Iinvitation to poetry reading with Tim Hunt - Sunday, February 16 ion Sebastopol

[Larry Robinson]

You are cordially invited to join us for a poetry reading by Tim Hunt.

February 16, 2pm at the home of Rebecca Evert in Sebastopol.

Tim Hunt
 <https://i0.wp.com/www.tahunt.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/portrait.jpg>
A fourth generation Californian, Tim Hunt was born in Calistoga and raised primarily in Sebastopol. As a boy he identified strongly with the Lake County region of his father’s family. 

Educated at Cornell University he has taught at several American Universities. Hunt’s scholarly publications include Kerouac’s Crooked Road: Development of a Fiction, The Textuality of Soulwork: Jack Kerouac’s Quest for Spontaneous Prose, and the five volumes of The  Collected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers.  Hunt has also published four collections of poetry: Fault Lines, The Tao of Twang, Poem’s Poems & Other Poems and Ticker Stubs & Liner Notes (winner of the 2018 Main Street Poetry Book Award), received three Pushcart nominations and been awarded the Chester H. Jones National Poetry Prize for the poem “Lake County Elegy.”
 
 




https://www.tahunt.com/ <https://www.tahunt.com/>


Seating is limited. To reserve a seat and receive directions please write to revert at sonic.net <mailto:revert at sonic.net>.



Peets

At the Peets in Berkeley, I am drinking a double
espresso with unrefined sugar in it; you, a mocha.
Do you remember in high school how we would
walk the campus, prowl the bookshops,
then sit here as if this were more real
than the little town to the north—
the apple trees and canneries, evenings
of Rawhide, Lawrence Welk, Route 66?

No, you don’t.  Because I am not in Peets.
Here, no one else is up yet.  I am drinking tea
(from the Peets in Portland) as the blue
squeezes down against the fog, and the trees
come out across the estuary.
And you?  I don’t know who you are
as I write pretending I do.

But if you were you and we were sitting in Peets, each
detail would draw another.  “Do you remember
when?”  “And how we . . . ?”  “And that time . . .” until
we could put on the world we’d woven
and stare off through that window at what might pass by.

Or, to remember differently.  It is Sunday evening,
a small college town in Maine.  The control panel’s meters
cast puddles of light on the spinning vinyl
feeding Ellington to all the someones who might hear
if they happened to turn their radio dials that way.
Is anyone there?  Or am I alone with the Duke and Johnny Hodges
talking to myself between numbers as I pretend
to talk to you and you and you, each in your separate
living rooms, where the light is different in each.

Here, this morning, the air is still cool, it lifts
off the water as the light grows within it
and you draw the ink across the page.
Perhaps where you are the light is also
warming your skin.  Perhaps
as we share the passing by
these words are not silence.

		- Tim Hunt
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