GRAND FINALE - Verbs on Asphalt

REFLECTIONSONTRIBES-aGATHERING
BY STEVE CANNON, THE HECKLER&
THE BLIND GUY
“READ THE
GODDAMN
POEM!”
Thirty-five years ago, when folk singing was in,
everybody you ran into between the ages of twenty
and thirty had a guitar or mouth organ, if not
both. Blues was the key. And John Coltrane and
Eric Dolphy were tearing it up at the Village Gate
-- burning the house down. And if you walked
around Washington Square on a sunny Saturday
afternoon, you can bet your bottom dollar you
were sure to run into a poet who would stop you in
your tracks and make an offering of a poem. Big
Brown would be sitting around the water fountain
reciting verses for days, while his buddies would
pass a hat through the crowd. Things were happening,
and then like now. War broke out in Asia,
spread throughout the states, busted loose in
Africa and Latin America, and less than ten years
ago, the wall came down in Berlin. That changed
everything.
And when the blackout happened in '79, and
break dancin' and hip-hop got inside James
Brown's beat, ten years later the Nuyorican Poets
Café reopened its doors, and spoken word and
poetry was in like Flynn straight out of Chi-Town,
and everybody got down. And the young folks,
from fifteen to thirty, became outspoken.
Then, for truth, the house where I lived did
burn down, and it was out of that experience on
July 14, 1990 (Bastille Day) that Tribes was born.
First it started with a magazine, dedicated to
the arts from a diverse perspective, and Dora
Espinoza expanded it into Tribes Gallery. Then
came Fly By Night Press, which published books
of poetry. And the next thing I knew (sight
unseen), Tribes was booking readings at such
diverse places as the Gershwin Hotel, Avenue B
Social Club, here in its gallery on Sunday afternoons
and elsewhere. Before you knew it, it had
its own website to boot, available all around the
world.
And since I lost my eyesight, thank God, or whoever
you consider the creator, or all creation, folks
young and old alike came by and added their two
cents to make Tribes work.
And not unlike the Café, we've had some colorful
characters, artists of all backgrounds, to pass
through here at one time or another.
People like Tom Corn, who got thrown out of
Bullet Space and even stayed here for a while, and
helped to keep the place clean. People like Dora,
who brought in her crew, to make sure the art was
happening, and it's happening until this day.
Andthe likes of John Farris and his sidekick
Photo: Michael Meyer
Norman Douglas who come
around from time to time to talk
bad about the art and intimidate
the young poets.
And then of course, there's
Jenny Seymour, whose first love
is poetry, and is now an Arab
Scholar and on her way to Brazil.
She and John Payne came in with
the Northwest crew along with
Randall Hunting and Melanie
Best, among others.
When the Stoop Poetry
Workshop was born one late
October night on the stoop of
285 East Third Street, a whole list
of poets was screened and then
invited to participate. Colorful
folks like: Susan Scutti, who
would drink red wine and insult
everyone with ethnic curses, and
consequently got thrown out of
the café and Tribes, but turned
out to be one of the most interesting
short story writers around;
and of course, Reg E. Gaines and
Tracie Morris, who were constantly
bickering over poetry
ideology and art.
And before I turned around, in
spite of my lack of sight, poetry
was flourishing all over the
world, via the Internet; along
with the other arts, as the world
did a jigaboo and went boom
boom boom.•