A Piece of My Past in Japanese

A little piece of my past plopped down in my mailbox yesterday. It came in a 6 x 9 brown envelope mailed from Japan. Inside was an anthology titled 36 New York Poets. I didn't recognize the sender's name. I knew I didn't order the book. Along the edge of the cover, the only other English I could read were the names of the poets, most of whom I knew or had known, in my past. "Why am I getting this?" I said aloud, and Shari, looking at the book over my shoulder said, "Maybe you're in it." And there, at the bottom (alphabetical order) was my name. 

When I lived in New York, I spent most of my time on the fringes of the poetry "scene." I co-edited a literary magazine and press.  I published the proverbial "slim volumes" of poetry with small literary presses. I had work in the "Paris Review," the "Village Voice," and lots of obscure and ephemeral magazines. I went to readings and gave readings. Most of my friends were poets and writers. I learned printing because it was the easiest way to get stuff "out there." Sometimes I see the name of a rare book dealer in The Times and think, "Oh yeah, that's the guy who brokered our archives to a couple of universities." 

It was in those days I first learned the adage, which also applies to birding, that "the competition is so fierce because the rewards are so small."

But after a long time, I drifted away from the scene. Lots of reasons, none of them interesting, even to me. So, what the hell was this book? 

Happily, my name was in English, along with the page number my poem was on and (again, happily) while the poem was in Japanese, at least the title had been left in English (along with, I presume, its translation under it), so I could see which poem of mine had been put into the book. I was very amused to see it was one titled "People at Pay Phones." Pay phones! It's practically an historical document. I wrote the poem in 1997, when cell phones were a still something of a novelty. 

The poem was published 25 years or so ago in one of the longest running literary journals in the country, "Hanging Loose." One of the editors, Bob Hershon, was my greatest friend. Sadly, he passed away last year. (I would highly recommend you looking up his work.) Scanning the list of the poets in the anthology, I saw that all of them were associated one way or the other with HL, so I assumed there was some connection with the magazine. I emailed yesterday a couple of editors and found out today that yes, they had supplied the work to one of the anthologists, another HL contributor who lives in Japan and his associate had translated the poems. The anthology had been in the works for something like a decade, had funding, lost funding, found funding and finally came out in August. 

I've no idea how many books were printed. When we published books, we usually did 1000 copies and that was optimistic, but it didn't cost much more than doing less. So, let's say they printed between 500 & 1000 books. Here's what tickles me. Somewhere in Japan, someone, or some two or three, have read (or perhaps, even now is reading), what I set down 25 years ago in Brooklyn, after seeing a guy on a pay phone on the corner of Court and Schermerhorn slam down the handset. I had the whole poem in my head by the time I'd walked the mile to my apartment in Carroll Gardens and simply transcribed it and sent it off to get published. Never imagining, for even a nanosecond, that it would someday end up translated into Japanese. I wonder how faithful the translation is. I can tell that there are explanatory footnotes in the book (there is one for "Mickey Mantle"); I don't see one for "pay phone" so I guess the editors assume most readers will have a memory of that ancient street furniture. 

Here is what the first part of the poem looks like in Japanese:

And here is the full text itself. 

People at Pay Phones
 
I see people at pay phones
they’re all in bad moods.
Arguing with girlfriends boyfriends
in Spanish in Polish or pushing
some crap to some sucker
who’s not buying who hangs up.
 
I see people at pay phones
glaring at people with cell phones
“the smug bastards,” they think.
I see people at pay phones
who are obviously on hold
and will be until their quarter runs out.
I see people searching for small change
as their quarter runs out.
I see people at pay phones
who think it’s still only a dime.
 
I see people at pay phones
waiting for other people at pay phones
to get the fuck off.
I see people at pay phones
making bets and I see
people at pay phones taking bets
and I see a man near a pay phone
outside a candy store
telling people not to use that phone
“Why not?” “It’s out of order.”
 
I see people at pay phones
trying to break the phone
they’re so pissed off
I see people at pay phones
looking at the handset
realizing the phone is broken.
I see people at pay phones
digging around the coin return
out of habit.
 
I see people at pay phones
at Grand Central
who are lying to their bosses
and I see people at pay phones
in Penn Station totally confused.
I see people at pay phones
in the subway who can’t
hear a thing, and they’re screaming
as the train rolls in.
 
I see people at pay phones
who are late for dinner
late for the dentist
late for a date.
I see people at pay phones
thumbing through notebooks
dropping scraps of paper.
 
I see people at pay phones
actually reading
the advertisements.
I see people at pay phones
and realize I haven’t seen
a phone booth in years.
 
I see crazy people
talking on pay phones
and the line is dead
and I hear pay phones
ringing and ringing
reaching out like a beggar
until someone passing by
picks it up and
out of sheer spite
says hello then
slams down the receiver
and I can see someone
at the other end of the line
go berserk, and I see
someone giggling as he walks
along the jangling street.