The August Cirque d’ Soirées

Windows down a bit, whisps of blond hair dancing, occasionally snagging on lip-sticked mouths, and rolling along Pacific Northwest roads in a rented Grand Am, we belt out “Born to Be Wild.”

For three weeks in August 2022, as a publisher and editor of Cirque, Sandy Kleven and I traversed from Anchorage to Juneau to Washington State and Oregon, with visits to Tess Gallagher and Gary Copeland Lilley and many literary friends rarely or never met before in person.

“Everything will go swimmingly,” I kept saying as I viewed our pressured itinerary. My word for the travels with Sandy: kismet. This trip better have kismet.

Not that we didn’t have moments like Thelma and Louise at the precipice. But just moments, such as hysteria over a mislaid purse, or one of us disappearing to take pictures of roadside llamas when we were already late. But more often, kismet, indeed, such as a road construction delay immediately lifted, or when raucous noise from a party beyond the wall drowned out our literary readers, we lifted. We were welcomed inside where the sound system served us well. Stars aligned. That’s what it’s like, traveling together.

This is a tale of two live readings, three official soirées, and three literary kinship stops. Sandy adopted the title Cirque d’ Soirées early on. An evening gathering of the literary.

I left Anchorage just days after major hand surgery. Twisting my other arm, Sandy had convinced me that a three-week road trip would be just the thing for healing my incisions—hidden under an itchy cast. Even so, I managed to live-stream the soirées—duct taping the camera to a stand with one hand and hitting myself over the head with the other.

What a privilege touching down in Juneau at Hearthside Books, where Dan Branch’s daughter, Anna, and others read from his book Someday I'll Miss This Place Too.

The room was packed with readers, their families, and/ or many of the literary townspeople in great spirits. At just post-Covid, with a few remnant strains, most were, understandably masked. Fly-in communities, like Juneau, are vigilant in order to keep the virus from swamping their towns. Also featured was Margo Waring reading from her Cirque Press Poetry Collection, Growing Older In This Place.

After Juneau, we flew to Seattle, where we rode Seattle’s Great Wheel at Pier 57 and on August 17th, held the first official soirée at the home of Christianne Balk and her husband, Karl Flaccus. Ah, the pink hollyhock, apricot roses, periwinkle amidst wax ivy, sunflowers hovering over lavender, catching all the sun’s latter ardent rays.

The sixteen readers included the prolific Lyn Coffin. At her urging, Sandy read Lyn’s poem, “Not Orpheus. Not David,” a tribute to Volodymyr Zelenskyy. The heaviness of Russia’s attacks on Ukraine medical centers hit us.

Out on the deck, we read through the long sunset. Then, Craig Smith read a COVID-era poem about the weekly arrival of the garbage truck, newly interesting and momentous to those who had sheltered in place. The crowd’s laughter reflected its commonality.

In for the night in Mukilteo, at the home of Sandy’s friend, Kay, I was surprisingly crowned for my birthday—a milestone I kept to myself through most of the day. We shared fresh fruit and nuts on the porch as the sun set red on the water. In great company, we talked until well after midnight.

The next morning under cornflower skies, we ferried from Edmonds to the home of the much-awarded poet Tess Gallagher, stopping first at a roadside fruit stand and seeing a Spanish sparrow.

Waterside in Port Angeles, Tess shares her home with poet-partner Gary Copeland Lilley, whose most recent poetry book is The Bushman’s Medicine Show

As Sandy cooked, hummingbirds drained feeders and umber deer wandered into view. The thick-grown antler velvet sheds and then peels off in layers due to the ebbing blood flow of the season before the antlers finally fall. Gary sees the stag sporting a particular reggae vibe as having “dreadlocks.” Tess calls them “chandeliers.” Velvet in bedraggled vines.

Gary and Tess’ affectionate, collaborative relationship inspired us as they discussed current work. We walked to the closed gazebo, ate, and fell into a groove with Tess and Gary.

Tess read her poem “Why Are You Sitting in the Dark?” speaking words with care and fine diction. She lost two partners and collaborators: well-known short story writer Raymond Carver and Irish painter and storyteller Josie Gray.

Next, Gary reads a poem he’s still forming about police harassment. Tess encouraged him to get more details down—that there’s something important there. I remembered Gary’s comment to me on the Zoom program Cultivating Voices: “Badass poems Cynthia Steele,” after he heard “Sestina to the Abortion Secret” and “Trailer Park Utopia.” Our time with them in Port Townsend was rich. The delicious pauses within reading, the lack of a clock. Sandy discussed Josie’s work and publication plans. The moments flowed.

