* This piece was first performed on Dec 12th, 2006 at Sushi's 4x4 at the Bluefoot Bar/Lounge.

It was later fully produced in February of 2008 at Sushi's New Wave Showcase at the 10th Avenue Theatre.

 

 

Conversations With A Poet

 

 

The poet. The poet that didn’t even know it.

A scholar writing poems for a dollar.

Starving read the sign.

Give me a dollar and a little bit of your time.

Digging beneath the surface with a purpose.

A street side poet.

Mr. Didn’t even know it.

It was his desire to be connected

That was reflected,

In his sad and prophetic eyes

Which never wavered from their prize.

Sitting in his wheelchair underneath a tree.

Speaking to a girl – as wide eyed as could be.

 

Hello young lady would you be so kind

As to give me a minute of your time?

The girl didn’t respond.

Now we don’t have to speak, I’m not really the speaking kind

But I would appreciate if you could push my chair from behind.

I seem to have gotten stuck in the roots of this tree

And my arms aren’t quite what they used to be.

Just three feet to the front and four to the right

That way I will be set for the night.

Is this your home? Do you sleep here under this tree?

Mi casa es su casa don’t you agree?

For someone that doesn’t like to talk you are pretty witty

Look little girl I don’t need your pity.

How did you end up here under this tree?

Don’t you have a home? A family?

I had one once, long time ago,

But I made some mistakes I cant talk about, you know.

Why? What kind of mistakes?

 

No comment from the man.

Mistakes little girls can’t understand.

“Little girls,” they see and understand

more than you think they can.

How old are you anyway?

Fourteen

I am sure you think you’re ahead of your time.

Actually I am. It’s sad but true, adults rarely understand

That “little girls” can see things more clearly than they can.

 

Well well little girl that’s a fine talk!

But life changes you and how your walk your walk.

You’ll learn soon enough.

That all that glitters isn’t gold.

And all gold doesn’t glitter.

I know that one, I have heard it before.

Do you have any more?

I like sayings and quotes and things like that.

The man was hesitant…….but intrigued

Meet me tomorrow at three

Under this tree.

 

 

The girl went home, she thought about the man

His skin was wrinkled and crinkled and worn with age

She remembered him and his sign

Starving – but he hadn’t asked for a dime.

Could it be thought she,

that he just enjoyed my company?

Thinking about what to say

She Went back the next day

To meet him at three

Under their tree.

 

How did you sleep, did you have a good night.

I’m still alive aren’t I? So I guess it went alright.

I brought you a sandwich, I hope its still good.

Thank you little girl, I didn’t think you would-

What do you want to do when you grow up said he

I’d like to write said she

Fiction, Poetry, Fairytale, Rhyme?

I like all types of writing, I write all of the time.

So then you are already a writer, at the age of fourteen?

I guess so, if that’s how you define it.

But I’ve never been published – I wouldn’t mind it.

Just keep writing and doing your thing

You’ll find your way I have no fear

just stick to the things that you hold dear –

 

Because you seem like the knowing kind

I have a question if you don’t mind.

How do you make sense of all that is around

How do you separate the message from what surrounds?

Sometimes its hidden in the rhyme.

Sometimes it is hidden because it’s not hidden – but most of the time-

There’s always one there

Encrypted, Encoded in the snare.

 

Most of the time

I have trouble digging under the rhyme.

You just gotta wait until you are at the right stage little girl

It usually comes with age little girl

A fine poet named Rilke once wrote:

Be patient with all that is unsolved in your heart

Love the questions themselves – and always start.

Always be a beginner and starting, even at the end.

How is that possible? -That your learn my friend.

 

 

Because they shared a love of books and rhyme

They compared quotes most of the time:

After so much walking the road, the road began to walk me

If you didn’t fall you weren’t going fast enough she said – teasingly

Whatever is sought can be caught you know

Whatever is neglected slips away, watch it go!

To the fruit giving is a need

But it is better to give with understanding- indeed!

Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book

Give it. Give it all. Give it now? Look-

Anything you don’t give freely becomes lost to you – as lost as lost can be

You open your safe and find ashes – take it from me.

 

 

Weeks and weeks went by and they met under their tree

With this back and forth witty, nitty, gritty, repartee.

But something was changing, you could see it in his eyes.

They were more fixed than ever, focused on their prize.

 

I am going to be gone one day

We all will be some day, someway.

Look I really don’t want to talk about this ok?

We still and always want waking you see.

But you can have that here with me under our tree.

I want to laugh all of my laughter, I want to weep all of my tears.

And I want you around for a few more years.

You will be fine with out me

I strongly disagree.

 

 

The girl went back the next day.

Thinking about what to say.

But there was no one waiting under their tree.

No sign of him as far as the eye could see.

She sat there for a long while, all afternoon

It was getting dark, she had to be home soon.

She was about to leave when what did she see?

But a folded piece of paper in the roots of the tree.

She read it - a poem - one, two

three times through –

 

Knowing what to say

She left the tree that day.

 

 

The poet. The poet that didn’t even know it.

A scholar writing poems for a dollar.

Starving  read the sign.

Give me a dollar and a little bit of your time.

Digging beneath the surface with a purpose.

A street side poet.

Mr. Didn’t even know it.

It was his desire to be connected

That was reflected,

In his sad and prophetic eyes

Which never wavered from their prize.

Sitting in his wheelchair underneath a tree.

Speaking to a girl – as wide eyed as could be.

The reason that I am telling this story-you see

Is because that girl-

Was me.

 

 

 

© Jakey Toor