The schedule was recently posted for the 2009 Texas Book Festival. It’s held every year in Austin, usually the first weekend in November, and it attracts thousands of people from across the state. It’s a three–day festival loaded with readings from authors that cover just about every genre out there. I was privileged to read a few years ago on a moderated panel with two other Texas Poet Laureates. Even the years I don’t get invited to speak I still check the schedule out to see who is appearing. This year was, well, a little startling. Their website gives you the ability to search by genre and under poetry there were only 2 entries – and one of those was for a literary anthology.

It’s flat–out impossible to believe there aren’t any good poets in Texas. Certainly there’s more than two (or one and an editor). Bruce Bond, Wendy Barker, Naomi Nye, James Hoggard – there are four quick names of Texas poets that have all achieved national attention. And the book festival only has 2 sessions on poetry?

But here’s a good test: did you recognize any of those four names? The average person on the street would probably say no. A book festival, any book festival, has an obligation to bring in speakers that will bring in crowds – and if no one from the public recognizes the names then they won’t show up. It’s a sad, logistical, fiscal truth. That isn’t a defense for the Book Festival. It’s a rationalization in lieu of an explanation.

Dallas and the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex are a little removed from Austin – but in some ways not so much. Poetry in the Dallas area is alive – but practically invisible. I read an article a few years ago that said that poetry has become a subculture. It seems that the public still admires poetry and poets – but the public loves their iPods and cell phones more. For instance, there is a group in Dallas called The Writer’s Garret. For years this dynamic organization has brought in speakers of stature. They offer classes and workshops and are involved with the schools. This isn’t the only writer’s group in town either. And yet one of the questions I’m always asked is ‘Are there any writer’s groups in your area?’

Making broad statements about how poetry is viewed is risky but I believe the general public tends to fall into two camps: those who think poetry is inapproachable and too academic. There’s no applicability to modern life. And the other camp thinks poets are a bunch of self–indulgent, bohemian, coffee–shoppers who would rather talk about themselves or the current social cause than anything of lasting importance. And it’s those perceptions, right or wrong, that are keeping people away from poetry readings and signings.

Which isn’t to say that a lot of the fault doesn’t lie with the poets themselves. There are at least 5 Texas State Poet Laureates living in the Dallas metropolitan area. How many of them can you name? It’s a big world and there’s a lot of clutter. The poets have to shout extra loud to make themselves heard. Sadly, a shouting poet is just about the last thing an Average Joe wants to hear. (All the shouting drowns out the football games.)

Texas poetry, poetry from the DFW Metroplex, isn’t just about cattle and sagebrush – and it isn’t all academic – and it isn’t all self–indulgent. Just Google Texas Poets and see what comes up. There’s a lot of good work out there. More than enough to appear at a book festival.

Examining the Fossil

If we dared to rub our hands on it
it would certainly seem static.
Ossification has stopped all movement,
even our breathing.
We try to imagine this creature’s last stirring.

We might as well sit and stare
at the whorls of our fingers.
wondering if there was a labyrinth there
that would lead us
to an enlightenment we could not see.

The same currents that shaped our hands
have also draped these fronds.
There is no need to call on it.
It is always around us, blessing us,
keeping things secure.

In the bones of saints
there may yet be the vibrations of prayers.
A chip, a shard, a mote of dust
might contain the ability to heal, to cast away,
to renew.

A flame has burned in every creature.
We should have a map that tells us
where every saint is buried.
For all our occupations
there should be someone who intercedes.

We slap brutish on the stones
that cover and cover deeper
the bones that lie beneath us,
the glistening, ageless miracles
only sleeping beneath our feet.

Alan Birkelbach
2005 Texas State Poet Laureate