Custom-Made Poetry
Jun 21, 2005
Valentine for Ernest Mannby Naomi Shihab Nye
You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.
Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn't understand why she was crying.
"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.
__________________________
:-)
Namaste Earnest Mann (Valentines Are Not Our Culture)
You can't order a poem like you order a dosai
Sit down at the banana leaf and say "I'll take two"
And expect it to be brought over to you
On a shiny plate.
Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, "You know my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the pockets of our kurtas
they are sleeping. They are the starlight
tapping at our window the second
before we fall asleep. What we have to do
Is keep our closing eyes open. Stay Awake.
Once I knew a girl who got a white handkerchief
for her birthday.
You don't understand why it made her cry.
"Sometimes I can't stop sneezing."
And she was serious. ?She was a serious girl.
Sometimes. Sometimes not but- Nothing was ordinary
just because the world said so. She really
appreciated that handkerchief. It stopped her sniffling
and that's how a folded not-quite-ironed square became beautiful.
At least to her. And the poems that had been hiding
in the pockets of old kurtas for years
drifted out thoughtfully and settled on her shoulders.
Maybe if we pay attention to whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check the limepickle jar, the dark floor
of the rickshaw, the person you almost didn't meet, then did.
And let me know.
________________________________________
