Last Friday night I had a message from someone with a sense of urgency requesting either my time on the telephone or else for me to drop everything that I was doing in order to immediately satisfy her whim.
I was disturbed by the capricious nature of it all. I am disturbed by people who don't consider other people's feelings. To add insult to injury, when I said I might be able to meet her later but on mutually favourable terms she responded "oh, you'll probably get all weird and want to write poetry".
I am not a poet but I do love words. And her insult only reminded me of how much I do love good poetry and how many men and women have suffered and sculpted that suffering into written or spoken verse. How wonderful then that You Tube had brought to life what were once dusty jacketed books in Dewey system school libraries. Now at my finger tips I could have T S Eliot read Prufrock or Yeats on Yeats. Now I could hear Walt Whitman come to life.
That insult will not be forgotten. It was in fact a huge blessing and a reminder that yes, probably I will get weird, and probably, as a human, I will turn to poetry.
It also happens to turn out that these great poets also had a wonderful sense of style and loved their bow ties.
And about my friend who would belittle me for something so enjoyable as these written or spoken words - perhaps I might let Pablo Neruda sum up my feelings:
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
|Dylan Thomas in a diamond point polka dot silk printed bow tie|
|Pablo Neruda in a chalk stripe suit and neck tie|
|William Butler Yeats in his oversized bow ties.|