Circus of Tongues

During a recent meditation, I was visited with the memory of a gift. Rather, the memory was of receiving a gift*, seeing the book in Nancy’s hands being transferred into mine. I held the book in front of my solar plexus and looked at Nancy’s face. I opened the book and looked back down to read it. It was a children’s book about an ant, Timothy the Ant. I read the whole story, standing in that spot in my parent’s driveway. I was 19 years old, and that was 41 years ago. I don’t have a memory of what happened next. I don’t remember Nancy being there when I looked up. I don’t remember ever seeing Nancy, again. I don’t remember what happened to the book, but I do remember the story:

Timothy the Ant got little respect from his fellow ants. They complained to him and about him. They had to carry all the cracker crumbs and tasty bits of leaf back to the nest without his help. They called Timothy lazy. An ant psychologist even called Timothy an underachiever. When winter arrived, the other ants were surprised by the fruits of Timothy’s invisible labor. When he spoke, his words spread summer sunlight through dark rooms full of black ants and emerged as poems laced with fragrances of peony and rose. Timothy began to receive appreciation and respect, sometimes even cracker crumbs and bites of tasty leaf.

What happened next was more surprising than the memory. I saw my life, both past and future, pass before my eyes. I recognized the story as one that could be mapped onto my entire life. I have been living out the myth of Timothy the Ant  (The Myth o’Me by Timmothee). The seasons are, of course, references to the seasons of my life. I have been called an underachiever by a human psychologist and I have, more or less quietly, been gathering my own harvest. Five or six years ago, I wrote a poem (see below), Maybe Next Season (published in Flint Hills Review), that I will let serve as documentation of being “unappreciated” (a note from the past that I saw “pass before my eyes”).  The vision that I had of my future was simple. I saw myself giving a book to Nancy, a gift of gratitude for encouraging my desire to be a poet and for the myth that probably sustained that desire during all the years of trying to be something that was more “practical,” trying to conform to the expectations of other myths and stories in my family and culture. However, that is not where I want to focus. Any focus on the past will be served by poems, most of them already written.

I intend to focus on the future, on receiving respect, appreciation and rewards for my work. I intend to attract much of that through My Search for Nancy. I have begun a book that will be ready, when Nancy is ready to receive it. The current edition is complete and ready to be sold or given away. It is a simple but elegant, self-published book of 12 or so pages of poems and stories that introduce the search and invite the reader into the story of the search and the work of my lifetime. It also invites the reader to participate in the search (If you see Nancy, let her know that I am looking for her). You are a reader, and you are also invited to participate. You can order a copy of the book (for the time being, use my private e-mail to arrange the purchase tpettet@kc.rr.com). You can participate in the dialogue and return to this space to stay updated on the search (In a future post, I will tell the story of meeting my first Nancy, a rock and roll singer here in Kansas City. It’s a fun story, full of synchronicity and expanding energies). The book will expand and grow with the search and will eventually be published by someone else. I will make the book and information about the search available when I perform with Prometheus Unbound-Ensemble. I will do speaking engagements, where I will tell about the search and read my poems to people that would probably never go to  a poetry reading or a performance by the ensemble. I will go on local radio. I will tell my stories and read my poems on Prairie Home Companion. That is another way you can participate. If you belong to an organization that would enjoy hosting a presentation of poetry and story or if you would like to host a house concert (yes, I can probably bring musicians to accompany me or I can go solo), then let me know (for now: tpettet@kc.rr.com)

There is more (and there always will be), I want to go share the rest of this holiday with other loved ones. This poem emerged from a conversation that I had with fellow member of an 0ver-fifty softball team. It weaves lines from the first poem that I ever read that spoke to me deeply, cellularly, about what a poem can do and be. I read the poem in the era of Nancy. It is in the book I am writing. It will be one of the poems that I read to you and to her, when opportunity allows.  Blessings!  (I am sorely tempted to go Jimmy Durante in this and conclude with “Good Night, Nancy Kalabash, wherever you are!”)

 

Maybe Next Season

 

Setting my can of Pabst Blue Ribbon

on the bench between me and our

hard-hitting third baseman, I let

slip the words, I’m a poet.

 

He acted as if he couldn’t catch

that sentence, his eyes following it

foul past the light pole. I felt

as if I had confessed

 

to being a virgin. I wanted

to call that ball

back, back

into the glow, by saying

 

it isn’t so, not since

I was eighteen

and lay with a poem

by Dylan Thomas – The Force

 

That Through the Green Fuse

Drives the Flower drives my pen

onto the page and drives my aging legs

to chase down a Texas-leaguer.

 

The force that blasts the roots of trees

blasts my attempts to speak with ease,

blasts the ball from my black aluminum bat

and is my destroyer. Then,

 

I could’ve shown him the ink

of the crooked rose

decorating my bicep

and how it spreads and grows

 

when I cock my arm, and how

the line from third to home

emerges, concentrated dust

of creatures from a prehistoric sea

 

showing us the way –

how each inning played

creates a new layer of heaven

above the lighted field.

 

*I include the distinction, the gift as compared to receiving the gift, rather than smoothing out the sentence structure, because it is an important distinction – this season of my life is about learning to receive. Thank You!