This morning I noticed my dragon alebrije, Hugo, named after a friend who worked at Lucy’s Cucu Cabana in Puerto Vallarta for several years. The shop is gone and so is Hugo but the dragon lives in my house as a protector of great memories that might otherwise escape in the smoke and fire of my aging brain.
Hugo gave me the best advice I’ve ever received from a fellow reader: “the SECOND most foolish thing to do is to loan a book to ANYONE. The MOST foolish thing is to return a book that you borrowed.” He said it with a mischievous grin and a twinkle in his eyes. I had many wonderful discussions with Hugo. Sadly, he died of lung cancer a few years ago.
One night at a B&B in Oaxaca I woke up in the dark and heard someone coughing in the room next door. Out popped a memory of Hugo. All the short conversations with him hacked their way back into my head with each gasp, rasp, wheeze and choke. I might have been angry at the interruption to my peaceful sleep but I wasn’t. I was thankful for the memories. The next morning I sat outside on the deck and wrote a poem for Hugo.
Now, I’m not a poet. I have posted a number of poems on this blog but I am well aware that they don’t hold up. I’ve been of a mind to edit them, to try to make them better, but something else always gets in the way, a new blog, an idea for a book I want to write, my responsibility to cook lunch which is as close as I can get to a Zen experience.
I do acknowledge the idea of making poetry that has movement and clarity and rhythm. A friend told me once “because of your presentation I cannot get a feeling for movement and because of this the clarity is lost for me. So I broke out your poetry into what I took to be poetic lines, that is lines that inspire metaphor and rhythm and they came alive for me.” In other words, he rewrote a couple of my poems in a way he felt made them better. Of course, I should have taken the bait and recast my poems in light of his advice, but I didn’t.
So, consider this poem for my friend Hugo as a first draft. Maybe you can rewrite it in a way that tickles your bones. Feel free to do anything you want including ignoring it altogether. I write these blogs to keep a record of my thoughts and because I enjoy the diversion from having to face the other things I should be doing, and whether anyone reads them or not is irrelevant to that purpose although it is gratifying when I hear that someone does read them and especially when they take the time to comment. Suit yourself. Here’s the “poem.”
For Hugo (from Oaxaca 2012)
The coughing starts
in the middle of the night
deep within his lungs
always at the darkest hour.
I’m surprised
to be awake
and slightly annoyed
until I think
How frightened
Hugo must have been
to die alone. My friend.
The friend I hardly knew.
We spoke of books.
To lend a book
he said
was crazy.
To return a book
you borrowed,
that was crazier still.
Then he laughed.
I imagine
they found
a pile of books
by his bed.
Another cough
and another.
It must have been like this for Hugo
I thought
when he awoke
unable to breathe.
I heard him in the shop.
He said it was just a cold.
He didn’t have the money,
Or the strength,
to face
the truth.
“I boil some water on the stove,”
he said. “Put in the herbs,
and drape a towel
over my head. Breathe it in.”
A gentle man,
he wrapped the alebrijes
As if they were
his children.
My God,
it sounds terrible.
I think it’s coming from
The room next door.
Sounds carry in the night.
It’s easy to be deceived.
I don’t care
if it keeps me from sleeping.
It’s a small price
to pay
To hear Hugo
Speak again.
He knew my wife loved fish.
He told me about a restaurant
where the crab tacos
were to die for.
We got all dressed up,
and took a taxi.
It was a local place.
We looked like a couple of lost gringos.
He was right.
The fish was good.
Everyone smiled at us,
and we smiled back.
The next day
We went
to the shop
to pick up our stuff.
Hugo had everything
wrapped
and ready
to go.
It must be
about two o’clock
in the morning.
The coughing goes on and on.
Later
I ask
the young man
next door.
He says
he’s getting better
just like Hugo.
We shake hands.
I tell him
“Next year I’ll be back.”
Oh yes, next year.
I’ll be waiting for you.