Several years ago I was in a club. We called it Poetry Club. Very creative, for a bunch of poets, I know. We tossed around some alternate names for our club, but being poets and invested heavily in language as we were, none of us could satisfactorily agree on a club name and so we left it at that. Kind of like when you wait too long to name a cat and eventually you realize its name is Cat. We would meet on Sundays, in one or another of our gardens, treehouses, or well appointed decks–as we are all wont to have here in LA– though, mostly we would gather at the home of our fearless founder, the poetess Jane McCarthy. We were a motley crew of artists and musicians, designers and dancers and yes, some of us writers.
