Simple Things/ Lang Kenneth Haynes
The first pancake
The first pancake
No matter what you do they seem to come out undercooked or burned. Pale, syrup-sucking sponges that break apart when you try to take them off the
griddle, or crusty, blackened Frisbees that crunch when you bite them. The call of, “Who wants the first pancake?” is usually met with silence.
So is the case with many firsts. The first dance. The first kiss. The first person to hold a job that has been traditionally held by someone who doesn’t even
come close to looking like them. The first person to read at a poetry reading. The first person to do just about anything. There is no context for it. No precedent.
Firsts represent an untraveled road so we often spend a lot of time talking with people who haven’t been where we want to go. And the best they can do -bless
their hearts- is to share comparable situations with us. Situations in which they survived falling flat on their faces only to discover that the falls were not life-
threatening. But the knowledge gained, somehow, failed to translate into fearlessness when confronted with the next first, the next barrier, the next stroke into
uncharted waters. So you thank them for imparting their wisdom and experience and stand before the same threshold you were standing before when you first
requested the map telling you how to get to the other side. And the new knowledge you just gained does not dull the sharp knife of fear and apprehension you
experience. Maybe this is why the call of, “Who wants to go first?” Or, “Who wants the first pancake?” is routinely met with silence.
But I guess going first isn’t fatal. If it were I would not be writing this column since I’ve come to make, kind of, a little game out of going first. I don’t think it’s
a matter of getting more aggressive as I grow older, but rather a growing understanding that there are enough forces out there to trip me up or slow me down, so
why should I make their jobs easier? Why should I add internal apprehension and fear to what is imposed externally?
I read at poetry readings from time to time. Most of these events require signing up so it will be known who will read when. It is no great surprise that the first
space on the sign-up sheet is often left blank. Not too many people want to go first. But I do. I like breaking the ice these days. Have for quite some time. I would
rather be first than fourteenth and it’s cool to be fourteenth too if the first slot is taken. Maybe what matters is less what spot you occupy than your readiness to
occupy a given space. I am, for the most part, resigned to reading my words first and I accept that the words will not flow smoothly. Ice-breaking is usually
clumsy, noisy business. I also accept that that’s O.K. because perfection does not exist. We strive for it. Move towards it. But the very second we think we have our
hands on it - it steps blithely to the side and we sail on by. And something wonderful and warm happens when I read first: a magic portal opens up and I realize
that I am not the one who is reading. We are all reading. We are all listening. We are all the speaker and the audience. Your pain is mine and mine is yours.
Your joy is mine and my joy is yours. For one exquisite second or minute we are united in something that is quite marvelous and unanticipated. Or at the very
least, the second reader finds it a little easier to read. The edge is dulled a little. The nervousness no longer has the strength to make the page, from which the
poet reads, shake.
Many, many years ago I was at a church dance. It was at St. Mark’s Church in the Bowery, New York. Stevie Wonder, or Little Stevie Wonder as he was
called, was the rage and his recording of “Fingertips Part I” was only slightly less than orgasmic. They played the record several times and each time they did I
swore that I’d ask her to dance. I swore that I’d walk across the dance floor and ask her to dance, but my feet wouldn’t move. It’s as if they were cemented to the
floor. I wrote a poem about her. Her name was
griddle, or crusty, blackened Frisbees that crunch when you bite them. The call of, “Who wants the first pancake?” is usually met with silence.
So is the case with many firsts. The first dance. The first kiss. The first person to hold a job that has been traditionally held by someone who doesn’t even
come close to looking like them. The first person to read at a poetry reading. The first person to do just about anything. There is no context for it. No precedent.
Firsts represent an untraveled road so we often spend a lot of time talking with people who haven’t been where we want to go. And the best they can do -bless
their hearts- is to share comparable situations with us. Situations in which they survived falling flat on their faces only to discover that the falls were not life-
threatening. But the knowledge gained, somehow, failed to translate into fearlessness when confronted with the next first, the next barrier, the next stroke into
uncharted waters. So you thank them for imparting their wisdom and experience and stand before the same threshold you were standing before when you first
requested the map telling you how to get to the other side. And the new knowledge you just gained does not dull the sharp knife of fear and apprehension you
experience. Maybe this is why the call of, “Who wants to go first?” Or, “Who wants the first pancake?” is routinely met with silence.
But I guess going first isn’t fatal. If it were I would not be writing this column since I’ve come to make, kind of, a little game out of going first. I don’t think it’s
a matter of getting more aggressive as I grow older, but rather a growing understanding that there are enough forces out there to trip me up or slow me down, so
why should I make their jobs easier? Why should I add internal apprehension and fear to what is imposed externally?
I read at poetry readings from time to time. Most of these events require signing up so it will be known who will read when. It is no great surprise that the first
space on the sign-up sheet is often left blank. Not too many people want to go first. But I do. I like breaking the ice these days. Have for quite some time. I would
rather be first than fourteenth and it’s cool to be fourteenth too if the first slot is taken. Maybe what matters is less what spot you occupy than your readiness to
occupy a given space. I am, for the most part, resigned to reading my words first and I accept that the words will not flow smoothly. Ice-breaking is usually
clumsy, noisy business. I also accept that that’s O.K. because perfection does not exist. We strive for it. Move towards it. But the very second we think we have our
hands on it - it steps blithely to the side and we sail on by. And something wonderful and warm happens when I read first: a magic portal opens up and I realize
that I am not the one who is reading. We are all reading. We are all listening. We are all the speaker and the audience. Your pain is mine and mine is yours.
