# 14 - Chapter Fourteen "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

It Hurts to Say Goodbye

Chapter Fourteen  – El Siegel 

When I started writing poetry, or I should say trying to write poetry, I usually sat at my desk in my office on the second floor of my Queen Village row house overlooking the street. There was jazz or classical music coming from the radio on one of the office’s bookshelves on my right. Before writing a word, I closed my eyes and tried to form images of the scenes, the people and ideas I wanted to express. Then I took pen in hand and scribbled any words or phrases that came into my mind on plain, white sheets of paper. 

Little by little, the phrases got longer and longer and stretched into sentences and then groups of sentences and then pieces of a poem. Sometimes I reread my scribbles and new words and phrases came to me, and I wrote as fast as I could to capture the ideas before I lost them. Sometimes I would stop, and nothing came to me. But more often the words and the ideas would seem to break free, and I became only the scribe recording what that separate entity, my mind, told me. 

Yes, Faith was right. She had a firm belief in the creative power of the subconscious. 

Only later would I start recording parts of my text on my computer screen, and then playing with the drafts, choosing different words or moving sections from here to there. Gradually, the text improved, and I made other decisions, like deciding to repeat one line over again, or moving couplets around for a more logical progression. 

The whole process could go on for one session after another over several days and even longer. In fact, the creation of a poem might never really end. Weeks later, I sometimes pulled up a text and changed just a few words.

That was the ideal. What I had to admit was that my first results were meager, and I had to struggle session after session, step by step to make slow progress toward expressing my ideas in concise language that would grab people emotionally. 

A lofty goal, but I kept trying.  

-0- 

Now, here’s my latest effort and the most important so far in this account. 

It was early evening at the beginning of summer, almost three months since I first met Faith. From my desk, I watched people walk past on the sidewalk across the street, people walking their dogs, or carrying shopping bags, or pushing strollers with babies. Cars drove by on the street, sometimes barely creeping forward, obviously their drivers were looking for a parking spot. 

I don’t know where the idea came from, maybe from a newspaper article or a report on the television news, but I started to think about abusive husbands or lovers, the male side of too many couples. Thinking back, I remembered hearing stories of abusive mates and of some men I’ve known who had a hard time controlling their tempers. 

And maybe it was because, way back when I was in high school, I had this naïve idea: I considered myself a protector of girls. Now it sounded silly, but maybe it still influenced my thinking. 

Me, I’ve always been a peaceful person with only one exception I could think of; in high school, I once told a bully what I thought of him in the least elegant terms, and the result of our short fisticuffs was that I actually saw stars and got my nose broken. 

Back to writing: Something happened inside my head. Ideas were forming. I started to imagine a young guy who loved a woman, and he begged her to help him control his temper. He knew he had a problem: At moments he couldn’t predict, some force beyond his control took over. 

I started to think about the advice Faith gave me: She told me I had a talent, a special gift. I could inhabit another persona, see the world from that persona’s point of view and then transmit that persona’s thoughts into a distinctive voice.

Something spoke to me, and words and phrases started sounding in my mind. I copied them as fast as I could: 

“talking and appealing to lover, 

“a scene in a restaurant, 

“wants a new life, 

“help me, save me, 

“the good and the bad, 

“the angel and the monster, 

“I love you, I do, 

“but there’s this other thing, 

“I’m feeling love, but then it changes.” 

Some of these phrases I was able to develop into sections, like this one: 

Bein’ with you in that little place, our favorite,

All dark and warm, and the dinner smellin’ fine.

Man, you’re lookin ‘ good, the candlelight on your face.

The old guy’s thinkin’ he’s helpin’, servin’ you more wine,

I’d sit there forever, jus’ watchin’ your smile, 

This was a manufactured persona, it was not me, it was not El Siegel. Throughout my life, I raised my voice only on rare occasions when I was upset. I have never gotten involved in a bar fight. I have never struck a woman. And, except for my single high-school fisticuffs, I always avoided fights. Where did my non-violence come from? I thought about it, and I decided I had my Mom and Dad to thank. 

More phrases came to me, and I copied them down: 

“I’m begging for help, 

“I know I’m wrong, but I can’t control it, 

“I can’t control myself, 

“there’s something inside me I can’t control, 

“please help me, 

“it’s a cry for help, 

“I love you, 

“I don’t know what I’m capable of, 

“violence, I don’t want to hurt you, 

“I’m an angel and a devil.”      

