So it is official now – every Thursday at 7 pm, I go see the girls. The Girls and I talk about poetry. They write, I listen, and we talk. D is mellowing out a little – she’s my regular and quite the rhymer. F. wrote her first poem today with a nice little contrast between bingo players, young volunteers, and the homeless that the group makes sandwiches for. It takes F. a minute or two to warm up, but she’s got these odd little stories that make up for the way she looks at me like I’d better say something smart or she’s outta there.
Today we talked about words that are ecstatic in some way, which led to some reading of poetry from the Bible, the Gnostic Gospels, and Rumi. Rumi is, as always, the final crack in a fractured heart. And also reminiscent of Neal. The Rumi:
After being with me one whole night,
you ask how I live when you’re not here.
Badly, frantically, like a fish trying to breathe
dry sand. You weep and say,
but you choose that.
After the girls, I went to Trader Joe’s and had a poem in the parking lot. I wrote it down quickly, lest it escape. They happen infrequently enough these days that I must be careful, though they are less infrequent than they used to be. Thus far, it is title-less.
My tongue has been severed.
I say nothing now. Anyway, I
have worn the old words out:
Forgive me, come home, love.
Over and over again, love. Begged
sobbed, monotone and unfeeling
and finally – briefly – in monastic
ecstasy. You removed your ears
and so there is no longer a need
to speak. I hold my tongue
in my hand.
And that, my friends, is that. I think I shall go to bed and dream of Rumi.
Which reminds me. I had a glimpse of a dream I had a while ago and I liked it, but now I don’t remember what it is/was. My head is a leaky pail.