Transcription
Johnny E. Mahafeey
A Poet—And No One Knows It
071311-2
devoir
I sit upon my bunk with eyes and heart of blue, not sure, not really knowing what to do. I work, every hour, of every day. This moment even, I do not and never play. Work and my devotion to these words of mine—these words, these thoughts, from me to you. The study of yet another day.
Siri Hustvedt (pronounced "HOOST-vet"), her mutual friend, "The Shaking Woman", and her determination; the rise of English professor Joyce Thomas to overcome a freshman rape; from that "melodramatic and unmemorable" work made first; to be found not so easily unremembered—the drawn gun to fuel her forever pen; Benjamin Percy works with Aaron Gwyn to spill blood with "The Art of Writing Violence"; while Mike Stilkey paints his books; and Coldplay blasts my ears. While my pace may not be the city of Erice—no wall or winding cobblestone, just fence upon fence. No Mediterranean sea or Sicilian countryside, only brick and grass—very little grass. It is the vision of Dante, with the heart of Kafka.
Still, I dream.
In a moment, I go to France for Zola to teach me of "Mana"—and then I'm off again with Dostoevsky. Anything to escape this purgatorio, even if that means to fly over a cuckoo's nest. A slave to memory but never time. As I sit here, on this metal bunk of mine, I write of love—forever found, lost, and intertwined.
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