I worked and worked, and I developed several sections of the poem: 

Don’t know why it happens, jus’ can’t say, 

I’m feelin’ all itchy and startin’ to shout. 

Don’t know who’s to blame, but it just don’t matter,

Just closin’ my fists and feelin’ like badder. 

Feelin’ that old black cloud takin’ over me,

I’m wantin’ to shout and jump up and down,

A heat buildin’ up in me, an’ I’m getting’ madder,

Shoutin’ and actin’ tough, makin’ me feel badder .

 

Every once and a while, I felt that rhyme made a poem stronger. I didn’t know an easy explanation, but for some reason a well-placed rhyme ties lines together and unites ideas. The reader or listener can sense this. So, for this poem, well-placed rhymes added to the meaning. Finding the right rhymes was an entirely new challenge. 

One section I put so much work into that I believed it was good enough to repeat several times: 

I got an angel in me, 

And it can reach the sky. 

Got an angel in me, and it’s gotta fly. 

But I got a monster in me,

Oh man, he’s mean and he’s wicked.

Got a monster in me, and he’s gotta roam free. 

Just like about everything in life, poetry has its highs and its lows. I’ve suffered failures, when I had such high hopes for a work, and then it just failed to take off, no matter my effort. Something just blocked it. But I’ve enjoyed wonderful successes when so many ideas and words flowed from my mind that I could declare I was on a poet’s high. 

But real success comes from the listeners’ or the readers’ reaction. The poem succeeds when it touches them with its ideas and emotions. 

After all of that work, I had my final product, and I knew I had to read it at “Wonder Words.” 

The next session of “Wonder Words” was four days away. I decided that I would write my name on the open mic list and then recite my new work to the whole crowd. I didn’t see Faith for several days, and it was important for me to show her my progress. Before the coming Wednesday, I had to prepare for what I hoped would be my appearance. 

In my humble home, I must have made the walls vibrate, because I recited my text over and over again. I knew that I would not be able to recite from memory, like Faith, but I wanted to recite the text so naturally that the audience wouldn’t focus on me, but only on the meaning of my work. 

And, understanding that the reception a poem gets also depends on the voice and the look and the movement of the poet, I changed my voice just a hair to match the character, and I decided when I would raise or lower my voice. And, I knew I would forget when I appeared in front of the group, I studied my stance in front of a mirror. 

I wanted to prepare as much as I could. 

-0-

Wednesday arrived. Downstairs at Gertie’s Pub, when Rebecca brought me a Guinness, I told her that I’d be reciting a new poem, and she promised to try to run upstairs to catch it, if she could. It depended on how busy she was, and whether the barkeep Clyde would give her the nod. 

And I chatted briefly with Bruce Moore. He told me “Wonder Words” was attracting more and more members, and now he was scouting out new venues to give more poets a chance to recite their work. 

“Look’it, when I first got involved with this crew, I thought I’d be able to help the team grow and write poetry myself,” he told me. “Well, not this time around. It’s so important for these folks, all these folks, to share their ideas. So, for me, all the admin took over. Maybe I’ll get to write poetry some day, but not at the moment, not right now.”  

Bruce said he had to get up to the second floor to prepare the space. 

I looked around for Faith. Sure, I wanted her to be there. But I remembered she had told me that she was getting more and more last-minute tasks from the lawyers in her office, and she was arriving later and later at Gertie’s. 

Once I climbed up the stairs to the second floor, I was bowled over by crowd, the most people I’d ever seen so far for a “Wonder Words” session. They all looked happy to be there, chatting away and laughing and, of course, keeping up a good rhythm of drinking. 

Me? I was nervous. I couldn’t admit I needed it, but just a smile from Faith would’ve helped. 

Bruce checked out the sound system and gave his introduction. The featured poet climbed onto the stage, but I couldn’t pay attention to his reading. It went right past me. I kept thinking about the mistakes I could make when it was my turn during open mic. Would I stumble while reciting my text? Forget the short intro I wanted to make? Act above it all or superior, which I sure didn’t believe? 

I had a copy of my work’s text in a manila envelope on the table in front of me, and I kept wondering if I should take one last look at it. I decided against it, and I took one more sip of my Guinness several times. 

My name was the fourth on the open mic list. Waiting for my turn seemed like hours, and at the same time I lost track of the time passing.

