Lost Poets Salon

for Anita

In what she calls her Rumi Gardens Anita conducts her Lost Poets salon—

And where in Santa Cruz might this be? It’s the plant-extravagant patio

      outside the sliding glass door of the Bagelry;

the showy white calla lilies, nasturtium, & morning glory first greet

as you walk up to & through a thick, ivy matted lattice—a wooden archway

      you walk through.

And wouldn’t the charmed soul see it this way, this jungle of green

      surrounding,

                           defining its own enclosed niche,

with little, white, scented flowers of jasmine, a lemon tree popping

      the giant of fruit,

with ivy flowing torrentially over the roof like a waterfall down the side

      of the building—

The poets gather here once a month, usually a handful at least,

sometimes a whole big circle of them gather round tables & take turns

      sharing their poems going round—

You find among them the modest, the sensitive, the thoughtful of poets,

      the dramatic & difficult of poets,

                   the especially quirky among quirky poets,

                              the butterfly among poets,

               & the hawk,

                                   & the mother of poets among poets—

                                             It is Anita’s glory, bringing them together—

Oh, you would recognize her, those thick, narrow glasses, big eyes

      looking through her particularly narrow tunnel vision—

You have to appear just about smack in front of her for her to really

      see you;

                    it’s your identifying voice she typically hears first.

She shuffles along slowly, forward bent, has a big bright red lipstick smile,

big brooch clasping a sticking out girlie-like tuft of hair, her own voice 

      like a warm, crackling fire,

                                                but beware—

it’ll spark up wildly upon a word or some misperceived impression

      she might have heard.

Her persistence year after year in bringing poets together here

but hints of a long life of dedication to the art—

Her heart must be made of poetry to have sprung

      such a garden

                            to gather poets.

Oh, she feels as young as poetry ever is young.

December 2005