Ken’s sculpture and photo, “Mister Hopper”
Waxing poetic / Ken Robinson
I light a candle when I write
It’s perched atop my desk,
amid forgotten, scribbled post-it note reminders,
overlapping coffee-ring signatures,
wadded up, aborted births of abandoned poems.
Inexplicably, a spent dryer sheet lies beneath my feet.
Everything is covered by a thin layer of dust.
This mess. This chaos.
All signs of a dysregulated heart, depleted ambition, an undisciplined mind.
The candle is half-spent, misshapen, deformed,
The candle is purple, and purple candles lead to purple prose
So here goes,
The true illumination of a candle lies not in its itsy-bitsy flame,
but rather, in the sneaky, subtle, flickering shadows.
“If nothing else, it is mercifully brief,” Ken wrote when he sent me the above poem last year.
I’m not feeling any mercy in brevity today with the news of his death. But it takes only a moment to read another of his poems and feel a chuckle coming on. Ken’s humor often had the whole class in stitches.
Remote
remote! remote!
where for art thou?
frequently lost
eventually found
you, with your black hard plastic shell
still sticky with last night’s snack;
an artisanal feast of diet coke and cracker jack!
with soft rubber buttons
a tactile delight
almost sensual,
to describe it further
would be most impolite!
A magic carpet taking me to
Hulu, Netflix, and movies on-demand
so many buttons
fast forward, mute, record
my wish is its command
yet it’s no Aladdin’s Lamp
no button to summon my one true love
so I sulk in this room
a kind of tomb
where I await her return!
When I had to reschedule a class due to travel, this arrived in my inbox:
Travel Tips
Have fun on your vacay,
to destinations unknown.
If you’re headed to Tijuana,
don’t drink the water.
I would not recommend Idaho,
where they only serve Folgers.
If you’re headed to France
avoid the Paris McDonald’s.
Steer clear of Florida,
where they’re busy banning books,
but whatever you do, avoid Mara Lago!
Ken could transport us to a humble place, with simple objects . . .
Above the white porcelain sink was the kitchen window, framed with parted lace curtains. Perched on the windowsill was a tiny terra cotta pot with a cactus in it. I never knew whether the cactus was dead or alive, but I do remember watering it. Through the window, beyond the maple tree, I remember the power lines crisscrossing the sky, resembling a kind of musical scale without notes. The backs of neighborhood houses sat across the alleyway, each topped with a TV antenna, sentinels of a bygone era, straining upward toward nothing.
With his health issues, Ken seemed to know he was on borrowed time. It’s comforting to read this piece which has his trademark sadness, yet a ragged hope, too.
Whisper to Me
Awakened from a decades-long slumber,
I’ve been stuck inside a whale,
I emerge, stretch, yawn, and step onto the trail.
The sun rises, a lone orchid blooms, an errant cloud forms.
A few fat raindrops create miniature moon-like craters along the dusty path.
Cicadas buzz in the distance. It’s their year.
The path narrows, the trailhead looms. Is it my year?
I wend my way warily forward.
It’s an uphill climb. No longer spry, the going is slow.
Propelled only by this ramshackle, worn-out heart of mine.
There is no turning back. Not now.
It’s a one-way trail, paved with twisted vines, ancient footprints and tangled blues.
A trail lined with Angels, Demons, Martyrs, False Prophets and Perfect Goddesses.
Ah…..those Perfect Goddesses.
If there is a lonely Goddess among them, not too discerning, mind you, whisper to me.
I listen. The cicadas grow silent. There are no whispers. Only the rustling of dead leaves.
Alone, like a bananafish out of water, like an aging catcher in the rye, I persist.
With an old man’s gait, a pocketful of rain, and wide open arms.
Indeed, your time with us was short. Bon voyage with those wide open arms, Ken Robinson. Go with the cicadas and enjoy your gleaming new heart, made fresh for the journey.