██████ Encounter[1]
— Dudley Square, Roxbury. ███████████████
I’m waiting in Dudley Square / it’s late / and a man in his fifties going by / Eliot, walks up to me / tells me about a woman / this crazy woman / and their chance encounter on a stoop in Dorchester // She’s a dancer / tireless and tender—but hard too // (imagine, she’s gotta move like a fist) // clutching a sweetness / so tight this man pains himself to ignore her calls at twelve in the morning but doesn‘t // and finds himself here in Dudley / treading on two a.m. askin bout the 44 (needs to get to Brockton by eight) / except it don’t run this late / (I don’t tell him / say: I’m, a poet // just left a show)< then, he recites a poem / his own and another / but I can’t understand his diction // admits he barely understands himself —no / it’s gotta be the poems—the way they drag each line break out of him
sometimes—or all at once scares him shitless // I say: writing poetry is like standing in front of a mirror— / how our reflections might turn and shake us— / ‘who wants, after all, to be seen too clearly? // I tell him, poetry (for me) is an effort in translation / and I read to him about jokes that aren’t jokes // about the blackbirds—their names dying in my throat / how our Sorrow Songs all became smoke // Dudley unveils crossroads of generations—and we, two Black men, pass time until well past when my bus was supposed to arrive // when I see it in the distance / preceded by the clamor and flash of police sirens / I confess my sadness / at the sound too much of Roxbury is this song—of those led to their drowning // As it turns into the station, I ask for his number—as fellow poets // and He looks me in the eyes / smiles—light / says // Sure, but I don’t know / if I’ll ever pick up.
[1] [Dudley Square Speaks] ███████████████
♦
Chance Encounter[2]
— Dudley Square, Roxbury. April 7th, 2016
I’m waiting in Dudley Square / it’s late / and a man in his fifties going by / Eliot, walks up to me / tells me about a woman / this crazy woman / and their chance encounter on a stoop in Dorchester // She’s a dancer / tireless and tender—but hard too // (imagine, she’s gotta move like a fist) // clutching a sweetness / so tight this man pains himself to ignore her calls at twelve in the morning but doesn’t // and finds himself here in Dudley / treading on two a.m. askin bout the 44 (needs to get to Brockton by eight) / except it don’t run this late / (I don’t tell him / say: I’m a poet // just left a show) then, he recites a poem / his own and another / but I can’t understand his diction // admits he barely understands himself—no / it’s gotta be the poems—the way they drag each line break out of him
sometimes—or all at once scares him shitless // I say: writing poetry is like standing in front of a mirror— / how our reflections might turn and shake us— / ‘who wants, after all, to be seen too clearly? // I tell him, poetry (for me) is an effort in translation / and I read to him about jokes that aren’t jokes // about the blackbirds—their names dying in my throat / how our Sorrow Songs all became smoke // Dudley unveils a crossroads of generations—and we, two Black men, pass time until well past when my bus was supposed to arrive // when I see it in the distance / preceded by the clamor and flash of police sirens / I confess my sadness / at the sound / too much of Roxbury is this song—of those led to their drowning // As it turns into the station, I ask for his number—as fellow poets // and He looks me in the eyes / smiles—light / says // Sure, but I don’t know / if I’ll ever pick up.
[2] With a line from “Dhaka Nocturne” by Tarfia Faizullah
♦
██████ Encounter[3]
— Dudley Square, Roxbury. ███████████████
I’m waiting in Dudley Square / it’s late / and a man in his fifties going by / Eliot, walks up to me / tells me about a woman / this crazy woman / and their chance encounter on a stoop in Dorchester // She’s a dancer / tireless and tender—but hard too // (imagine, she’s gotta move like a fist) // clutching a sweetness / so tight this man pains himself to ignore her calls at twelve in the morning but doesn’t // and finds himself here in Dudley / treading on two a.m. askin bout the 44 (needs to get to Brockton by eight) / except it don’t run this late / (I don’t tell him / say: I’m a poet // just left a show) then, he recites a poem / his own and another / but I can’t understand his diction // admits he barely understands himself —no / it’s gotta be the poems—the way they drag each line break out of him
sometimes—or all at once scares him shitless // I tell him writing poetry is like standing in front of a mirror— / how our reflections might turn and shake us— / ‘who wants, after all, to be seen too clearly? // I tell him, poetry (for me) is an effort in translation / and I read to him about jokes that aren’t jokes // about the blackbirds—their names dying in my throat how our Sorrow Songs all became smoke // Dudley unveils generations of crossroads—and we, two Black men, pass time until well past when my bus was supposed to arrive // when I see it in the distance / preceded by the clamor and flash of police sirens / I confess my sadness / at the sound too much of Roxbury is this song—of those led to drowning // As it turns into the station, I ask for his number—as fellow poets // and He looks me in the eyes / smiles—light / says // Sure, but I don’t know / if I’ll ever pick up.
[3] [with Elegy:] ████ a █████████████ Nocturne ██████████████
