What a lovely thing, the written word.

When you find that gut-dropping eyebrow-raising turn-of-phrase and you breathe: articulation. That’s me! That’s me written out and articulated!

Then you get along with life–you no longer search for what the hell is this mumble of emotions you don’t have to spend your nights where is the justification?!

It’s equally good, if not better, to read soul articulation you wrote. That takes time (it’s worth it, but it takes time). Reading saves a lot of time.

Today, while the rain squelched against the tin roof and scents of espresso grinding swirled around my vision, I read The Beat Book: Writings from the Beat Generation. I read and sipped, coffee tunneling it’s home in me, the gentle conversation of my fellow cafe dwellers checking off my community need for the day.

“It has been said in the sixties you gauged a poet’s seriousness by the distance Lew Welch’s poetry lay from his or her bed.”

Yeah, no wonder.

When I read “This Book is For Magda”, all that gut-dropped eyebrow-raising happened–all the sudden bursts of delight. That’s me! That’s me!
That’s me articulated!

It was such a delightful experience. I shall copy the poem here:

This Book is For Magda

What strange pleasure do they get who’d

wipe whole worlds out,

to end our lives, our

wild idleness?

But we have charms against their rage—
must go on, saying, “Look,
if nobody tried to live this way,
all the work of the world would be in vain.”

And now and then a son, a daughter, hears it.

Now and then a son, a daughter

gets away.

Thank you, Lew Welch.

Thanks for this dialogue of humanity. For taking the time to write clearly and brilliantly.

Feels nice. Very nice.

Peace and blessings,

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