The street poet

 
Henry David Goldkamp works in his family's heating and cooling business by day. Most nights he is on a city sidewalk writing poetry. I first heard about Henry from CWE-based interior designer Renee Celeste Flanders, whose daughter, Emily Yonker, is a friend of Henry's and fellow poet. The Post-Dispatch published a feature about this pair of literary entrepreneurs last month, so I was delighted to find Henry last Friday night happily ensconced at his "Fresh Poetry, Ink." office setup alongside the Maryland Plaza Fountain. The poet has developed several steady customers on his visits to our neighborhood, as well as on South Grand, near where he lives.

Emily and Henry met at Tulane, and though Henry said he took some wonderful English classes there, he says he actually learned the most from his teachers at SLUH. Emily recently moved back to New Orleans, leaving Henry to write solo these days. His clever business card for "Fresh Poetry, Ink." advertises "your topic, your poem, your price," while the message on the back says: "Bad poem? No poem? No problem. Poetical financing for everyone." Henry tells customers to pay what they will for a poem…or nothing at all, though you'd have to be pretty heartless to take the poem and run.

When I found Henry in his pop-up office on Friday evening, he asked me to name my topic. Instead of waiting for a poem on the spot, I asked him to send one to me after the evening was over. I suggested that he write something about the neighborhood (of course)—the fountain, the evening—whatever inspired his poetic heart. And here is what he created:

CWE NIGHT ON FRIDAY

 

It turned out real nice,

but the first few minutes were trouble

–the wind seemed light

with a breeze that was subtle.

 

Alas, the airflow picked up,

as well as the fountain.

My typewriter got soaked!

…I started pouting.

 

Another gust came through,

causing catastrophic paper tornadoes.

At this point I'm thinking,

"Oh, so this is how tonight's gonna go."

 

Lucky for me,

it turned around quick.

Soon I was bombarded

by children's quick wits.

 

On top of the all-smiles kids,

there was a gracious gift of Bissinger's chocolate.

So my concrete office settled down,

& finally was no longer upset.

 

Verses were written on giraffes,

fishes, and dragons alike.

Cute hipster girls were chatting me up

on fixed gear bikes.

 

After a poem was writ upon

a dear woman's brother, recently deceased,

we shared a strange cry

in the middle of the street.

 

Then two women with dogs claimed that

they wanted a dirty poem..

(Oh, brother, did I have

something to show 'em.)

 

Sunlight went out,

streetlights switched on.

I couldn't see a thing

so the typos got strong.

 

But it was a marvelous night,

with goulash subjects galore;

once the juices start flowing to fingers,

wayfarers want more & more.

 

The smell of food from the street

gave me a feeling real swell;

the perfect evening weather

held me under its spell.

 

I didn't want to close shop,

but I had to adhere to horse sense,

as I had friends waiting to barbeque

at my house, texting in protest.

 

Ultimately, I'm human,

so I had to pack up and stop it.

In the meantime, all you reading this,

think now about your topics!

Visit Henry on his website or better yet head over to the Maryland Plaza Fountain around 8:30 or 9 this Friday night to ask for a poem of your own—and some interesting conversation too!