If I Were a Poet

Living in a Body

If I Were a Poet

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If I Were a Poet

Episode 38 -- Late October in Ohio

Hal Walker

Oct 29, 2022

Hi. I’m Hal. Thank you for being here. I hope you’ll click the “Listen Now” button above to listen to the Podcast version of this publication. (12 minute listen) Also, feel free to share this post with a friend. Enjoy!

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If I Were a Poet

On Tuesday afternoon, riding on the middle path of Kent State University's front campus, I was overcome with beauty, grief and regret. Deep tears welled up from the wide ocean of my being. When I got to the fashion museum, I turned around to ride the path a few more times. As if the majestic Oak trees were asking me to feel these feelings all the way through, I bowed before their request. As I rode, it was the autumn who offered me her comforting assurance. The shimmering afternoon sunlight through the trees seemed to say, "This, my friend, is what it feels like to be alive."

As I continue to navigate the combined ache of aging, heartbreak and chronic illness, I think to myself there's got to be another side to all this feeling. So I keep returning to the middle path to feel some more -- one more pass through the autumn elegance of my hometown. Within my body, I’m carrying an era of healing after a year of loss, but in the great body, Ohio showed up to deliver one of the most beautiful weeks of the year. I'm grateful that I've had the strength to be outside soaking in it.

On Wednesday, after almost a week of stunning second summer weather, the rain finally settled in here in Kent. I settled in to do some writing. Thank you so much for joining me here.

If I were a poet, the words would fall on the page like the leaves falling from the maple tree in my backyard. I'd be the guy under the tree doing cartwheels while catching the leaves in both hands. I'd lay them out on a long table for all the children to see. The children would be the students from Davey Elementary School who walk by my house for their annual field trip of collecting leaves. This time they'd stop to say hello. With crossed legs on the sidewalk, they'd trace the leaves with paper and crayons. Their teacher would share some cool method that teachers have been teaching for generations and then their little hands would continue following every vein of every leaf variety in Ohio. While they were tracing, I'd be in the grass playing music. If I were a poet, the music would mix with the children's voices and the teacher would never tell them that they had to be quiet.

For several days in row, I’ve been out exploring the Fall on my three wheel electric scooter - to which I’ve recently given a name. I love this vehicle that I was inspired to name her. She deserves a name. By the way, my scooter has made it very clear that her pronouns are she, her and hers. She's very strong, very fast and very feminine. She zips around town like an NCAA sprinter. She offers me the freedom to fly around the city unfettered and I get to do it while exerting almost no energy. For a guy living with myalgic-ensephelo-fuckin'-myelitis, this is a game changer. So without further ado, I'd like to introduce you to my three wheel scooter. Her name is Melba. Melba, as in Melba Toast. Melba, as in, "Hello, Melba. Let's go for another ride."

If I were a poet, I'd write a poem about Melba. I'd tell you the way it takes just eight hours to get her battery charged up and the way it takes just a turn of the key to turn her engine on. She's got fat tires all the way around and all her power is driven from her two back wheels. Sometimes in the evenings, I practice accelerating with tight turns that lift her up on one back wheel for several seconds at a time. For a middle aged guy like me, it's risky and exhilarating and it makes me feel young again. On bumps, she gets a little clunky, but when the path is smooth, it feels like we're gliding — Low Key Gliding. I can't confirm it, but according to the speedometer on my phone, me and Melba have gone as fast as 25 miles an hour on a downhill slope. Usually, Melba suggests that I wear a helmet. She cares about me that way. Melba loves Ohio and she especially loves late October.

If I were a poet, I'd know just where to begin to describe the beauty of late October in Ohio this year. To tell you the truth, you sort of had to be there. I guess if I were a poet, I'd make you feel like you were there. If I were a weather man on the other hand, maybe I'd start by talking about the temperature. On Tuesday, October the 25th, Kent, Ohio was an amazing 72 degrees and sunny. The sun was low and deep - deep like my tears. This time of year in my part of the world, the light turns a shade of orange that makes the whole town glow like the most perfect picture postcard you could ever hope to send home to your parents. Truly, the light is stunning.

