Monday, July 31, 2023

How poetry launched my advertising day job

I found this image of a typing table described as "antique." It is the same style of table and manual typewriter I used during my first advertising job at Marshall Field's!


The recession was still raging after two years of my pushing around a book cart, wearing a smock at Marshall Field’s department store, post college graduation. There were no openings in the store’s art gallery as I had hoped. My thoughts of becoming a gallery or museum curator were quickly evaporating.

One of the exciting aspects of working in the book department was its regular public book signings, hosting such luminaries as novelist Gore Vidal, hairstylist Vidal Sassoon, conductor Sir Georg Solti, thinker and inventor Buckminster “Bucky” Fuller, baseball great Yogi Berra, former NYC Mayor John Lindsay, actor Bob Hope, chef Julia Child and many others. All arrived because each had just written a new book, be it fiction, a cookbook, autobiography or philosophy, giving my then callow self a chance to meet and interact with these successful writers from varied professions. 


In addition to customers, certain employees from different departments would often gather around to purchase books and get them signed by the visiting authors. Among the regulars was Mary Ann, the copy chief from Marshall Field’s advertising department, who I also greeted and chatted up a couple of times while she waited in line to get her books signed.


“Marshall Field’s has an advertising department?” I later asked one of my coworkers. “Where do you think all the newspaper ads come from?” one answered. “You mean all the ads in the Chicago Tribune and Sun-Times come out of here?” I said. “Yeah, they don’t use an ad agency. The advertising department is in-house,” she answered. A light went on.


Before long, I found myself taking the escalators up to the advertising department on the 9th floor, holding a small sheaf of my poems. I asked the advertising department receptionist if I could see Mary Ann. When she came up to small waiting area, I stood and explained how I was interested in working in the advertising department as a copywriter if they had an opening.


“We don’t have any openings now,” Mary Ann said. “In fact, we just hired a new person.” I suppose I looked a little downcast, but mostly embarrassed. Was I out of my league here? “Do you have an advertising degree?” she asked. 


“I don’t,” I said. “I have a degree, but it’s in art history.”


“You don't have a degree in English?” she asked.


That smarted. What did I think I was doing up here! “I don’t have an English degree, but I’m a writer,” I said. 


“You’re a writer?” she asked, dubiously. “Do you have a portfolio?”


“I have written these poems,” I said. “Maybe you can read them.”


“Poems?!” she said, looking incredulous, but trying not to be rude at the same time. She let me hand them off to her as I extended the sheaf sheepishly her way.


“I appreciate you coming up here, and I know you’ve been working in the store for awhile, but I’m not sure poetry quite matches up with what we’re trying to accomplish with our advertising copy,” she said.


I thanked her for her time, took the escalators back down to the book department and felt totally humiliated from making a fool of myself. I later avoided sitting anywhere near her if I saw her in the employee lunchroom, as I was embarrassed by any of my earlier suppositions that I’d be the least qualified to work in advertising. If I saw her getting onto an escalator, I waited until she was far enough away for me to get on, too, without her seeing me. And when she visited the book department on occasion, I gently tried to sashay the other way or find a reason to duck into the stock room.


One day, someone told me I had a call waiting on our interdepartmental phone. I walked over and picked up the receiver. It was Mary Ann. “Cynthia, can you come up to the advertising department sometime today,” she said. “I’d like to talk with you.” 


“Sure,” I said. “I have a break in another half hour. I’ll stop up.” I hung up and tried to catch my breath. What did she want to tell me? I didn’t know what to expect.


When I arrived up by the advertising reception desk, Mary Ann again came out to greet me. “We have an opening in the copy department,” she said. “Someone just left. She took a new job at an advertising agency.”


“She did?” I said, not knowing what else to say.


“I read your poems,” she said.


“You did?” I said, not ever feeling she would even glance at them after I had handed the sheaf off to her several weeks before.


“They’re actually quite good,” she said.


“They are?” I said.


“I think you have potential,” she said. “And because you already know the store so well after working here a couple of years, I’d like to give you a chance if you’re still interested.”


