I’m remembering that last
poem you helped me with, the one about talking
to a new friend on Skype
being like a road trip through eastern Europe
to a glistening lake in
summer, and how you found the noun ‘goodness’
I used
to stand for what had
happened between herself and me, as ‘ruinous’—your
word there, not mine---and
how your reaction confused me, how in response
to your probes and pushing
me to be more clear, I tried to tell you what this ‘goodness’ meant to me, then
how I backed off from our dialogue when you persisted in finding my word as ‘ruinous’ to the poem; whether it was my
fragile ego or a strong
sense of what I wanted to say no matter what you
the accomplished poet ,
you the teacher thought, probably both, I lost
the chance that night to
learn how to write poetry that sings more powerfully, more humanly perhaps.
And now a week later you’re
gone and I didn’t find the time or guts to tell you this Steve, and maybe you were right that
‘goodness’ didn’t really convey anything real or true or useful in writing my
little story, but all I can say is yes,
I was pissed off and felt let
down in that difficult late night email conversation,
and yes, I do miss your vast
generous heart, your straight-on rambunctious intelligence that shone such sensuous
light onto all our lives, your commitment
to say it like it is to help a fledging poet
say it better, your challenging me to write and re-write until it’s as clear and
pristine as that good day at the imagined lake in the Baltics.
Yes dear Steve, you master
poet in old blue jeans,
you mirthful mensch with
that torn crotch in faded
dungarees, your eyes
ablaze with mischief and
earthy fierce compassion,
I miss what I will call
your goodness, now.