If I were a poet, I'd share this second summer with you like we were in a dance. You, me and Melba, arm in arm, spinning through some of the most heaven sent Autumn colors that any of us has ever imagined. We three would dance right through the middle of it all. Of course, there'd be a band playing in the wind and the moves would be called by God. We'd celebrate the dance as if we were at an annual dance festival. All the festival goers would be camped out in tents and all the tents would ooze blended shades of many fall colors. In the late afternoon, we'd break out the canvases and the paint. The yellows, the blues, the oranges, the reds and the greens would explode on the autumn page like our hearts explode inside the beautiful brokenness of our dancing bodies.

It may not seem like it from your perspective, but writing has been a real challenge for me lately. There are moments when this Substack feels like a burden. It's either that I'm running out of stories or that the stories are getting too close to home and too scary to tell. I mean, "what would they think if I said that?!" Melba and I talked about it the other day as we flew along the Cuyahoga River on the bike trail west to Munroe Falls. She said, "Maybe you should give poetry a try." I said, "Poetry? You know me, Melba. I'm no poet. I'm a musician. I'm a storyteller. I’ve written one poem in my life and I wouldn’t know where to begin to write another." Melba listened.

“Melba, I like telling stories where things happen. This happened, then that happened and then, can you believe it, after all that, this happened next. Often, the story ends with some parallel connection — a connection that gives the whole story a reason to be told. There’s usually synchronicity involved. But living with chronic illness, there's not a whole lot that happens. Alot of the time, it’s just me, home alone in bed. Sure, there's grief and beauty, color and light. There's wonder and tears. And there's a bunch of Zoom meetings -- and there’s the speed of your throttle, Melba, guiding us both through the orange light of October. But other than that, nothing much happens these days. If I were a poet, I’d find the poetry in all that." Melba's response was perfect. She just said, "I love you, Hal." I said, “Aw. Thanks, Melba.”

By Thursday, I had given up on my writing for the week. But I decided to go easy on myself and head out for another ride. After lunch, the sun came out and I hopped on Melba to see where she would take me this time. We did some nice wheelies in a local parking garage and eventually made it over to the Esplanade at Kent State. I stopped in at the Wick Poetry Center and acted like a student for a few minutes before heading on to front campus. I traveled my favorite quarter mile down the middle path and this time I didn't cry. In fact, this time, I think I was smiling. I turned a corner and discovered a hanging bench that I'd never noticed before. If I were a poet, I'd tell you all about that bench, but I'm just too exhausted. Trust me on this one and go see it for yourself sometime. I sat myself down on that bench and I put my feet up on Melba's saddle and I just stopped. For 30 minutes, I just sat there and I practiced accomplishing nothing. I listened to some chakra music in my AirPods and I looked out at the vast beauty of the sled riding hill, the old college buildings and the stunning fall colors. I felt relaxed, content and satisfied. Then I headed home.

At home, I was pleased to lie down for another half hour. I felt like I was glowing in my lack of accomplishment. When I got up, I sat down at my laptop and I wrote a title. It started, "If I were a poet..." And then these paragraphs just started flowing out of me. I started shaping, carving and sculpting the words and the paragraphs — kinda like a poet. I don't know if it qualifies as poetry or not and maybe that doesn't matter, but I know this writing came from a place of enjoyment. It came from a place of allowing myself to feel the feelings and allowing myself to accomplish nothing.

If I were a poet, I'd say thank you. Thank you for these words. Thank you for the mystery of this creative process. Thank you for the struggle and the breakthrough. Thank you for the illness and thank you for all the feelings. Word by word, paragraph by paragraph, we're gonna get through this. You, me and Melba.

Heck... maybe I'm a poet after all. Melba says, "Whoa, Hal. Don't get ahead of yourself now." And then she laughs out loud. Thanks everybody for reading and thank you so much for listening. As usual, have a wonderful Saturday and enjoy living in that body of yours. ❤️. Hal