DIARY OF AN URBAN POET

Linda Lee Curtis grew up in Great Bend, Kansas, the daughter of an oil-field worker. She moved to Phoenix 11 years ago and settled in a simple clapboard house near the State Capitol. Since that time, she and her husband, Ron, have lived frugally–a 1967 Volkswagen is their transportation–and have succeeded in supporting themselves with their art. Ron Curtis is a sculptor who works in glass and who shows in galleries in Sedona and San Diego; Linda Lee Curtis is a poet.

She is 41, but with her long blond hair and bangs she retains a certain air of childlike innocence. Curtis is uncomfortable talking about herself and her work. She spends most of her time writing, or sending her work to the tiny literary magazines that have printed it, like Bronte Street, published in Mesa; Sagacity, in Worcester, Massachusetts; and Innisfree, in Manhattan Beach, California. Curtis has also published several collections of her work privately.

Her poetry is spare and conversational in tone. It can recall her childhood in the Midwest with its cottonwood and sunflowers, its eccentric characters, its kitchens warm with the smell of baking bread. One recent collection, though, deals with the influx of crime and of homeless people she has seen in her neighborhood in recent years. The title, “Ghetto Rain,” refers to the sound of shotgun pellets on a metal roof.

Linda Lee Curtis’ “Diary of an Urban Poet” is a slice of life from that neighborhood, to which, after more than a decade of observation, she retains a loyalty.

“I like it here,” she says. “I couldn’t see myself living isolated in the suburbs. I like having something happening.”

DIARY

You may have passed through my neighborhood before, or one like it. You may have looked at it with pity, or even disgust. But if you look beneath the grime and poverty, there are thousands of people trying to squeeze out a life of some sort. The fears and disappointments are big, but so are the dreams.

Day One

Saturday is a bad night around here. The church next door buses in two loads of transients, the mentally ill and other assorted characters. The church feeds them hot dogs, or some other sort of meal after the prayer services are over. It’s a noble idea to feed the hungry, but a lot of their recruits don’t bother with the religious part of the deal. They wander aimlessly in the vacant lot next door, or crouch on the ground, drinking cheap wine and beer until the food is finally passed out. They get up occasionally to urinate against our house, or to borrow a cigarette.

I had to go outside several times tonight to make sure that no one had thrown down a lighted cigarette. I am so afraid of a fire starting.

The church buses finally pulled out around ten o’clock. I washed some dishes and relaxed enough to start work on a new poem.

I’ve been writing more rhyming and romantic-type poems lately. A “women’s” magazine has just accepted one of them for the June issue. I will be paid ten dollars for it.

Day Two

The popping sound of gunfire startled me out of a sound sleep at 3:05 this morning. Several groups of shots rang out for the next five minutes. I heard someone shout, “If you don’t stop that, I’m going to blow your head off!” A police car cruised by about that time. He didn’t stop, but everything quieted down after that. I still don’t know where the shots came from.

These wild shooting episodes worry me. We sleep next to a window and it’s too easy to imagine a bullet shattering it while we’re sleeping.

There were a lot of people inside the vacant house next door today. My husband, Ron, called the police, believing that someone had broken into the house. There were people of all ages running in and out of the house. A small boy was gleefully marking his territory by our porch, unaware of all the activity. It turned out that one of our longtime neighbors had been given permission by the house’s owner to rent it to someone. We’d heard nothing about it, so it was very embarrassing when I had to explain everything to four not-so-thrilled cops.

I have been submitting a lot of poems lately. I’ve been sending some to “markets” that are pretty closed to outsiders, but I figure it is better to try them than to always wonder.

Eleven of my poems have been published since last January. That brings my total number of publications to somewhere between five and six hundred. I love to see my poems in print, but I get my real pleasure from writing them. The small literary journals bring a lot of satisfaction to me as a poet, but very little money. Luckily, money has never persuaded me that it lives up to its image. This neighborhood is full of free poetry, if you want it.

I bought six tamales from a thin young woman who was selling them in the grocery-store parking lot. She dispensed the foil-wrapped, five-dollar packets from a white plastic bucket. The tamales were full of red chili and shredded beef. I ate three of them and saved the leftovers for another lunch.

Day Three

I was disappointed today, because there was very little mail, only a letter from a prisoner in Florida who wanted a wife. He’d found my name and address in a pen-pal magazine that had printed an article of mine about artificial fingernail mosaics. The magazine, without my permission, published my home address. I’ve been hearing from lonely prisoners for months.

I retyped my poem “Community Life” and sent it to the Community section of our local paper. The paper solicits opinions, but I’m not sure that includes anything in poetic form.

Ron and I went outside and played “flag” with our cat, Bobbie. He runs up to us, takes a small flag into his mouth (the stick end), and walks proudly across the yard. I’ve been trying to take pictures of his little “march” and will write a poem to go with the photographs. He is a sweet little gray cat. I figure that he deserves a poem as much as anything or anyone. Animal poems are hard to place with a publisher, but sometimes you have to write just for love.

