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The Poem:
Everyone in this poem is a visitor; some are visiting from further away than others, but the scene of the poem is still populated by a random polyglot. It is a slice of the world. The majority of the patrons are anonymous, mentioned only to show how a group of rowdy teens is agitating the atmosphere. The speaker isn't exactly behaving, either, chanting for coffee. But then we meet the Indians themselves, standing in line in full dress/...exquisite. They smile, knowing they have everyone's attention and knowing they have won the room from the teenagers. It's a social game we all play, regardless of era or culture.
The Poet:
Claudia Torres is at home in the woods of Western New York where she walks daily in the park with her dogs. In a former life, she was the creator and host of the public access television show Truckstop Intellectuals, which showcased local artists and writers.
This is just what I needed to get the juices flowing again, to was the shame away. I've very much been that teenager--I am worst--I thought--For a reason. The use of Indian is interesting, because I bet I'm not the only one that has(d!) an insatiable (read: insane) desire to protect the sacred traditions of homo sapiens by unifying the history of existence academics spirituality and boners on the page w/ a free flow of my little intellect and detachment issues. Unfortunately, as student of psychology, I've allowed myself to slip into a cut-and-dry folly of fools. I slipped deep. Into what? I am unsure of anything but the meaninglessness I found between staring at the sun and the real pain of loneliness. I'm lucky to be alive, and think it might be time to praise some of my elders--as long as they are a tad alive.
ReplyDeleteThank you for your work.