Gripping the lectern, rocking it, searching
the faces for the souls, for signs of heartfelt
mindfulness at work, I thought, as I recited
words I wrote in tears: instead of tears,
if I had understood my father's business,
I could be selling men's clothes. I could be
kneeling, complimenting someone at the bay
of mirrors, mumblingly, with pinpoints pressed
between my lips. That was the life I held
in scorn while young, because I thought to live
without distraction, using words. Yet, looking
now into the room of strangers' eyes, I wanted
them to feel what I said touch, as palpably
as when a men in double worsted felt
the cuff drop to his wrist. There was a rush
in the applause of gratitude and mercy:
they could go. A teenager, embarrassed
for himself and me, lefthandedly
squeezed my fingers, and said thanks.
Anonymous submission.
This is a poet who can look deeply into his own soul and see the truth- sad as it may be. I want to read more of his work and see what else his words have to tell about the truth.- -as palpably as when a men in double worsted felt the cuff drop to his wrist.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A glimpse into the vulnerability of bearing one’s soul. Beautifully expressed.