gestern abend

two guitars
and three friends
went out one night
to play

anansi's skinny legs
danced on seven strings
while fionn's hands plucked six

bourbon and gin
forgotten between
three pairs of bespectacled faces
two old, one young leaning foward,
eyes closed and lips parted to drink up
shining spinning sound from rose warm
wine-filled goblets of comradery,
lament, and bubbling,
giggling mirth

two guitars then to bed
five friends drinking red
shiny black boots tip tap
jean jacket on and off

two friends lead the
third on down the street
head full of sounds
heart tangled down
down, down by her feet

vendredi, il pleut

today was ten stolen minutes of prayer and coffee on my
new, still unfamiliar feeling balcony
with my beloved herbs
and a muffin i forgot to eat

today was a navy loafer sole flipping off minutes before
mass was supposed to start and
having to lift my right foot higher than
looked normal to walk without tripping

today was waiting until four minutes past eight and
then learning the Fathers miscommunicated and
we had to wait for a priest to drive over to
officiate our Friday morning mass
and we sang three of the children's
favorite songs to make the time
which passes so slowly in the Cathedral
pass just a little quicker

today was not knowing what to do about a problem
but praying and not knowing what to do about
a feeling but singing and not knowing how
I could still miss my uncle so much
but reading through several old
emails from him I had archived
and the emails were all thank you notes
for cards I had sent him during the last
years of his life and this moment
before my seventh graders are going
to start arriving in ones and twos with their
stories and fears and hopes and woes
that I have, with a second cup of coffee
and the wizard of oz snow globe he and
my aunt gave me when I was a child
sitting here at my desk,

which feels like home, which feels like now, which feels like
goodness

and today will be many other things I do not yet know
and will not even recognize
and now i am okay with
it all again

my classroom

"miss bergin...

today you look so beautiful"

are those SHELLS IN YOUR EARS?"   

can we PLEASE meet a new instrument today???"

can I use a tissue?"

can I show you what happened to my finger/knee/leg/arm?"

this is HARD/EASY/FUN/FAST!!!"

where is Maria Theresia (my classical guitar)?"

where is Joni (my steel string guitar)?"

can we call the piano Frank?"

can we all play Cecilia (the ornate wooden auto-harp) again?"

can we sing in choir in mass tomorrow?"

can I tell you about how my dad used to play guitar when he was young and he was really good at it and he wanted to be a famous guitar player someday and then he decided he needed to......"


-- things children said in class without raising hands today

and the most important thing to know...just moments before the student asked to call the piano Frank, I had decided, the room told me, his name was George. And he is my friend.

news today

today i opened up the heavy information
device given to me by my new travail
and clip clap tip tap began
to do a thing or two

a note came through
i opened it like any other
it didn't say much,
'sides 'read the attached'

clicked 'the attached'
a note from a doc
it didn't say much
but i noticed it
was on stationary
from the children's hospital
a doctor of cancer
and blood

i closed the first document
clicked twice, thrice, on the second
from the momma
she is so happy to share we can treat her
little girl
like 'a normal kid' for
about a month and a half at
school

oh.

tomorrow, in my first class of the day
i'll meet this little force
and i intend to do it with joy
she may only get 4 or 5 classes
before the cancer
makes her stay home
again she's only
three

pain and mirth
arrive side by
side by side by
side by
side in my
virtual mail

i do not know
how to be human
with this

i become water and salt
tomorrow i'll be
song, and hope
somehow

turkish volleyball

in the park near my new flat
turkish men gather to play
volleyball; each night just before 6:30
they arrive in ones and twos
a few small children
two boys, one little girl

how happy they make me
with their lively chatter
in a tongue i cannot understand
but with the same expression and intonation
as my old viennese friends
waiting for me, always late,
to the roman bathhouse,
the sauna,
the kitchen,
where our hands
spoke the language of
good food
good laughter
good life

love letters

been writing love letters lately
holding onto them
folding them into squares
drawing on the outside

intending to send them
and then debating the merit
of wearing your heart out
with a ball point pen
and small sheets of paper

watched a movie
where the leading sixteen year
old youngen gets the guy
with a letter finally sent
it was never meant to be tho
the letter
the love was

