The Semantics of an Apple Peel: Poetic Expeditions in the Allentown Art Scene
As we wound our way through the dark cobbled streets of Allentown after the bawdy day traffic had receded and the sidewalks were all but rolled-up, I couldn’t help but notice the distinctly Bohemian atmosphere of this shadowed corner of our fair city. Murals, collages, and artistic graffiti dressed the crumbling brick of the buildings’ walls more frequently as we neared our destination. The street became painted with the dreams and imaginings of artists and poets, from beautiful portraits to intriguing loops and swirls I knew had begun as letters, but had been transformed into a different language entirely. The images’ existential resonance was accented by some vague music echoing distantly off the cement and plaster of this nearly slumbering city. It was delightfully surreal, a little clichéd, yet decidedly and utterly unique. Welcome to Allentown. Finally, we turned a corner and hopped the curb as our footsteps zeroed in on the golden glow of the windows at The Space. Through the front windows, I could just make out the front-most paintings hanging within the gallery, featuring something that looked awfully like a flaming tyrannosaurus rex. Outside, clusters of people huddled around the red glowing tips of cigarettes under the faint haze of various smokes and aromas. This must be the place. As we edged through the sidewalk-crowd toward the door that hung open in welcome invitation to any and all who cared to join us, I shook the hand of a deep-eyed young man in sagging, faded blue jeans and a clean white undershirt, whom I later discovered to be the chief coordinator of this weekly poetry powwow. I was impressed. His casual sincerity personified precisely the air and attitude of the performances that followed. Stepping into The Space, I was taken aback by the staggering modesty of the cozy little gallery. In a room barely larger than ten by forty feet sat three neat rows of nine chairs, one bench, and a cement structure that looked suspiciously like a piece of art, but which was used as a seat later by others who drifted in as the reading continued. As the seats filled in and the walls that were not covered by magnificent pieces of artwork were leaned upon and sat against, the reading began. A single wooden stool stood at the front of our little congregation where poet after humble poet took his or her
place to share with us a little piece of their soul. We in the audience were quiet, considerate, and interested. Our applause was sincere, for their skill, for their courage, for their brilliance. Verses were called up from out of satchels and messenger bags, off of legal pads, and loose-leaf paper, napkin corners, and worn moleskin notebooks. Pain and joy and love and laments were expressed by these waitresses, these bus drivers, these journalists, these students. Short scribbles, long memories, and everything in between were shared with listeners who nodded in unconscious agreement or empathy or gazed at some far off image in their mind’s eye. We sat entranced and unified, just for the evening, by the moving power of words.
Article By: Audrey Foppes
Occasionally, this ethereal trance would be shattered by commotion of the street that came wafting in through our welcoming door. Once, a dog even came jangling in to happily inspect the sneakers of those seated on the floor, and after a pet and a shake, he merrily loped out again. Rather than souring the evening, however, these disturbances somehow enhanced our experience, forging our collective bond by reminding us of our unique status of as quiet lovers of poetry amid a loud and jostling world. After the poets had read all that they cared to share, we mingled our way back out onto the street and conversed on the cracked sidewalk under the golden glow of the evening streetlamps. Compliments were exchanged, writing techniques and philosophies were shared. I complimented a young lady on a particularly thought-provoking poem she read, to which she responded, “I really like writing simple poems, easy to read, easy to say, but that have a deeper meaning and really catch you in you thinking.” She certainly caught me. All of us continued on this way, sharing stories or spreading the word about one upcoming literary event or other. As an outsider, I happily skirted the edge of the reunion, watching and listening and experiencing vicariously the happy reunion of this eclectic Thursday night poetry crowd. Everyone, from the professional and published poet, to the construction worker who scribbled notes on his break, was present and welcome. A more genuine group of people I had never met. They were as different as the poems they had written and shared, and were united by one common passion: the beauty of language.
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