Tuesday, April 14, 1998 | 9:35 a.m.
Not long ago, Norman Kaye, Nevada's longstanding poet laureate, got a phone call from a state archivist.
The archivist seemed surprised to hear a live person at the other end of the line.
After all, Kaye had made few public appearances in an official capacity, since being appointed to his post several decades ago.
"Nobody ever calls me," Kaye says. "I guess (the archivist) thought I was dead."
In fact, many have often believed the same to be true of Kaye's beloved form of expression: To many people, poetry seemed an increasingly anachronistic pastime in a world populated by rock music videos, high-tech video games and special-effects-packed blockbuster movies.
When Lorna Greene, a local poet, painter and photographer, tried to organize a poetry reading for the Allied Arts Council seven years ago, she had a tough time stirring enthusiasm, she says. "Nobody showed up."
And in the late '80s, national interest in poetry also appeared to be waning, according to Tom Bevan, director of marketing and promotions for the Academy of American Poets, a non-profit organization dedicated to supporting the work of the nation's poets.
But attendance at readings and sales of books aren't always reliable barometers of the public's passion for something as deeply personal as poetry -- as Bevan and other members of the Academy of American Poets discovered in 1996 when they decided to have April declared National Poetry Month.
"It seemed the interest in what we were doing was just immediately there," Bevan says of the response they got that year. "We sent out 5,000 posters to bookstores, libraries and schools, and the demand was so high for the posters that we printed 180,000 the following year."
In Las Vegas, the news of poetry's demise, like that of our poet laureate, had also been greatly exaggerated.
"We have some great talent here as far as poetry goes," says Arthur Slate, a local poet who has published his work in literary magazines throughout the country.
Anne Golonka, a regular attendee of readings at local bookstores, adds: "Poetry is alive and well."
Enigma-tic poetry
Each Wednesday evening, local poetry enthusiasts gather beneath the green canopy in the garden at Enigma cafe to share their verse and listen to the readings of others.
Mike Kruis, a tall, lanky man who works as an electrical engineer, pounds a set of bongo drums and somewhat unceremoniously announces: "This is the beginning of the poetry reading!"
He jumps to his feet and begins reciting an impromptu verse that begins with a reference to splattered orange peels. His girlfriend sits nearby, her feet propped on a chair, keeping pace with his words by strumming a guitar.
A few of the patrons appear startled. But they remain silent, and some lean forward so as not to miss a word.
When Kruis has finishes his piece, Slate stands up and begins to read his poem, "Memento Mori," which deals with humankind's fear of death:
"From the mists of fear, comes a humanistic form, something familiar to look into ... " As he reaches the refrain, his voice grows louder and more emphatic: "I know what must be done, but I need not like it."
Like many poets, Slate began writing poetry when he was in seventh grade as a way to deal with the turbulence of adolescence. "I wrote in high school, just to survive," he says. "If I had kept those feelings inside I'd probably be a suicidal maniac."
After his manuscripts were destroyed in a house fire, Slate took a few years off from writing poetry.
Then he moved to Las Vegas, began attending poetry readings, and became inspired to start writing again.
"Once I started reading (my poetry) it was pretty infectious," he says. "We all have stories within us, and it was just an urge to share."
Aaron Wright, a local poet whose work has been published for the past three years by the National Library of Poetry, rarely reads his work aloud, and often avoids sharing it with his close friends and family. But he feels a similar need to reach out to other people through his work.
"I hope that when it's published someone else out there might be able to relate to it and say 'that's how I feel too.' "
Resurgence of readings
Enigma is just one of several local cafes that now hold regular open-mike poetry nights. Many bookstores also host weekly readings.
"There is a poetry reading in this city (almost) every single night," Slate says.
"It's been growing," local poet Gloria King says. "There's been a resurgence in the last couple of years."
Some venues tend to attract poets who write what local poet Noll Thompson calls "pleasant little pieces about grandmas and flowers."
Others, like Espresso Roma, a cafe near the university, feature the work of younger, more angst-ridden, experimental poets.
By all accounts, not all of the compositions are good, or even comprehensible.
"A lot of times you can't even relate to a poem that's being read," Wright says, adding "I don't mean to bash it ... I mean, who am I? Someone could read mine too and say it's really bad. It's all subjective."
"You find an awful lot of poets writing love poems, unrequited love. We get loads of that -- too much of that," says Thompson, whose own work deals cleverly with such themes as road rage and the natural elements. And then there's "the fringe edge who think they have to use profanity in everything they do."
Two years ago, when King started a group called "Las Vegas Poets Revue," she had only one rule: "If you're going to spout obscenities, make it relevant."
But the edict proved difficult to enforce, and the group "just kind of fell apart."
King doesn't frequent local poetry readings as much as she used to but says she is still pleased to see the increase in the number of places where people can share their work. "We have some relatively good poets and they deserve to be heard."
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
With the current trend among local poets running toward blank verse, free-form poetry and often agonizingly detailed personal narrative, some question whether the proliferation of readings has done much to elevate the art form.
"I worry about poetry," Thompson says. "It isn't given the respect it used to get."
But others feel that the readings and other events held in conjunction with National Poetry Month have boosted poetry's popularity by making it more accessible, both figuratively and literally, to more people.
An informal poll of several chain and independent bookstores taken last year by the Academy of American Poets showed that sales of poetry books rose as much as 25 percent to 30 percent, Bevan says. Also, for the first time in recent memory, a book of poems has appeared on the The New York Times Bestseller list, Bevan says. "Nobody could tell us when was the last time that happened."
And in February, the Book-of-the-Month Club featured a poetry book as its main selection, he adds. "That's either the third or the fourth time in the history of the Book-of-the-Month Club that they've done that."
Bevan, who once wrote poetry himself but has "done the world a favor by stopping," says he isn't sure why poetry seems to remain so necessary to so many of us.
"It's hard to say what makes art necessary or music necessary or poetry necessary," he says.
"I'd say that poetry offers us a timeless wisdom that isn't available in the news and in other sources."
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