and i sit here
stuck in my own
particular
strain of
dissilussionment
i've sent the letter
or the email
or text
or whatever
and gotten the guy
before

before when it was safe
before when i had never been
let down and left
or when i had never
done the leaving

now i've left a lot
and been left
a few times, painfully
he's standing on my front steps
with two bags of my 'things'
he wanted to return and
he wanted to end it
and he had all his friends
waiting at their apartment
where i spent five out of seven
nights for five out of seven
months and it was short
but it was long in suddenly
breached adult years
of intensity

and a part of me
hasn't trusted anyone
or the word love
or the feeling of intimacy
or the feeling of wanting
and being wanted
ever since
five years ago
a boy i thought was a man
wrenched his life out of orbit
from mine
with very little
explanation
or apology

these letters look up at me
i've written them
they're mine
the words are
a prayer
they're out there
i know it
i'll wait

all my friends named paul

i've always loved the name paul
the way it sounds
the singular syllabic sense of it
the look of the double vowels au
in the middle
going somewhere
to the l final sound
starting with a push or pull

paul friends are always unexpected
they happen upon my path
in vienna i had two
one was three years old,
and austrian
so he said his name
"powl" which was
lovely, i thought
"powl" loved organs
he dragged his momma
into the catholic cathedrals
she had strayed from since
her college years
and now she found herself
sitting in them
watching her son listen
with rapt, silent, eager attention
to the sounds coming from unknown
unseen fingers
"powl" loved the color green
he would choose outfits with all pieces in different shades of it
it was wondrous
to behold
it made me want to make a dress
of every shade of it
to feel so much love
for the color
we prefer
and this love of his
in particular
extended to vegetables
can you imagine!
powl at three
eating Spargel with glee

my next viennese paul friend
owned a shop near my flat
he noticed me walking by
doubly daily or even thrice
depending on the uni schedule
one day at long last
he called me in to the shop
'one cup tea', he said
'one cup tea, friend',
and after a few days of
this friendly offer
i decided to say why not
and step inside
just to see
i returned
daily
the entirety of the year
and stopped feeling
so lonely
he gave me several items
and many cups of coffee and tea
and pastries and candies
the pink ones he put on top
i was at the time a bit
under-nourished
i couldn't cook
much besides
vegetarian pasta
and i spent all my
euros on gelato
and books
but finally,
i had to leave the city
and i could barely bring
myself to say goodbye
i didn't know how to part ways
with someone who once took
my hands in his and breathed in
deep and slow like my old
greek friend joe
and told me
my heart was too big
for just one immature boy
and that i should share it with
people who deserved it
and many of them
that the world needed
a heart like mine
in it

i thought about that
years later
when many parts of me had
decided to give up
my mind, my hands, my feet
my thighs, my ankles,
my fingertips even
but my ears never did
my teeth never did
and my heart, my heart never would
let me give up, oh no
i hated it for a while
it was so persistent

i have a friend at music school
who was finally my grouchy
jazz pianist cigarette smokin'
long islander pal
we complain
we bitch
we moan
we groan
we play music
we feel better
we talk it all over
in our spot under the trees
he's got his smoke,
i've got espresso
in hundred degree weather
we wear long pants
we got our glasses on too
he makes me feel
sometimes
so cool

but today, i almost missed out
on a new paul friend
a cold in my chest
but i went out to the store
car-less and a bit hope-less too
on a bleak monday morning
when all my rest was stolen
i saw him up ahead
hundred yards or so
in a tattered wheelchair, pulling back
vines from a fence
i thought maybe, a side door?
i wasn't sure
but i got closer, and i stopped
he was searching the leaves
he had caught the branch, and it flung
away his flashlight
he uses it on the side
of the chair
because he got hit once
and he won't get hit again
crossing the street
his knee is blown out
both hips too
he just found out
he's number one in line
for city housing
so he's doing just fine,
how bout you?
we couldn't find the light,
i was feeling so bad about it
he asked, could he carry my bags on his lap
if i'd help push him up the little
bit of the hill ahead?
i pushed him all the way to the store
i would have pushed him some more
we chatted for a while,
he told me his story
i asked him his name, he said paul,
i said lucy,
we talked and then were at the sliding doors
he swiveled around
looked right in my eyes this time
asked my name again
thanked me
i said 'of course, my pleasure
i wish you all the best, and god
bless'

