From One Poet to Another

I gave her a gift

A misquote

Wrongly acknowledged to Ernest Hemingway by a film

Where the writer says to the protagonist

“If your story is bad, I’ll hate it. If it’s good, then I’ll be envious and hate it even more.”

And I know it’s a misquote – I know that now

Because I spent four hours looking it up,

Since it sounded suspiciously like a true Hemingway quote

And even though it’s probably not him who said it,

I think there is some truth in that line.

We use words for a lot of things, you and I

And there are times when our words sound caustic to each other

Even if we meant them otherwise

But, then again, we use words enough to know that more often than not

We do, indeed, mean them to be caustic.

And while we both can differentiate between the good and the bad

There are times when everything that’s yours seems good, while everything that’s mine seems bad

Until, enough time passes and the sides flip

So that suddenly, everything that’s mine seems good, while everything that’s yours seems bad.

You were surprised when I told you, the other day, in a random conversation

That even though I don’t let you know, I do read your words quite diligently

I pore over your poems, trying to figure out the little nuances that I might have missed

As I pass over the lines the first time, trying to soak up too much too fast

Only to return for a second helping

To taste those words once more, leisurely

And it is during that time, that revisit of mine

That I begin to truly hate your words

And hate your style

And hate your emotions – which, I guess, are now mine

Since I am the one experiencing them after reading Your poem.

I always encircle “cooperative” when asked the question “Are you competitive or cooperative?”

But the more I think about you, and about us, and about your poems,

I keep wondering if that’s who I really am, or if that’s the person I want to be

Because cooperative, by definition, means “involving the joint activity of two or more”

But I know that if you and I ever got together to write

One of us is going to end up dead.

We are jealous folks, even if we don’t usually want to admit it

Because we know what it feels like to piece those words together to bring out the emotions

And no matter how we word it, there’s always some bit that seems to be lost in translation

Between the strange language our heart speaks in, and the language that we write in

And we know just how difficult it is when a poem, fully formed, longs to burst out at inopportune moments

So I have to write on a flimsy paper napkin,

With a pencil,

That I borrowed from the waiter while he brought the bill, expecting to be paid

And as I scribble feverishly, I can feel the eyes of the patrons on me

And the smirk of the waiter, seeing me acting like a child,

As I desperately try to wrap up everything that I want to write on that little square paper napkin.

And when I get back home, and try to make sense of all the things that I wrote out

And try to ensure that nothing from that page goes to waste,

And that everything I wanted to say comes out exactly the way that I felt it

I find, that you have written something too – something about a little beggar boy,

And the glimmer of the universe in his eyes, while he munched on the snacks you bought him

So that once his tummy was full, he could think about other things as well

How his first thought was of God, and the happiness that shone through his eyes as he munched on that God-given gift

While you took your notes, on a crumpled old bus-ticket, the way I took mine.

No matter how desperately I might look for that boy in my scribbled notes, I know he’s not there

And now, no matter what I write, and no matter how I write it, I’ll never be able to forget the boy’s eyes

Even though I’ve never seen them

No matter how much I try to depict him, I know that I can never get him right

The way you did; the way your words did

And so, after you know that I’ve read through the poem, you ask me,

“So, What did you think of it?”

I can’t tell you, that I hated it because I liked it so much

I can’t tell you, that I hated it because I can’t forget the boy

Or the God, who took care of that boy, and put that shining universe in his eyes

I can’t tell you, that I hate the emotions that choke me as I read through your poem

Emotions that I know will keep me up all night

And I can’t tell you, that the next time you write a poem, you can ask me to read it

But don’t ever ask me that question, “So, what did you think of it?”

Because, for better or for worse

I will, always, hate the words that you write.

~