I Ran Across Dave Etter's Name By Chance...

NOB HILL--Dave Etter! His early work, like in his book Last Train to Prophetstown, is full of magical images that you could tell enchanted the poet as well as the reader. But when I left northern Illinois to hang out in San Francisco I left all that and struck out on my own--looking for a truth that was of a different generation. Eventually I came back to Illinois and after a while I got to thinking about Dave Etter.

I decided to go see him in the town of Geneva, about 40 miles away. It was already dark, but I hitchhiked out there anyway, dressed in my old bellbottoms and a navy pea jacket. When I got there I went up to the door and hesitated...after all I didn't know him, he didn't know I was coming, and most importantly, any form of rejection would be devastating to me. Well, I knocked and he answered. I told him I was also a poet and wanted to know if he had a little time for me. He hemmed and hawed and kind of shuffled his feet but eventually he let me in his house.

I didn't blame him for not wanting to look at my poems. If he didn't like them (and that was the most likely scenario) what was he going to say. I think it took him some time to come to the conclusion that he would just tell me (gently) they stunk and for me to stick to my pearl-diving day job if it came to that. But by the time he let me in I am sure that he had worked it all out in his mind.

But he surprised himself. He liked them. He gave me the name of a couple of magazines to send some of them to, and told me to use his name in the cover letter. I was in heaven. Hitchhiking back to DeKalb on a cold winter night was as exciting and gratifying a time as I have ever had.

Last week I ran across his name on a website called Illinois Poet Laureate. It has a realplayer video of him reading three poems. He writes a lot differently now than he did almost 40 years ago, but the last poem gives you some feeling for the sense of space all midwestern poets seem to feel. Here, below, is a poem he read in 1967 when I first heard him. As Lucien Stryk used to say, "Hmmmmmm."

Hollyhocks

Hollyhocks are swaying gently
under the blue branches of an elm.

I watch 82 freight cars
sink into the corn leaves
and drop over the rim of the prairie.

On my back now, I watch the sky
make wool pictures of mothers.

Two blackbirds fly toward the river:
the muddy river of endless regret.

I could lie here forever
and look up at these hollyhocks.

I will never get on in the world.