So there's this cool new bar on Fourth Avenue called Pacific Standard, a Brooklyn riff on a Northern California micro brewery with a large room in the back decorated with bookcases, a California flag with a bear on it and a UC Berkeley flag all very evocative of a San Francisco area bar.
At the bar, there are not less than sixteen American craft beers, most
from western breweries, on tap as well as a selection of West
Coast wines and snacks "sure to please not only expatriates from that
pleasant, somewhat pointy shore, but even the most Trentonized East Coast
palates."
So it's all very convivial and cool in there. And in the back room, a standing room crowd gathered for Philip Levine, the Pulitzer Prize winning poet who divides his time between Fresno California and Brooklyn Heights. A master poet, he is the author of 20 superlative books of poetry about American workers, World War 11 soldiers, Detroit, the central valley of California and much subject matter in between.
He writes with a pure, joyous, universal voice that has a Whitmanesque sweep. His new book, News of the World from Knopf, contains many great new poems, including one about Brooklyn called Islands. Here's an excerpt:
people of all ages walk, & as they do they speak—often in private,
imaginary languages—so there is a constant music. If they are
alone they will speak to pigeons & sparrow—mainland birds
are a constant presence…
The room was packed so I stood in the back and couldn't even see the poet I had come to see. I stood next to the bathroom and the poems were punctuated by the toilet flushing and more people pushing into the large room.
No matter. It was a great night. A great reading. A great poet.