Poetry Group, The White Cane and Poem: Introduction of Artificial Intelligence into my Body

Mary Brucker is a blind poet from Glenside, PA. She attends our Coffeeshop Writers Group at Weinrich's Bakery in Willow Grove plus many other poetry groups in the Philly area. She travels with a large case on wheels she pulls behind her plus her white cane to find her way. She works as a social worker at an agency for the blind.

At yesterday's poetry group she read one of her wonderful poems, "September Looms," about her memories of 9/11. I sat next to her and lent her my new Chico's zippered jacket cuz she was cold. I'd gotten a $100 gift certificate and if you're me, you end up spending twice the amount of the gift certificate. I had Linda dress me at Chico's - "I'll take care of you, I'm looking out for you" - and I came away w/five different pair of slacks which are the hardest things for me to find.

We had a good turnout at the group, maybe 10 people. Interesting people including a Jehovah's Witness, a devout Christian who goes on retreats w/his wife, a UPS worker, two trashmen, a waiter, a birder, a woman w/schizophrenia who pours out poetry every time she breathes and an old friend of mine who billed herself as "a mental health consumer."

"Please," I said, "this is not a support group. We all have issues, every single one of us." She's a brilliant woman and one of our best writers. The piece she ended up reading was not only magnificently written but was cathartic. As a kid she'd teased someone and felt guilty about it for forty years so she turned the experience into a piece of flash (short) fiction. Freud calls that sublimation, don't you Siggy, you darling poodle you?

I read a poem I'd composed that morning. One day when I was driving I saw a sign at a nearby church reading "How do you want to spend eternity?" I do have a rule, Never read signs on churches b/c they're usually so awful, but this one caught my eye. I began typing up a poem but another poem came out instead entitled "Upon the Introduction of Artificial Intelligence into My Body."

What we do is pass out copies of our work. The writer reads it aloud, once or twice, and each reader critiques the copy and then returns it.

I love these people!

You should read the great comments they put on my poem. "Darth Garbage," one of our trashmen, wrote on my poem:

"I must despise the world that does not realize magic is a greater revelation than all wisdom and philosophy." - Beethoven

When the group was over, for once I wasn't in a rush to leave. My Rosh Hashonah dinner had been cancelled. Scott's mom had an infrequent bout of sciatica so she'll reschedule. I said to Mary, the blind woman, I'll be happy to drive you wherever you're going.

We walked out, arm in arm, and I tucked her into my car. She automatically seat-belted herself and we drove to Nature's Harvest, a nearby health food store.

"Aren't you scared to travel all over the city?" I asked as we got out of the car.

"Nah," she said. "The only thing that's scary is crossing the street."

"Yes," I said, "cars go terribly fast."

She said she taps the curb w/her cane and that guides her. She learned in the fourth and fifth grades at a school for the blind.

"Okay, we're going up a huge curb," I said, leading first. She takes the bus all over the city. She has a great philosophy that more people in New Directions should espouse: rarely stay home. She goes to as many poetry readings as she can. So many of our people isolate themselves. They can't think of a darn thing to do to get out of the house.

This morning I'm taking Scott to my favorite Italian grocery store, Altomonte's in Warminster. We've run out of olive oil and want to price it. Scott buys the hugest tin and refills my bottle. He uses it as a hand and body lotion and lubricant. This morning I made us some delicious moist scrambled eggs cooked in olive oil and butter. We had my dense whole wheat bread made w/blueberies.

UPON THE INTRODUCTION OF ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE INTO MY BODY

welcome to my body
I wished the pneumococcal vaccine
as it fled the clear plastic tube
with a whoosh
and entered my arm

make yourself at home
I've never been inside my highways
of blood
that tumble with traffic old and new
movement furious
clatter of horseless vehicles
- salutations to the polio vaccine of my childhood –
the tetanus that protected me from the nail wound
in the backyard treehouse –

this morning’s dark bread and butter
paddles by in altered form
the congestion is fierce
sloughed off by portals of exit
too numerous to name

come evening
when the sun doffs its hat
I’ll play for you a quartet
Schubert’s Trout
and will serenade you
o river of life
my highway of desire
Mississippi of my body
for you are the earthly representative
of who I am

let the music soar to the ceiling
the dancing beads of joy
the only true way I can express
my love for you
my adoration
my rockbottom thankfulness
till day is done.