Public Recommendation

On an A train heading downtown, I was reading Audre Lorde’s essay/manifesto, "Poetry Is Not A Luxury". At the 125 Street station came onboard a young poet looking for listeners, advisors, and penny patrons. I had seen him before; on my way to work, to friends' parties, to the poetry writing workshop. Every time he read different poems, but I hardly remembered any of them.

The poet was a short built African American. He was dressed in baggy clothes and wore a baseball cap. He had long dreadlocks. Seemingly in his early twenties or even younger, he carried an enthusiastic if not aggressive reading style. From a weathered notebook he held close, he rapped the lines with little punctuation. The only times he would stop were when the train scratched the rail to make screeching noise. Or a huge flow of expressionless crowd flooded in and out to cause him struggle to stand still among shoulder pads, briefcases, and fanny packs. Or when he finished.

Between 125th and 59th Street was an express skip, and my focus was mainly on Audre Lorde's. She explained to me that a poet, a Black mother within each of us, would whisper in my dream, "I feel, therefore I can be free". Meanwhile ten seats away, the young black poet exerted tremendous amount of energy to showcase a poem named "Public Recommendation". In my inner auditorium, Audre Lorde was the lead singer on the stage, and the young poet backed up. The performance also featured the jamming from screeching train noise, faceless pushy crowd, and the monotonous preaching of "Stand clear of the closing door please".

As always, I couldn't remember any of the young poet's words. But my ears observed his every move as my eyes locked Audre Lorde's. Although with high pitched voice and intense rhythm, this time he sounded a bit desperate as if he was indeed looking for public recommendation, or recognition. He stopped when he finished the read. He sat down and rested. The space returned to its normally anemic noisiness. As the train approached the 59 Street platform, he got up to walk around for contribution. When he stood in front of me, I was with this Audre Lorde's sentence:"For within living structures defined by profit, by linear power, by institutional dehumanization, our feelings were not meant to survive".

I pulled out of my wallet and offered him a few coins. My immediate or even automatic move reflected my standard reaction to anyone who was worth my contribution in a subway car.
"Any advice?" He asked.
I grimaced and shook my head.
"You are not paying attention, are you?"
Before I could respond, the door behind him opened, he turned around and stumped out against an inflow of power suits.
"Stand clear of the closing door please".

The train started moving as my thought came in shape. I wanted to tell the poet to continue writing and sharing in public. Somebody will pay attention and maybe offer golden advice. But I, confused and distracted, could and can only be his amateur listener and at best a penny patron.

But as I got up to exit the subway car, Audre Lorde whispered to me:
"Poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence".