Poets do it Better

Stops Along the Way

My friend, Laura is a real poet. By which I mean her poems pop up in magazines and books from time to time so anyone who understands English can read them. She is also a real poet because she writes poems every day. If she doesn’t create a new one, she changes the words on a poem already written. When that happens, the poem becomes even more precise and shiny and magic capturing.

I’ve read most of Laura’s poems because she’s in my Seattle writing group and brings them to our meetings for the rest of us to critique. For the first time in my life, I have been up close and personal with poetry and have learned to appreciate the form. And poets by extension. They can pick up a tiny, tiny part of this big universe and reverse the usual human experience with a flick or two of a word. An event described by a poet becomes much bigger than the world in which it takes place.

That happened a week or so back when I was Zooming into my writers’ meeting from my Palmerston North kitchen. I was bright pink and sweaty thanks to summer heat. My fellow scribblers in the other hemisphere were swaddled in warm clothes.

Laura had something to read. Her poems are usually about the grand workings of the universe—being a doctor, catching sight of an unusual bird, or memories of childhood. This one was different. Homely works as a descriptor.. It was about making a peanut butter sandwich. Get the best bread in town, was the first line. A little later—If you can, go to Sea Wolf Bakery. Her advice: The sourdough with the amazing crust. The smell of that crusty bread was tucked around a memory from the time Bruce and I lived in Seattle. It was of an event that ended in Sea Wolf Bakery. I’ve savoured it because it was momentarily bigger than the world I inhabited.

I was all hurry and bustle one morning; an 8:00 am dental appointment. After that Bruce and I were to drop Jack off at the doggy motel and then catch a plane. In my impatience I missed the turn off to the dental office. While backing in a turn to right my direction I heard the sound. The one that has already ruined your day.

I left a note with my contact information in the saddle bag of the motor bike I’d just toppled without ceremony. On the way back from the doggy motel my phone rang. As expected it was the owner of the bike, a young woman. She was simultaneously sleepy and angry—I’d just jiggered her transport, who knew how badly. I pictured her as student poor with blue hair. But she was also politely firm. Already, she’d identified where she would take her bike for repair. It was the same shop that had been working on it for the last two weeks. She had picked it up just yesterday.

I’m leaving the country for three weeks,” I told her. “In a couple of hours.”

The “oh” that came back was a mix of disappointment and disbelief.

“Will this work,” I said.” I’ll deposit $500 to cover your initial expenses and you can email me if they go beyond that.

“Okay.” It was reluctant. A bird in the hand…, is probably what she was thinking.

Three days into our trip she emailed me. A cloud blocked the sun I’d been enjoying in the English countryside when I saw her name. The bike was not all that badly damaged. Then said cloud lifted as I read on. The $500 covered the repairs. I got lucky I told Bruce.

Two days after arriving home I found a card in the mail. It filled me with the usual cheer that such items engender. The twitch of excitement that someone remembers you is exceedingly pleasant. It was from the motorbike girl. I have enclosed the garage receipt and the balance of the money you forwarded. Also, a card to Sea Wolf Bakery as a thank you for leaving a note on my bike.I took a friend to coffee and bought some sourdough bread and was warmed through by the sheer, old-fashioned decency of someone I had inadvertently wronged and in all probability would never meet..

Hearing Laura’s poem at writers’ group on making a peanut butter sandwich let me live all that again. As I said, poets can do that. Ginger up a piece of magic when you least expect it.

P.S.The photo is of some of my writing group members taken during a recent trip to Seattle.