Because I Needed to Read it Again

I'm sharing a poem I love, because I have nothing to say, or too much but I can't really express it right now. I love these moments, hey? Where I'm feeling alot and can't really verbalise it. It makes me think that palm reader who read my ink-stained hand and said I was a writer may have been pulling my arm.

In a few minutes I'm off to Swamiji's for Jessie's goodbye kichari dinner. This morning, we had our last class together. Swamiji said "Not worry, not far in our hearts we always together." And he wiped his eyes. I'm telling you, I bit every side of my tongue to not cry, and there's more biting to be done before this day is over.

After class, as Jessie and I were walking away, Swamiji said "One minute please," and walked us over to a rose bush that had just sprouted it's first flowers of the year: 3 perfect peach-pink roses. "Three coming, first flowers this year. Nature shows us."

Later when we showed up for dinner, one of Swamiji's grandchildren gave me one of the roses. I don't know if he had plucked it, but it looked quite bashed about, as if the kids had been running around grabbing it from each other and tossing it in the air, maybe playing at making a Puja, who knows. I told Sarah about the 3 roses seen in the morning and showed her the one in my palm. We both looked at the rose and then at each other. I said "Because Jessie's leaving."

I needed to read this Nick Thran poem again, and I wanted to share it:

The Poem You've Been Waiting For
The poem will never save the world.
The poem won't even draw you up
from your sick bed and make you feel better.
But the poem is trying to do what it can.
It is learning the fiddle. It is knitting a homemade scarf.
It is riding a Bengal tiger through a field of ragweed
and doing summersaults off of a bridge.

The poem has even mastered some magic tricks:
one with a hand-axe, a rat, and a cantaloupe; the otherwith a simple deck of cards.
The poem is satisfying two...no, make that three
beautiful women at once. They can hardly believe
the poem can go on like this. You can hear them singing
like honey and rivers and wine.The poem is putting fresh, crisp sheets on the bed.
It has bought a new pair of socks for you to wear
every day for the rest of your life.

The poem is making an honest man
out of a shyster. It is teaching your sister to read.
It is planning a vacation: one week in Bali
followed by three days gambling at Cesar's Palace
and buying tickets for the novel, the short story, the monologue
and all of the poem's other friends.

The poem is walking on one bad leg
with an injured orangutan slung over its shoulder.
It is spending long nights alone in room
digging its fingernails into the wall, and talking to ghosts,
and reading Hegel, and beading a necklace
made entirely of scorpions who have solemnly sworn
never to hurt you. You're going to have to trust the poem
despite all of its shortcomings.
Word has it, it knows a couple of secrets
about life and beauty and eternity and grace
I couldn't possibly ever hope to reveal
speaking to you, like I am.

See? May rose petals be strewn before Nick's path for the rest of his life.