Meet the poet/bard/waiter at Little Traverse Inn
By Norm Wheeler
Sun editor
How many waiters can recite an Emily Dickinson poem to you while serving you haggis? Paul Baumbusch at the Little Traverse Inn can. Originally from Washington, D.C., Paul graduated from the creative writing program at Interlochen Arts Academy in 2004, then attended Northwestern University and graduated in 2008. His teacher at Interlochen was Michigan’s local “Notable Writer” Anne-Marie Oomen, from Empire.
“Anne-Marie was my mentor in poetry and playwriting, an extremely inspiring and rigorous workshop class where I learned how to give and receive constructive criticism,” Paul remembers. One experience in particular sticks with him as the reason why he now lives in Leelanau County. “One fateful day Anne-Marie took our poetry class to Pyramid Point. We ran down the bluff, and then we ran along the lakeshore before climbing back up. We hiked through the woods and found some morels. The spring wildflowers were everywhere in the woods. We went to AMO’s house and she had white chicken chili simmering. That field trip opened my eyes to the magic of this area. I moved here in the summer of 2016.”
Paul has been a customer of the Little Traverse Inn (LTI) for years. He worked at the Interlochen summer camp from 2005-2007 and took frequent little trips to Leelanau County to eat at LTI. “The Little Traverse Inn is an exemplar of hospitality,” Paul insists, “and Graeme Leask is a hospitality genius. That’s why he has been so successful. He’s the same behind the scenes as he is out front with the customers.” Paul and Graeme have different stories about how he came to work at LTI. According to Graeme,” he was hired from the other side of the bar—you know how it works!” But Paul remembers it this way: “I got a call from him saying he wanted me to work here, and I said of course!”
During the day Paul also works at The Homestead. “I book vacations for people doing sales in the call center. I enjoy it a lot. I got the job soon after moving up here, and I consider my co-workers good friends. I feel a sense of loyalty to The Homestead. They helped to establish me up here, and they treat me really well.”
Paul has been writing poems and plays “since elementary school. I don’t think there’s ever been a time in my life when art wasn’t at the center of my life. The only question has been how to support myself in a meaningful way while I create art.” So Paul’s love of language is deep-seated. “I have always memorized poems to internalize them, so that I can carry them with me. I believe you should be a bard; you should be able to carry your poems, your lyrics, with you so that they are ready to unleash, to share.”
When I ask Paul who his favorite poet is, there is no hesitation. “Above all Emily Dickinson.” Immediately Paul recites a love poem: “If you were coming in the fall / I’d brush the summer by/ With half a smile and half a spurn/ As Housewives do, a Fly.”
We soon discover that both of us know a Dickinson poem by heart that Anne-Marie taught us, so we recite it together: “A narrow Fellow in the Grass / Occasionally rides – “ Paul explains his fascination: “What I love about Dickinson is the mystical relationship to nature. It is another world, and not cute. It’s frightening, erotic. She’s fascinated with the distance between human beings and the natural world.”
Paul also writes a blog for the Sleeping Bear Dunes Visitor’s Bureau (a project of The Homestead Resort). So he has three jobs up here as he surfs the new gig economy. How does he connect his three jobs with his true passion, writing poetry? “I think the more experiences you can have—at work and out of work—the more you grow. Each of my jobs uses a different set of my talents. My poetry is enriched by how I have to stretch myself in the workplace, by the people I meet, and by the stories I hear. All are grist for the poems I write.”
Brian Baumbusch, Paul’s brother, is a prominent young composer in California. “He and I collaborated. I wrote an homage to classic horror films based on wild barometric pressure swings named The Pressure. Then he wrote the music after I wrote the libretto. It won a premier in San Francisco in June through a grant at a major venue. There were illustrations projected on a screen, so it was a sort of musical graphic novel. It was surreal! You can’t believe it is happening to you, you can’t really internalize it. There were a couple of hundred people at the premier, the house was pretty full.”
What is next for this talented writer in our midst, who serves us supper and then carries the dirty plates away? Paul muses, “My life is guided a lot by inertia. If I’m happy, I don’t want to change things. The thought of leaving here is painful, so I won’t do it! I’m a gypsy and a renter, I want to live where I want. Right now, where I want is right here.”
Here are three poems by Paul Baumbusch. If you see him at the Little Traverse Inn, he can recite any of them for you.
May means May is over
The start invites the end
Spring was only here when it
Was right around the bend
Flowers peaked in April
When few were to be seen
Barren limbs of March possessed
The quintessential green
And now amid the splendor
We’re stricken with a thought
The moment can’t be captured
The present can’t be caught
May means May was yesterday
‘Twas snakebit from the start
Tainted by the chalice
Infected by the dart
Though little violets beckon
And cherry blossoms ring
The restless eye anticipates
A season after spring
And now amid the splendor
We’re haunted by a thought
The moment can’t be harnessed
The present can’t be caught.
. . . . . . .
Gold as yolk, king of summer
Tripping through the air
Dripping beads of honey balm
Here and there and everywhere
O thrill of sudden blessing
Nemesis of wrong
Light as friendship’s laughter
And weighty as the gentlest song
Monarch, leave your meadow!
Come join us by the fire
Tell of bright adventure
And reckless, rocky, raw desire
Orange as sun, son of sunset
Slipping through the sky
Sipping the periphery
Of August’s dreamy drooping eye
Your cherries will be apples
Your thunder will be snow
But now the land’s a sarabande
And thistles sway to rhythm slow
Monarch, flee your milkweed!
Come join us on the sand
Regale with tales of treachery
And kiss the shelter of my hand.
. . . . . . .
At peak, Time sneaks away
To eavesdrop from the door
As all the humans play
Along the sunset shore
Horizons burn and burn
The bonfire doesn’t end
Lovers ever yearn
A friend remains a friend
October’s far away
And April’s long ago
We dally and delay
We take the evening slow
Listening to our laughter
Time chuckles in his way
Aware of what comes after
The bracing light of day
Soon he’ll come to scold us
Marching to the beach
He cautioned us, he told us
Forever’s out of reach.