Finally, Bruce introduced me. I walked the three steps up onto the stage, and he handed me the mic. I waited several long moments. I began speaking:

“Yeah, I’m El Siegel. I’m sure some of you’ve noticed that I been coming in pretty often over the last few months, and I wanna tell you I finally decided to recite one of my works. It’s called ‘An Angel and a Monster.’ It’s the story about a guy that’s got a problem. I just wanna say that the poem’s fiction, and the guy’s not me. I made him up. I hope you like it, and thanks for giving me this chance.”  

Suddenly, a light on the other side of the room caught my eye, and I stopped. I saw the heavy curtain at the top of the stairs open, and Rebecca walked into the space. She looked at me and waved.

But the velvet curtain didn’t close. Mr. Clean, Lee Stanhope, walked in and stopped. He was blocking the entrance, and it looked like he wanted to keep someone out. But then I saw Faith push past him and step out onto the floor. I saw her smile, and then she waved to me. 

I knew what I had to do. I felt a new confidence, and I saw Faith standing there, watching me. 

I began speaking. 

 

AN ANGEL AND A MONSTER ®

You know how much I love you, Babe, 

Thinkin’ ‘bout you every minute, every way.

And you know how much I want you,

‘Oh yeah, I wanna make you my wife,

‘Cause I’m gonna love you every day o’ my life.  

And you know just how it’s gotta be, 

But I gotta tell ya, I gotta say . . .  

I got an angel in me, 

And it can reach the sky. 

Got an angel in me, and it’s gotta fly. 

But I got a monster in me,

Oh man, he’s mean and he’s wicked.

Got a monster in me, and he’s gotta roam free. 

The night we met, everything was right.

We kept on talkin’, had so much to say.

The folks ‘round us jus’ droppin’ outta sight.

I knew it was good, just no pretendin’, 

When the time came, and I held you so tight, 

I felt like a stupid kid, jus’ floating away.

But I gotta tell ya, I gotta say . . . 

I got an angel in me, 

And it can reach the sky. 

Got an angel in me, and it’s gotta fly. 

But I got a monster in me,

Oh man, he’s mean and he’s wicked.

Got a monster in me, and he’s gotta roam free. 

Oh Babe, sometimes I’m in such a mood,

A mood like I’m losin’ everythin’, and just don’t care, 

Feelin’ that old black cloud takin’ over me,

I’m wantin’ to shout and jump up and down,

A heat buildin’ up in me, an’ I’m getting’ madder,

Shoutin’ and actin’ tough, makin’ me feel badder .

So, Babe, I gotta tell ya, I gotta say . . . 

I got an angel in me, 

And it can reach the sky. 

Got an angel in me, and it’s gotta fly. 

But I got a monster in me,

Oh man, he’s mean and he’s wicked.

Got a monster in me, and he’s gotta roam free. 

Bein’ with you in that little place, our favorite,

All dark and warm, and the dinner smellin’ fine.

Man, you’re lookin ‘ good, the candlelight on your face.

The old guy’s thinkin’ he’s helpin’, servin’ you more wine,

I’d sit there forever, jus’ watchin’ your smile, 

‘Cept when I’m walkin’ you home and feelin’ you next to me. 

 But Babe, I gotta tell ya, I gotta say . . .

Don’t know why it happens, jus’ can’t say, 

I’m feelin’ all itchy and startin’ to shout. 

Don’t know who’s to blame, but it just don’t matter,

Just closin’ my fists and feelin’ like badder. 

No stoppin’ me, no holdin’ me back.

Oh, if I could just stop this train I’m on, . . . 

Oh Babe, I gotta tell ya, I gotta say . . . 

I got an angel in me, 

And it can reach the sky. 

Got an angel in me, and it’s gotta fly. 

But I got a monster in me,

Oh man, he’s mean and he’s wicked.

Got a monster in me, and he’s gotta roam free. 

But I want you Babe, I wanna build our life. 

Love you so deep, I wanna make you my wife.

I don’t wanna hurt you, Babe, deep to the quick.

I don’ wanna take what we got and turn it sick.

Don’ lemme ruin what we got ‘cause I’m not my own man.

Feelin’ it’s comin’ again, and it’s gotta stop. 

I gotta tell ya, Babe, I gotta say . . . 

Oh, Babe, take me in your arms,

And beg me, keep you clear o’ my harms.

Oh, hold me close to your heart,

And tell me, it’s all gonna be all right.

You gotta help me be the man you want,

And help me, to keep the bad one back.

