The Power of Poetry

The bridge railing felt cold under my hands, the once smooth metal rough with age. I had the thought that it should feel different. The last time I’ll feel metal in my hands, and it should feel significant. But it doesn’t.

“Nice night.”

I jumped, and my grip tightened instinctively, a sharp edge digging into my palm. I turned towards the voice to see a man in a fedora, his handlebar mustaches waxed to a tight curl. He was too far away to grab me and even if he tried, all I had to do was let go.

The man leaned on my railing, “Oh, you don’t need to worry about me.”

He pulled a library book from his overcoat and started to read. The prospect of me killing myself such a non event that the spectator had to bring something to read. Would he pause long enough to see me fall? Did I matter even that much?

He spoke in a rich voice, deep, it made me think of a preacher I’d heard once.

“Every person has the right to choose their own path. For example, I enjoy poetry and sunrises, and most mornings I choose to enjoy them here.”

I heard the rustle of a page, but didn’t look up from the water so far below. Would it be cold? Would I feel it?

The man moved and I could just see him from the corner of my eye. He was a little closer, but not close enough to matter, all I had to do was let go.

“This is one of my favorites. Would you like to hear it?”

Without waiting for my answer he began to read aloud.

“I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A Tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.”

Why wouldn’t he just leave? If this strange man wasn’t going to try and stop me why wouldn’t he just let me be? I’m so tired. My grip loosened and I felt the railing slide, just a little.

“Do you know the real power of poetry?” He closed the book over his finger to hold the place and tapped it against his chest. “I know what it means to me, but that’s not the same thing as knowing what it meant to Kilmer when he wrote it more than a hundred years ago. Or what it means to you today. To a naturist it could be about preservation. To a poet, that they’re a fool.” He laughed. “Each person gets to decide for themselves what it means.”

He opened the book, “Would you like to hear another?”

After each poem he stopped to ask if I would like to hear another. Poem after poem he read, and the sky lightened. When the sun crested the horizon he stopped and we watched in silence as colors blazed across the sky. It occurred to me that this was the first time I had ever taken the time to watch a sunrise.

“Are there more?”

He smiled, “There are always more.” He opened the book to the last page, and nodded to himself.

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

“Oh, I’ve read this poem many times. It’s my favorite.”

“You said the tree one was your favorite.”

His smile broadened, “They’re all my favorite.” He rested his hand on the page, “But this one is special, I’ve always felt that a person needs to read it for themselves.”

He closed the cover and sat the book on the ground. When you’re done, I would appreciate if you returned it to the library. It’s overdue and I fear that the librarians may be a bit cross with me.”

He started to walk away, and when I looked up from the book he was gone. I looked both directions, but there was no sign of him.

I shifted my grip on the railing and looked down at the book.

Curiosity finally getting the better of me, I climbed over the railing and sat on the ground. Cradling the book in my lap I opened it to the last page.

“Do not go gentle into that good night. By Dylan Thomas.”

I read, and reread, and it wasn’t until the page grew damp that I realized I was crying.

A blast of cool air and the unmistakable smell of books greeted me as I walked to the woman sitting behind a large desk. She looked over the rim of her glasses and smiled at me. “Can I help you with something dear?”

I held the book of poems to my chest, unsure what to say. She pulled the glasses off her nose and they hung on a chain around her neck. She nodded to my book, “Would you like to check that out?”

I shook my head and swallowed the lump in my throat. “A friend, he asked me to return this for him.”

“That’s awfully nice of you.” She reached for the book and it took all the strength left in me to hand it to her.

“He said it was overdue.”

The librarian opened the cover and gave a start. “I should say so. This was checked out over fifty years ago!”

She looked up at me and a look of concern crossed her face, “You alright hon?”

My vision blurred and I shook my head.

“Tell you what, this has been gone so long I’m not sure this is it’s home anymore.” She closed the book and held it out to me. “Why don’t you hang onto it?”

“Thank you.” I sniffed and wiped at my eyes.

“I’ve got some time, how about I get us some coffee and you can tell me about your friend?”

I took the book and clutched it to my chest, “I think I’d like that.”