A chance? Yes. As a copywriter? Yes. Yes, I was still interested! I started a couple of weeks later, sitting at a desk and typewriter in a room among 10 other copywriters, an all-women staff from whom I learned so much, hung out with after work and formed friendships with. I wrote newspaper ads about shoes, jewelry, cosmetics, purses, lingerie, even books. What a thrill to see my copy in print in Chicago’s newspapers. Almost as exciting as seeing my poems in print (but not quite!).


The break I received at Marshall Field’s was the start of my career as an advertising writer. This chance continually fueled my livelihood over the decades. It’s still hard for me to believe even today that a small sheaf of poems, but mostly a generous woman willing to take a chance on me, has made such a huge difference in my life. Thank you, Mary Ann! 


If there’s anything I have to share with others about this experience is this: When breaks come, be there for them. When the desire of your heart fires up, follow it. When opportunities and meetings of people arise, follow through. As the songwriter Steve Winwood wrote, “While you see a chance, take it!” Not everyone or even anyone will have the same experience I did, but you will most definitely have your own experiences, your own chances, your own opportunities. Be humble but upfront in pursuing them. Make the most of them!


Excerpted from my creativity guide, memoir and reference "Frugal Poets' Guide to Life: How to Live a Poetic Life, Even If You Aren't a Poet"  


Share/Bookmark

Tuesday, November 23, 2021

The night Robert Bly got "tarred-and-feathered"

 “…my Chicago had its moments: the Surrealist attack on Robert Bly that ended in a fistfight and the arrival of police.” ~ Paul Hoover

One four-below-zero winter’s night, I took the “el” train from my studio apartment in Chicago’s Edgewater neighborhood to the Body Politic in Lincoln Park. It was the mid-1970s. On that bone-chilling night, a high-impact though little known incident in Chicago poetry history took place. 


An older poet from Minnesota, Robert Bly, was making a special appearance at the Yellow Press Readings at the Body Politic Theater. I had never heard of him before. In years hence, he became well known as the spearhead of the American men’s movement, and author of Iron John: A Book About Men, a national bestseller. 

The room’s floodlights and brightly painted wall behind a small dais stage radiated welcome warmth against the bitterly cold night. But still shivering from my trip down there on the “el,” I kept my coat and cap on the rest of the evening. Before long, Robert Bly moved to the center of the dais. The lighting above Bly’s head appeared as bands of yellow, light orange and salmon enveloping the man in a fiery glow. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt and faded blue jeans. His white hair was mid-length and flowing, his face clean-shaven. A quiet comfort spread through the room as the frozen streets outside enclosed us in their silence.


Bly began. I found his poetry accessible, nature-driven, and dealing quite a bit with his home state, Minnesota. Unlike other readers, and in the fashion of a teacher, he repeated each brief poem twice so we could more fully absorb it. Soon, he donned an elaborate animal mask.  


Then, according to poet Al Simmons, “Five of them…four men and a women… approached him from each flank, and the woman came down the center aisle.” 


“We thought it was part of the show,” said poet Terry Jacobus. “Then the group knocked host Richard Friedman out of the way.”


Simmons continued, “Bly sat perfectly still as two of them each poured a five-pound bag of white flour over his head, then stood back while the other three began shooting Bly with water pistols.” 


I had remembered it as bags of powdered Sakrete. Jacobus mentioned something about “confetti.” In addition, Bly received one or more pies-in-the-face. It looked like pie plates filled with shaving cream to me (Three Stooges-style?), while others recall it as custard.

Poet Michael Anania, by circumstance, was busy giving a more polite poetry reading that same night on the other end of town at the South Shore Cultural Center with poets Gwendolyn Brooks, Haki Madhubuti, and Leon Forrest. “I was the token white guy,” he said. Although he missed the Bly reading because of this previous engagement, he had quickly got wind of the concurrent event and heard that Bly’s “tar and feathering” ingredients comprised flour, eggs and milk. 

Getting back to the Bly reading crashers, just who these culprits? None other than a group who called themselves the Chicago Surrealists, more of a political than artistic enclave, who published a magazine at the time called “Arsenal.” Among them were poets Penny Rosemont and her now-late husband Franklin Rosemont. 


It was of the latter that the late poet Paul Carroll wrote, “One hulking surrealist, dressed in Army-Navy store black, gargled at the audience that theirs was retribution for some recent review Robert had written in the New York Times, daring to criticize their hero, Octavio Paz.” 


