3 Weird? Or wonderful?

Paris takes patience, and patience takes work. So I go to work in my studio every day. When I walk to work, I never go the same way twice. I like to wander, remember? Sometimes I pass a construction site. Actually, I always pass a construction site because the city is always changing. They are building someone’s dream, I think. Another tall building with condos is not my dream, but it is someone’s dream.

I stop at the corner of every street. Most corners have big wooden poles for street lights and traffic lights and signs that say “Do this!” or “Don’t do that!” People staple posters and papers to these poles. There are often many layers. A person can easily learn the history of the city. They can remove each layer and read what is below it.

I stop at the corner of the next street. I add another layer of history to the pole in front of me. Maybe I can’t sell a book yet. But I can share a poem with other people. I believe my poems make their day better. Creativity makes the world better.

My studio is an office for my creativity. It’s where my creativity gets to work, gets the job done, gets busy. And my best friend Quang is already there, working.

Quang is an artist.

“Wait,” you say. “Poets are artists, too, aren’t they?”

Yes! You are right. Poets are artists. Dancers are artists. Actors are artists. Musicians are artists.

Quang is a visual artist. He’s a painter. Quang paints invisible paintings.

I met Quang four years ago among the sculptures outside of the Portland Art Museum. The museum is in two old brick buildings. They are near the Park Blocks downtown. The two buildings stand side by side. They look like two strangers waiting for a bus. There is a very small park (not the smallest park in Portland, but still very small) with large pieces of interesting art (not the largest art in Portland, but still very large).

It rained (of course). Quang held a very strange umbrella. It looked upside down and inside out. The umbrella caught the rain, and the water ran out of spouts on either side of Quang. When he didn’t walk carefully, the water hit nearby people. They gave him funny looks. They thought that he wanted to play a joke on them.

Quang was not at the museum to look at the paintings, the drawings, the photographs or the sculptures. He wasn’t there to see anything. Quang was there to listen to what other people said. He wanted to learn what they did not like about art. And then that is exactly what he would paint — invisibly.

Everybody says, That Quang is weird!

But think about it: invisible paintings of art that people do not like and inside-out, upside-down umbrellas. Is that weird? Or is that wonderful? I think it’s genius.

I nod my head slightly at Quang as I enter our studio. I go to my big, old metal desk and my big, old metal chair with wheels. I sit down to write. My chair squeaks.

“A writer must write,” people say.

So I close my eyes. I say the first three things I see:

Mr. and Mrs. Borgen-Yorgen
Cookies
Rainy weather in Portland

Really? I ask myself. Are those the best things I can think of? Ha!

Well, I say to myself, at least it’s a challenge. And at least my poems do not need to rhyme. (Many poets write poems that rhyme, but I do not have the time. Ha!)

Then I stop and think, why not? Give it a try.

Give it a try.
Look me in the eye.
Let it fly.
Do or die.
Easy as pie.
Shouldn’t I–
— at least —
give it a try?

Wait. That isn’t the poem I want to write. I pour myself a cup of coffee. I think again about how I should start. Then I remember Japanese poems. They are called haiku.

A haiku is a special kind of poem. It has three lines. The first line has five syllables. The second line has seven syllables. The last line has five syllables. And they usually talk about something in nature, like rain. I try to think of a haiku:

Watching Portland rain,
the Borgen-Yorgens whisper,
“We need more cookies.”

Ha! I type the words on my big, old metal typewriter quickly before I forget them. And then I decide that I want something sweet. I think of the candy store across the street.

I go to Quang. He is painting an invisible picture of a husband and wife. They are eating cookies in the rain. At least, that is what I see.

“Let’s get some candy.”

We walk downstairs. We walk across the street to Randy’s Candy. We open the door, and there is Randy. He says, “Here!”

Quang looks confused.

Randy puts some candy in our hands.

“Try this shandy candy.” he says. “How is it?”

“Dandy,” I say.

“That’s dandy shandy candy, Randy” adds Quang, though it is difficult to understand him with his mouth full of candy.

Shandy is a drink. It is beer and lemonade. It is bitter and sweet at the same time. I concentrate on the taste of the candy. I remember a poem by my friend Max:

Lemon groves. Full moon.
Sylvia’s yellow dress.

Great ideas come from anywhere. Sometimes they come from yellow lemons. Sometimes they come from Mr. and Mrs. Borgen-Yorgen eating cookies in the rain.