Impromptu Reading by Starlight

Last weekend I was on my way to the Occupy Wall Street Poetry readings when the trains got jammed and I was stuck on 42nd street. Having no money for a cab and in no mood to walk the 60 + blocks to Wall st, I walked east and decided to take a stroll by the East River. I felt awfully wistful as I imagined my talented and wonderful friends reading their poems and having their words echoed by hundreds of people huddled together in a bond of art and resistance. But the east river was surprisingly pleasant. The night was clear and calm and a the bright Alpha Centauri hung like a small jewel in the sky, the only star visible in the midst of Manhattan's bright lights. I sat down by a bench and decided to have a brief meditation session before heading home for the night. As I was sitting, an old lady sat down beside me.

"Diamonds"

"What?"I wasn't even sure she said anything.

"Diamonds--the water, the lights on the water, it's like diamonds boiling on every crest. Beautiful isn't it?"

"Yeah, it sure is."

"You should see it at 10 in the morning. The sun shines just right and the whole river burns with diamonds. I call it the 10 o'clock diamonds. Simple water as if plastered with sheets of gold and diamonds, you can grow rich with it."

"That's quite a way to look at it for sure. Are you a poet by any chance?" I was going off on a limb but was nonetheless intrigued.

She told me she wasn't a poet but she did write a poem once when she locked herself in the bathroom to block out the "noise" and get away from her husband. She told me she was a fiction writer, however, and she's been writing the same novel for nearly 15 years. A historical fiction story based on the colonizing of Native American land in upstate New York. She said it took so long because she had to transfer her manuscript from the typewriter onto the computer, which was plagued with viruses. I sat and listened as the river lapped its brief waves against the docks a she told me story after story of her life and her love of words. When she was finished she turned and asked : "So, are you a poet?". "I write poems" I said, "but I don't know if I can do it much longer." I was surprised to see her completely understand: "One can only burn at both ends for so long. I'm just glad my candle burns a bit slower than others." I asked if she would like to hear a poem and she was delighted to be my lone and therefore special audience. I read a poem from my chapbook. The wind picked up and the traffic on 42nd street hummed, straining her ability to hear, so I knelt down beside her and spoke each line into her ear as if placing them carefully one by one. By the end of the poem I was so close to her, I could smell the faint perfume in her hair. She said she did not understand everything but could tell I was "genuine." She thanked me and offered to buy the book but I decided to give it to her. She was grateful for our encounter, but what she did not know was how equally appreciative I was for the opportunity to read to a stranger, to allow my words to awaken me in a place I had forgotten.