Refocusing
A friend from college wrote this the other day and I thought I would share.
The $3 Poem.
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Fri 6:07pm
It snowed a lot in Chicago last night- I woke to perhaps 8 inches of freshly fallen snow on the cars and sidewalks of my neighborhood. Pretty to look at, but damn it- a lot of work! By the time I shoveled the front steps and dragged myself 4 blocks to the bus stop, I was in a fairly foul mood. The wind was whipping snow sidewise into my face... and the bus? Nowhere in sight, of course.
I was contemplating my frozen feet when a skinny, bearded African-American fellow walked up to me and started speaking to me in a low voice. As per usual I was listening to my ipod, so I missed the first part of his spiel, but I removed one earphone and heard him say, “...I’m a poet and I’ll improvise a poem for whatever you can spare…” Damnable panhandlers.
I shook my head (perhaps a bit too vigorously) and said, “No man, I don’t have any money. Sorry. Good luck.” The fellow shrugged and crossed the slushy road toward a man pushing a snow blower on the other side. I watched him go, and suddenly felt really, really bad about how I responded to him.
Truth is, I did have about 3 dollars in my wallet. But was I going to pull it out and risk having the guy steal the whole thing from me? I thought about my friend Kyle who was held up at gunpoint in Atlanta just yesterday- by the same guy he’d offered to buy chicken wings for only moments earlier. Times are a little desperate right now; who knows what people are willing to do to get a little extra Christmas cash. But it didn’t stop me from feeling a bit sad about the way I talked to that guy, who, for all intents and purposes, was rather polite.
The bus came about 5 minutes later and I took a seat toward the back. A few minutes later the bus stopped and picked up more passengers, one of which was, as you might guess, the panhandling poet. He took a seat toward the front of the bus.
I stared at that guy for a few minutes, then stood up and made my way up the aisle to where he was sitting. He looked up at me as I leaned in close. “I’m sorry for growling at you back there,” I told him. “It’s been a long day already.” He nodded. “That’s alright.”
I wasn’t sure what to say next, so I opted for truth.
“I only have three bucks on me. What kind of poem can I get for that?”
“Well, how far are you going?” he wanted to know.
“To the Belmont el stop,” I replied.
“That’s where I’m getting off too. How about I tell you a poem when we get there? I can do one on any topic of your choosing. Up to you.”
I agreed to that.
I sat down next to him and stared at his hands, which were scaly and white, presumably from the harsh weather. I felt a little odd. This was not something I’d normally do, talk to strange street people on a bus.
“How long have you been doing this, exchanging poems for change?”
“Oh, about 20 years. I’m an improvisational actor and performer. I do open mics at the Green Mill some Sundays. I’m staying in Hyde Park, and there are a couple places down there where I do live poetry too. But mostly I do it wherever I can.”
The rest of the conversation went on like that, me asking him about his talents and interests, his successes and tactics. He said he played the flute. He liked the flute because it was an ancient instrument and he was drawn to old, ancient things. He didn’t play anymore though, because his flute was stolen from him some years back. Now he just invents and recites poetry on the spot. Doesn’t write it down anywhere- mostly because his notebooks full of original poetry were stolen once too. No one can steal poems that exist only in the moment they are born.
The bus pulled up to the el stop and we both hopped out onto the dirty snow-covered sidewalk. I walked over to the front of the building as our fellow bus riders pushed past and disappeared into the station. The guy chuckled as I turned to look at him.
“Hey, you’re alright,” he said and I laughed. I like being told I’m ‘alright’- that sorta reassures me that I am. All right.
“So what do you want your poem to be about?” he wanted to know, and I rolled my eyes. How could I possibly choose? The options were endless. But I was feeling good, sorta Christmasy... so much different than I had been feeling only 20 minutes earlier.
“OK, how about you tell me a poem about... how about love?”
He grinned and straightened up taller than I’d seen him stand before. “I was gonna suggest that, a poem about love.”
I handed him three dollars.
“OK, bring it.”
I don’t have the best recall and I won’t pretend to remember how the poem went. It was about a minute long, delivered with proper poetry-slam cadence, and spanned a range of topics- commitment, passion, compromise. He rhymed ‘love’ with ‘dove’ a couple times. All in all, it was a pretty good poem. He blinked twice when he was finished and I thanked him. He told me his name was Will. I told him the poem was really good. And that he should save up his money and buy himself another flute. We shook hands and went our separate ways- me into the el station to continue my journey to work, and him up the sidewalk, treading the slush toward Clark Street.
