Death to the Poet

Death to the Poet

On his deathbed, the poet force fed me all his knowledge, all his wisdom upon my waxed clogged ears.  We sat for hours talking, while he reminisced on times that were not prevalent to mine…he spoke of Langston Hughes, the muse in his melodic tone, he approached every conjured thought as if it were his last breath. I felt a sense of remorse in some sort…where was this poet’s family and friends…no wife no children to claim love that he so vehemently needed. All his thoughts and love were left on pages instead. His pain and anguish were embedded in his head, I asked hesitantly, what made you live the life of a hermit in such a peaceful accord. He hoarsely said, “Because nobody likes to hang with the poet”. The life I lead no one appreciates in English language, I use poetry as my translator for those who choose not to understand. “I premeditated my life on paper and lived it in my head”…he said. My hands holding face, as an eager toddler learning morning medleys. I couldn’t fathom the life he led; he then asked me a question sickly “what are your goals and values my son” (coughing). I could not reply, no answer I could invoke to satisfy his curiosity. The blasphemy I followed throughout my life steered the tears to fall from my mask I have worn throughout my process I called living. In the poets room, there were pictures of famous jazz musicians, Coltrane, Miles Davis, Dizzy (Gillespie), even pictures of contemporary artist like Marley and Tupac. He saw the amazement in my eyes as I looked around the room of pictures, the poet said, “you see those people, they all in some way were poets…some had a way of expressing their thoughts, Miles did it through a saxophone, if you listen well enough, you can hear the wales as it cried…I pictured myself in that very thought of song…listening to Take 5. Sitting on my grandmother’s stoop in Harlem between 136^th street and Lenox Avenue, pan pan’s restaurant was right across the street at the time. I closed my eyes and saw grandma in my black vision in a Smokey montage. The poet then said, “you see my son everybody has a story, everyone has different ways to convey that story, everyone has a chance to impact the world my son…but not too many people can sustain such impact” the plethora of information I was getting from him, I thought for that moment why me?  (coughing) the poet asked me…” you are a poet, are you not. I stammer in my response…I, I, yes I am. He then proclaimed to me…”never let anyone tell you that you are not what you have already believed yourself to be”. Poetry died that night, leaving behind no widow to reminisce, no children to carry on a legacy; he only left behind thought…his words…and a poet. Poetry died that night…and it was revived shortly after.

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