In Exchange for Poetry

I “sold” concert tickets on Craigslist recently in exchange for poetry. The ad read something like “… the poem that most touches my soul gets the tickets.” What touches me about poetic writing is that, by definition, it has to come from the heart, or soul, or gut. It emerges from the depths of a person, from the inside out. I crave knowing people on this level. Living in a world of small talk is very challenging for me, and that’s an understatement. Everyday, I’m grateful to the clients with whom I work for supplying me with the sorts of experiences that get underneath the small talk to the heart and soul of the matter, as they say. And today I am full of gratitude to those who shared their poetry with me. If I were wealthier I would have bought tickets for them all.
On of the poets, Pete, wrote about his experience as an ice hockey player: “To me, the rattle of the boards and my stick on the ice is a rhythm to live by. And most of all, I do this because at times when you really need to, it's possible to skate fast enough to leave life itself behind." KCF wrote that “It's easier to grow while you're sailing away/ Than listening without a heart each day.” When a person shares himself from this depthful place, you cannot help but glimpse something of his spirit or soul. In my brief, email interaction with each of these men I experienced a sort of intimacy that I don’t often experience with some of the individuals I see everyday. I appreciate the risk involved with such self-revelation.
The poem that won the contest is printed below, with permission from the author. It’s a love poem that she wrote for the Hulk, and it spoke to me more than the author could have ever dreamed it would when she sent it my way in the hopes of winning Dave Matthews Band tickets. In the poem, Mary Ellen describes the kind of relationship I desperately, helplessly, and sometimes hopelessly long to be part of. There is a tenderness in the poem that could only be described by someone who herself has given or received the same; a longing that could only be named by someone who wishes to love with her whole being; and a beauty that could only be painted by someone in love with the world. Through her words, Mary Ellen allowed me to know something of her spirit. Thanks to Mary Ellen and to all who inspired me with their generous gifts of poetry.
But Why the Purple Pants?

Each Sunday
the Incredible Hulk and I
sit opposite one another,
sip tea
with our pinkies pointing upward.
We chat as
Madame Butterfly sings soprano
from stereo speakers.

We'd first met at Starbucks,
discussed our struggles.
His tendency to scare small children,
mine to sulk
and self-isolate.

Though
intimidating at first,
when he smiled
his green flesh stretched
across his broad jaw,
white teeth appearing
to contrast his skin,
like snow softly collecting in the boughs
of fir trees.

We talk often now,
sometimes late into the night.
That's when we curl
up on his overstuffed couch,
clutching cups of cocoa,
and as tears roll down
his giant green jaw,
he tells me about his difficulty
finding suit jackets
that fit his shoulders
and his years of wandering the world
alone.

"Thank God I purchased real estate,"
he mumbles.

I say
you can save Prince Charming
and Mr. Rapunzel
for blonde un-fractured beauties.
I much prefer the company
of a jacked green giant
with abandonment issues.
--- Mary Ellen Murray