|My Mom, taking a picture of me (as I am taking a picture of her).|
Washington, D.C. August, 2008.
A quick thought before I start the day.
My friend Susan sent me this poem by Mihri Katun, a 15th century female Turkish poet:
My heart bursts in flames of sorrow
Sparks and smoke rise turning to the sky
Within me, the heart has taken fire like a candle
My body, whirling, is a lighthouse illuminated by your image
Susan read this poem on a NYC subway and thought enough of me to write it down.
I used to snicker at the inclusion of poetry on the subways, like it was some idealistic civil servant's vain attempt to educate or inspire the tired worker bees that travelled on the rails. I am also indifferent to poetry in general, or maybe appalled at the amount of bad poetry that passes for art. It can be, in the wrong hands, trite, insincere, or just plain clumsy.
But Susan found this poem that gave imagery to my feelings. And I find myself reconsidering the importance of poetry in my life.
Thank you, Susan. And please keep sending me poetry.