“And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.”

This from Pablo Neruda’s “Poetry,” translated…  Similar to my experience in San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato Mexico in 1995.  I was asking and asking God as I understood God at that time for… Poetry.  “Please, God, give me that!!”  I was fine on travel accounts, having fun with my journals as a South American travel mate from 1992 named Jimmy coached me to do.

But poetry, God give me poetry.  Please!!  I could make something with my mind but knew I couldn’t call that a poem.

Inspiration finally came after many prayers, reminding me of how many times it took Dad to ignore me before yielding to my request for a sip of his bourbon and water at age five.  One a horrible act of giving my life to the Devil, the poetry request an attempt to right my ship in life and give people something beautiful.

Thanks, God–it came, lines and lines of it, in Spanish and in English.  It came the dawn after I had been up to Dolores Hidalgo, smelled and saw poverty, played soccer with kids who stole my ball.

You can’t write without feeling poverty, knowing what it is.  That’s my opinion