Your joy is mine and my joy is yours. For one exquisite second or minute we are united in something that is quite marvelous and unanticipated. Or at the very
least, the second reader finds it a little easier to read. The edge is dulled a little. The nervousness no longer has the strength to make the page, from which the
poet reads, shake.
Many, many years ago I was at a church dance. It was at St. Mark’s Church in the Bowery, New York. Stevie Wonder, or Little Stevie Wonder as he was
called, was the rage and his recording of “Fingertips Part I” was only slightly less than orgasmic. They played the record several times and each time they did I
swore that I’d ask her to dance. I swore that I’d walk across the dance floor and ask her to dance, but my feet wouldn’t move. It’s as if they were cemented to the
floor. I wrote a poem about her. Her name was
Nadine
There was a dance at Saint Mark’s Church
I was around thirteen
You were just there for the dance
On that Saturday night in nineteen-sixty-something
Where the local boys pounded out
Caribbean rhythms
On steel drums and conga drums
Before the 45s were spun
I saw you on the other side of the room
In your pale dress
With the shoulder straps hanging down
Like the dress once belonged
To your sister
Which it did
You looked too beautiful
For me to ask you to dance
So I waited
And waited
And waited
Until the last song
The last record to be spun
Before I asked you to dance
I held you awkwardly while
Watching the ugly brother with the thick
Buddy Holly glasses
Shoving his tongue into the ear
Of the young lady he was grinding with-or on, and
She didn’t even seem to mind
If sweating and moaning was any indication
I followed you through the courtyard
To the historic graveyard
Where Peter Stuyvesant was buried
I asked for your address
Before even knowing your name
“Nadine is my name,” you said
In the dim light of that windy graveyard
We searched for paper and fished for pens
As my father the chaperone
Raced through the graveyard in pursuit
Of the guy suspected of
Smuggling in a quart of
Manichevitz concord grape wine
You found a used tissue
And pulled out a bottle of nail polish
Not red but beige
The color of housing project walls
You painted your name, phone number and address
On the tissue and I pretended that I could see
What you had written
I made out the name “Nadine” and
The street where you lived
“Suffolk Street”
I knew that I would find you
Because Suffolk Street
Was near Cherry Hill
The place where I rode my
Red three-speed racer
A place where my mother
Told me not to go
I rode circles around every apartment building on Suffolk Street
Many times all that spring and summer
But you never appeared
And I wonder
What your life has been
What it is
If you are happy
If the wind of dreams
Has lifted your life
The way that warm breeze
Exposed your soft brown thighs
That sweet summer night
In the church graveyard
So long ago
In a place
That I visit often
In my mind
OH MAN
WAS IT NORFOLK STREET?
If it’s being offered to you go ahead and take it with a thankful heart. Who knows? The first
pancake could also be the last.
There was a dance at Saint Mark’s Church
I was around thirteen
You were just there for the dance
On that Saturday night in nineteen-sixty-something
Where the local boys pounded out
Caribbean rhythms
On steel drums and conga drums
Before the 45s were spun
I saw you on the other side of the room
In your pale dress
With the shoulder straps hanging down
Like the dress once belonged
To your sister
Which it did
You looked too beautiful
For me to ask you to dance
So I waited
And waited
And waited
Until the last song
The last record to be spun
Before I asked you to dance
I held you awkwardly while
Watching the ugly brother with the thick
Buddy Holly glasses
Shoving his tongue into the ear
Of the young lady he was grinding with-or on, and
She didn’t even seem to mind
If sweating and moaning was any indication
I followed you through the courtyard
To the historic graveyard
Where Peter Stuyvesant was buried
I asked for your address
Before even knowing your name
“Nadine is my name,” you said
In the dim light of that windy graveyard
We searched for paper and fished for pens
As my father the chaperone
Raced through the graveyard in pursuit
Of the guy suspected of
Smuggling in a quart of
Manichevitz concord grape wine
You found a used tissue
And pulled out a bottle of nail polish
Not red but beige
The color of housing project walls
You painted your name, phone number and address
On the tissue and I pretended that I could see
What you had written
I made out the name “Nadine” and
The street where you lived
“Suffolk Street”
I knew that I would find you
Because Suffolk Street
Was near Cherry Hill
The place where I rode my
Red three-speed racer
A place where my mother
Told me not to go
I rode circles around every apartment building on Suffolk Street
Many times all that spring and summer
But you never appeared
And I wonder
What your life has been
What it is
If you are happy
If the wind of dreams
Has lifted your life
The way that warm breeze
Exposed your soft brown thighs
That sweet summer night
In the church graveyard
So long ago
In a place
That I visit often
In my mind
OH MAN
WAS IT NORFOLK STREET?
If it’s being offered to you go ahead and take it with a thankful heart. Who knows? The first
pancake could also be the last.