Beraki Wordsmith

         I asked Beraki, a new acquaintance, to repeat himself.
         “I write poetry.”
         Beraki was from somewhere in Africa but now lived in Minneapolis where he and I had met through the communal nature of cigarette lighters. Eventually he asked me to read some of his poetry and I obliged, intrigued. The first was about the Irish, since he had asked me of my nationalities. Before long I had read through around ten to twelve poems and he had given no indication of running out or moving on with a poem for every nationality I could name and some that I couldn’t.
         While I read, he began sorting through nearly twenty-five plastic sleeves filled with poems while repeatedly glancing at me with transparent hopes of some clue of my opinion; a slight upturned lip corner, a nose twitch, a small quick breath. The mammoth backpack at his feet held volumes more than what was slap dashed on his table, blanketing everything except his cup of tea and a book about the inner ear. Beraki was a former medical student and had taken over 200 credits since his arrival, he told me between poems.
         In his backpack, Beraki had three self-published books of prose. Each one appeared to be about 150 pages or so in grey and white three ring binders. Beraki’s poetry was all very similar, an ode to one nationality or another brimming with historical notes and name-dropping with substance. It was as if I had met the standard of judgment in the end days, the selfless poet with enough love to go around. Would a world of Berakis be an improved world? According to his verses, yes, but the monotony would put you to sleep as Beraki watched, tucking you in with stacks of static poetry.
         This separation of humility interfered when he asked me for feedback. His writing was pale next to his intentions and through his broken English he asked for truth.
I couldn’t give him truth; his yellowed-clear sleeves of poems; the self-published prose; the wrinkles around his dark eyes.
         ”If I read this in a book, I would stop reading,” is what I wanted to say, “this is boring, repetitive language,” but they way he looked straight into my eyes and the wisdom I could see in his dry knuckles stilled my critical tongue. Perhaps Beraki was real and his language was repetitive because what more could one truly say than:
“This poetry is in
Honor of all Irish
People.”
My poet, yearning for alliteration, enjambment, metaphor, simile, imagery, anything, wrestled violently with my philosopher, drunken on idealism.
         I told him I also wrote poetry and had some with me, hoping he’d read it; a one- for-one feedback session was fair. He kindly, assertively showed no interest in my writing, I was let down but suddenly relieved. What would’ve Beraki thought of my poetry? I could picture him, looking up from the page with a sour look on his face. It was a judgment I was not prepared to receive whether I would agree with it or not.