Every Robin Sings...

Poetry is – at its core – proof of life. Thoughts – memories – ideas – struggles – insights – queries – become visual - fabric – that wears us. No committee ever wrote a poem – which is to say – every poem ever penned has been an individual effort – from a singular – unique - perspective. Those writers were creator – editor – reader – and beneficiary – long before other eyes – if any - ever – were permitted to share the thoughts. It was inspiring once – to watch a poet - without audience – compose evaporating melodies on a tree-lined promenade – with long brush and black water – in exquisite – ancient – Mandarin… Equally compelling – an elderly poet on an “El” platform – sold - rumpled – soiled – cigarette-burned – copies of his poems for “loose change”. Emily Dickenson – wrote a trunk-full of poems - for herself – doubtless dreamily – I like to think – by a high window – listening to rain strike each hand-made glass pane – transforming an autumn garden - below - into a breathing avant-garde painting. Thomas Macaulay – on the other hand – wrote to share – conceiving “Horatius” – in his Lays of Ancient Rome - on “a disagreeable voyage” – recalling – possibly – heat – insects – damp paper and dull pencil – in his “dreary sojourn” through “the foothills of India’s Nilgiri Mountains” – where we turn only a crisp – dry - formatted – page – we cannot smell. These poets knew all their words – while none – or only a few portions - may stand out for us. This may be because their moments are not our moments – their summits not our summits. When we risk writing – our words are known and meaningful to us – and possibly no one else – ever. Playing with words from our experiences – we may spray – twisting a lemon peel into laughter – see sunshine through thick paper straws – smile at unmatched goblets – a spilling purse – a thirsty – scruffy – stray – jumping onto an empty chair – eager to join our Renoiresque party – welcomed – as all dogs are – warmly. When we do not see the poetry of this moment – which we share with one another – drawing this very breath together – (I am interrupted in this typing by a shaggy dog who has come to breathe on me – putting her head on my knee – non-verbally suggesting she wants to take me for a run on the bike – so - okay-okay – excuse me…please… …I’m back – that was refreshing – the Red Buds are in blossom – and we stopped to admire - while one of us sniffed - the halos of petals on the asphalt). …then – our lives fall far short of what they might have been – and can be – still. To attempt to live – without poetry – especially our own – is to trap ourselves – in a tidal pool of what has been – away from deeper waters of what yet – is unimagined – and awaits. Long ago – having treated myself to Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” – and – discovering it was now posted at the Thomas Edison Laboratory Trail Edison often walked – to think – I walked it – too. Brilliantly – the inventor would wave his company out of the confining laboratory – and into meadows – where - on their backs - they watched clouds… We benefit - as “The Wizard” - no doubt did - when he shrewdly raised his voice above the whir of shop machinery – by saying - to ourselves – “Come on – everyone – let’s go fishing…” This in mind – shuffling leaves aside with each stride – I contemplated the poem’s serious sounding words – trying to benefit…