Poem in Your Pocket

You may never know what your neighbors and fellow pedestrians are carrying in their pockets... unless you ask them!

Did you have a poem in your pocket today? I didn't... until late in the afternoon. Somehow, I hadn't even heard that it was Poem in Your Pocket Day.

But sometime after lunch, I was standing in the Bank Street Bookstore, trying to choose a gift for my five-year-old niece, when I noticed a sales clerk wearing a rainbow-colored t-shirt that said, "I have a poem in my pocket!" scrawled in black letters across her chest.

"Do you really?" I asked the young woman.

"Of course I do," she said. "It's Poem in Your Pocket Day!"

I was immediately intrigued. "Really?" I said. "What poem do you have?"

"I have part of a poem by James Wright," she told me.

"Really? Can I read it?" I asked.

The woman reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a folded scrap of paper. It looked like part of a colorful page that had been ripped from a magazine. With a felt tip pen, she had scribbled some words across it. They read:

In a pine tree,

A few yards away from my window sill,

A brilliant blue jay is springing up and down, up and down,

On a branch.

I laugh, as I see him abandon  himself

To entire delight, for he knows as well as I do

That the branch will not break.

With her slim figure and short, ruffled haircut, the young woman looked a bit like a blue jay herself, I thought. I could almost imagine her springing up and down on a branch in the April sun.

"That's beautiful," I told her, handing the scrap of paper back. "Thank you so much for that poem today!"

I left the bookshop, feeling elated but also somewhat sheepish that I didn't have a poem of my own to share with the world. I was determined to find one.

Back home, I emailed my husband an urgent note. "Do you have a poem in your pocket today?" I asked.

"I always have a poem in my pocket!" he emailed back. 

Knowing him, I realized that 90% of the time he actually does. Now I don't want to brag, but how many women have husbands who can say that?

Next I rifled through my poetry books, looking for just the right sort of thing. Nothing too heavy. I wanted it to be as light and feathery as the blue jay--a gust of spring breeze perhaps, to go with the balmy April day. Or a little silver fish, slipping through the shallows of a stream. Not that I was looking for a "nature poem" exactly--just something light in spirit.

I settled on the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca, one of my favorite writers. Whether he is being tragic or playful, he's always both mercurial and magnetic. Somehow, he manages to turn phrases into spells.

 I chose The Little Mute Boy, translated by W.S. Merwin.

The little boy was looking for his voice.

(The king of the crickets had it.)

In a drop of water

the little boy was looking for his voice.

I do not want it for speaking with;

I will make a ring of it

so that he may wear my silence

on his little finger.

In a drop of water

the little boy was looking for his voice.

(The captive voice,  far away,

put on a cricket's clothes.)

As with so many of Lorca's poems, The Little Mute Boy breaks all rules of logic--in so far as poetry can be said to work by logic.  The poem is perfectly and gorgeously unexplainable.  A few simple words, four short stanzas and we are lost in a mysterious, enchanted world, where insects can rule kingdoms and children can roam through droplets of water. 

I downloaded a copy of the poem from the internet, printing out a copy in Spanish too, in case I met any Spanish-speaking poetry lovers. Then I put The Little Mute Boy into my pocket and went out for a walk, eager to share my poem and hear the poetry of others. 

As I ambled down Broadway, I surveyed the other pedestrians carefully, looking for a tell-tale rainbow t-shirt like the one the woman in the bookstore had been wearing. But I didn't see a single one. After I'd gone ten blocks, I began to suspect that her t-shirt was unique. Perhaps she had painted it herself.

How could I ever tell which of the hundreds of people I was passing might have a poem in their pocket? I wondered. I decided I would look for neighbors and other people I knew and approach them and ask. But strangely, atypically--since I have lived in this neighborhood for over thirty years--I didn't see a single familiar face. 

Maybe they should have called this Poem in the Closet Day, I thought peevishly. What good does it do to have a poem in your pocket, if nobody knows you have it?

Before long, I found myself in front of the Barnes & Noble at 83rd street.  I decided to go in and look for potential candidates. But, even in a bookstore, how would I know a person with a poem in their pocket, if I saw one?  

First, I went up to one of the cashiers. He was wearing glasses and had an intense expression on his face. "Do you have a poem in your pocket?" I asked him. 

"No, I do not," he answered very seriously. He stared at me for a long minute and didn't crack a smile. I decided he was not a good candidate for further conversation.

Next I went upstairs and made for the poetry aisle. Perhaps the Poem in Your Pocket crowd would be congregating there. The aisle was deserted. Not a soul was even browsing. So I headed for the information desk.  