I later learned that Bly was one of Chilean poet Pablo Neruda’s translators. Neruda, it turns out, who was politically a communist, and had been sympathetic to the Soviet leader Stalin. It was Stalin who had persecuted the Surrealists during his regime. For this and the crime in the paragraph above, Bly was doubly guilty in the eyes of the surrealists. Their goal that night? To “tar and feather” Bly in a shake-and-bake call-out for his transgressions.


Bly stood without a word against his attackers. Then, according to Paul Carroll, “Several leapt from the audience, led by poet and bookseller Douglas MacDonald, who gave the bums the rush out.” Also, the Stone Wind poets, Simmons, Jacobus and Henry Kanabus charged the stage. Simmons said, “There was a skirmish and we pushed them out of the theater…into a vestibule that became pitch black when the lobby doors shut behind us.”


According to Jacobus, “We wrestled, punched and landed out on Lincoln Avenue. The cops were called.” In the dark, someone (not Jacobus) inadvertently had clocked Penny. Another Surrealist ended up in the gutter, and at least two had bloody noses. “We almost got arrested for poetry,” said Jacobus.  


The defenders “…ducked back into the theater, to cheers and a standing ovation,” according to Simmons.


Meanwhile, the evening’s hosts had come to the aid of Bly to guide him out of the spotlight into the nearest bathroom. Once quickly cleaned up, Bly returned to the dais and finished his reading. Carroll said, “Robert Bly’s performance was a tribute to the spirit of poetry itself. It was not fanciful to say that we heard one of the voices of Orpheus speaking, at times, through him. The show went on for hours and hours. It should have gone on all night.” Afterward, it was drinks all around at the Oxford Pub next door. 


All I really knew was that both Neruda and Bly were poets I admired. As well, I later came to personally meet and appreciate surrealists Penny and Franklin Rosemont, as honorable people, poets and publishers of the great Wobblie poet and friend Carlos Cortez. I always liked the Stone Wind guys, too, and had visited the Evanston home of Douglas MacDonald more than once with friend Effie Mihopoulos. Among such poets, who can choose sides? I was never quite sure if the small Surrealist group’s “statement” was as keenly directed as they had calculated, but I’ll never forget that night. ##


~ excerpted from the nonfiction/memoir/creativity guide Frugal Poets' Guide to Life: How to Live a Poetic Life, Even If You Aren't a Poet



Share/Bookmark

Sunday, October 03, 2021

Did you know laundry dryer sheets contain endocrine disruptors? What natural alternative could you use instead…to get even better results? Wool dryer balls with essential oils!

 Sister Dexterity wool dryer balls with pure essential oils set


Do you ever walk around your neighborhood, expecting to enjoy the fresh, natural aromas of green grass and leafy trees that line your block? But instead, you smell the sickening-sweet odor of fabric softener and dryer sheets pumping out of your neighbors’ clothes dryer exhausts?

It’s more than just a smell. A study from the University of Washington noted 15 substances in dryer sheets tested, including two carcinogens, and several neurotoxins and respiratory irritants. In a study of products that contain endocrine disruptors and asthma-associated substances, dryer sheets were named as one of the products with the highest concentrations of endocrine disruptors.


If you have been using fabric softener and/or dryer sheets yourself and for your family when you do your laundry, know that they work by depositing a thin layer of chemical softener onto fabrics, and these layers can build up over time. This buildup on your towels and your clothes then goes directly on your skin. If you’ve been trying to follow a healthy lifestyle, imagine laying carcinogens, endocrine disruptors and neurotoxins on your skin and breathing it into your lungs. But millions of people are doing just that.


What’s the answer? Pure wool dryer balls are a natural alternative to fabric softener and dryer sheets. Pure wool dryer balls offer these benefits:

~ While fabric softeners and dryer sheets are full of chemicals and artificial perfumes, wool dryer balls are natural and made from a renewable resource. 

~ Dryer sheets are used once and thrown away. Wool dryer balls can be used 1,000 times. 

~ Fabric softeners build up, especially on your towels. Wool dryer balls won’t reduce the absorbency of your towels.

~ Wool dryer balls flick moisture away from your clothes and linens and can reduce drying time by 25 percent.

~ Wool dryer balls are quiet. Using old tennis balls or vinyl dryer balls are noisy and can produce a rubbery smell.

