Letter to Reynolds From Copenhagen
Dear RJ,
I miss your Camel,
the stubby straight one
that stained my fingers yellow
and the soft hiss of that
first hit when the match-tip
flame lit my attempt to find
my dad, cigarette paper
stuck to the lip and tobacco
bits tongued and spit
after a long nostril exhale,
your smoke filling me up
with him, my old man.
I wanted to thank you
for that ceremonious decade
of ritual: tapping the new pack
then pulling the red cellophane
strip and peeling back
the folded silver-paper cap
to snap-smack it once or twice,
enough to pick a fresh stick
from the tight twenty-nail
pack and enter the realm
of mid-twentieth century
masculinity—Bogey, DiMaggio,
and my dad. Your coffin
nails gave me something to
hold on to, that guy I wanted
to get inside. He'd quit you
by the time he died. So did I
when I decided I needed to
breathe. Went to Copenhagen
instead. Still, I think of you
fondly, like being with my dad,
Camels in hand, smoking
our way around that moment,
the day, the ongoing mystery,
what we couldn't understand,
this existence, pulling it in
and letting it go . . . together.
Sincerely,
MGBeen sifting, searching, and collecting what poems I find, in an effort to stitch all these scraps of words together into some kind of collection or two or three (or you-get-the-drift) manuscripts. We scribblers fascinated with our own responses to life fluctuate between logging every note of genius we’ve penned to burning the whole pile, settle for silence, which time will ultimately accomplish. Yet this is how I spend my time orienting myself, distracting myself, doing what I can to hold it all together, hold us together, or hold the ones I hold in my head together along with the generic silent majority (my positive spin on “humanity”) that I tell myself “exists.” Optimistic Pessimist or Pessimistic Optimist. I, we, don’t know much, but we keep mulling it over, what’s in front of us, the day. And we keep leaning toward love, happiness, like we’re leaning into our mothers. Hoping they will protect us from all the (fearful, aggressive beasts out there) masculinity. What a bunch of posturing, fucking fools men are. And being one, I know it’s difficult for them. It’s a part of our make-up. It’s in our DNA. We are animals, we are tribal. What would we do without war?
It’s all noise, this, what we do to fill the silence and get through the day. Chit-chat. I bounce from one thing to another, taking it all in, like playing the old pinball machine: paying attention, anticipation, and feel—the dance.
write on
write something, right
something, left something, wrong
something, what
is wrong about something
right, something left,
something red-wrong as woody
or a wobbly song,
not simply some thing's power
to detest, but something
best left unsaid,
like the dead,
something wicked this way comes
on sale to the highest bidder . . .
another civic hero,
a bloomin' player,
a rich man, a political
force, a man who speaks
and forces listen . . .
listen . . .
was that sound
a guillotine
or a video game
execution,
was it the wind
slamming a door,
someone closing a hatch,
perhaps a jailor throwing the switch . . .
another chilly draft spoiled
by virtual reality . . .
who owns you
is better left unsaid,
better to be
a slave today,
better to be undead,
write the truth
in your head,
or say something,
anything, a change from
saying nothing, speak . . .
speak for your survival,
speak for everyone,
it’s time for a change,
time for the force
to be with us, time to choose
love over money
over fear over death,
time to love, to trust,
to choose to care
for one another,
it’s time today to write
something about love,
about justice, about living
a good life, it’s time
to right the selfish wrongs
in the land of the greedy-free,
it’s time to write something,
to be brave, to stand
up and right the story,
it’s time to be
something to sayObviously, I’ve felt compelled to respond to life all my life. And it can make things a bit uncomfortable when the response flies in the face of convention, power, or the-way-it’s-always-been-done. But at the end of the day I wind up with myself stumbling around in my head and trying to square the page, my day, and fall asleep with a clear conscience. Doesn’t always work, but I gotta try. Living a lie or allowing someone I know to control or abuse me or my friends is something I’m not willing to do. That seems like as good of a way to spend my time as anything else, since my only belief (or drive) apparently is to try to be kind, laugh, not harm anyone on my way to the grave or out the door or wherever-the-fuck we’re going or whatever-the-fuck we’re here for—that grinning optimist lurking inside me.
The Optimist
A slight breeze
As I rake the leaves
From the yard
Into the street,
Piles to be collected
In the next few weeks
By the sons of the city
Fathers. It must be
The farmer in me
That so enjoys this fall
Task, or the little kid
Curious to see worms,
Molds, beetles & bugs,
Treasures uncovered
On the ground (cigarette
Butts, bottle caps, God-
Knows-what, a Burger
King French fry bag).
And it is a rare moment
Anymore when people
Populate their front yards,
Outside their house
To greet folks on the street
Like this old guy
On his bike loaded down
With everything he owns
In wire panniers each side
Of the rear tire, his front
Basket battened down
With a bungee. Suspenders,
Wool pants, and greasy-frayed
Coat, he stops to watch
Me whisk the leaves
Into the gutter. I nod
And speak, “Howdy.” He grins,
Not a tooth in his head.
“Nice day,” I say.
“You must be an optimist!”
He shoots back. A gust
Of wind kicks up,
And I laugh, “Well, yeah.
I guess I am.” He patters on
About an early snow—
He can feel it in his bones.
I listen. We chat
About the weather,
The futility of man—
As I continue to rake
The leaves. “Yes, sir!
I’d definitely say
You are an optimist!”
He repeats as he pedals away.
I pause to survey the job:
The leaves, the lawn, the street,
And wipe a bead of sweat
Trickling from my brow.
A snowflake appears
On my sleeve. Then another
And others dot the leaves.
Looking up I watch them
Flutter through the trees’
Stark branches—then resume
Raking. It seems important
To finish before dark.And there you go. I’ll let you know if I come up with any thoughts that will change the world for the better or if I discover anything I think you’d be interested in reading. I do still like to read. And that’s some kind of justification to continue writing, thinking that it will matter to some one else, maybe you. Which reminds me to thank those of you who have contributed to this effort financially. I very much appreciate your contribution to support someone who is not used to that, given the fact that they will continue writing with or without your generous support because they’re compelled to do it. Money is never too far out of our thoughts. I hope it’s not dominating your life and you’re comfortable with your life. Whatever this miracle is, money is a very small part of it. So in honor of that effort on your part to share with me for what I spew for your view, here is one for the road, a tribute to May Sarton, a wonderful poet worth checking out. Have a great week! Don’t forget to clean your plates. Let the dogs have the scraps. Peace.
Reading May
This is what is divine
about literature,
that we may connect
with another human being
in our mind
across time. It is the justification
for writing, for throwing
our voices into the mist,
the unknown, filling it up with
our doubts, humor, yearnings, fears,
sorrows, dreams, observations, stories—
the soup of human consciousness—
that voice the reader laps up
in their moment
of digestion, that point in time
one is actually alive
enough to find love again,
their best friend, self-contained
and aroused to smile, to move, to wander
outside, explore the marvelous
beauty and mystery there,
so one may return to the pleasure
of the page, cataloging, questioning,
opening one's veins, knowing someone
somewhere sometime in a future
fog might find these words
a comfort, discovering
they are not alone . . . and help them
muster the desire to be,
to open, arise, and go on.
—for May Sarton