Passing By
He emerged ecstatic from a public facilities structure
that stands about midway along Monterey’s breakwater pier.
His assortment of frayed garments and numerous shabby bags
marked him as a homeless man. Waving his arms, shouting
happily to all passers by—all seeming indifferent, all occupied
with pursuits of their own — he declared to the air,
“I just took a shower! I performed a public service!”
Caught up in his exuberance, I gave him a thumbs-up.
My reward was immediate: “You have a beautiful smile!”
he shouted directly to me as I kept on walking, still smiling,
warmed by his recognition and this opened connection--
quick, unexpected—between us, disparate strangers,
in this, but a moment in each of our days.
I was walking for my pleasure and health.
I’d go home when I was done, whenever I felt like it.
He was one of the many men and women I pass
on my frequent walks through Monterey, a city
where the well-heeled and the have-nots exist side by side.
Couples dine in pleasant, lamp-heated outdoor cafés
within sight of the cold and the hungry who sit on the sidewalk
with propped up signs that spell out their need, accepting
in grim silence the coins and small bills that occasionally fall
into their upended hats or other makeshift containers.
I pass by, drop a coin, when one is handy. It is never enough.
Not to make a difference. And, yes, I talk to those wishing for
contact. It is never enough. What do I know of coin-operated
showers, where two quarters will give you three minutes of water,
three quarters give four and a half, and the change-maker’s broken?
What do I know of a life with no place to sleep or even to pee?
An existence where food can’t ever be taken for granted?
My tokens—smiles, talks, coins—are just salves I apply to my guilt
that I won’t do enough, won’t take one who’s hungry to dinner,
won’t invite a homeless woman even to rest or wash up at my house.
I am one of the many who don’t. I avert my eyes. I pass by.
On Being Ill
Considering how common illness is, how tremendous
the spiritual change, . . . it becomes strange indeed that illness
has not taken its place . . . among the prime themes of literature.
Virginia Woolf, On Being Ill, 1930
She’s the one who never says no to a project
no matter how challenging, how time consuming.
She defies the forces of aging and illness just because
she’s alive and feels nature’s power and laughter
as she trudges on paths by the sea or on forest trails
where juncos hop in her path and birds she can’t name
perform evensong in the pines. She’s the woman
who bears my name. She is absent. I miss her.
In her stead is someone whose face in the mirror
matches the one I’ve seen through the years, but
the sparkle I’m used to seeing is missing. This one
constantly sits in my favorite chair because each task
fatigues. She obsesses over her aches and frets over
what they might mean. She meets with her friends
mainly to ward off deep depression. It’s the same
for a concert, a play, a poetry reading— she will go
or else die. And taking a walk through the forest
or down by the sea is merely a duty for health.
This woman usurps my good name. I don’t like her!
She clings, spreads sticky shadows, dark thoughts.
Where is that original one? Will she resurface to battle,
reclaim her rights to my name face and place?
She must --
I’ll need her as I engage in the bout that’s ahead,
the one we’re all destined finally to lose.
Marina Romani’s work has appeared in a variety of print and on-line literary journals, including the CWC Literary Review, Homestead Review, Porter Gulch Review, previous issues of the Monterey Poetry Review, and the Canadian Poetry Pacific. She is the author of two books: Child Interwoven (2016), a collection of memories in poem and prose of Marina’s early childhood, spent in China and the Philippines during the years of World War II and its aftermath; and Chiaroscuro Eye (2018), a set of poems that view varieties of experience through an interplay of light and shadow. For the books, see Amazon.com
He emerged ecstatic from a public facilities structure
that stands about midway along Monterey’s breakwater pier.
His assortment of frayed garments and numerous shabby bags
marked him as a homeless man. Waving his arms, shouting
happily to all passers by—all seeming indifferent, all occupied
with pursuits of their own — he declared to the air,
“I just took a shower! I performed a public service!”
Caught up in his exuberance, I gave him a thumbs-up.
My reward was immediate: “You have a beautiful smile!”
he shouted directly to me as I kept on walking, still smiling,
warmed by his recognition and this opened connection--
quick, unexpected—between us, disparate strangers,
in this, but a moment in each of our days.
I was walking for my pleasure and health.
I’d go home when I was done, whenever I felt like it.
He was one of the many men and women I pass
on my frequent walks through Monterey, a city
where the well-heeled and the have-nots exist side by side.
Couples dine in pleasant, lamp-heated outdoor cafés
within sight of the cold and the hungry who sit on the sidewalk
with propped up signs that spell out their need, accepting
in grim silence the coins and small bills that occasionally fall
into their upended hats or other makeshift containers.
I pass by, drop a coin, when one is handy. It is never enough.
Not to make a difference. And, yes, I talk to those wishing for
contact. It is never enough. What do I know of coin-operated
showers, where two quarters will give you three minutes of water,
three quarters give four and a half, and the change-maker’s broken?
What do I know of a life with no place to sleep or even to pee?
An existence where food can’t ever be taken for granted?
My tokens—smiles, talks, coins—are just salves I apply to my guilt
that I won’t do enough, won’t take one who’s hungry to dinner,
won’t invite a homeless woman even to rest or wash up at my house.
I am one of the many who don’t. I avert my eyes. I pass by.
On Being Ill
Considering how common illness is, how tremendous
the spiritual change, . . . it becomes strange indeed that illness
has not taken its place . . . among the prime themes of literature.
Virginia Woolf, On Being Ill, 1930
She’s the one who never says no to a project
no matter how challenging, how time consuming.
She defies the forces of aging and illness just because
she’s alive and feels nature’s power and laughter
as she trudges on paths by the sea or on forest trails
where juncos hop in her path and birds she can’t name
perform evensong in the pines. She’s the woman
who bears my name. She is absent. I miss her.
In her stead is someone whose face in the mirror
matches the one I’ve seen through the years, but
the sparkle I’m used to seeing is missing. This one
constantly sits in my favorite chair because each task
fatigues. She obsesses over her aches and frets over
what they might mean. She meets with her friends
mainly to ward off deep depression. It’s the same
for a concert, a play, a poetry reading— she will go
or else die. And taking a walk through the forest
or down by the sea is merely a duty for health.
This woman usurps my good name. I don’t like her!
She clings, spreads sticky shadows, dark thoughts.
Where is that original one? Will she resurface to battle,
reclaim her rights to my name face and place?
She must --
I’ll need her as I engage in the bout that’s ahead,
the one we’re all destined finally to lose.
Marina Romani’s work has appeared in a variety of print and on-line literary journals, including the CWC Literary Review, Homestead Review, Porter Gulch Review, previous issues of the Monterey Poetry Review, and the Canadian Poetry Pacific. She is the author of two books: Child Interwoven (2016), a collection of memories in poem and prose of Marina’s early childhood, spent in China and the Philippines during the years of World War II and its aftermath; and Chiaroscuro Eye (2018), a set of poems that view varieties of experience through an interplay of light and shadow. For the books, see Amazon.com
