Malcolm Part 2, Post-Malcolm

And here I thought I was something of a writer. O Malcolm, you've given me new life. You've given me more life. New ways to look at word, new ways to look at life, at darkness, at poetry. As I begin with this "O" I recall the Anitphons you introduced me to. A series of Christmas season poems that develop life and hope as Christ is born. You read only three. I read them all. Such deliberate picking of words. Such life they bear. Upon utterance they sprout and spring up in one's life, bringing with its shoots new unbroken ground. Ground I knew I had but never before found access to. O how the words have such meaning. I know that now, after your visit. They host what one longs for. They host a beautiful place to get lost in, where time fades away and priorities can root. You've reminded me of how old they are, of how they know more than we do, of how they come to life like ripening berries when you pick the right ones at the right times. I learned patience and trust. I learned that no good writer should call him or herself such until they learn to speak the language - even if only inarticulately, that you do. But above all I learned respect for words and how one can so perfectly weave a tapestry of language into a mature, rich offering for those of us ready to receive it.

Some things were like I said. We did brave the black roads on a burnt orange Softtail Custom and bear the fading sun-burns to prove it. But there were no recitations, no popping of Sun Drop tops, no finding of a quaint deserted road stop to fill-up our tank and our minds with new refreshing thoughts to power our ride. It was simple really. He spoke poetry. It's a language you know, a pretty and artful one of course. They are words and lines and translations of thoughts to this world from the poetic world, "the world unseen", the layered, finding world. The culmination of all brilliant thinkers having deeply thought on a subject until they came out with lines of a poem that perfectly captured the so long-thought profundity. I would here insert examples of lines of he who thought such and such about this topic, and she who had this to say about that, as did Malcolm during his visit. But I don't speak poetry. It was hardly segued but instead just a line spat out mid-conversation of Herbert's of Eliot's or Heaney's or Lewis'. It was a challenge for me to determine through the week if these were original lines of Malcolm's, becoming thoughts just as nearly as they were uttered. Or if he could access so quickly his vast accounts of poetry lines by tagged category. I say for example, "I realized recently how much encouragement writers need together." And his mind delivers him "Encourage" and "Writers' Camaraderie" each offering stacks of pages to sift through - all in a moment. He picks, he speaks, I gape. But they all live in Malcolm, these friends of his. They speak to him as he speaks to himself, perhaps a great discourse between our time's best literary minds. He speaks like they do as he has spent years and years familiarizing himself with his friends' labored thoughts. They tell him on pages, in words, in powerful manufactured lines about their idea, gripped like grim death until lo and behold, the fist opens and a flower bursts forth, an elaborate yet efficient poem.

But as the week went on, I began to realize I was less hearing the thoughts of ghosts of writers past, and more hearing the flawless joining of Malcolm's own long-thought profundities with those from which he was first prompted. His brilliance far surpassed that of recitation and went deep into unique generation. His own poems create a stir in me. I long for such talent but am content to hear the reading of his own proudly plucked words. He speaks in such connectivity to me as I wait patiently to hear the sound of the word he so purposely picked next. The agony he must endure in such decisions.

I most admire him (who turned out to be shorter than I first thought) for his unique and aggressive way of using what's been given to him. A Christian man and so a man who knows what offers ought not be rejected, has resolved to use them. Thus, a poet, a great musician and as of last week, an inspiration.