#33 / 2004 Tour 3: The Legend of Borsodi

NEW ORLEANS POETRY LEGEND COMMITS SUICIDE

#33

When Beatlick Joe and I first hit the poetry path in Chicago, we hit it dead center at the Green Mill, home of Grandpappy slammer Marc Smith, because Jon Taylor of Nashville had scouted the whole town out for us.

      

But for all reports we got about a New Orleans poetry scene, beyond Ape Woman Nancy Harris at the Maple Leaf, we could never find the right venue. We had heard stories about this place called Borsodi’s Coffeehouse. I looked it up in the listings and phone book, but after years we finally gave up. However, like everything else in life, when we were ready, Borsodi was there, or at least his legacy. We hit town one day before the first anniversary of Bob Borsodi’s death. At the Fair Grinds Coffeehouse on 3133 Ponce de Leon off Esplanade, we learned from the many who loved him, all about the elusive Bob Borsodi.

      

       We never found him because his place wasn’t listed and customers were not encouraged. Bob was known all over the country, he was a product of Yale, but never went corporate. He opened many coffeehouses in various parts of the country. Bob looked more like a member of ZZ Top than anyone else. He didn’t have a drivers license, mostly rode a bike. Someone described him as a primal “hunter, gatherer” of artistic eccentrics. And to see the crowd you would have agreed. When Bob learned he had fatal bone cancer, he didn’t want to plug into the American medical system; he had a healthy disdain for doctors. He took a spin around the country in his floral car, sans licesne. He looked up all the old gang, as he often did, unannounced. Then he came home and simply jumped off a  bridge into the Mississippi River, thereby avoiding the medical and legal system. I’m sure it brought him great satisfaction.  Bob Borsodi’s legend is an important element in the Big Easy’s poetry scene.

      
I discovered New Orleans back in the 80s; I even lived there for a while. So for years I had a group of friends to call upon whenever I visited. But those days are long gone and it has been with deep regret that I had no familiar place to land since Jennie Calhoun’s Guest House burned, down on Canal Street.

      

So what can I say about Ms Melanie Leavitt, who wined us and dined us and gave us a home. “You’ve always got a place to stay in New Orleans,” she claimed.

      

Melanie lives near the Garden District in one of these old mansions that make your imagination soar. We stayed for four days.

      

This is the New Orleans I remember from the 80s, the town that has never let me down, never harmed me, only embraced me and made me feel at home. A part of my soul is there.

      

Melanie surrounds herself with original Bauhaus furniture, enormous antique movie posters, and books, books, books. Joe and I have so many friends across the country now and everyone of them have the same thing in common: whether their accommodations are grand or humble, they are surrounded by stacks and stacks of book. When I see a wall full of books, I feel at home.

      

Melanie is a lawyer for the mentally impaired and underprivileged. She walked out the door everyday and left her keys behind. She trusted us completely, and had never laid eyes on us before the Maple Leaf gig. Poetry bonds. Poetry brings compassion and caring.

      

I feel like I have another sister and a home again, down in the Big Easy.