holy tears

been weepin since i was young
cried at the telly set when
the kids wouldn't let the
rabbit have trix
trix aren't for rabbits
they said
and they meant it
and it was injustice
and i knew it
when i was little
and injustice made me weep

now it makes me rage
and rage only lasts a minute
before it turns into sorrow
and once again i find myself
crying in a public place
on the T, on the bus, walking
home listening to a song
i like a little too much
or the sound of my
grandmother's voice
on the phone in boston
telling me about where they
went to lunch that day
before the symphony
and how they wished
i was there to enjoy
our favorite asian
noodles together
again

the sister whose name
i never learned
but who wore vibrant
purple and blue habits
and who seemed ancient
and young and  was wise
and raw and honest
and loved me dearly
the instant she met me
somehow
i didn't know why
exactly
but sitting on the pew
she wiggled one finger toward me
and gestured that i should
take the place beside her
into her outstretched arm
she held me there, close
and tight, to look me right in my
eyes, and softly tell me
some of the most wonderful
and strange things
anyone i've ever just met
that day has told me

the second time, she came
striding into my classroom with
a folio folder and started giving
me lesson materials to teach french
but i teach music and i wasn't sure she
knew that, but she did, she wants me
to teach french too, someday,
if they need it, she says,
'because you love to speak
french', she said, 'you love it
and so one day you should
teach it too, so they have that love'
'and you know, my friend', she said,
'anyone who loves to speak french,
i love and loves me
so we are dear friends already.'
And that was that.

finally one day, she spoke to me
about emotions, and how music opens
up students to experiencing
these vulnerable feelings
and how some may cry
and she hoped i would love
that about them
that i would honor their tears
'tears, are a gift from God.'
She said to me, and
promptly, i began to cry.
Just a little.
But she noticed.

One more tight hug,
closely whispered french words
of adoration and affirmation,
and she left, for Houston,
to do more good work,
and to make more friends
with the love of French,
with the love of children,
with the love,
of God.

I cried a little, to see Sister go.

HEB fairy god-friend

you're not my fairy god-mother
you're not even a fairy god-aunt
you are my fairy god-friend
and when i need it most
you bring me sunshine

the items you select
with their orange sticker
cause a flicker behind my lids
and i start to tamp it down but i can't
quite control the upwell
and so oh well
here it goes again
i fall into verklempt land
my uncle taught me all about the place
he goes there quite often too, he's a gentle soul
like me, we both like chocolate milk shakes
and a good talk late in the evening
at family holidays where
we tell each other
all the important
things and how
we dearly love
our family.

you, fairy god-friend,
are to me, chosen family
i didn't know that could
be such sweet respite
but now well now
i truly know

and it is so good
and you are so dear
to me, in my
sappy, sodden heart.

now forgotten

wrote a poem while driving to look at a piano yesterday
finished it driving home
sharp notes lingering round my ears and eyes and fingers

didn't write it down
cleaned, fretted, chopped an onion and lost it in the tangled
million eternal moments of an evening with friends

this morning a small fire burned in my chest
a glass of wine too many
perhaps
or is it that small poem, whose name I still can't remember?
the title lead in to the rest of the piece

I don't usually do them that way.
But this one was special.

If I sit quietly and wait long enough,
will you please visit me again?

"Do you remember being little?"

He asked.

She curled her knees closer inside of her arms, one hand still holding a half empty glass of wine. The others had scurried to their cars parked on the street of by the new apartment, dripping with rain and leftover champagne.

She nodded.

"I remember my second grade teacher...I don't remember what, or why, exactly, but she was lovely. And I remember my third grade teacher. She loved the Iditerod Trail, she would look up the race stats every morning before school and move our figures on our wall so we would walk in each morning and know who's racer was in the lead, and whose racer had left the race. Every day, for the whole race."

They looked at each other in silence. He broke it off, he picked up his half of the loaf of bread.

"I remember nothing."