Taking a Turn at Being Lost
Copyright 2002 Stan Lyness
I am a Newton poet;
I sing of waterfowl
on Auburndale Cove.
Even in this, there is dignity.
I meet with Newton poets,
honing rhymes and line breaks,
crafting, sweating:
each feather,
every dropping
must glisten.
***
Coach Doug is our leader.
Coach Doug is a real poet.
Coach Doug says "Get out there", so
out here I am
dropping in Stone Soup,
diving for real poetry
in real Cambridge,
sitting in piquant Stone Soup,
warm but slightly lost among
crazy Cambridge poets
- not enough rhymes if you ask me -
wild, visceral, Cambridge poets,
raging, roaring, especially
Jack - flashing sparks of light and line -
and Preacher - crying Ginsberg,
wailing his own lines,
howling Ginsberg once again,
exhorting us to poetry,
demanding our embrace of the poets' community,
insisting that we write, recite,
booming "Let me hear you say
Allelujah and Amen".
And I am lost and would be found,
Allelujah and Amen.
***
Button is my dog,
Button has her schedule,
Button says "Get out there", so
out here I am,
two nights later,
following dog daughter down
darkened streets
of Auburndale,
deserted at 8:30,
pavingstone-cold silence split
by two big guys
in one small car,
approaching,
window easing down.
I barely carry cash, but wonder
who all must be called
to stop the credit cards?
But this is leafy Auburndale,
they only ask directions.
"Preacher! Jack! Hey I know you!"
And Jack and Preacher tell their tale:
"We've come here from the city,
we're on a poet's mission,
we're joining Poet Eric,
we're working on a chapbook.
And that is how we've washed up,
lost, in Auburndale,
and if you could direct us
across the Charles to Waltham,
we'll see that you are published."
(Or maybe not that last part.)
"For we are lost and would be found,
Allelujah and Amen."
