Local View: Rhyme and reason

On designating an octogenarian lounge entertainer as Nevada's poet laureate for life

By Dayvid Figler

I first became aware of Norman Kaye in the early 1990s. At the time, I was experimenting with a number of dangerous drugs, most notably--poetry. If you're not familiar with this narcotic, let me explain.

Most people have at some point written a poem. You don't know why--you just do it. Words swirl in your head that "need to get out." You reach into a secret hiding place--maybe under your bed--and pull out special paper to do the deed. It could be loose leaf or even a bound journal. You lock the door, turn off most of the lights, possibly hit play on some light jazz and roll into a space where your mind expands. Words suddenly appear in front of you. WOW! Soon, you come to believe that you are, if not the sage of the age, then at least a respectable poet of the moment. This is the beginning of a horrible addiction.

It has the potential to escalate. Turn into a full-blown case of delusion. You trip into the light subdued of your local open mic reading and there you are--sharing the ink that is your body's blood before a group of complete strangers who clap or snap and sip coffee while waiting for their own chance to do the same. Soon you know you will be famous!

There are few things sadder than a poetry junky spouting free verse on street corners waiting to be discovered by a mythical literary agent looking for the next big thing.

And so describes many of us in our youth memorializing nonsense on scraps of paper in those coffeehouses. Taking big balls of emotional clay and squeezing it through our minds' filters into misshapen lines like a Play-Doh Fun Factory. Usually, there is little fun in these words--more like sloppy spaghetti of the psyche. The depressive ramblings of misfit toys. The sappy love strums of a frustrated suitor on the harp of the soul.

This is what I had become. Hooked on the stuff for sure, but at least I had the foresight to cut the pure verse with a little humor. And while I know (and knew) that I'm no poet, it didn't stop me from (a) calling myself a poet, (b) getting called a poet and (c) seeking out ways to establish myself as the best poet in the pond. Actually, I had some degree of success with "poetry." A few publication credits around the country (in such memorable poetry journals as Feh! and Exquisite Corpse), a triumphant run performing for free at local benefits with sly pornographic, political poems with titles like "Firetruck George Bush" and, of course, being booed off the stage at Lollapalooza as the opening act for the Beastie Boys. Yes, my poetic star shone when Norman Kaye appeared on my radar.

Now, way back in 1967, Las Vegas lounge legend Norman Kaye was appointed as Nevada's poet laureate by then-Gov. Grant Sawyer. It wasn't much of a competition. Indeed, years later, in an interview by the Las Vegas Mercury, Kaye recalled the inauspiciousness of the event. "Grant just called me up and said, `I want you to be poet laureate.' I said, `I appreciate that. Poet laureate of what?'"

Thus spun the years of relative obscurity as the officially designated "Top Poet" of a state not exactly known for its high culture. Sporadically, the media would take a look at old Norman in a sort of irreverent profile of the "poet who's not a poet." Invariably, the story would focus on his lineage as the son of Hawaiian vaudeville icon Johnny Ukulele. His childhood in and out of clubs and carnivals across the nation. His days as an innovator of the Rat Pack lounge ethic of Las Vegas with the highly popular and influential Mary Kaye Trio of the '50s and '60s. His stint as a songwriter of minor ditties for smooth crooners like Perry Como and Johnny Mathis around the same time. And always his own utter amazement that despite his lack of skill as a poet per se and ignorance of the official duties of his post, he remained ensconced with the official title.

"Nobody asks me to do diddly-do," the poet laureate once told a reporter, "but I'm very proud of it."

Once aware, I used to clip articles on Norman Kaye, convinced that someday I could take over his post, but that to complete the coup I would have to know everything about my rival. I found his old song lyrics, read his bio, found his minimalist website (www.normankaye.com), tracked his quotes. Clearly, I was poised to pounce when the chance came about. That chance revealed itself this past month.

It appears the Nevada Arts Council, a state agency out of Carson City, has unilaterally designated Norman, now 82, as the poet laureate emeritus to make way for some fresh blood. The idea being that a vibrant newcomer could fashion an agenda to "present and advance poetry in the public domain" by traveling across the state on a mission of inspiration. Just like other states. Just like the United States and its history of illustrious laureates who have done much to advance the cause of poetry to the masses--the schoolchildren and the lonely hearts, the romantics and the verse addicts.

Not surprisingly, Norman and his family are less than pleased with the decision to unceremoniously remove him from the post he's held across five decades. Still, it may be a small shocker that I no longer think I am better suited for the nonpaying position than the current occupant of the office. I have no formal training in poetry. And while I am always eager to take advantage of the hundreds of invitations to places far and wide across the state and the country to entertain an audience with a little rhyme and reason, I am no Norman Kaye.

Norman Kaye may be an 82-year-old real estate agent who gave up the showbiz life more than 40 years ago. He may be completely ignorant of poetic sensibility and device. He may be unable to travel, to communicate with the kiddies about the importance or even the structure of poetry. But Norman Kaye is rightfully a legendary Nevadan who, in desperately clinging to some modicum of past glory by fighting for his right to stay poet laureate, embodies the poetry of this place. I don't know if it's a metaphor, a simile or merely a lovely allusion, but if the powers that be want to find an ideal representation of what it means to dream, achieve and be forgotten like a Nevadan; to struggle with success, change and legacy like Las Vegas itself--they should not replace Norman Kaye, but strive to elevate him to a more visible role.

Sure, it would be easy to replace Norman with maybe dozens of qualified longtime Nevada poets who have paid their dues over the many years honing their skills and inspiring thousands. The lilting power of Reno professor Gailmarie Pahmeier; the intense descriptiveness and extreme attention demanded by Las Vegas native Harry Fagel; the insightful Western observations of prolific Fallon writer Kirk Robertson; the dedication to craft and stark imagery (not to mention the promotion of other poets) that defines Las Vegan Keith Brantley. All quite appropriate choices to be the poetic representative of our citizens with the ear of the government and the influence attendant to an officially sanctioned voice of the people.

But not at the expense of Norman Kaye. Perhaps the Arts Council should consider holding off finding a replacement and help Norman until the master is ready to go gentle into that good night--but like the more famous poet says, that's not really how it's supposed to end. Maybe Norman himself was a bit prescient when he penned, "Look in your heart, dear, what do you see? There must be one dream left there for me" in Perry Como's Top 30 rager "Why Did You Leave Me?" in 1952.

C'mon, look in your heart, Nevada Arts Council, and honor what makes us all beat.

Dayvid Figler, a lawyer and part-time Las Vegas municipal judge, writes and recites weekly essays for KNPR 89.5-FM.