L.

L.
This evening
Like every evening
Like every time I
think of you,
I walk these city streets
peering into faces,
picturing how time may have
aged you,
and hoping by chance,
I might see you.
I've sent messages,
a poem,
given your brother my regards,
and asked him to pass them on
to you,
with my email,
my phone number,
and the understanding, the freedom,
 to not reply.
I haven't heard back;
I don't know why.
You once wrote me
a birthday poem in green ink,
framed in glass,
and drew a tiger lily
on the page.
I remember perfecting flower freckles
in childhood drawings
with you
sprawled out on floors covered
in markers and endless sheets of paper
afternoon after
afternoon.
I remember sharing our secrets,
watching movies,
sleepovers,
dinners with our families,
the shore,
first crushes,
long school days,
then parting ways,
then not talking anymore.
Last year,
I saw your name in a cafe,
saw your shop selling teacups,
I read your blog like tea leaves,
trying to guess at the shape
your life has taken
years beyond those times we were younger;
I'm a stranger trying to imagine
the life of a stranger
who used to be my
best
best friend.
I consider
commissioning your words,
as though by syllables I could somehow see,
but I would fill rooms full of cabinets
with pieces of your haiku art
and still not know the story
of how things came to be.
I don't know what has befallen and blessed you,
whether my latest update is outdated,
whether you have escaped or evaded
what your mother once begged I help you away from
at a time when I was beyond helping myself.
I'm sorry for that,
and I miss you,
and I've felt lost sometimes trying to fit you
into the space in my little girl heart
where you fell out before I even knew
we were parting.
Well, sometimes writing brings realizations.
(How many journals did we fill,
learning the facets
of our hearts, minds, souls?)
And as I write I realize
with some giving in, and a sigh,
all I'm hoping
is
1) that wherever you are,
you know love.
2) that you're happy,
and able to say it, too.
3) that you're free  to come and go as you wish,
and to do whatever pleases you.
4) that you have changed in the ways you wanted to.
5) that you'll forgive me, if there's anything to forgive.
6) that you might think of me,
and look for me
on these city streets, too.
--
CBF, Aug. 28, 2013

Inspired by a poet in Afghanistan

Grateful to have come across this article in the NY Times this morning.  I was reading a physical copy, over fresh homemade oatmeal in the kitchen of friends in the woods on, Lake Michigan, a different experience than reading online, I suppose, but here is a link to enjoy the story anyway.

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/19/world/asia/an-afghan-poet-shapes-metal-and-hard-words.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

I has just been talking with a friend last night who is studying poetry, about love poems.  So, this poet /metalworker says, "A poet's  job is not to write about love.  A poet's job is not to write about flowers.  A poet must write about the plight and pain of the people."

I loved the words of this man.  And I must say because I know, the pain of a people so often comes from losing what one loves.  From watching flowers be destroyed.  It is writing of both these things, as well as the fullness and reality of deep pain, and of plight, that is the job of the poet.  To observe, to deeply see, to feel, to transcribe, to be a vessel for the fullness of truth to shoot through you into an audience, or onto a page, so that the stark reality of all we have loved and lost, and how we have, and can, and must miraculously love--and fight for what we love--again can be realized...  and acted upon...  Bringing these realizations to people so they can act, by touching the heart and mind where it is most strong and most tender... That is the job of the poet.  Or at least I know, with what I am doing here and now, that is the job of me.

Thank You Poem to One Who Loves Me. (These are the truest things I know of love experienced.)

Thank You Poem to One Who Loves Me

Thank you for addressing me
For undressing the beliefs I held about me
For reminding me what's possible so I can see
Life is a thing of power and beauty
As I had once known it to be.
Thank you for the gifts you hold out to me
For holding me
In the circle of your arms,
every moment is safety
from bed,
to the sidewalk,
to the jolting trolley,
You hold me secure,
Yet with freedom...
You do it so gracefully.
You refuse to criticize me,
Instead present options of how else it could be,
And though visions you may have,
still you listen to me;
I feel respected in the expectations you hold for me.
Thank you for sweating
For and with me,
For the sharing in all ways
of your sweet energy
For explaining, showing, teaching, doing, learning with me....
For never making me feel bad, ashamed,
for apologizing the very few times needed,
For telling me to stay with you and cry,
rather than go be alone and cry,
Even though it was in my shame when I'd hurt you,
You wanted me with you,
Wouldn't let me punish myself with loneliness,
hide my feelings,
Or despair alone,
No,
you talked to me,
Held me while I cried,
held and spoke with such tenderness,
Helped bring my focus away from what happened
To what I want more positively instead,
Til I was telling you stories of vegetable gardens,
My favorite teacher,
transformation,
And life.
No more bitterness where I flood my bed with tears,
rocking alone as though my own arms could comfort what takes two or three to soothe.
I can be present with and release them,
All healing;
No new scars.
And in the nighttime
as I'm writing,
And the daytime
as I'm working
your words,
your eyes,
Your movements,
your smile,
Our visions for the future,
And the memories we build
Give a gravity
A stability
A relief, a joy, a calm
To this newly refreshed heart,
To this happily settling mind,
To this body getting stronger,
To a purpose
Coming clear
In love.
--
Oct. 22, 2012 CBF