The Bangor 350.org reading went very well--an interesting and accomplished variety of readers and even a sizable crowd. Interestingly, ours was not the only event at the Bangor Public Library yesterday. Somebody was getting married there as well. I have never once thought of getting married at a library, but, really, why not. It was a rainy day. Bums were sleeping peacefully in the stacks, toddlers were screeching in the children's room, and poets were reciting in the basement. A wedding was an entirely suitable addition, in a mish-mash Canterbury Tales kind of way.

After I got home I saw, on the New York Times website, that the 350.org actions were headline news around the world. And I see I have forgotten to mention that even we, in podunk Bangor, were on the map: organizer Bill McKibben's brother Tom made a surprise appearance, disguised as a regular-guy-with-a-kid-at-a-poetry-reading until the end of the show. This was exciting; and as I looked at the photo in the Times, I also realized that I have not been involved in a big action since my Greenpeace days of yore. So in honor of activists everywhere, I will post my Greenpeace poem, which is also the first poem I ever wrote in a male voice.

Manilow Fan

Dawn Potter

“Is it true?—is it really true? Is Barry

huge back east?” begs the twelve-year-old

girl in the “Barry” hat answering the knock

 

of an earnestly hungover Greenpeace canvasser

originally planning to tap into his standard

manifesto on harp seals, Monsanto, and the awesome

 

bullying powers of the Rainbow Warrior; now trapped,

thunderstruck and tongue-tied, on this freezing

doorstep in Edina, Minnesota, overcome by vibrations

 

that might be the fault of last night’s tequila

but feel like a fireworks blast of unsubstantiated news:

a vision of the northeast decked out as Gargantua’s

 

Copa, rhinestones glittering from fire escapes, golden

showgirls high-stepping through glitter-lit trails in the dirty

snow; and there, rubbing shoulders with the Empire State

 

like a smooth King Kong, it’s Barry the Man himself,

stretching forth a slim white hand, tossing his shiny hair,

ready to belt out the song that makes the whole world sing,

 

even, for a second, this part-time do-gooder

emerging from his daze on a stoop in Minnesota,

still primed to tell Barry’s little fan, “Hey,

 

Manilow’s the greatest; he’s a sensation everywhere!”

though he suspects the right thing to do

is to break the news that “this is the 80s, kid.

 

Punk rockers drink in the bar around the corner.

Get with the times”; and the truth is that “Mandy”

is, like, his least favorite song ever; so the question is,

 

What’s the spirit of Barry doing here, stuck in a time warp

on this grim suburban plain?  No doubt, the girl could

explain it all; he’d like to plunk down on her shoveled steps

 

and let her show him exactly how the Barry magic

works; but something stops him, a sort of awkward

muzzling of wonder, like when smack in the middle

 

of a long wet kiss, you sneeze: and instantly

every trace of romance bursts like a blister

and the angel you’d been about to die for

 

tucks in her shirt and decides to go to class;

and what he ends up doing in Edina

is to rub his cold nose against his splintery

 

clipboard, scuff his Sandanista boots

on the Vikings welcome mat, and mutter,

“Uh, I don’t know. . . . Is your mom home?”

 

[forthcoming in How the Crimes Happened (CavanKerry Press, 2010)]