New Hope Journal
Personal Essays and Public Opinions since 1979
of things you want to do in New York.
You don't expect much.
Some angry poetry
Some bad poetry
Some crap.
Some old Latino hippies maybe,
howling at the moon.
Some wretched souls raging against
the great something or other:
The white man, the rich man
or just The Man. Or something or other
and calling it poetry.
And then you listen to these kids,
Some from Harvard, some from just Baltimore or the Bronx.
Some right off the street.
And however bad or good they are
they remind you of your own children
and how seriously they take themselves
and how articulately they can
express their desperate quest for love.
and how keenly they can observe
what exactly it is that seems to
be wrong with themselves, and with you
and with the world.
And you realize that you are
in a temple
and your mind goes very
quietly to its knees
and you begin to pray
for the young virgins
and you pray for their friends
and you pray for your children
that you have not been listening to
and you pray for yourself.
How the hell, Lord, have I
been so foolish and wasted
so much time
outside the kingdom of
poetry and hope?
And you smile and you applaud
and you touch the sweaty
hands of these shaky poets as
they leave the stage and you
know that you were up there
with them
in their moments of truth.
And you know that on this
particular night, in this crowded
barroom Zen-like space,
that you have received tonight
about all the enlightenment
that you are ever likely to receive.
It's a little sad. But it's a little sweet too.
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