Poetry Thursday
(Thursday, September 07, 2006)
There is a man who rides around our little town on a bicycle. He dresses all in blue: plain navy blue t-shirt, blue shorts or pants, and even a blue hat. His all-blue attire and his cap remind me of a mailman: in fact, I used to think he was one. I would see him every day when I worked at the market in town. He would come in whether it was sunny, raining, or snowing, and only buy a pack of Big Red gum or cigarettes. Ever since I haven't worked at the market, I've still seen him--all around town, and even outside of town, up to ten miles away riding wherever he needed to go.
I saw him on Tuesday night when I walked down to the library during the evening. He was sitting inside, at a big table in the back, quietly pondering over all sorts of books. He commented quietly on how I was going to catch a cold since I was wearing flip-flops in the rain, and we laughed. As I walked back home, he passed me on his bike, steering with one hand, umbrella in the other, for there was a fine, misty rain. He waved, and I waved. We have a funny sort of relationship, the bicycle mailman and I. I don't know his name, and he doesn't know mine, but we still know each other. In tribute to Poetry Thursday and the bicycle mailman in blue, here is a little poem that makes me think of him:
The Mailman
Sometimes I trade him a sestina for a sewer-and-water bill.
He's official, blue. Perhaps not
an even trade, a poem for a utility bill, but still
he's my man, my winged messenger, all I've got
in the way of neighborhood mythology. Moonlighting, he
conducts the souls of the dead to the underworld
and always respectfully, handing them their news almost apologetically.
Your letter read Perhaps you think this is Wonderland
and you are Alice? making me fall, spinning, down
and down the dark hole of the new world, the one
without you. My hero delivers the particular verbs and nouns
that once committed cannot be undone
and he waits faithfully, patiently, at the gate, his hand extended
to catch the catch in my voice, my reply to the world ended.
poem by Deborah Tobola
© Megan K. 2006-2007
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Wow, what a great poem (the opening is far beyond clever), and so thank you for the introduction to a new poet I hadn't known before.
a lovely poem! glad to have found your site, and i am looking forward to learning more about you through your words...
hey Meg, good to find you, and welcome to Blogland :-) - this is a gorgeous poem, i'll have to look up more of her work x
Hi Meg, I found you through Susannah's blog. You've got a wonderful place here - gorgeous design and words. Very charming, indeed.
That poem is delicious, too! I must know more about the poet...
What a wonderful poem, wow. I love the ideas behind it and the way its written - and a new writer for me too.
Thanks to all of you for commenting. :) I'm glad you like her -- I hadn't heard of her before I was scouring for some sort of mailman poem, either; and I was lucky to find such a talented poet. I'll be sharing some other poets' work soon, too... perhaps I can offer some new readings to some of you.
Thank you again for the kind words! xo
A great poem, wonderful language and rhythm. Thanks for posting it!
what a lovely poem - it was full of anticipation and tingles - I can't wait to hear more about your new friend!
Yes, really nice poem. I like the way you relate to the 'blue mail man'.