~ Wool dryer balls fluff your clothes and help reduce static and wrinkles.


Using pure, natural, plant-based essential oils on wool dryer balls complete the non-toxic, holistic laundry experience, replacing the artificial, chemical fragrances used in fabric softeners and dryer sheets. 



My new cottage operation, Sister Dexterity, offers an attractive and easy-to-use dryer ball set to get your laundry going in the natural direction. Each Sister Dexterity Dryer Ball Set contains:

~ Three natural, hypoallergenic dryer balls made from 100% New Zealand wool, using no dyes or chemicals.

~ Bottle with 5 ml of my signature dryer ball drops made totally of the highest quality, pure essential oils (lavender, lemon, lemongrass and eucalyptus) that add up to a crisp, clean scent. All essential oil, no fillers. Use 3 to 4 drops of the oil on each dryer ball before throwing them into the dryer with wet laundry. 

~ A small leaflet with instructions on how best to use the dryer balls and dryer ball drops.

~  A natural, drawstring burlap bag to hold your dryer balls and dryer ball drops, or to present as a gift.



The Sister Dexterity Dryer Ball Set makes the ideal gift. What greater gift can you give than something that will improve the health of your friends, family members, coworkers, club members, teachers or neighbors…as well as improve their overall laundry experience! Also the perfect shower gift, housewarming gift, hostess gift or Secret Santa gift.


I am offering a special friends and family discount on the sets before I list them on Etsy or place them in specialty stores: one Sister Dexterity Dryer Ball Set is specially priced at $25, including tax and shipping. When you buy three Sister Dexterity Dryer Ball Sets, the price is only $60, including tax and shipping. That means free shipping either way!


Contact me, Sister Dexterity, aka Cynthia Gallaher, at swimmer53@yahoo.com with your order and/or questions. I will then direct you to either my Paypal.me account or Zelle account for easy payment and a quick shipment to you.


Shipping within the continental United States only (that excludes Alaska and Hawaii).


By the way, I am a certified aromatherapist C.A., a member of NAHA (National Association for Holistic Aromatherapy) and am dedicated to using only the purest, natural, non-toxic ingredients in my formulas.







Share/Bookmark

Sunday, August 08, 2021

Short poems, long memories. A tribute to haiku pioneer Gayle Bull

Sometimes it pays to wander at random, then be surprised at what awaits you. Ten years ago, I was the second writer-in-residence at a new program at Shake Rag Alley, a cultural center in the small, historic town of Mineral Point, Wisconsin.

Located in southwest Wisconsin, Mineral Point was founded by miners from Cornwall, England. Its homes and businesses, crafted mainly of a yellowish stone (I believe a form of sandstone), have been carefully restored, with many buildings pre-dating statehood. Pottery studios, art galleries, quaint hotels and unique restaurants dot the landscape of this town of 2,500 or so.


Three hours from my home base in Chicago, I was in Mineral Point for a week with no particular duties carved out for me but to write poetry, walk, think and meditate. However, it was early May, still off-season for many businesses which were either still closed until summer, or had shortened hours. That was a good thing; to be in a place and time with few distractions and get more writing done, which I did. Nevertheless, I also needed to take breaks and breathe some fresh Wisconsin air in between writing sessions.

On one particular walk, I wandered into Foundry Books, a little haven on the edge of town with new, but mostly used books. For some reason, I hadn’t been aware that Mineral Point even had a bookstore. The magnanimous proprietor Gayle Bull greeted me, and I told her I was mainly looking for books of poetry. After a chat, she learned why I was in town, and asked, “Have you ever been interested in haiku?” I think I answered something like, “A little. It’s something I teach children every once in a while in school workshops.”


She showed me an archive of haiku books and periodicals dating back to when she and her late husband Jim Bull edited the first American haiku magazine, American Haiku. Way back in the recesses of my memory, I remember submitting some “haiku” to this publication when I first started writing and being rejected. Ah, yes, and it was located in Wisconsin. But Gayle Bull’s warm demeanor and open enthusiasm for the subject made me forget about that. 


