You Are A Poem

Poetry is feeling, and you are a poem. “Hold on,” you say, “I don’t like poetry. Poems are confusing and metaphorical and dense. I got a C- on the poetry unit my senior year in high school and I’ve never looked another poem in the eye again.” Poetry refuses rubrics, and you were told you didn’t understand well enough when you did.

You are a bewildering, symbolic, and complex poem because you feel. Poetry has been and always will be inside you. When you show how you feel, you are your singular self. There’s no way to copy paste, Google search, “Buy Now with One Click,” or AI generate the poem of you.

When you know, when you think, when you believe, you are exercising all that has shaped you by way of environment, culture and instruction. We carry that influence everywhere we go in our bindlesticks, briefcases, fanny packs, and pocketbooks for when we need it most. They are the useful tools we need to survive in the world we’ve created. We put on the suit of belonging and walk to the offices of productive citizenry each day. 

The poem of you is in your body, speaking each time you laugh, dance, cry, seek out eye contact with another, stare into the clouds without interruption, trace the invisible air with your fingers, trip on a sidewalk chunk, flail, fail in public. Poetry is a physical act of emotional expressions we were taught not to trust and to hide instead.

I think a lot about how students in public school systems respond when a teacher steps out of teacher mode to share a secret silly skill, or they make an obvious mistake and respond rather than ignore and move on, or they reveal a side of themselves that isn’t a part of the lesson. Those are the moments where the teacher becomes the poem, and the students experience a role model being vulnerable, and the lesson becomes the poetry of humanity. 

When Chris and I go out as Foolbright Scholars into public spaces to sing spontaneous songs, engage in rankling delight and invitation to feeling as we dance with uninflected balloons, we show what it is to feel and to be present with the folly of feeling. We shape an image or story in a short period of time, something brief and real. We know nothing and anything can happen and we are full of feeling. We remind others that feeling is what we are, it makes us living poems, and it is what connects us. We see the audience, and let them in. We are everything and nothing, all of the time.

Steven James

Our oldest cat, Steve, died on Wednesday night. He was fifteen. He marked an era in our lives, one that feels over now that he is gone. The house feels different without his airy, water-loving presence.

Fifteen years ago Helen's coworker said her uncle had some kittens. We were in the market for a cat that could be at our bookstore/arts space with us, so I went over one rainy afternoon to meet the kittens. I recall four or five hissy females on the sofa, and one quiet floof under a glass topped coffee table, peering up at me. When I lifted him up, he leaned into the petting. He was gentle and playful, and we kept him at the house until he grew up enough to be at the bookstore. When he was really small, he wilded energy like an amusement park ride, then would crash out on Dan's lap for a two minute nap and repeat.

At Paper Kite he loved the company that arrived for events, sometimes climbing into coats thrown over chairs to have a nap. He made friends with the mailman who slid mail through the slot in the door. But it was obvious he was too lonely when we weren't there, so we brought him back home with us on Armstrong Street where he lived with other cats who were in and out of our lives at the time -- Edna, Mango, Lucy Bob, and Stella. When I got into circus, and then burlesque, Steve's love of sequins, feather boas, and tulle came out. He was there with me for every costume build. He also loved Christmas and birthdays, because that meant there would be shiny ribbons to play with.

When we moved into an apartment in Lancaster, Steve blossomed. His favorite pastime was sitting in one of the marble bathroom sinks, all curled up like a fluffy sea creature, waiting for one of us to turn on the tap. Because the apartment was small, he had easy access to my costumes. If the wind wasn't blowing too much, he'd sit out on the balcony to watch the chimney swifts. He knew he looked good on the white sofa and chair (contrast, baby!), and sometimes he'd relax on our glass dining table.

We moved from downtown Lancaster to Akron and Dan was away a lot to care for his dad. Steve would sleep right next to my head then. He wasn't too happy with the new rental, and when Mango returned for awhile he destroyed the white sofa in protest. Mom enjoyed seeing Steve when she'd visit, then when she was in a nursing home and not able to get out as much she'd ask, "How's Steve doing?" She never forgot him.

Steve accepted our move to the farm with grace. He kept quiet hours there, ignoring the mice, curling up on beds for long naps, gazing out the windows at ducks and goats. He never complained, but I don't think farm living was quite his style. It was dusty. His fur matted a lot and he needed to get "the Lion Cut" in the summer, which gave him a poodle-y look, but was relief from the heat. He felt like a cloud and looked a little like one, floating through the mouse filled walls of the house. When Helen's new boyfriend Rob brought his dog Percy to the house, Steve let him know who was boss. It was rare to see Steve arch his back and hiss, but a dog in the house was just too much.

When we returned to Lancaster Steve was slower in pace, but still the same cat, seeking sequins and tulle, and finding comfort in my closet by the costumes. He enjoyed the cool water of the tub every morning and evening. He sat on Dan's lap every evening as I got ready for bed. 

The other night as he was actively dying, we kept him as comfortable as we could. How can you know when they can't talk? He slipped away as gently and gentlemanly as he arrived in our lives.

We buried him wrapped in one of Dan's shirts, and accompanied by a string of sequins, some fringe, and a scrap of the tulle he loved to chew. His gravesite will be marked with a peony plant in the fall. Right now it has a very showy display of petunias and other annuals.

Pets see us through so much in our lives. Steve saw us through a bookstore/arts space, a daughter growing up and moving out (and later, getting married). He saw us get married, lose parents, and start various adventures in business. We moved so many times he probably hated seeing boxes appear. 

Fifteen years. A whole era over, marked by a sweet cat who lived and loved with us. Now there's a Steve shaped space everywhere we look.