The $3 Poem.
Share
Fri 6:07pm
It snowed a lot in Chicago last night- I woke to perhaps 8 inches of freshly fallen snow on the cars and sidewalks of my neighborhood. Pretty to look at, but damn it- a lot of work! By the time I shoveled the front steps and dragged myself 4 blocks to the bus stop, I was in a fairly foul mood. The wind was whipping snow sidewise into my face... and the bus? Nowhere in sight, of course.
I was contemplating my frozen feet when a skinny, bearded African-American fellow walked up to me and started speaking to me in a low voice. As per usual I was listening to my ipod, so I missed the first part of his spiel, but I removed one earphone and heard him say, “...I’m a poet and I’ll improvise a poem for whatever you can spare…” Damnable panhandlers.
I shook my head (perhaps a bit too vigorously) and said, “No man, I don’t have any money. Sorry. Good luck.” The fellow shrugged and crossed the slushy road toward a man pushing a snow blower on the other side. I watched him go, and suddenly felt really, really bad about how I responded to him.
Truth is, I did have about 3 dollars in my wallet. But was I going to pull it out and risk having the guy steal the whole thing from me? I thought about my friend Kyle who was held up at gunpoint in Atlanta just yesterday- by the same guy he’d offered to buy chicken wings for only moments earlier. Times are a little desperate right now; who knows what people are willing to do to get a little extra Christmas cash. But it didn’t stop me from feeling a bit sad about the way I talked to that guy, who, for all intents and purposes, was rather polite.
The bus came about 5 minutes later and I took a seat toward the back. A few minutes later the bus stopped and picked up more passengers, one of which was, as you might guess, the panhandling poet. He took a seat toward the front of the bus.
I stared at that guy for a few minutes, then stood up and made my way up the aisle to where he was sitting. He looked up at me as I leaned in close. “I’m sorry for growling at you back there,” I told him. “It’s been a long day already.” He nodded. “That’s alright.”
I wasn’t sure what to say next, so I opted for truth.
“I only have three bucks on me. What kind of poem can I get for that?”
“Well, how far are you going?” he wanted to know.
“To the Belmont el stop,” I replied.
“That’s where I’m getting off too. How about I tell you a poem when we get there? I can do one on any topic of your choosing. Up to you.”
I agreed to that.
I sat down next to him and stared at his hands, which were scaly and white, presumably from the harsh weather. I felt a little odd. This was not something I’d normally do, talk to strange street people on a bus.
“How long have you been doing this, exchanging poems for change?”
“Oh, about 20 years. I’m an improvisational actor and performer. I do open mics at the Green Mill some Sundays. I’m staying in Hyde Park, and there are a couple places down there where I do live poetry too. But mostly I do it wherever I can.”
The rest of the conversation went on like that, me asking him about his talents and interests, his successes and tactics. He said he played the flute. He liked the flute because it was an ancient instrument and he was drawn to old, ancient things. He didn’t play anymore though, because his flute was stolen from him some years back. Now he just invents and recites poetry on the spot. Doesn’t write it down anywhere- mostly because his notebooks full of original poetry were stolen once too. No one can steal poems that exist only in the moment they are born.
The bus pulled up to the el stop and we both hopped out onto the dirty snow-covered sidewalk. I walked over to the front of the building as our fellow bus riders pushed past and disappeared into the station. The guy chuckled as I turned to look at him.
“Hey, you’re alright,” he said and I laughed. I like being told I’m ‘alright’- that sorta reassures me that I am. All right.
“So what do you want your poem to be about?” he wanted to know, and I rolled my eyes. How could I possibly choose? The options were endless. But I was feeling good, sorta Christmasy... so much different than I had been feeling only 20 minutes earlier.
“OK, how about you tell me a poem about... how about love?”
He grinned and straightened up taller than I’d seen him stand before. “I was gonna suggest that, a poem about love.”
I handed him three dollars.
“OK, bring it.”
I don’t have the best recall and I won’t pretend to remember how the poem went. It was about a minute long, delivered with proper poetry-slam cadence, and spanned a range of topics- commitment, passion, compromise. He rhymed ‘love’ with ‘dove’ a couple times. All in all, it was a pretty good poem. He blinked twice when he was finished and I thanked him. He told me his name was Will. I told him the poem was really good. And that he should save up his money and buy himself another flute. We shook hands and went our separate ways- me into the el station to continue my journey to work, and him up the sidewalk, treading the slush toward Clark Street.