Sunday, April 26, 2015

Dear Steve


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.