My brother Drago is a Catholic Buddhist. He has been lighting many candles in hopes of influencing the choice of new Pope. I hope this works and Drago has a say, because he knows what he's about, whether it's teaching yoga, explaining the basic concepts of Singularity to me or to someone with a chance in hell of understanding what he's talking about, or 16th century English literature--which brings me, in a clunky segue, to me.
As you may or may not know, I have written a collection of poems and it has been published by The Linnet’s Wings and is available on Amazon and through Create Space. For some reason, if you buy it on Amazon, I, the actual author, only get $1.47 out of the $16.00 price. If however, if you buy it from https://www.createspace.com I get $4.67. It is called One Day Tells its Tale to Another, and I’ve put my reviews, which are also on Amazon where the book has a 5 star rating, (but don’t buy it there!) on my website, http://www.nonnieaugustine.com. So, that’s about that. I do not like having to promote my book this way, but there you go. I’ve never been businesslike and I’m not just saying that to sound artistic. When I was four I decided I wanted to be a ballerina, and decisions like that one have kept on coming throughout my life--dancer, special ed teacher, obscure poet. I did pretend to be a secretary at one point, but I wasn’t very good at it, and I had only a vague idea about what my boss did. My secretary days were after I stopped dancing and before I started teaching. There were also a few stints at waitressing that taught me many things about myself and life that I hadn't learned in dance class and, happily for me, I got a poem out of them. It’s in my book. Oh, hell. I’ll post it here because you may not buy my book just to read my poem about waitressing.
THE FRIENDLY WAITRESS
On my two-top young lovers gaze at each other and share
her linguini, his prime rib. He butters her bread and she purrs.
Three salesmen drink and eat and stare at my body.
I try not to mind; they'll tip me 20%.
Our king, the Chef, rules his steamy realm
with steely eyes, paces his rum. Before closing
he’ll be maudlin, desperate. The sous chef flirts,
quips, chops and slices. We like him for his cheer.
The old Greek grunts as we pick up his exquisite meringues,
tarts and layer cakes. Dishwashers talk trash in broken English--
not the paper-pale junkie. His silence is frantic.
I hoist my tray with six covered dishes. My back and feet
scream “Quit!” At my six-top a tired toddler's flung
mashed potatoes at his sister, the floor, their table.
If I clean up the mess now, I’ll fall behind; drinks wait
at the bar for the three-top, I need to take a dessert order
from the lovers, clear the four-top because the fucking
busboy is hopeless. Two more years and I'll be a teacher.
Will I make it? Will I still be kind?
Lest you think this collection, which you may or may not be thinking about buying is full of swear words (it’s not--just a few) or dour, here’s a wonderful thing that a poet friend did to my great delight and surprise. He made a video of himself reading one of my poems. Gabriel grappled with a line or two and he kept that in his reading, but I love it all the more for that. (I am writing in a peculiar voice today. This is something that happens from time to time. It may be because I am embarrassed about promoting my book. Dunno.) Here’s the link to the video:
