This is part of the “I LOVE YOUR POEM!” series, in which people submit on behalf of local poets whose work they admire and write about why they do. The idea is not only to highlight great work, especially from those who may not submit the work themselves, but also to create a big gushy lovefest in the community. If you’re interested in submitting on behalf of a local poet you love you can check out the submission guidelines here
The first time I met Martin Dadisman, he told me, “I’m not much of a poet.” He showed me what he had been working on in his sketchbook, absolutely incredible ink pen drawings, and some of the sharpest wordsmithy that I had ever read. He created worlds of emotion and depth from characters that he drew immaculately with seemingly no prep time whatsoever.
“This is poetry.” I said, “All of this is poetry, from the drawings themselves to the words next to each illustration. You’re gonna be famous someday, if you already aren’t.” Time went on, and I grew to know Martin’s work more intimately, seeing him perform at open mics, and watching as he became a hot commodity in the poetry scene.
Martin is a singular talent, the kind of creative genius that doesn’t come along very often, and seeing his stage prowess grow has been a delight. In a different time, he would be running the story boards and illustrating the first Batman comic. There’s something infinitely arresting about his images and his words.
Which brings me to the poem “Madison Time.” I had already told Martin that I wanted to submit one of his poems for “I Love Your Poem,” but I honestly didn’t know which one. He’s so prolific and capable as a poet, I was having a hard time pinning down which of his works to pick. I told him we should meet and maybe he could pull two or three poems that he was particularly fond of, and I would pick from there.
And then I heard him read “Madison Time” at The Coffee Stand. “That’s the one!” I said after he came off stage. “That’s the one I want to submit.”
“Really?” he said, “Well okay!” And the scheme was set in motion. The poem hit me like few poems have in my time as a poet, and audience member.
Writing about his recently passed mother, and opening up from such a raw space, Martin maintained a sense of lyricism that he has made his own. The whole poem attacked me and held me close at the same time.
The intimate details and explanations of his mother as a proponent of social justice struck me, “After we moved to Lexington, she got into real estate and integrated neighborhoods. Said the Lord was looking out for her as she was the only one in that office that didn’t get death threats.”
The kind and honest description of his mother also made me feel breathless and afraid. I know my mother will pass one day, and this poem scared me in that respect, but also made me feel like there is a peace to be had surrounding losing a loved one.
Interjecting the poem with bits of lyrics framed the poem in a way that felt almost mythical. I am truly honored to know Martin, and I am truly better for having this poem in my life.
Madison Time The Madison, The Hully Gully, The Monster Mash, The Mash Potato, The Twist. Dreamlover was playing on the box… every night I hope and pray a dream lover will come my way. A girl to hold me in my arms and to know the magic of her charms. Pastor Stephen prayed too long, I should’ve never clued him into the idea that we were Baptist. Then he tried to save my soul. Jesus, H Christ, and all his carpenter friends hanging off the cross, I told him not now. No really I made a deal with God. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I am God. I went to the door and called for the undertaker. He asked if I was sure? Do you need more time? No thanks. Complete, I have said my goodbyes, cried, prayed. I kissed her on her cold forehead. As he went to get help load her body onto the gurney, I played an old Louvin Brothers tune, “Kentucky.” “Kentucky you are the dearest land outside of heaven to me, Kentucky, your laurels, and your redbud trees. When I die, I want to rest upon your graceful mountains, so high Kentucky that is where God will look for me.” They wrapped her in a nasty old blanket I brought from home. I walked with the undertaker down to the waiting vehicle, a white Toyota van. I’d hoped for a long black limousine. Guess they don’t do that anymore. I tried to remember everyone’s name that was there that night, Rico, Morgan, Megan, Logan, Pastor Stephen, I thought about how she made me kiss her goodbye when she would drop me off at school. I thought about how we were always Kentuckians. I remember how she told me of the house on Bell Street, “The best house ever,” she said. Every house on that street had kids her age to play with. As she spoke of her childhood, I imagine the Sears and Roebuck mail order Craftsman circa 1940 with a 1954 Ford sedan parked in front, all in black and white of course. She had only told me that story a few weeks ago. Much of her story I don’t know. I didn’t get a lot of “when I was your age” talks growing up, at least not any I can remember. She told me the girls didn’t clean the scuff marks off their saddle shoes back in the day. When my brother and I found a scrapbook in the back of the closet, we learned Elvis was king. At 2:30 every day, the Anderson grill would remove the ashtrays from the tables so as when the high school kids showed up, they couldn’t fill them with ketchup. It made her mad that she had to have a cosigner on a home loan because she was only 19. While in a conversation at the soda counter in the Rexall drugstore, with a friend that worked at the draft board, she discovered my dad wouldn’t have to go if she was pregnant with me. After we moved to Lexington, she got into real estate and integrated neighborhoods. Said the Lord was looking out for her as she was the only one in that office that didn’t get death threats. She liked Al Green and Ray Charles, and would play their records loud enough to be heard over the vacuum cleaner on a Saturday morning. She pretended not to like country music, but knew the words to every Hank Williams song. She had a fondness for the Everly brothers, the tune wake up Little Susie, a song about falling asleep at the drive-in and not getting home until 4 AM. I’m not so sure they were sleeping. She always had a Christmas gift for the milkman. I asked if he was my dad. She said, “No, the Fuller brush man.” I didn’t get the joke and returned to reading the back of the cereal box. “Kentucky I miss the voices singing in the silvery Moon light Kentucky I missed the hound dog chas’n coon. I know my mother, dad and sweetheart are all waiting for me. Kentucky I will be coming soon.” I’ll come up here tomorrow and collect her things. I’ll throw it all away. there’s a blanket or a shawl; I’ll take that, and put it somewhere where I can see it to be my secret. I’ll loan it to people when they come over to keep them warm, but won’t tell them who it belongs to. —Martin Dadisman
Doc Martin is an enigma. Part 18th century Scottish Jacobite, 1950s beatnik poet, and 2020s all-around eccentric, this bohemian time traveler is the guy you didn’t know you needed. He’s sweet, he’s loyal and if you get too close, you’ll stick. A rectal impressionist, and an illiterate poet. A proud Luddite, enjoying the fall of western civilization. All the while hummin the Gen-X anthem “Never mind… whatever.”
Joshua Robinson received degrees in Playwriting and Poetry from, University of Missouri; they also completed a Master’s of Arts Management at Columbia College Chicago. They have performed nationally and locally, both theatrically, poetically and somewhere in between. Their work has been featured or is forthcoming in The Maneater, The Vail Mountaineer, Newcity, Life and Literature in Performance, Mizzou New Play Festival, The Edge Theatre, CommuterLit, microstory.me, Hemingway’s Playpen, Spit Poet Zine and more. Joshua’s first book of poetry “This Way to Exit, Millennialism, and New Poems.” is available online, at Mutiny Information Café, at Trident Café and Booksellers, and personally from the author.
Boulder Poetry Scene 