freshly home from my first visit to a local poet’s night. one word — wow.
it is an interesting thing to be in a room with others who are passionately, loyally, devotedly following their creative bliss. i had not realized until almost halfway through the night that this… is… where… i… should… have… been… all… along.
part of me is kicking my mental arse and the other part is laughing like that giddy girl lost in the meadow and just not caring if she’s ever found.
this town is alive with creative outlets. i’m shocked. surprised. astonished. eager. enthused. my mind is literally percolating with the observations and thoughts of the evening, and i don’t mean the things i heard, though those are also amazing and touching and tender and wonder-inducing.
no. i’m talking about the people. it’s the oddest thing. i’ve spent most of my life on the periphery of creative people… but on the fringe. the local coffeeshop. i’d see them there. with their notebooks, their faraway stares, their just a touch off mainstream wardrobes and all the little ways such things are announced quietly.
oh. tonight. in a library. people naked even as every delicate social convention was attended. there were lights in that room. dancing in eyes. glimmering at the corners of upturned mouths. echoing off conveniently neutral walls.
this was no groove salad, for all it was certainly another course in the delightful feast of mind.
the old scottish man, making red napkin roses as he recalled the verses that sent him and his new love on a contest vacation. the way he smiled to hand it to our hostess. i do believe he could read an economics book and the world would swoon. ah, the tender joy of a brogue.
the hostess, facilitator, priestess in the temple of The Fire… blue eyes. of course. hah. i smile. silver hair and gentle voice, for all the mind peering over the group was pragmatic, keen, and observant. kestral, gyrfalcon, gryphenne perhaps. such fierce delight was at once challenge and welcome. light the incense, tend the chalice, call the blended elements, and make such magic as might loose inhibition, and stoke the braziers higher.
the father and daughter, sharing the fire of creation together… they have the same eyes… round… wide and innocent… for all the years have given his creased corners. her voice was not quite confident, but oh, her words. ancient insights delivered in adolescent syntax. the world has it only half right… there is worship to be rightfully given at the shrine of age, but too often the jubliant voice of the young is ignored. it was bliss to attend more closely one such acappella tonight.
the silver-haired man who spoke of his best friend, a frog named elvis presley. merry glint of an almost daring humor… his one liners spoke of infinity and the nature of all and he challenged it and us with such a quirky grin that i was reminded of crazy wisdom and somehow, shamans.
the english roses, sisters, i think… relation of some sort. all britannia coloring and unusual accents that spoke of world travel. and the tears for a mother’s passing, gifts of remembrance and the unending ache of the slow stretching that is memory turning to memories… mangoes and last thoughts, glances along footpaths in the countryside and shy looks as if surprised that such things were actually appreciated.
the cautiously proper bostonian… she sat as if ready to take flight… i thought to name her an owl, gracious wisdom, but later decided rather more a finch… bright mind and terse words that spoke of deeper waters than would be noticed in a casual, coastal florida ensemble.
a later arrival, this amazing bear of a man, ruddy and restless, but with oracle wells for eyes. he listened with a poet’s ear… i watched how his head tilted, and even as his eyes never closed, the shutters were drawn, aural antennae extended, resonating softly to the words floating in the room.
the community manager, librarian, and official hostess, a marvelous bustling she, sat to my right and the entire evening i could feel her happy fluttering, almost like a proud parent, flows of nurturing care that wound and wrapped like carefree ribbons around the gathering.
three men who came to listen, bringing themselves only… what sheaves they may have penned safely tucked away, perhaps above the refridgerator, perhaps in some hidden corner where softer thoughts than often life allows could wind and curl and be safe until the waters were truly tested.
the thing that strikes me interesting, even now, are the eyes. i have always said, thought, felt, known, that there is a common, undefinable ‘something’ that rests in the eyes. too trite to revert to the ‘windows’ analogy… for all it ever fits.
windows perhaps… but i think not to the soul. rather, to the multiverse itself. endless universes weaving and splaying, dipping, diving, peeking laughingly from behind lashes, hidden in a blink, revealed breathtakingly pristine, unexplored, beauteous, perfection in those moments of contact.
the eyes of infinite sight were in that room tonight. humble gathering of kindred spirits, campfire of another sort… but as ever, shared experience, words and images rolling, gamboling, for a brief while, set free and nourished, secure, succored, sanctified…. and blessed, tender karma… i was there.