The Poet

On the march in India one day, a round Indian man joined us. One of the march organizers introduced him to me as Dr. So-and-So from a university somewhere. He was about 45, a very learned scholar of some kind. I chatted with him as we walked and at the end of the day, he joined my French friend and I for lunch.

But he was a slow, intense, self-obsessed man. Despite his gentle way, you got the sense he had the habit of imposing himself on you and was in sore need of levity. You sensed also he thought the world of himself and you had the desire to inject a sense of humour into the self-image he carried. Half way through lunch, he said to me, "Do you like poetry?"

"No, I can't say that I do. I need my sentences to be complete. And sometimes, I don't get the references and metaphors in a poem."

"Perhaps you will like my poetry. Would you like to hear some?" 

"You wrote them?"

"Yes, I am a poet also."

"Well..sure then. Try your poetry on me."

So he proceeded to recite his poetry in a serious, quiet, accented monotone. I don't remember what he wrote, mostly because I couldn't understand what he said. I remember thinking, My god, I am a prisoner here on the road to Delhi and a witness to his masturbatory engagement in self-absorption. Wait, is he hitting on me? How do I get out? Fortunately, my French friend leaned over and asked with intention, "And how is your husband doing, Sylph?" So I turned to answer her, and somehow, we made our escape.

Now, almost a year after the march, a Toronto friend invited me to her house. She said, "I have a visitor from India. Maybe you've met him before. You may enjoy meeting him now. Besides, I don't know what to do with him and I would really appreciate your coming over." So I went.

Well.

Of course her guest turned out to be that scholar-poet my French friend rescued me from in the march. The poet and I greeted each other enthusiastically and formally. That is, with clasping hands and hugs like long lost friends, and bows and utterances of "namaste, namaste" like strangers, just to make sure we cover all the bases. Okay, he greeted me that way. I would have settled for a handshake.

I gave him a mini pumpkin. T'is the season. He gave me a postcard of Ghandi's house. We inquired after each other's well-being and what we are doing. Turns out the man is a professor at a university in India and has author eight books on development. He's in Canada to promote his latest, something about causes, community and self-development, and is a visiting professor at a university in London, Ontario. He also has a wife and two almost adult children.

Then we talked about current events and I shot my mouth off about Sarah Palin and how much fun fodder she was. The poet scribbled in his notebook as I talked. We took my friend's dog out for a walk while she finished preparing dinner. I don't think the poet is harmful, just a little too intense, and maybe oblivious to or does not care what other people think. We walked - with me marvelling at how comfortable my sexy new ankle boots were, him pointing out every few steps the beautiful pink sky above then standing still with his palms faced up to feel the sky, as if meditating on the spot, while the dog sniffed and sprayed every tree and pole we passed to mark his territory.

After dinner, the poet said, "And do you like poetry?"

"I know that you write poetry."

"How do you know that?" he smiled.

"You read your poetry to me when we were on the march."

"Ah. I don't remember that."

"Yes, he also read us some of his poetry before you arrived today, Sylph," my friend and host chimed in. I thought I detected in her fear that he would read again.

"I think I am more interested in reading your new book," I said. So he promised to send me a PDF of his new book, with a hard copy to follow when he gets back to India.

Today, I looked up Indigo to see if he books were there. Sure enough, there they were. He's written on the Habitat for Humanity project, public space for art and reflection, the Waco massacre, development and global responsibility, and other subjects. He's a development sociologist.

But he is still an odd man and I took no pleasure in his company. In fact, I felt a need to guard myself in his presence. So I didn't invite him to Thanksgiving dinner even though he will be in town. My Toronto friend said, "I think we've already done our part."