Day Four

There is a crumbling old shed behind the vacant house next door. Its remaining roof consists of rusting curls of sharp tin. Transients sometimes sleep inside and curious children love to climb on top of it. Once, a too-brave little boy fell through the roof. He wasn’t hurt and was climbing again the next day. I spend a fair number of hours chasing people away from that shed. I worry that someone will get badly “messed up” there some day.

A poetry newsletter published two of my poems. That really lifted my spirits. They have been dragging on the ground. The best part was that I had submitted one of the poems under my cat’s name! Sure enough, there was his name in print, on the same page as mine!

Day Five

Tonight, this whole block smells of smoke. Small groups of men who live near here build fires in their yards. They are more than just fires for cooking. The men love to gather around them.

Day Six

The mailwoman brought a sample copy of a “writer’s” magazine from Florida, and a free storytelling game from a potato company. The game is made for children and comes with a bright circular wheel that has magnets on the back. It was so colorful that I stuck it on the refrigerator door, beside the plastic chocolate-bar and liquid-bleach magnets. I received a call from a photographer who recently photographed my potato chip paintings [Curtis painted faces and designs on potato chips several years ago; some were bought by Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum] for a tabloid. He said that his photographs of my work had been published in a paper in England and in another in this country. That was good news, even though I doubt that I’ll ever see the photographs. I hope that someone else will see the stuff and enjoy it.

The traffic moving past our house is extremely noisy today. I think that everyone is trying out their horns. Usually I don’t mind–I love the action of the city, but right now I wish that I could be in a small, soundproof room, free of any distraction except my unfinished poems.

Day Seven

I spent a couple of hours throwing out yellowed rejection slips and old poetry-contest guidelines. I can’t believe that I still had some 9-year-old “I’m sorry to inform you’s.” About twenty people are looking at the house next door. I believe that they are all from the same family. They have that “renter’s” look in their eyes, but will be very crowded if they move into that house. It has only one bedroom.

More good luck around here–when I tried to shut our front door, it wouldn’t budge. When I went outside, I noticed that three rusty screws had fallen out of the hinges. That pretty much sums up the whole day.

Day Eight

A large family rented the vacant house. They are very busy cleaning and trying to make the place livable. It is a rather hopeful sign, I think.

I noticed that several of the new neighbor’s children were playing outside, so I took several decorated cupcakes over to their mother. I didn’t stay to visit, but I was happy to see the delightful look on the children’s faces when they realized the cupcakes were for them.

Day Nine

It is a hot, slow, heavy-feeling day. I cooked a pot of spaghetti with meat sauce, and garlic bread for lunch. It smelled great, but just added more weight to a doughy Sunday. Two of our longtime neighbors’ daughters stopped by to talk to me. They were excited about the new neighbors. The oldest girl said, “There are four grown-ups, four kids, and the grandma and grandpa.” “They’re really going to be squashed into that little house,” she said.

The youngest girl said, “We’re glad to have new neighbors, but we won’t be able to talk to them very much, because they can’t speak English and we don’t know their language yet.”

Day Ten

We were surprised to find out that our new neighbors still have no water, so Ron offered to let them use our water, for a short while, for drinking and washing up a little. The woman he spoke to was pretty indifferent about it, and didn’t even thank him, but I did hear our hose running, later. I walked around downtown and passed out copies of my poems to addicts and street people. Most of the people were friendly today. Only one man, in a group of three, yelled something obscene. He barely knew what he was doing anyway.

Day Eleven

A man walked up to me at the grocery store and reached to touch my hair. “Is that German or Swedish hair?” he asked. I answered that it was just American hair and tried to go about my shopping. The man followed me up and down the aisles, for a couple of minutes. He kept trying to grab at my hair. I finally squeezed into a check-out line to get away from him.

We are starting to regret the offer to let the new neighbors use our water. We wanted to make sure that they had water for drinking and personal hygiene, but they’ve washed their truck, watered their yard, filled their swamp cooler, sprayed the sidewalk, and the hose is still running full blast. I wouldn’t worry so much, but we have been really careful about our own water use around here. My heart goes out to their little kids, though.

When I look around this neighborhood and see the hopeful things that poor people do to make their homes look better, it makes me want to cry. Several families have placed old couches and chairs on their front porches to make them look more welcoming. Some have even covered their sagging porches with old scraps of carpet. I get a little sad when I remember how I used to try to create beauty out of nothing. One time, several years ago, I stapled purple plastic flowers around my dresser mirror. I thought that they were the prettiest things I’d ever seen. Until someone told me differently.

I heard a lot of noise outside tonight. When I looked out the bathroom window, I saw three young boys on the church’s roof. They were beating the air-conditioning unit with sticks.

Day Twelve

Good news! I hope! I received a letter that said I am a possible grand-prize winner in a marking-pen contest. The contest had called for the most “unusual” use of their product. The company sent a winner’s acceptance and release form. I had it notarized and mailed it back to them. If I win, I will get a cash prize. All I can do now is hope.

