Last night, I discovered paintings in my office that were done by a former student who recently died in a house fire. This morning, I found out that another of my former students recently took her own life. Both of these people were connected to close friends of mine.
It seems like I'm being haunted by loss in some form right now. And I am reminded how we are all drawn together by these kinds of human tragedies. Tonight's poem is about that, as well. It's about those miracles of connection. How we all speak the same language, yearn for the same things. Love. Respect. Acceptance. Compassion.
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for this connection.
Black Boys Play the Classics
by: Toi Derricotte
The most popular “act” in
Penn Station
is the three black kids in ratty
sneakers & T-shirts playing
two violins and a cello—Brahms.
White men in business suits
have already dug into their pockets
as they pass and they toss in
a dollar or two without stopping.
Brown men in work-soiled khakis
stand with their mouths open,
arms crossed on their bellies
as if they themselves have always
wanted to attempt those bars.
One white boy, three, sits
cross-legged in front of his
idols—in ecstasy—
their slick, dark faces,
their thin, wiry arms,
who must begin to look
like angels!
Why does this trembling
pull us?
A: Beneath the surface we are one.
B: Amazing! I did not think that they could speak this tongue.
No comments:
Post a Comment