A Wednesday evening in October in Manhattan, my plans were changed. My friend I had the original plans to meet, had double-booked. I hadn’t met him since one and a half year before at a beach in the middle of the night in Rio de Janeiro. Which also was the only time I had met him. A great memory, about ten people, one guitar and Corcovado-Jesus watching over us. Now, religion is not my cup of tea, but even I felt a certain amount of protection and somebody watching over me at that moment.
Instead of meeting my friend, I tagged along with my other friends to an Open Mic in Manhattan. I’m so happy that this happened. At this open mic was an older man. He was a poet. I normally prefer to read poems myself than to have them read to me. Not this time. I find it kind of hard to listen all the way through. Not this time. I was moved, almost to tears. He read with such intensity and his lyric was very powerful. Afterwards I asked if the papers he brought with him was a copy and if I could bring it with me. It wasn’t, so after writing down my email, he told me, he didn’t have a computer, so I gave him my normal address. Since he was older, his eyes didn’t work properly, so I had to re-write it a couple of times. I just used capitals so it would be easier. Finally he could read it.
When I came back to Sweden again, there was a letter, from an american poet. My address and his address was written on a typewriter. It was a letter about the first time he had performed this poem, that day he changed into being a poet in heart and soul. The whole letter was written on the typewriter. He had made a mistake so the beautiful tipp-ex had been used.
The poem was sent to me on a paper, written on a typewriter.
I just met him once, still he takes the time to sit down, write a personal letter and the poem, go to the post office and send it to me. There’s a special art in taking that time and to be willing to give it.
I’ll write him a letter too. I don’t own a typewriter, and would prefer to write my response by hand, but then he wouldn’t be able to read it. Would like to have an old typewriter now. It’s beautiful to write on that. I look forward to hearing more of my new friends stories. He’s not only a poet, he’s a storyteller and I have the luxury to enjoy them.
PS. I would share his stories with you, but since he doesn’t have a computer, he doesn’t have a webpage/fanpage that I can share. Tried to google him and found nothing. Yet, he really DOES exist. DS.