OnMilwaukee.com received scads of submissions for the Fifth Annual Milwaukee Poetry Contest, but two pieces stood out from the rest. Louisa Loveridge-Gallas' poem, "The Estate of Grace," received first place, and Catherine Averill's "Milwaukee: The Leaving" took second.

Gallas originally wrote the poem about Milwaukee's Jazz Estate in 1996 after the now-deceased saxophonist Spike Robinson came to town. It's one of many pieces that she has written about Milwaukee.

"I have written 'Cream City' poems about the full moon over Clarke Street, the reservoir at North Avenue as spring came on, and life west of the river where I loved and lived for years," says Gallas, who today lives on the East Side with her husband, Richard Gallas.

"I want to express gratitude to my husband of 25 years for expanding our marriage to make room for the muse who demands time and attention," she says.

Gallas has been published in various small presses, journals and anthologies, and was among the winners in 2003's Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters annual poetry contest. She has been a featured poet many times over in Chicago and Milwaukee, and participated in the Wisconsin Arts Board Artist-in-Residence and Education Program.

She is also one of Milwaukee's "earth poets" -- a group of environmentally conscious writers who have performed together for almost 20 years -- and a counselor in the alternative field of body-mind integration.

"It's a great field for a poet because people's experiences constantly call forth similes, myths and metaphors to get at the nuances of life," says Gallas.

"The Estate of Grace" by Louisa Loveridge-Gallas

The night is breathing hard
as a love poem longing to happen
deep inside the nightclub light
O, yes, the Estate brings you this gift,
jazz world-class--count on it,
right here in Cream City,
his name's Spike Robinson and right now
Spike's tenor is heavy fog
smokin' through curved brass--
Mercy! Mercy has brought some heat to this cold blighted world
where the sun has covered its face. Dusky glass over cool Miles
Davis' photo on the back wall catches Spike's profile--do you see how
the breath beats in his temple as he blows? "Either it's love or it isn't"
is the tune.
Spike is reaching for that long creamy high note before he takes the
solo home,
the drummer clicks along behind him like a train heading for the
station.

Can you feel it?

Then Spike hangs his tenor on his shoulder
while the man at the piano
takes over the solo track.
Spike reaches, yes, reaches this time
for his cigarette that's been waiting for him burning for him next to his
luke warm beer,
takes a long drag,
his horn sways on his shoulder
a languorous snake charmed by the piano man
who is working his way around the changes.
The night starts to cook -- Spike Robinson is smokin'!

All there is…is the music.

Just now you forget that outside this room
half the world is crawling on its knees
you leave behind your troubles, your losses
you check the blood streaming down
the face of the earth at the door.
You forget that cigarettes kill.
You lean over to the guy next to you
who has just let a riff perfect and smooth
bring an "O, yeah" deep out of him,
you say, "Hey, Dick, could I bum a cigarette--make it two
cigarettes?" He gives you Chesterfields,
no filters, and you don't even smoke
except tonight you're smokin' with Spike
and you give the other to the someone beside you who's your beloved
dearly, your turbulent other,
your significant nobody or maybe, simply,
your own true self who earlier you were lost with in the homey
mundane JUST EVERYDAY ANY NIGHT
and this morning, hey,
didn't you run out of toilet paper
and tonight you snatched dinner together
so fast it was illegal
like stealing lipstick from dimestores
and wham the 10,000th dinner hour
or dinner moment you shared together was over
and, tell the truth now,
didn't the cold night measure ahead of you like
a school kid's ruler--12 exact familiar inches tunneling into the future
with its steady little arithmetic toward the10 o'clock news, except
some fine soul across town calls suddenly: "Do you know Spike
Robinson is playing 'The Estate' tonight?" and the door to Heaven
swings open.

You look up.
You look at each other with that look
that was in your first look,
the look that binds,
the recognition that God has just walked in
on eighth notes
and the winter night
which wore such plain clothes,
garments so tried and true
the night is indeed still young, so here you are,
in the nightclub delight, you hand over that Chesterfield to your
lover, who flicks you a light,
you fire up those stolen moments,
the forbidden smoke slides into the soul
of your lungs who forgive you instantly

"You won't see me cryin' anymore"
is the nice old tune
Spike Robinson is smokin'!

Such sweet moments,
you don't watch your back.
Nothing is happening anywhere else in the world. You are in the
Estate of grace. And when all the tunes come home, the wee small
hours are over
you will go back through that door
back out to the city of confusion
your pulse is high, a praise song,
you walk out right into the paralyzed eyes
of the wounded world
raise up your hands and testify:
"Get up, get up, RISE ... Life is a wind instrument,
SO STAND UP AND BLOW."

Catherine Averill wrote her winning poem called "Milwaukee: the Lasting" for her best friend who is living in The Netherlands.

"I tend to write about scenes and relationships," she says. "I imagine a story or a situation and write about it, so the setting is usually less specific than in this poem."

Averill, a 20-year-old student at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, was published in UWM's Furrow magazine earlier this year. She says she owes her love for poetry to her high school English teacher, Dave Dentinger, who teaches at Pius XI High School.

"I think my generation needs a voice they can relate to. Jeffrey McDaniels and Christopher Kennedy are poets who everyone should be reading," says Averill.

"Milwaukee: The Leaving" by Catherine Averill

The Netherlands don't mean
much of anything to me.
I'm not certain if I mentioned my intention
to, upon your return,
plant a garden of tulips in September.

Come spring we can smoke Cohibas in the rain
and place all our faith in weathermen.
And when the clouds
clear an unforeseeable path for brightness
we can picnic on an empty plot in the cemetery
and drink expensive Cabernet from abroad.

We will listen to Bizet in the Washington Heights
and turn the bass up all the way.
You will dress trendier than I remember
and I'll wear a warm-weather sweater
emblematic of where we've been, no
where we want to be.

On the marina by the lake
I'll accept the love you found abroad
with an American who didn't mind either way
and keep to myself the opinion that you weren't changed
as much by the leaving as the return.

6 comments about this article. Post a comment / write a review.

Recent Talkbacks ...

Posted by OMCreader on Nov. 14, 2006 at 8:11 a.m. (report)

Ro Hanus said: Being in a poem written by Louisa is better than any trip I've been on. Because of your craft and the way you spin her, I will be at the Estate all day, smokin' a chesterfield and stealin' the blues. Congratulations girlfriend,(and Happy Birthday)! And Catherine Averill, you had me returning from my lover in the Netherlands, too. Thank you both for your work and play!

Posted by OMCreader on Nov. 12, 2006 at 11:09 a.m. (report)

Hollie Benson said: What a lovely poem Louisa has written. It really conveys the scene and feeling in a jazz club--a place I have never been! Excellent!

Posted by OMCreader on Nov. 3, 2006 at 11:59 a.m. (report)

Chuck said: I thought they had to have the word, "Milwaukee" in the poem, not just as a title?

Posted by OMCreader on Nov. 2, 2006 at 5:49 p.m. (report)

Joanne said: Brava to both poems! Two glowing hits of warmth and light on this cold dark day.

Posted by OMCreader on Nov. 1, 2006 at 11:44 a.m. (report)

Janet C. Olson said: Louisa, Thanks for a few moments of escape from the harsh reality of our world.