August 28/365 Poet

I knew a great poet, 30+ years ago. She lived alone and loved cats, in fact she often cared for my cats when I went away. They adored her. She was my friend, but I hardly knew her, not really. Those were my selfish years when I was licking my wounds, and finding ways to get hurt again.

I read her poems today in the Fall 1987 issue of Phoebe, the George Mason Review. I wish I had her permission to print them here. They astonish me. Perhaps I should take my extra copy of the magazine and begin to send it around to everyone I know. “Take this, read it. It will change you. And then send it on.”

I have wasted hours Googling her, finding no one to match her very common name with the facts I know. Somewhere, perhaps, a mild, sardonic woman is living in a lovely apartment with many cats. She was never a beauty, no, the sort of woman you would pass in the supermarket and barely see. And yet, in her mind there exists such wondrous delights that would bring your heart to the edge of heaven.

If you have luck in finding her, or can see a copy of that issue, read “Telling Makes It True” and “Tlön” by Sharon Martin.

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4 thoughts on “August 28/365 Poet

  1. You have a way with words. And this reminded me – it’s why I hate this world’s obsession with beauty, rather than substance. (Also, I could be easily missed in a supermarket.)

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  2. I have to apologise for “you have a way with words.” I didn’t really mean to write that. It sounds so condescending. When what I mean is, “I wish I had your way with words.”

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