A Night of Kevins

By Dan Nygard
Contributing Writer
“We both have the weight of ‘Kevin’ on us.” -Kevin Carollo

“You know the albatross?  It’s not that…it’s similar to a sparrow, or a grouse.  It’s a smaller bird.” -Kevin Zepper  

I recently sat down for coffee and conversation with poets Kevin Carollo and Kevin Zepper, to talk about their upcoming reading at DK Framing, titled “A Night of Kevins.”

Though a shared first name connects the two poets, our talk soon turned to more profound connections between the two, regarding the nature of poetry and a poet’s work.

This event was initially created by Mr. Carollo as a means to reconnect with the area after a long sabbatical from teaching at MSUM. 

A poetry reading is, according to Carollo, “A way to connect with all the great things that are happening in downtown Fargo, in terms of poetry and art.” Indeed, both noted a recent resurgence of venues, such as DK Framing, where art and poetry are not only welcomed, but celebrated. As Zepper explains, “Things are building up, because there are venues here that make this happen.” 

So, after Carollo ran into Zepper at MSUM’s August orientation (Zepper also teaches at MSUM), the idea of collaboration took hold.  “I feel I’ve been haunting Kevin Zepper’s readings, both on campus and at the Hodo,” Carollo explains.  “I figured it was time we started reading together.” 

Zepper agreed, as he has found recent inspiration both from Carollo’s work, such as his reading last March at The Spirit Room’s “Crow Show,” and from attending one of Carollo’s semi-legendary gatherings, known as “Shebeens,” which former poet laureate Billy Collins also attended.

At this event, Carollo read his Italian translation of Collins’s poem “Insomnia,” and Zepper was reminded of poetry’s ability to transcend language. “Even though I didn’t understand the Italian, I was struck by the musicality of the poem itself.”
Zepper’s work, most often expressed through prose poems, is often inspired by such profound experiences. “I think it’s worth writing about…the idea that Billy Collins was in a garage in North Fargo,” Zepper explains.

When asked about the process of creating poetry, he adds, “I try to be present in the everyday, be in the moment of things, and something usually turns up…it’s more than observation—it’s I’m going to enjoy this moment, what I see.”
Indeed, many of Zepper’s poems can be read as celebrations of the world around us, a sharing, through language, of the moments we may move past and forget.
For example, in “Monarchs,” after encountering an “orange cloud” of them while driving down the highway: “Under iris sky I press the gas pedal and sail down this empty road, a plane gaining speed for take off, then joining their space.”
Here, the visual encounter is merged with an almost spiritual expression of joining the butterflies in their flight, of becoming one with the world as experienced through the poet.  This comes often, as Zepper explains, upon returning to Fargo from his experiences while traveling: “Here, you can slow down and make sense of what you see.” 

Though Carollo’s approach somewhat differs on the surface, as his poetry is often focused on language itself as a means of “reading the world as a language,” Carollo agrees that much poetry comes from “The idea of being in the moment, of letting it come to you.”

And in his poem “Some Crows,” Carollo begins with such a moment: “I turn the window music down to be alone/ with the crow sulking at the wine-dark heart of it.” Here, and as the poem develops from that simple act of closing a window to concentrate on one’s own thoughts into a deeper understanding of childhood and growing up, one can understand how both poets work to make sense of, and share, the world around them. 

While our conversation was relaxed and easy-going (lots of fun with the meaning of “Kevin,”) in a more serious statement Carollo underscored the importance of the poet’s role in society: “with the extinction of animals, the extinction of language…I want to see the poem as a kind of creation myth in a time of rapid destruction.” 
Both poets agreed that poetry fulfills a role that cannot be filled by all the trappings of the “information age.” As Zepper explains, “with the idea of being plugged in to something finite like a computer, a TV set, or a cell phone, being unplugged from all that you can be ‘plugged in’ to something bigger all around you.”

Ultimately, as our city recovers from what Carollo calls, “A post-election blues,  whether your team won or not,” these two poets promise an evening of catharsis, of people coming together to enjoy the experience of two poets going back-and-forth without trying to win anything; only trying to share, ultimately, the world as experienced through poetry. 

For, as Zepper explains, “I think we will expose our Kevin-ness.” 
     
Monarchs

By Kevin Zepper

Along a straight, stretch of Highway 212 an orange cloud ahead of me. I slow down, surrounded by an exultation of orange and black Monarch butterflies. My Escort crawls, careful not to hit a single one. For several seconds they swirl and wing around the windows of my car, these messengers off to open destinations beyond this tired road and cornfields hundreds, fiery whirlwind of memories, a clouded clover meadow, sun illuminating each flower. Like pollen inebriating a bee, my mind clouded with thoughts of people I’ve forgotten. I see these butterflies and realize there are more memories, intersecting flight paths, layers of warm air holding the black-laced wings aloft for steady glides. Part of sails in the multitude of tangerine wakes, I share the lift from heat blooming from rich black earth. The Monarchs share their flying space with me, the ground recedes, and I join their haloed ranks over green and gold. Under iris sky I press the gas pedal and sail down this empty road, a plane gaining speed for take off, then joining their space. I roll down the windows and hear the harsh rush of wind against my eyes, lashes fluttering from fast flowing summer air. Heart pounds by temples, I praise the migration of the Monarchs and the ghosts they willfully shared.

Honey Locusts by Kevin Zepper:

Some Crows

By Kevin Carollo
I turn the window music down to be alone
with the crow sulking at the wine-dark heart of it.
I take a stick of chalk and draw a little blackbird
on the blackboard. I am always nine years old,
when a crow is but one more ominous proposition,
just like the goose or the girl. Then I draw a tiny
nightlight and in the shadow is a baby crow,
with a caw so cute and raw it makes me cry.
Then I draw a flashlight, and in the penumbra
is a crow and a crow and a crow and so on.
Of course, I was made for scared and curious
and becoming more so, and I only have the crow
in me to blame. Crow was a word to get stuck
in my craw as a kid. It was that tiny linty penny
I had to eat for the bully. Now when I try to draw
a crow on a blackboard or with a marker, it turns
out quite flinty and stark. The baby crow soon
grows bigger, and learns to lurk in the corner.
A baby crow must also learn how not to want
the mother crow. And that is how some crows
sometimes learn to live akin to us.

When I do My Chores by Kevin Carollo:

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If You Go

What: A Night of Kevins
Where: DK Framing
When: Wed Nov 17, 7pm
Info: 701.239.0063