Massachusetts 6, or A Letter

In my head, it was always spelled Tero.

Nor did I know it was Mme. Terrault who ran the five-and-dime, since my memory holds a grungy teenager, or maybe a middle-aged man taking my Canadian dollar in exchange for a box of Smarties. The guys who filled Monstro and the Zipper with gas didn't have names, and of course, in my head, the other boat place with a telephone was spelled Daygro for years.

Alice, I spent this week at the National Poetry Slam in Austin, Texas. For five days, I seemed to live in a city that was overrun by travelling preachers disguised as poets. Every day there were open mics, every night, competitions, and after each night, there were ciphers - small clusters of poets that formed randomly into a circle, taking turns in the middle to spit out old favorites, new creations, or the day's journaling.

This week, Alice, I heard a letter from a son to his murdered father - a young black jewish guy, whose father was the Holocaust survivor professor shot at Virginia Tech. I heard a poem about Sudanese mothers spinning fairy tales about American soldiers so their children would have something to rest their dreams on. I heard a mother's poem to her child, telling her to close her eyes and judge people by their voices, knowing that the ones with accents could be family. I left the competitions in such emotional whirlwinds that I often had to walk for miles through the city before I could bring myself to sleep. One night, on such a walk, I paused to write: "Please, somebody, give me a poem that is not three minutes of G-d so I might have the strength to keep praying."

Your father's brother taught me to cry at the most beautiful things without shame. We went to comedic operas and wiped each other's faces with the handkerchief he always has, not understanding the plot, characters, or language. The night I sang in Carnegie hall, I saw the white cuffs of his shirt as he prepared to clap twenty bars before the piece ended, and I only imagined that his tears matched mine that fell to the stage. After hearing poetry that left my newfound friends searching for shirtsleeves (who wears long sleeves in Texas in August?!) and tissues, I shook and stormed, but Alice -

I googled your name today, to find a picture of the book you've written, and instead found your articles about Labelle. And after an entire week of being wrenched across every emotion I never thought I had, I felt a few tears fall at your mention of Mme. Terrault and that wonderously clean air.

I'm crying in a library, Alice. Your father's brother would approve.

Texas 1, or A Quick Postcard

I'm in Texas for the National Poetry Slam, and so far it's been hot - hot as in fantastic, and hot as in sun-beats-on-pavement-sweat-before-you're-out-the-door.

Today, I was the last poet called in the Jewish Open Mic, where I performed "The Importance of Dialogue" to wild success. I'm being recruited for the Five College Slam Team next year. :-)

Tonight, I get to see more bouts - rounds of competition among teams of poets. It's like dueling, only geekier and more verbose.

Massachusetts 5, or The Final Draft

Miraculous

A tiny duck is flying higher than his feathers should let him,
swooping down to swim faster than his tiny duck feet
should carry him in a perfectly
straight line across a river that is moving
so fast there should be no way he can fight it
while his mother sits on the other side, without
even a ruffled feather to show any kind of fear
for her week-old baby duck.

But here I am, on a cliff that should leave me too high
for my bare eyes to see the tiny
duck’s head zooming across the whitecaps, with too little
sun protection to keep my white-girl knees from
frying into blisters, too willing to dismiss
the blind faith of my blurry eyes
to admit that I think
I’m seeing a miracle.

Miracles are acts of desperation
turned beautiful, like the star that shoots
through the cloud cover
for its one last chance at glory before it dies, like
Merganser ducklings learning how to swim
in the middle of a rapid,
like the sun wrestling through the morning fog
to warm the ocean.

Miracles are accidents that allow
us to survive, like the tackle box that trips
the man who falls and lets his catch go free, like
the bullet that hits a soldier bad enough
to send him home alive, like the first time
poetry slammed into my faithless soul like a car crash
that left me twisted and burning, unable to look away. And today,

I know that one mother Merganser can teach me
more about faith than any house of prayer
and here I sit with my near-blind eyes
and realize that this
is worth more than a god to pray to
because mother Merganser miracles
are the kind that give me faith.