The Poet’s Passage

Old San Juan

Tucked in the back is a gathering of chairs waiting for poets.  Up front, tourists browse amid what the owners call “a living museum”, hand painted replicas of the historical buildings of old San Juan, originals paintings and soul searching poetry.  This is The Poet’s Passage.

Actually its the 2nd location, newly opened, right next to a Starbucks off of the Plaza de Armas.  The original, opened in 2008,is a couple of blocks from the Catedral de San Juan Bautista (built in 1521, it is one of San Juan’s oldest structures and houses the remains of Ponce de Leon.)

On my recent trip to Puerto Rico, I fell in love with both of their locations and purchased a beautiful print by Nico Thommosin and one of Lady Lee Andrews’ poems.

I wanted to share with you the poem:

Let Me Think of Life

Let me think of life

for a moment

while I breath.

Let me know inside

There’s a space

where I believe

A space with a reason

That can not be seen

without the truth

forseeing the evidence

Between the lines

Of time and youth

Let me rest within

And hear the sounds

of being whole

Let me bring my body

To the level of my soul.

Manifest my strength

Reaffirm the source

Define my own awareness

As skill takes on its course.

In the realm of the Divine

One sees what must be sought

and will control the mind

when pain invades the thought.

Lady Lee Andrews

Bringing home artwork from a trip is a great way to stay reconnected to the creative outlet of travel.  Every time I read this poem I will remember the joy of walking the cobblestoned streets of Old San Juan, marveling at the old Spanish colonial buildings, the smell of fried plantains wafting down the alley ways and the street cats sprawled in spots of sunshine.

Check out The Poet’s Passage to learn more about their art and poetry.

The Peace of Wild Things

This poem was printed in the April 2009 issue of Reader's Digest and can also be found in
The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief.  I come into the presence of still water.
And I fell above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light.  For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

Walking/Working in Morocco

In 1999, I spent almost a month in Quazazat, Morocco, working on a movie called Rules Of Engagement.
I wrote these two poems reflecting some of my experiences there.

Walking in Morocco

Walking from the disco
to the Berber Hotel
two American women alone
in the middle of a
deserted desert street
without escort
more than a little tipsy
from warm beer
the air is heavy with
heat and social oppression
even in the still night air.

From a sleepy concrete
apartment complex
a group of wild dogs
trickle, then flow
one girl wants to flee
but silently the other stops her
with gentle pressure on her arm
they stand, shoulder
to shoulder, trembling
suddenly sober

the dogs are wiry
and husky, mutts and
shepards, following their leader
past the girls’ hotel,
fifty strong.
As the final dog rushes past
them, he pauses, sniffs
the air, then moves on,
destination unknown.

Working in Morocco

our office is small
and crammed full of
foreign voices
French, Spanish, Italian
Arabic, English,
all speaking at once

Our assistant is named Ali
I call him Ali Baba but he
doesn’t understand
He speaks French and Arabic
I speak English and French
He has a crush on me,
leaves little gifts on my desk
we try to communicate
in broken French

unemployed men gather
across the street from our
dusty offices
they have learned my name
and when I go outside
they call to me
our security keeps them
at bay
but they always linger
in my head
a reminder of another dark
skinned man, who held
me too tightly, against my
will, stronger than I was
he said my name with the same
intensity and accent,
an implied intimacy
that wasn’t given but taken