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Cara Alvaro Poem
I told him we were broken, the way
horses can be, and he galloped through
the sentence like a cowboy, less a
heart. I loosed the biggest word I could
think of – so enormous I felt everything
in me squeeze back as it passed by
and nearly choked as it pushed
its way into the outer world -
and he brushed it aside like
errant dandelion snow.
By then, there were at least
four voices within me, ranting,
and the image of myself throwing
buckets of paint against a wall
was blinking repeatedly in my head.
And still he was talking –
with his hands gesturing, gesturing -
talking about places he’d been
talking about what he thinks himself
passionate about
talking about what he learned
in counseling
and talking
talking,
talking
about
nothing.
When he got to Italy, I stopped him
at Michelangelo, thinking, “here! –
here finally is a scaffold we can
throw ourselves off of”. Thinking
if Einstein’s wardrobe wasn’t enough,
if a scrawny white boy singing
the blues wasn’t either and if the
most interesting thing I said that night
was that I never ever set a clock
to an uneven time (and I hadn’t even
said that yet)… maybe the image of
an artist suspended in air with
his heart pointed to heaven
and the myriad of thoughts
that must have run
like a river through him as he
stood there, arm outstretched,
might trigger something.
But, he had no idea that
Buonarroti was a poet
or that he honestly expected
Moses to speak
to him once freed
from the confines
of stone and of
artist himself,
he said
nothing.
Apparently, he was more
Moses than Michelangelo, and
it was all I could do
not to take
a hammer
to his
knee.
Copyright © Cara Alvaro | Year Posted 2010
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Details |
Cara Alvaro Poem
In my head, I’m in the library, at
a podium, before a microphone, looking
out into the faces of a yearning sea
of people, knowing they expect
a little kindness but mostly, a lot of
answers from me. Beyond them,
on the far wall, there are words carved
in the marble framed by columns
that reach desperately toward the
Beaux Arts detailing on the ceiling.
I clear my throat and hushed
conversation evaporates into thin air
as if this great hall was
a veritable black hole
of a misapplied lexis.
Like a woman being asked to
re-birth a child, I stand there
wondering how to present
that which made its way
into the world, of its own
accord, some years before.
They want me to pick
the words up off the page and
deliver them to their ears, their
minds, their very souls.
They want my poem to grow
then inside them as if they
were surrogate
parents, mothers, fathers,
capable of ensuring it would
become what it was
meant to be.
But, I, mute, am standing there
thinking
they are not me –
and this,
my words, my poem,
they may see…
but cannot have.
I open my mouth, to open the poem,
(against my own better judgment)
and feel a rush of words
surge up and into my throat-
not the being they think they know,
not the child they’ve come to meet,
but a bastard infant, not yet fully formed,
begging to be birthed in reverse,
through my mouth from the very
soles of my feet.
Suddenly, I want to tell them
to stop and smell the stars
to gaze endlessly at roses
to live, passionately, fervently
but never ever vicariously,
to bleed themselves out into the world
and to suck life into their souls as if
their entire existence depended on it.
I want to implore them
to open their damn eyes
and to listen
and to believe
and to dream
and to BE
and to stop
just stop
expecting poets
to give them answers
and painters to landscape
their visions.
I want to tell them they’re
not even half what they
might be, could be, should be
oh, and CAN be –
but mostly,
I want to make them
understand that I couldn’t possibly
have their answers if only because
they are not me
and I am.
I stand there, silently, now awkwardly,
looking out at them and
wondering
who the hell they are…
and a moment later,
when they begin to squirm,
and whisper,
and look uncomfortable
and maybe,
even,
start wondering
the same damn thing
themselves
I begin
to read.
Copyright © Cara Alvaro | Year Posted 2010
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