November 14: "Foundling," Poet's Life, Tonic

I've been living the life of a poet for a very, very long time.

That means that I've juggled two or three (or four or five) jobs my entire life.  In the past, I have been a:  sales clerk at a bookstore; office person at an outpatient surgery center (for 25 years); housekeeper at a hospital (all shifts); cleaning person at two churches; busboy at a local fish fry; and a plumber's apprentice.  

Currently, I'm a contingent professor of English at a university for going on 30 years (all the knowledge and teaching experience of a full professor at a quarter of the normal price).  I play keyboard/pipe organ at four different churches.  And I am the full-time adult program coordinator at a library (the best job I've ever had).

Finally, through all of those occupations, I have been and always will be a poet.

Billy Collins writes about the poet's life . . . 

Foundling

by: Billy Collins

How unusual to be living a life of continual self-expression,
jotting down little things,
noticing a leaf being carried down a stream,
then wondering what will become of me,

and finally to work alone under a lamp
as if everything depended on this,
groping blindly down a page,
like someone lost in a forest.

And to think it all began one night
on the steps of a nunnery
where I lay gazing up from a sewing basket,
which was doubling for a proper baby carrier,

staring into the turbulent winter sky,
too young to wonder about anything
including my recent abandonment—
but it was there that I committed

my first act of self-expression,
sticking out my infant tongue
and receiving in return (I can see it now)
a large, pristine snowflake much like any other.

Of course, Collins is indulging in a little storytelling here.  He was not a foundling left on the stoop of a convent and raised by nuns.  Yet, the essence of the poem is the truth--most poets I know have felt the pull of language from a very young age.  We've all had our pristine snowflake moments.

Tonight, I spent a lot of time with poet friends.  First, we gathered at the library for a workshop and open mic.  Then, we migrated to a local night spot where another poet/musician/artist friend was hosting a party in celebration of the release of his new album.  And it was a true tonic for my spirit.

You see, in my experience, poets see the world differently.  They keep their eyes wide open for moments of grace in their days and nights.  They're compassionate lovers of all people, regardless of skin color, gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, religion, or country of origin.  And they care deeply for this little planet we live on--are stewards of the lands and waters and air.

Now, do me a favor if you are a Christian.  Reread that previous paragraph.  Replace the word "poets" with the word "Jesus."  That is the Jesus I grew up knowing.  If you have an issue with any of the above statements in your understanding of Jesus, you are not a true Christian.  Period.

So, being around poets (some of them atheists and agnostics) who embody compassion and caring and concern for the world and all its inhabitants is like going to church for me in a way.  Because the people I hung with tonight are, quite simply, some of the best people I know.  Yes, they are disappointed and angry with the results of the election.  Yes, they see the Felon in Chief as a serious threat to loving your neighbor as yourself.  (By the way, I didn't say that.  Jesus did in the Gospel of Mark.)

Poets are not going to lock up and deport immigrants.  They aren't going to take healthcare away from poor people.  Or endanger the lives of, take away the autonomy of women.  They certainly aren't going to storm the Capitol Building and kill police officers to peacefully protest the certification of the election.  That's not what poets do.

I know I'm preaching to the choir with this post.  Anyone who supports the Felon in Chief stopped reading these words quite a while ago.  That's okay.  That's their right.

And it's Saint Marty's (and all his poet friends') right to say, "Fuck you."