There is an enormous amount of pounding going on next door. The new neighbors have dragged in scrap wood from a burnt-out shed down the alley. They are using it to build a gate. They’re trying to repair their shed, too. While the adults are nailing boards, the kids are jumping up and down on the roof, having a great time. It’s quite a sight to see.

I read my horoscope today. Although I don’t usually believe in that stuff, I hope that this one is right. It said that I could win a contest.

Day Thirteen

I went over to talk to our longtime neighbors. Their cat has been having kidney problems, so I took my medical book for cats with me to see if we could figure out how to help it. We never did decide what was wrong with the cat. Those medical books have too many diseases to choose from. I gave the neighbors some samples of cat vitamins and natural “medicines” and went on home. Several small boys next door were throwing rocks at passing cars. A man who lives in a small house across the street ran over to tell them to stop throwing the rocks in that direction. “Throw them that way,” he said. He was pointing in the direction of our house!

“You’d better not throw any rocks this way,” I said. The boys laughed, then started throwing them at the church. They got bored with that after a while and climbed on top of the church to play. Getting closer to God, I guess.

Day Fourteen

I watched an old Twilight Zone. It was about a woman who couldn’t stand patterns, because she was afraid that she would see things in them. The show reminded me of an orange shower curtain I once had. When the light hit it a certain way, you could see “faces” on it. I still have some sketches I made of them. I love patterns.

Tonight, we went to the gallery where Ron is showing his sculpture. Everyone was impressed with his work, but his glistening glass fish was the center of interest.

Day Fifteen

I went outside to look at a beautiful rainbow and was taken by surprise. Four little girls, two black and two Hispanic, called me something obscene, as they walked past our house. I’d never seen any of them before today. It was a sad introduction. They didn’t notice the rainbow.

My mother called today. She had just read an envelope full of poems that I’d sent her. She liked one of my old ones best–something I’d written about goals.

I received a copy of my biographical entry from the International Biographical Centre in Cambridge, England. It is going to be published in the Dictionary of International Biography, Twenty-First Edition. I found three mistakes, which I corrected. I will mail it back tomorrow. I don’t put much stock in most reference-type directories, but it is fun to be included. I doubt that I’ll ever see a copy of the book, though.

Day Sixteen

I am starting a new series of poems about life in poor neighborhoods. These places do have a poetic side. Dirt and poverty can be cosmetics–as well as a barrier.

The pen-pal magazine that published one of my articles a few months ago published another one of my articles about my artwork, and one of my poems. They did a good job and even illustrated it.

When I was out in the yard with my camera aimed at Bobbie, I heard a man say, “When are you going to enter that cat in a contest?” The man introduced himself and told me that he was manager of the big house that is part of the church. He was a heavily tattooed, but friendly appearing person. He asked me if I was going to send a Bobbie-cat picture to a magazine. When I said yes, he asked if I were a writer. He was very excited when I told him that I do a lot of writing. He said that he is trying to write a book and hinted that he could use a little help. He mentioned that the church puts food boxes together and said to let him know if I ever need one.

Day Seventeen

Ron barbecued hamburgers for our lunch. We have a tiny grill in the backyard, made from an old wire refrigerator shelf and four bricks. It is very crude, but has produced some pretty fine meals. We save our old charcoal in a barrel to reuse when we run short.

Day Eighteen

It is very chilly outside, and the sky is full of marshmallow clouds. The air smells and feels slightly different. I believe that some rain will be dropping in.

The new neighbors still don’t have running water. They have started getting jugs full each day from their relatives across the alley. The adults send the children to haul the water. They don’t seem to mind. They laugh, play, and make a game of it.

The little ones are apparently not in school yet. They spend their days in their yard, chattering sweetly in Spanish. They seem happy in a way that only children can be.

I stopped at a used bookstore not far from here, but was disappointed to find that there were no poetry books on the shelves, at least none I could find. It is sad to find that something which I value so much matters very little to so many.

Day Nineteen

Our “new” neighbors are now former neighbors. They moved out last night. They couldn’t get their water turned on, due to severe plumbing problems. So I guess they headed out for wetter pastures.

It is always a little sad when people move, even after a short time. Neighbors on both sides of the fence start out with high expectations.

The house next door is empty again. All that remains of the tenants’ life there is the mud-colored carpet that covers the porch, two overstuffed chairs, and a box of trash that someone dropped in our backyard.

Day Twenty

Tonight the moon is curled like a weary traveler in the ten o’clock sky. The alley yawns like a mouthful of aching teeth.

Yet not too many time-soaked hours away, the sun is waiting to burn its way over the horizon and turn all of the broken glass on my block into jewels.

The popping sound of gunfire startled me out of a sound sleep at 3:05 this morning.

This neighborhood is full of free poetry, if you want it.

Small groups of men who live near here build fires in their yards. They are more than just fires for cooking. The men love to gather around them.

I walked around downtown and passed out copies of my poems to addicts and street people.

When I look around this neighborhood and see the hopeful things that poor people do to make their homes look better, it makes me want to cry.

The sun is waiting to burn its way over the horizon and turn all of the broken glass on my block into jewels.