A poem I wrote on a napkin at a poetry reading. |
I was in disguise among the others, Wearing this girl’s hair, her skin. But my eyes were my own and I kept those cast down. If they saw my eyes they would know. I was among artists, musicians, and poets. I dabbled, but I didn’t want them to know, I didn’t want to share my juvenile thoughts and words. Only two knew what I really was. He caught my eye and saw my stricken gaze. Don’t tell them what I am. And he didn’t. He kept my secret with a sort of understanding. And my mother knew. She knew and silently urged me to read, In that parental way she has. I sat in the back in envious silence And listened to words, That created pictures and emotions. I never feel so alive as when I’m listening to poetry. Reading it, My fingers absorb the words. The ink and pencil replacing Blood in my veins and arteries. I could sit and listen, The tones, the inflections, the gestures Of the poem that has taken on A welcome body of its own. And when I speak poetry, It tastes sweet on my tongue like a pear. I’m afraid I’ll give myself away, I’ll glow or exhale words. My motions will give me away as … A poet. |