David K. Leff, Essayist, Poet, Lecturer

All the Presidents Coins

I like using the president dollar coins.  If news reports are any guide, it seems I may be the only one.   Along with Susan B. Anthony and Sacagawea dollars there’s reportedly $1.2 billion of them lying around in federal vaults without any hope of seeing a cash register or piggy bank.  Yet sometimes I have trouble getting as many as I want because my local bank runs short.

Dollar coins feel good in the palm of my hand, and their golden glow is like a drop of sunshine grasped from the sky.  They obviate the need for a mountain of nickels, dimes and quarters at parking meters and vending machines.  Each one is a history lesson as we remember the life and times of famous presidents and puzzle over obscure ones like John Tyler and James Polk.

Finding Poetry in the Landscape

On a recent drive through an area of fading farmland along U.S. Route 6, I entered Watertown where my eye caught a roadside sign proclaiming the birthplace of John Trumbull, “Poet of the American Revolution.”   Municipal boundaries are frequently emblazoned with placards promoting nicknames, principal industries, scenic or historic character, or celebrity connections.  Recognizing an obscure eighteenth century writer seemed somewhat odd, but also emblematic of Connecticut’s little known role as a nursery of poets.

Stalking Roadside Mailboxes

I confess to being a roadside mailbox spotter.   I’m not so crazed that I make special trips just to look for oddities, but while commuting to appointments, running errands or taking a trip, I get a charge from finding mailboxes out of the ordinary.  It’s a feeling, I suppose, not much different than discovering a rare coin in your change or an unusual tag sale item that fits a collection.  I’m on the road anyway, so I might as well have some fun.  And once you start looking, there’s more to see than can be imagined.

The Biggest Sand Castle Makes a Difference

When the biggest anything is built just a few miles from your home it’s hard to resist the attraction.  So though I’m a skeptic when it comes to objects whose acclaim lies merely in its size, I found myself drawn with an irresistible gravity to the nearby town of Farmington, Connecticut where the Guinness world record for tallest sand castle stands a towering thirty-seven feet and ten inches high.

Poetic Apartment: James Merrill's Space

It seems as if he must have stepped out for just a moment, maybe to run an errand down the street.  Pulitzer Prize wining poet James Merrill died in 1995, but his apartment in the thickly settled seaside borough of Stonington, Connecticut is alive with his presence.  Its informal domesticity makes a visitor feel like a neighbor stopping by unannounced for a quick “hello” and perhaps the offer of a drink.

The poet’s apartment is on the third floor of a large nineteenth century wooden structure at the corner of Union and Water Streets in the heart of this village of old houses and small shops.  The first floor is fitted with plate glass storefronts including a barber shop.  Sided with clapboards and scalloped shingles, at the corner above street level is a round tower.

Chicory (poem)

Bright eyes of high summer bloom along the
roadside, looking like tall, scraggy blue dandelions.
Open at dawn, the azure disks face east at the sun
as do the devout in prayer or the dead awaiting
resurrection.  By noon they have winked out, leaving
only shabby weeds until light returns another day.

Called “ragged sailors” for their faded navy dress,
their seeds and plants sailed the Atlantic with fellow
colonists and set deep roots across the continent.
Shadowing humanity, they thrive on highway
medians and in abandoned lots, and dare to push
through pavement cracks where little else grows.
We few weed-lovers are seduced by their fleeting
beauty, enticed by roasted roots chock full with the
nutty flavor of coffee that teases without the kick of
caffeine.

Blooms thick for miles edge the two-lane-blacktop,
outlining it in blue like an airport runway softly lit
at night.  They call to mind the bitter black brew
and beignets of Café Du Monde, heartbeat of the
French Quarter where people stroll to be seen in
the sleepy heat.  I fantasize the color of my lover’s
beckoning eyes and long for the look that urges me
closer.