Image of the poet sitting in a coffee shop with many distractions, writing of his distractions. He bears a grief too great to express. People he has loved are gone; languages are lost; ways of life have passed away; plants and animals have disappeared forever. His hair is in flight; his shirt is not tucked. He picks his teeth to find anything left over from lunch. But he is not a sloppy person; his nose is clean; his glasses are clean; his handwriting is neat. He has neatly arranged the objects on the table before him. His fountain pen full of black ink symbolizes renewal, creativity, clarity. His cup of cold coffee symbolizes grace, everything he is thankful for. His journal and the book he is reading— together these symbolize a basic duality, that we both give and receive, that we both create and are created. In this microcosm of poet we have both imagination and reality both mind and body, the conscious mind thinking of itself (as ours all do) and the body regulating itself (as all ours do). You might say that the poet is no different than anyone else—anyone who does what he does and all that follows from that. In the same coffee shop a student working on a class project, a programmer rapidly cycling through EMACS shells, a neighbor in a wheelchair, a middle-aged jogger dropping in for an espresso, and colleagues taking a break from work are no less special and possibly more capable. Our only questions are the questions, if we were sitting at the next table, we wouldn’t think to ask because we already know the answers. Yes, the poet complains, but he would rather take his own private stand, and commit his own private acts against waste and oppression against stupidity and unkindness even if it means that he will be a failure. He is not a politician; he would rather be an example. Writing about what should be seems to him like propaganda, not art, like politics, not freedom. But he cannot resist moralizing, even moralizing that moralizing is vain. Useful work and a useful life teaches us how to live in this imperfect world. It is unnecessary to seek your own suffering for it comes freely like a light that hurts when it reveals. If we have here a small thing, that in the dust of time we burn like grass, to what end are complaints? to what end are praises? Will they be published? Will school children memorize them? Will teens secretly fall in love with something in them as though the words told what they’d like to become? Socially correct? Personally liberated? Enlightened? At least he can say he thinks he knows the difference. He may be dumb about many things but not, he thinks, about the main things. For when he sips his coffee he sips it; that is all and that is enough, for it is more than enough. Is he more conscious of being human? The uneducated, inarticulate victim of third-world poverty and crime giving birth to her fifth child is at least as human as he, but is she conscious of it at all? Being human is like being unique where no lesser degree exists. The poet doesn’t write about being human; he writes about happiness. Here is an image of the happy poet sitting in a coffee shop working out the accidents and causes of his happiness. Here is his beverage of fair-trade coffee beans. He lifts his mug to his lips and is satisfied with a sip. Here is his cotton shirt not made in a sweat shop falling comfortably from his shoulders. Here is his salad of local organic greens with olive oil and balsamic vinegar from Italy. Smiling, friendly, the poet writes a poem. The poem expresses what no one else expresses but now everyone understands. He addresses the poem to a friend. He believes that he is doing what he is meant to do and doing it well. With the same energy he could earn a little money but he is more than content. Maybe this poem will save lives, soothe fears, solve problems. Maybe this poem will help others live more happily. Ha, ha. Hee, hee. This guy could be insane or he could be merely blessed. Tragedy has left him with a smile. Comedy comes to greet him. She doesn’t wear motley; she wears a wedding gown; in her arms is a bouquet of wilted wildflowers. Why is she smiling? Does she love him truly for rich and for poor? He stands to welcome her with pen and paper in his hands.
9 August - 24 October 2007