She opened up various issues of the magazine and pointed out haiku that resonated with her. Some haiku were three lines, some two and some even one line (called a monostitch). And none had to be the five-seven-five-syllable, three-line haiku most of us are familiar with. When haiku reached the American shores, she explained, haiku took on a new direction. The five-seven-five (17 syllable) format was perfect for Japanese, which uses more syllables in its words than in English (haiku expert Lee Gurga feels that American haiku should usually be no longer than 12 syllables). And counting syllables isn’t really the point. The point is to create two separate images that juxtapose, that cause that haiku aha! moment in the reader. 


After meeting Gayle, I made periodic trips back to Mineral Point over the following years, to take part in dining-room-table haiku workshops in the back of the bookstore where Gayle lived, to attend haiku lectures and, also accompanied by my poet husband Carlos Cumpian, the occasional Cradle of American Haiku conferences headquartered at Foundry Books, which hosted haiku events around town at various locations. 


I felt as if Gayle took me under her wing and nurtured my direction in this special genre, new, surprisingly deep, and exciting for me. I slowly began to write “real haiku,” versus the children’s workshop 5-7-5 syllable counters, made new friends among the close group of haiku aficionados and began to get haiku published in magazines such as Frogpond and Bottle Rockets. While I still mainly write conventional poetry (maybe not-so-conventional), haiku holds a special place for me as well these past years.


I owe much to my friendship with Gayle, who unfortunately passed away in 2019. I will always remember her fondly and have nothing but a grateful heart for who she was. Her birthday is August 8. And the good news is, haiku lives on in Mineral Point! 


Read more about Gayle Bull, Foundry Books and. Mineral Point in my memoir/reference/creativity guide Frugal Poets’ Guide to Life: How to Live a Poetic Life, Even If You Aren’t a Poet.







Share/Bookmark

Friday, April 30, 2021

Poets! Do at Least One "Poetry Thing" Every Day

As poets, we probably know it's important to write every day. But even while understanding such a wise guideline, if you're like me, you probably don't write every single day. Whether it's because of work, commuting, childcare, domestic duties, or keeping up with friends and extended family, the time you need to sit down without distractions to write may be limited. Sometimes I don't even feel like writing. I'd rather work on artwork, read or catch up on the latest on Netflix. Or perhaps take a much needed nap.


So I made this new rule for myself. If, on a certain day, I don't work on a poem, I vow to at least accomplish one "poetry thing" that day.  Wait. What is a "poetry thing?" In my estimation, it could be one of the following:

~ Read poetry from a poetry collection or magazine
~ Submit poetry to a publisher
~ Attend a poetry reading, live or virtual
~ Edit an old poem
~ Promote your latest published poem or poetry collection on social media
~ Promote your fellow poets' latest published poem or poetry collection on social media
~ Give a reading at a live or virtual open mic
~ Attend a virtual poetry event
~ Attend an online poetry workshop
~ Do research and/or write ideas/notes for a new poem
~ Comb your personal journal for ideas for new poems
~ Go to the library to check out the new poetry collections
~ Follow a writing prompt from an outside source or a book to start a new poem
~ Select poems you've written that might make up a new poetry chapbook or full collection
~ Or just write a new poem 

Why do any or all of these "Poetry Things?" If you call yourself a poet, you need to live a poet's life! And life is lived every day! Can you name another "poetry thing" that doesn't appear on the list above? Please share. I'd like to hear from you. With so many options, there's no reason not to do at least one "poetry thing" every day! 
##



Share/Bookmark

Monday, August 31, 2020

How to Journal Your Dream House

Don't we sometimes fantasize about what your perfect dream house might be like? A topic you might journal about during this Covid-19 time of uncertainty is what you picture as your dream house. But why now? During Covid season!? Now, when you're perhaps in no personal or financial position to move anywhere, much less to a dream house? Isn't it materialistic or even torture to spend time thinking about it? 


I did so to find out. Today, I finished writing seven journal pages of thoughts, whimsies and even plain wish lists about what my dream house might be comprised of. Not so much what it "looks like," but what it's "about." Many of those aspects of such a future house (or never-in-the-future-house, as I may never get one) had been eating at me, spinning around in my head in random order.

