November 7: "Drawing You from Memory," Do Language, Joy

I keep seeing posts on social media about not losing hope and finding light in the darkness.  This Toni Morrison quote has been popping up quite a bit, too:  "This is precisely the time when artists go to work.  There is no time for despair.  No place for self pity.  No need for silence.  No room for fear.  We speak.  We write.  We do language.  That is how civilizations heal."

Billy Collins indulges in a little art . . . 

Drawing You from Memory

by: Billy Collins

I seem to have forgotten several features
crucial to the doing of this,
for instance, how your lower lip
meets your upper lip besides just being below it,
and what happens at the end of the nose,
how much does it shade the plane of your cheek,
and would even a bit of nostril be visible from this angle?
Chinese eyes, you call them
which could be the difficulty I have
in showing the flash of light in your iris,
and being so far away from you for so long,
I cannot remember what direction
it flows, the deep river of your hair.

But all of this will come together
the minute I see you again at the station,
my notebook and pens packed away,
your face smiling as I cup it in my hands,
or frowning later when we are home
and you are berating me in the kitchen
waving the pages in my face
demanding to know the name of this latest little whore.

Tonight at the library, I celebrated my new book of poems--A Bigfoot Bestiary and Other Wonders--with a reading.  Much work went into the event, and I certainly wouldn't have been able to pull it off without family and friends.  One of my best poet friends helped me plan the evening, acted as MC, and played guitar while I read.  Another best friend did the food--charcuterie board, cookies, cannoli cream, chocolate.  Still another best friend set up the merchandise table and took pictures.

Almost 80 people came for the reading.  So many friends and colleagues and family.  My sisters,  My wife's family.  My daughter and her significant other.  My son.  We all gathered to laugh, hug, and forget for just a little while what happened on Tuesday.  It was a balm for my hurting heart.

Collins' poem is all about distrust and anger and accusation.  I like to think the poems I read this evening were all about joy and love.  It was good to be a part of bringing people together, driving out the oppressive darkness of the last few days.

Yes, since Tuesday, I've felt like opening my front door, throwing out a lit match, and watching the world burn to the ground.  But my daughter sent me this text tonight:  "It was a wonderful reading, and I was so grateful to be there.  I don't know how I got so lucky to have you as my dad."

My daughter is an amazing, smart, compassionate young woman, and I'm not going to let Dementia Don and his cronies ruin her life and future.  I will speak.  Write.  Do language.  

Nobody fucks with the people Saint Marty loves.