One-of-a-Kind
Nov 2 2013

The sign says
5 bucks a page.

He sits

in cool shadow

in the heat of the day.
Amidst just-picked apples

like deep ruby wine,

fresh avocados
in dark green rinds.
Heritage tomatoes
in purples and reds,

and homely carrots

on long leafy stems,

radiant orange
flecked

with wet black dirt.
The luscious rainbow
of another harvest
sweetened by frost.

He sits

in self-contained quiet

on a tranquil island

in this busy place,

3-day stubble

turning grey.

Sits

in faded jeans, washed-out shirt,

on a folding chair
at a wobbly desk
where a Smith-Corona
letter-by-letter
pecks out verse.
As temperamental
as letter-jams, and ribbon-twists,
as idiosyncratic
as fingerprints.

A computer would produce
more perfect words.

Regular Helvetica

like mechanized vegetables
from industrial farms.

A ransom note, or blackmail threat,

in generic letters

a gum-shoe detective
could never trace back.

Who knew

there were street poets peddling their wares

in farmer’s markets

in open air?

Who will take your subject

and make it their own,
artistic licence

unencumbered --

5 bucks

to surprise, and delight.

Then, like any poem

send it out into the world.
Where it keeps on growing,

re-imagined

each time it’s heard;

just as plants
pulled from the earth
are still alive.

Except poems never die
once they are learned by heart.
This infuriating art,
which is not an object
cannot be bought
or owned.

So at 5 bucks a pop

you should leave an offering

for the starving poet,

from the cornucopia

of freshly gathered fruit.

His hand-crafted art, written to order,

not for commerce

but love.

I was surprised by a small article on the Atlantic Wire about "street poets". Who knew?!!

But I understand. Because hardly anyone makes a living writing poetry. For most of us, simply being read is enough.

And I can see the excitement of stream-of-consciousness writing, unimpeded by fear of failure. And the challenge of the unexpected request. Especially since coming up with a new subject can be the hardest part.

So I pictured setting up at a farmer's market, like a vendor of some home-made craft. Using the produce as metaphor came naturally from that.

The typewriter comes directly from the article. I love the sense of something arcane, temperamental, idiosyncratic. Something slow. Something one-of-a-kind.

There is something naive and childlike in that 5 dollars (which also comes from the article): I picture a kid at a lemonade stand; or a pay-as-you-can charity.

He's a bit of a hipster; maybe too self-consciously bohemian. But the main idea in highlighting the contrast between him and the bright rainbow of fresh produce was to evoke the same sense of surprise and incongruity I got on first reading "street poet"; on first seeing the photo of the scruffy fellow sitting out in public at a rickety bridge table with its antiquated machine. So there is a cornucopia of colour, contrasting with "shadow", “grey”, "faded", and "washed-out". And, amidst plenty, the starving poet.

There is a quality of mutual trust in this transaction. The poet will take his patron's idea and run it through his own sensibility, coming up with something unexpected, something that will both surprise and delight. And -- like all poems -- the poet must understand that once he lets it out into the world, it will be transformed according to each reader's personal experience and world view: that it's no longer his.

That you might change a life with a few words is a powerful idea. Maybe this is why street poets persevere.