After I spent an hour or so putting my thoughts down, seeing them on paper, I actually felt much better and even felt released from the fantasy of what "could be." By putting the needs, wants and not wants in front of me in writing, it brought a realism and organization to an unrealistic situation. All and all, a house is not a home. I have a home now. It's the site of what's important to me: family, love, faith, poetry, art. Someday a future house might be a home, too. But I don't have to think about it anymore, right now. Or desire it anymore, right now. Because it's there, inside my journal. If I ever really need to refer to it. I'll be prepared. haha. Nevertheless, all the while, I had fun and learned more about myself and my own personality. Actually, some of the things I "wanted" are ideas I can put forth right now, and cost little to nothing. Perhaps this exercise was more about me than about an actual house. 

Some fantasies about a house that stood out in my journal: 

~ "Every room should have its own song (or at least a poem written about it with an abstract portrait created in pastels or acrylics) as in Harold Budd's ambient music album 'The Room,' in which room/songs with titles 'The Room of Ancillary Dreams,' 'The Room of Oracles,' 'The Candied Room' and 'The Room of Accidental Geometry' appear."

~ "The house might have a winter bedroom and a summer bedroom, with the seasons' respective clothes in each bedroom closet. The winter bedroom would be on the sunny side of the house, painted in warm, earthy colors. The summer bedroom, on the other hand, would be on a shady side of the house, with cool blues and greens in its palette. "

~ "A house should have a minimum of one bedroom, one bath, one kitchen and a living room with a desk and bookshelves. A house should have a maximum of 10 rooms and then be themed like the game Clue ~ with the Library, the Conservatory, the Billiard Room (or names like the Harold Budd album, above). If unattached at the time, I would try to meet someone named Colonel Mustard, as in the Clue game, or at least someone who likes the mustard color, or the condiment. Just kidding."

~ "If you have so many rooms you just don't know what to do with them all (haha), retain one room for the most kitschy or throw-back-era items you can find: old black velvet paintings, a lava lamp, a round bed with a pastel rococo headboard, spool table, bean bag chairs, tacky vases, plastic flowers, ornate crazy-looking side table lamps from thrift stores, funny road signs, making it a real American Pickers' lived-in paradise."

I also included aspects of a house that SHOULD NOT be included, though other people might think they're important, such as an attached garage, a white kitchen, a formal dining room, cathedral ceilings, be near a golf course, a swimming pool, a media/theater room, PVC plumbing. I don't have any of those things right now, so that's covered!

Of course, my list of what a house SHOULD have is quite long, highlighted by some unusually self-indulgent entries, but also, importantly, to have rock outcroppings nearby, a front door high above ground level reached by stairs, arches somewhere, and space for archery out back. 

      



Share/Bookmark

Sunday, July 19, 2020

Poem: When the Three Gorges Dam Collapses

An earth-shaking story that barely appears in any Western news source is evolving right now in China along the Yangtze River. Here is a "what-if" poem of what might happen in the near future.



When the Three Gorges Dam Collapses

On that terrible day, after months of rain,
when the Three Gorges Dam collapses,
it will spew 100,000 blue whales of water waiting
behind it like a tsunami wave down the Yangtze,
knocking down skyscrapers as shoddily built
as the dam itself like bowling pins,
erasing great cities of Wuhan, Nanking 
and Shanghai off the world map.

On that terrible day, and the days that follow,
600 million people will either lose their lives,
lose their homes, lose their livelihoods,
lose their minds, or lose their patience with
a government that cut corners on
the largest hydropower project in the world.

On that terrible day, they’ll also recall days
of its too quick construction,
of its more than mile-wide failures
of poor rebar, of substandard concrete
not connected to bedrock,
but with so much water held back
by its massive shoulders
it lengthened the day and flattened the poles.

On that terrible day, they will blame Tibet,
where headwaters of the Yangtze spring,
on that terrible day, they will blame Western
engineers who pointed out flaws of the project
and were called racists because of it,
on that terrible day, they will blame 
Mao Tse-Tung, who, after the great floods of 1949, 
brought Communism to China 
and reseeded an old idea
to build a Three Gorges Dam 
so it would never happen again.

But on that terrible day
it will happen again,
on that terrible day, and the days that follow,
not only will China lose countless souls,
not only will China lose 
its formidable face forever,
not only will China be 
thrown back to a medieval past,
but countries of the whole world 
will also groan in pain
from the repercussions of its ancient 
and once-wise brother 
sold out to the mythology
of short-term gain.

~ Cynthia Gallaher (July 19, 2020)

Share/Bookmark