird that spent half<\/span><\/p>\n its morning jumping<\/span><\/p>\n from branch to branch<\/span><\/p>\n in a single tree<\/span><\/p>\n as a stream of taxis<\/span><\/p>\n formed one line<\/span><\/p>\n from here<\/span><\/p>\n to Central Park,<\/span><\/p>\n all of them turning at once,<\/span><\/p>\n then disappearing on<\/span><\/p>\n behind a monument<\/span><\/p>\n when I close this folder<\/span><\/p>\n and open the next.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 “The Epic Expands” by Robert Creeley (Robert Creeley Papers, Box 2:Folder 48, Archives & Special Collections, University of Connecticut Libraries).\u00a0 All rights reserved.\u00a0 No unauthorized reproduction allowed by any means for any reason.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Sipping A Coke<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Back when I was a kid<\/span><\/p>\n we used to sit on a porch<\/span><\/p>\n and sip Coke.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The parents sat in<\/span><\/p>\n rocking chairs,<\/span><\/p>\n holding their drink<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n in a bottle;<\/span><\/p>\n the young ones sat<\/span><\/p>\n on the concrete steps<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n flicking with their non-<\/span><\/p>\n drinking hand<\/span><\/p>\n the tiniest of pebbles<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n and the sun sat<\/span><\/p>\n motionless<\/span><\/p>\n in the sky.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n We sipped it together.<\/span><\/p>\n We sipped it because<\/span><\/p>\n it was good. People<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n didn\u2019t die because<\/span><\/p>\n of soft drinks, then.<\/span><\/p>\n No one developed<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n an addiction to caffeine<\/span><\/p>\n and diabetes<\/span><\/p>\n wasn\u2019t a problem.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Having this drink allowed<\/span><\/p>\n us to chat about life,<\/span><\/p>\n about the dog\u2019s laziness,<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n how the garden<\/span><\/p>\n was coming along,<\/span><\/p>\n and there was<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n a baseball game<\/span><\/p>\n on the radio<\/span><\/p>\n Saturday night.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Yes, those afternoons<\/span><\/p>\n had some kind<\/span><\/p>\n of timeless element.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I can still taste<\/span><\/p>\n the sweet soda<\/span><\/p>\n in my mouth<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n and I wonder<\/span><\/p>\n to this day<\/span><\/p>\n as I read this poem<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n what that<\/span><\/p>\n is all<\/span><\/p>\n about.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" In his third blog installment, Glastonbury teacher and writer David Polochanin, recipient of the James Marshall Fellowship, shares two of his original poems after reading poetry in the Dodd Collection, from the Joel Oppenheimer and Robert Creeley papers. Blog post … Continue reading ![\"Transcript](\"https:\/\/blogs.lib.uconn.edu\/archives\/files\/2013\/04\/uconn_asc_1990-0056_11_413.jpg\")
<\/a> ![\"Celebrating](\"https:\/\/blogs.lib.uconn.edu\/archives\/files\/2013\/04\/uconn_asc_1990-0056_11_414.jpg\")
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