There's a Poem Here Somewhere
When I was barely 22,
a bearded graduate student
at an Ivy League college in New England,
I met with my poetry advisor,
one fine autumn day,
both of us wishing we were somewhere else,
perhaps a small fishing village in Portugal
or a smoky jazz club in New York.
I showed him my poem,
a one-pager on onion skin paper
and waited for his dim murmur of praise.
"There's a poem in here, somewhere," he said,
not quite shaking his head, but wanting to.
"No," I replied, "this IS the poem,"
but he, having long ago
lost interest in his wife, persisted.
Now it is 55 years later
and I finally understand what he meant.
Yes, for sure,
there is a poem in here somewhere,
a poem within a poem
and another within that
until the only thing thatremains
is my impulse to write
and the sound of a bird
outside my window,
or is it the creaking of my chair
as I stand to exit the room?
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:34 AM | Comments (0)
February 13, 2024The Mirror
There are times late at night
when I want someone
to look into the mirror of who I am
and see themselves clearly.
I'm not exactly sure why this is so,
other than the feeling
of two people realizing
there are actually
only one of us here.
Whatever happens after that
is gravy.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:36 PM | Comments (0)
February 03, 2024I LIVE NEXT TO THE POST OFFICE
I live next to the post office
in a one-bedroom apartment
just three blocks from where Mike Tyson
trained to become the heavyweight champion of the world.
If I turn right and walk all the way to the end of the street,
I arrive at my favorite cafe
where I drink coffee, eat chocolate and laugh.
If I turn left, I end up at the river.
There I sit on a park bench and do nothing.
Children and dogs walk by,
ducks quack,
and the ripples of the river,
ever so slightly,
rise and fall.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:24 AM | Comments (0)