A man with a name tag that read, "Francisco" was helping a woman order a book. With a beautiful name like Francisco, he just might be a poetry lover.  I decided to wait and ask him. But Francisco would not look up. He was engrossed in his computer. 

The woman also looked promising. She had a lovely smile, and she was very patient. She must have waited there a full ten minutes, while Francisco tried one electronic source after another to locate the book she wanted.

I waited patiently too. I told myself that the longer I waited, the more likely it would be that one of these two people would have a poem in their pocket. Of course, I realized this was a case of magical thinking--pure superstition. Yet, I  couldn't help myself. And after all, calm and patience is necessary for enjoying a poem.

At last, Francisco succeeded in locating her book and placing an order for it. The woman smiled her dazzling smile at him again and was about to walk off.  I would have to act fast or lose my chance.

"Excuse me," I said. Both of them turned to look at me for the first time, although I'd been standing right in front of them for many minutes. They looked startled. 

I took a deep breath and braced myself for rejection... or worse yet, the lack of a sense of humor. "Do either of you have a poem in your pocket?"

"Why, yes I do!" said the woman, looking very pleased that I should ask. She opened her large black purse and started rummaging through it.

I was amazed. In shock. I considered throwing salt on the rug and hopping around in a circle three times to give thanks to the gods. Instead, I just held my breath and watched the woman rummage.

After what seemed like forever, she came up empty handed.  "I'm afraid I left it in my other purse," she apologized. "But I did have a poem by Emily Dickinson. It was that poem about peace, do you know it?"

I had to confess that I didn't. If she'd asked me if I knew a poem about a fly buzzing or horse-drawn carriage, I could have said yes. But things like peace have never caught my attention. They are so abstract.

"Well," I said, "I do have a poem in my pocket, and I'd be glad to give it to you. It's a poem by García Lorca."

"Oh!" laughed the woman. "I love Lorca!"

So I brought out The Little Mute Boy and handed it to her. She didn't stop to read it, but folded it up and put it in her purse.

"I wish I could return the favor," she said. 

"Do you have email?" I asked. '"Because, maybe you could email me your poem."

She agreed and I gave her my address. She told me her name was Erica, and then she was off. I was left standing there with Francisco, who was now staring at me as if I were a mad dog.

"Do you have a poem in your pocket?" I asked him. Just in case he had one, I didn't want him to feel slighted--although by then I was pretty sure he didn't.

"No, I don't," he said, evenly, then turned back to the computer.

My story about Poem in Your Pocket Day could come to an end here. But it wouldn't be very satisfying. You are probably wondering: did Erica send me the Emily Dickinson poem? I'm afraid it's too soon to say.

All evening, I've been checking my inbox but no poems have turned up yet. Erica may have forgotten or lost my email address at the bottom of her big bag. Or perhaps, after thinking it over, she's become worried that I might be a bookish stalker on the loose. Better to cut off all contact before things get out of hand! I guess I should put myself in her shoes and give her the benefit of the doubt. 

As I was returning home this evening with a bag of groceries for dinner, I did see my neighbor Joe. He seems like the sort who might be a poetry lover and he was pacing in front of the building.

"Do you have a poem in your pocket?" I asked.

He shook his head, sort of sadly, I thought. "Not unless E  Pluribus Unum counts," he answered.

Ramon, the doorman, opened the front door for me and I asked him too. 

"No," he said, shaking his head. I got the feeling that he could have offered more satisfaction if I'd asked him for baseball scores.

Ramón is not the literary doorman. Miguel, the one who loves poetry, was not on tonight. Still, Ramón is a very sweet guy, and I felt the urge to bestow something upon him.

"Well, never mind then," I told him. "I've got a present for you. I just happen to have a poem in my pocket, and it's in Spanish too!"

I handed The Little Mute Boy to him and stood around awkwardly while he read it.

"Thank you," he said at last, when he was done. And slowly a big smile spread across his face."It's a very nice poem. I like it!"

Then Ramón folded up the piece of paper and put it in his pocket, where--I am pretty sure--it stayed for the rest of the evening. But maybe late tonight, sometime after midnight, when he is getting ready for bed in his apartment in New Jersey, he will take it out and read it again. This is what it says:

El NIÑO MUDO

El niño busca su voz

(La tenía el rey do los grillos.)

En una gota de agua.

Buscaba su voz el niño.

No la quiero para hablar.

Me haré con ella un anillo

Que llevará mi silencio

En su dedo pequeñito.

En una gota de agua

Buscaba su voz el niño.

(La voz cautiva, a los lejos,

se ponía un traje de grillo.)

- Federico García Lorca