Poet as Curmudgeon

You there, keep walking. And the two of you, get a room.

Photo by Alexandre Debiève on Unsplash

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I am, every day, an introvert who likes some space around her — physically, socially, emotionally. Which means that some days, when I’m feeling pressed-in-upon by my fellow creatures and their behavior, I get, well, curmudgeonly.

It always passes. Sometimes it leaves me with a poem. Here are a couple of those, in case you’ve been craving something salty along with all the Valentine’s Day candy.

[N.B. Something is going on in my throat this evening, so the voiceover is croakier than usual. I didn’t think repetition would improve it, though — and besides, croaks and all, I kind of like this first-read version.]

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PERFECT STRANGERS                                                    2023


What makes them perfect? I am thinking of the Magi,
those wildly unexpected guests; thinking of the cryptic pilgrims
who rested in the shade near Abraham’s tent, spoke of a son,
moved on; thinking of the man on yesterday’s bus,
rising to tap my shoulder and wave me to his seat.
Perfectly willing to waive the ritual of names,
perfect in economy of message, perfect in understanding
a stranger’s role in this encounter -- to deliver
not themselves but a word, a gift, some comfort,
and then move on, traipse back into the wilderness
or sidle toward the back door of the bus, perfect at last
in knowing when to go, and simply going.

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THE ANNOYING LOVERS                                           2012


The annoying lovers, a few tables over at the café,
cannot sit still, and gaze, and whisper -- no,
they must for love’s sake be endlessly twitching:
he lifts her hair, she touches his cheek,
he links his fingers round her wrists, she feeds him
a bite from her cruller; rising to refill
their cups, he pauses to wind his arms
around her neck and murmur in her ear; seated again 
they clasp hands, re-clasp them, lean forward
to kiss -- never still, the tics of desire
on full display, as if they enjoy display,
or believe they are invisible, or we are.

And when did it happen, I wonder, brooding over decaf
a few tables over, that the sight of this twitchy
joyful affliction began to irk me,
lost its poignancy, its charm, became
a plain annoyance? Have I lived so long
in savored solitude, no motion but my own
to mirror, that this unending restless dance
exasperates my hard-won sense of quiet? Envy,
could it be? Do I want what they have? No, but
I remember wanting to want it, and how much
the wanting seared. Not the touching and twitching
sparks envy, but their easy unscarred certainty
in one another’s pleasure -- that, yes. Not to mention
the ostentatious disregard of all things not themselves;
having my own well-practiced habit of invisibility,
it piques me to be practiced on.

                                                          And now they stand; 
she smooths his jacket collar, he strokes her hair again, 
one more full-body embrace and they are out the door, 
the center of the universe moving with them. Around me
the café ticks and hums; annoyance fades,
becomes a new thing as I open my notebook
to write it down. Pen kisses paper,
thought caresses page, a phrase leans forward
to see itself reflected in the writer’s eyes -- look,
the universe has re-centered a few tables over,
where my notebook and I sit gazing, speaking,
almost invisible, almost unmoving, altogether,
annoyingly, in love.

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