‘Cause, Babe, I gotta tell ya, I gotta say . . . 

I got an angel in me, 

And it can reach the sky. 

Got an angel in me, and it’s gotta fly. 

But I got a monster in me,

Oh man, he’s mean and he’s wicked.

Got a monster in me, and he’s gotta roam free. 

Hold me, Babe, and save me from myself. 

-0-

Before I realized, it was over. I did it. Yes, I was stiff, a little bit uncomfortable when I started, but as I spoke, I got into it, and my words felt good. I felt good. 

I dropped my head. I was exhausted. I just stood there with my mouth open. 

The room was silent. It seemed like a long time. 

Then, I heard just a few people clapping, and in a few seconds, a wave of applause filled the room. 

My heart felt full. My mouth broke into a big, wide smile. 

I held up my right hand and blurted out “Thank you, thank you so much.” I got off the stage and stumbled back to my chair. I didn’t know what to think. 

I did it. At least it was over with. Reality started to dawn, on me. They liked it. At least they clapped. I sat and listened to the other poets, there were five more to go. I felt relaxed and actually listened to them. Some of them were honestly good and got through to me. 

Then the session was over with. Bruce said a few words and thanked the attendees for coming. I stood and looked around for Faith, but I couldn’t find her. 

I was surprised when people I hadn’t yet talked to made a point of making their way across the room to approach me. 

One of the members, a good poet, pushed through the crowd. “No shit, man, you got it. You were him, whoever he was. You were really him. I could feel it.”

“Really, thanks,” I answered with true sincerity. “You know how it is. I sure put a lot of work into that baby.”

Another poet who recited her work on a regular basis grabbed my arm and said with a smile, “If that guy needs help, I’m willing to give it a try, that is, if he’s cute. But honest, it sounded real. It’s good to raise the issue.”

“Thanks, Rhoda.” 

Some other poets offered me their congratulations. They told me the poem felt real to them. The three words I heard most often were “authentic,” “convincing” and “emotional.”

I noticed that Faith, Bruce and Lee Stanhope were standing over by the bar. Faith turned toward me and smiled, and Bruce touched her arm, said something to her, and then he threaded his way through the people standing around and walked up to me. 

“El, I gotta compliment you.” He looked straight at me. “Your work, your presentation, you made a real impact. It was so good. I swear, I got new respect for you, honest.”

I was bowled over. “Bruce, that means a lot to me. Thanks so much, and thanks for being here, for me and – of course – for your whole crew.” 

 “Me? Like I was telling you, When I first met this crew, I wanted to express my ideas, write my own poetry. Well, guess what? I got so involved promoting this group, helping the group grow and helping each poet grow, so, guess what? I’m doing the business stuff, and I haven’t written my first poem yet.” 

“Bruce, you remember?” I asked him. “When we met, I don’t know long ago, you said if I needed help, you’d be there. Well, lemme say the same thing. I got a corporate background in marketing. Just remember, I’ll be there.” 

“I’ll remember, I will,” he said. And he turned to rejoin Faith and Lee Stanhope.”     

Little by little, most of the people at session were standing and getting ready to leave. I could see them looking around, maybe wondering who they would get together with for a last drink or a dinner out. The barkeep for the second floor was clearing and wiping down the tables. 

Of course, I wanted to celebrate with Faith. 

The room started to clear, and I noticed that Faith was still talking with Bruce and Lee Stanhope. Then she said something to the two of them and walked over to me. 

She took my arm in her right hand and held onto me. “El, that was wonderful.” 

I looked at her smiling face and said, “You know who I gotta thank. You can’t realize how much you helped me.”

“Oh, com’on,” she said. “You know I was right. You got talent.” 

She waited a few seconds, then, with an almost a sad look, she said, “Look, El, don’t wait for me. I gotta talk with these guys. They want me to help with editing the collections. Ya know, it’d be a way to give something back. How about Friday night?”

“Sure, that’ll be great. We’ll meet,” I said.

Faith kissed me on the cheek and skipped away. 

I turned and made my way down the stairs. On the first floor, I caught up with Rebecca. She was balancing a tray with maybe a half dozen full glasses, on her way to a table. 

“El, it was awesome,” she said. “Congratulations. By the way, I used to know guys like that. Never could help ‘em.”

I left Gertie’s and headed down 13th Street for my walk home. Sure, I felt good about how my poem was received. I kept thinking about the word “convincing.”