Two weeks ago, 87-year-old poet Ruth Stone was presented the National Book Award for her latest collection, In the Next Galaxy. “Good for her,” you say. What makes this event noteworthy, and cause for celebration, is that Stone’s book was put out by Copper Canyon Press, an excellent independent publisher based out of neighboring Port Townsend.
Even more amazing, Stone’s was not the only Copper Canyon book to be nominated for this year’s poetry award. “Smallest Muscle in the Human Body” by Alberto Rios was also up for the National Book Award. This is the first time in the 30-year history of Copper Canyon that not one, but two of its fine publications have received such a prestigious nomination. As founding editor Sam Hamill said, “It’s especially gratifying to see two poets, both new to the press and with whom we have worked very closely and amicably, one late in her writing life and one in mid-career, receive such distinction.”
This is an understatement. National Book Awards arguably are a more significant honor for a writer even than the Pulitzer, and the fact that a local press — and an independent, non-profit publisher of poetry, to boot — has achieved a measure of national stature is big news. It bodes well for the growing literary culture of the Northwest, while at the same time placing emphasis on the do-it-yourself spirit that characterized the local Seattle music explosion of the early ‘90s. Let’s hope and pray that Copper Canyon, and the local literary business in general, doesn’t crash and burn in the same way grunge did, buckling under the strain of fame and media attention. Then again, being a rock star and an octogenarian poet are two different things — apples and oranges, you might say.
Whatever this recent sound and fury might signify, the folks at Copper Canyon Press — which publishes poetry exclusively, to the tune of about 18 titles a year — deserve a tremendous pat on the back for keeping the faith and sticking to their guns.
To learn more about Copper Canyon Press, or to order titles, visit their web site at www.coppercanyonpress.org. Their phone number is 360-385-4925.
On an entirely different note: I was 9-years-old when the movie “Saturday Night Fever” hit theaters in 1977. Starring John Travolta as a young, sexy, hipper-than-thou Brooklyn tough who nurtures dreams of dancing his way out of poverty and into glittery nirvana, the film immediately inspired a bell-bottomed craze for all things Disco, largely urged along by an excellent bass-thumping soundtrack by the Bee Gees. “Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man, no time for talk.”
Americans, still reeling from post-Watergate blues and the ideological vacuum left in the receding wake of ‘60s counterculture, couldn’t get enough of the groove. Thump, thump, thump. So bad, so stylin’. Everyone wanted to boogie all night under the mirror ball. Everyone wanted a piece of the midnight decadence and tango-twisted free love. An honest to goodness modern dance craze ensued, probably the biggest such since Chubby Checker set the “twist” in motion and carrying with it a whole new cachet of cool. It was wild.
Of course, being of such tender age, my folks wouldn’t take me to see “Saturday Night Fever,” which was way too racy and rough-edged — a sort of updated “Rebel Without a Cause” with sequins and feathered bangs. Despite the nifty dancing, the movie is pervaded by a despairing sense of nihilism and loss. Yet, even after they cut steamy scenes from the film to knock it down to a milder PG rating (and thereby capitalize on the untapped teen market), I was still forbidden from seeing it.
That didn’t stop me, however, from convincing my mom to buy me disco lessons. I just wanted to dance! It was a tough sell, as mom considered the whole disco thing rather low-brow and faddish. I really had to beg. In the end, we struck a bargain: I could take disco lessons if I first took the ballet class being offered after school.
That lasted about two weeks, until the day a group of older boys passing by the open door of the gym where ballet classes were held saw me pirouetting around in tights and yelled out “FAIRY!” I was traumatized for years. I never did learn how to disco.
Of course, such an emotionally devastating story shouldn’t deter any of you out there from taking in the hot new ‘70s exhibit at Seattle’s Experience Music Project, entitled “Disco: A Decade of Saturday Nights.” As touted, this is the first ever museum exhibit “to explore the rich, complex world of disco,” featuring such artifacts as one of the original white suits worn by Travolta in “Saturday Night Fever.” If you have a fondness for the none-too-distant kitsch of American pop culture, you won’t want to miss this exhibit, which runs through May 18 of next year. Call 1-206-367-5483 for more scoop.