In the morning, Sandy and I left our hotel’s Covid-closed outdoor pool, stopping for coffee with Tess and Gary. At the house she owns on adjoining property which is more like a gallery, Alfredo Arreguin’s complex paintings of Tess’s face emerged from a forest of plant life. She said, “Arreguin invites us to go with him.” So it was with Tess and Gary.

Sharing a water overlook, the Capitol Building, the mountains, we revel, and the food is as amazing as the company—crab and shrimp half salads. Yannone has two books published by Salmon Poetry of Ireland: Boats for Women and The Glass Studio. One spine-tingling effect of living in the post-COVID world is the warmth and exhilaration of touching the hand of a friend previously out of reach.

Next, we visit Portland, joining Cirque published poets Dale Champlin and Marc Jansson at the quaint Rose City Book Pub (vaccination required). Marc read poems from his Cirque Press poetry collection November Reconsidered, a gritty satire on many topics.

Then we drove south, along the Sound to meet with author David Rowan in Union City. A town of 600-some people near Hood Canal seems to be centered on the Union County Store, which is where we met David. David is plodding/plotting along on a new book after Cirque published his novel Loggers Don’t Make Love. We ate ice cream, hugged, and continued our journey.

The hazy skies of Olympia called. There we met a friend on the deck of the Olympia Oyster House—Sandra Yannone. As the adept facilitator of Cultivating Voices, Sundays on Zoom, Sandra takes the time to let words resonate.

Dale read from Callie Comes of Age (also from Cirque Press)—a novel in the form of poetry—with crisp details of a girl's coming of age. Her words pull the reader into the time. Sandy and I quoted bits and pieces of Callie on the drive forward, such as when Callie says one thing but means another. Nancy Deschu, a true reading devotee, read in Portland and then followed us to Hood River and Salem.

At Rose City, we were joined by the entertaining, welltraveled Paul Haeder who Mike Burwell calls, “one hell of a writer.”

Great readings, sound company, and great drinks, and we hit the road again. This time, to Hood River. Within sight of Mount Hood, the home of Leah and Bill Stenson sprawls, its Japanese influences everywhere. Upstairs, a meditation area they share beckons. Sandy and I take mental snapshots of the delicate décor as Leah shows us our guest rooms. The reading, on an upper floor of an outbuilding, are intentionally acoustically perfect. Dozens of attendees and readers flood in. A spread of food and drink included a sparkling homemade lemonade. The readers ranged from hilarious (Nancy Wilbur Woods) to drop-dead serious (Casey Killingsworth from his soonto-be-released poetry collection Freak Show). Truly a multiplicity of people and ideas. I shoot black and white photos.

Afterward, chili for a late dinner. Bill announces, “Root beer floats, anyone?” Absolutely. He shared music, we talk into the night, and a brief belly dancing reverie may have occurred. I drift into sleep on my hand, smiling, then wander back, prop a door open for a draft, and recline.

The next morning, Sandy and I separately meander the property, me in search of Fat Cat, a genuinely fluffy feline, grey with black-slit, vivid gold eyes. We had been introduced to this pet, perhaps a British Shorthair, by way of Leah’s poem the night before. When I found him, we communed in rising daybreak, stretching.

Under light skies and the gaze of white-topped Mount Hood, we hit the 100-mile trek for Salem and the Jefferson, OR, home of Amalie and Bob Hill. The smell of cooked chicken and a plethora of other foods wafted from the kitchen.

Marc Janssen draped the Salem Poetry banner on the podium, and readers began, including Sherri Levine. We listened to readers along with birds, who chirped away at feeders. Those present included David Goodrum whose photo was used as the cover image for Cirque #24, and David Stevenson, former chair of the University of Alaska Anchorage Creative Writing Program. I read a poetic conversation in poems about rain between UAA English professor, Toby Widdicombe and me. Many stayed on into the night, chatting as darkness settled deep around our little group. We stayed until the tiredness crept upon us in the warm, clear, dimming air.

We closed out our joint trip on an all-to-brief visit to the fruitful, sloping, surrounding hills of the Methow Valley at Bill and Lynda Humphrey’s Ranch. Sandy had been Zooming with Lynda, a former school principal, on Cirque Press' Circles imprint book Miss Bebe Comes to America— La Bebé Llega a Estados Unidos. Judi Nyerges, illustrator, joined online. I’d no idea deciding cover images could be so complex. Afterward, I ended up wandering the ranch, photographing pheasants around the grounds and then wasps clustering at the spout of the hummingbird feeder. The sun set behind the Humphreys who ended the day with us outside, firing up the Swiss Raclette Grill.

As suddenly and feverishly as it began, it ended. We celebrated the goodness and generosity of those who make up our larger Cirque literary world. We will be back next year—with soirees and readings in Alaska and the Northwest, celebrating Cirque and the writers of Cirque Press. Thank you everybody. We had a wonderful time. We had kismet.