Elevation
Elevation I can feel myself being elevated. I have to admit, I’m not the biggest fan of going to church. But today, I feel it. Maybe it is because I was dreaming again, romanticizing poetic notions like crazy. Maybe it’s because God is lifting me up through beautiful words of poetry. Because indeed, the hymns being sung are the purest poetry, as great as any poet, whether Donne or Eliot. But, I’ve gotta say, before we get to anything else, Dante is by far my favorite poet. Ever. He’s by far my biggest poetic hero, the poet that I would stand by until the very end. My name’s Micah Smith. I can’t talk. It’s not as bad as it seems, though! People usually think that people that can’t talk have a harder time, and that’s true to some degree, but I do very well, in general. I speak through sign language, which, in my humble opinion, can create some pretty fascinating poetry. The way we accentuate hand movements to put emphasis on certain ideas, the way we move in general, is a kind of kinetic and dynamic wordplay. It’s pretty cool that silence is my friend. I also can’t hear. Yeah, yeah, I’m deaf. Not that I don’t mind admitting it, though. It’s always interesting walking around everywhere, because I can see mouths moving, some of which are probably speaking poetry, but I can’t actually hear what’s being said. I don’t know what sounds sound like. I don’t know what anything sounds like, lost in any soundscape like a kid lost in the wilderness. Sometimes, when I’m lucky, I can read lips, but that’s hard. I usually just stick to sign. Regardless, it’s always like being around silent noise. I’m pretty young. I turn ten in November. I’m actually not that excited, though, about that, to tell you the truth. You can do more things when you’re ten, because you’re a little older, but I like where I am at now. I wouldn’t change a thing. As you can probably tell, I’m definitely indeed a poet. I write a ton of poetry! I devour books by the handful, and then when I’m done, devour even more. I just can’t get enough of poetry. To me, I’ve read so much poetry that I could say that everything is poetry. Everything will always be poetry. The sun, the moon, the clouds, the stars, a single blade of grass, a butterfly or a ladybug, a sparrow, my parents. And speaking of parents: my Mom’s sitting beside me, reading from the hymn book. I can’t hear any of it, and because I can’t talk, I’m of course not singing. But that doesn’t mean I’m not signing. I want God to hear my poetry, hear my voice, even if I can’t speak directly to Him. Maybe that’s why I like Dante so much. Maybe that’s why Dante is my poetic hero. Because, he elevated poetry to the language of God. I hope that isn’t too much praise for the poet, but that’s my thought. He’s an immortal bard, sometimes better than Shakespeare, and even better because he predated Shakespeare. It would make sense, though. Dante’s literary theory does indeed try to tap into a deep relationship to God. The whole book seems to be a quiet and meditative quest on finding God, or realizing how far away from God you are, and what to do to get closer. I don’t know if I believe in God, I can admit. Sometimes I believe in God though, just because of how blessed I am … and also because Dante believed in God, so why wouldn’t I listen to my poetic hero? That divine bard of the Ages? I can’t really say what it is I like about Dante. There’s the whole fact that he put vernacular Italian on the map, but that seems like a mere footnote compared to all of the things
he did with language and poetry. His language is beautiful, at the very least. Beautiful is in fact an understatement! My Mom taps me on the shoulder. I turn to her. You okay, kid? I can tell you’re in the clouds again. Yeah, I sign back. I’m fine. I’m just drifting. Thinking about Dante. My mother smiles. A loving, warm smile. I see a dove in her smile, I think I even see an angel in her smile. I think that’s why I like Dante. His poetry seems to be everywhere, ethereal and omnipresent, particularly when you get to Paradiso. Suddenly every simple gesture, whether a smile or a hug, seems to hold the weight of a thousand lines of poetry, holds a divine light that no one could ever squeeze out, holds a white light that’s purer than anything, really. I wouldn’t be all that surprised if when, Dante died, he rose from the ranks of Great Earthly Poet to God’s Universal Poet. Of course for the reasons I’ve mentioned already. Regardless: I can feel myself elevating. I can’t explain why, or how. Maybe because I’m thinking about Dante and his elevated poetics. Maybe because I can feel my spirit growing, like a rose in sunlight. I’m traveling on a higher and higher plane of existence as the moments move by, going from the Inferno to Purgatory to Paradise. And nothing can stop this great ascension. My mother puts her arm around me, and then we sit down. As we sit down, that’s when I begin to drift. Spiritual calling … I look around, and that’s when I see letters start to float in the air. The letters literally came from nowhere. I see an L, and then an O, and then an E, and then a V. I know what it’s going to spell, of course, but the letters are out of context right now, scrambled and just floating in the air. I wonder if I should point this out to my mother. I decide against it, for two reasons: one, because I’m so fascinated by the letters, and two, because I know my mother is listening intently to the lesson. Dad would be here, but he’s out working. Anyway, I watch as the letters continue to fly around. The typescript is old fashioned, and definitely in italics. It looks like someone wrote out the letters in a fancy and distinguished cursive. I watch as the letters continue to move, and that’s when I get an idea. I’m not quite sure what to do with my idea at first. I’m not sure what my idea signifies, in a semiotic sense. I’m not sure if it signifies the abstract concept of freedom, or language unfettered, or something else entirely. But I imagine myself leaving my home for a while to go out on an adventure. I imagine leaving my family. You’re probably wondering what I would do during that adventure. That’s a good question, but it’s also self-evident: share poetry, of course! I think if I did that, it would be hard, because a lot of people can’t speak sign language, but I think it would be worth a try. I could get on a corner, and just start signing my poetry, as it comes spontaneously, or poetry I’d written in the past. It would be completely noninvasive; if people are in tune enough with the poetry and the world around them, they would pick up on my poetry. I start to give it some serious thought, and that’s when I decide that I think it’s what I want to do. What would I lose? Mom probably won’t completely like the idea, of course. And I understand. It is dangerous. But as I watch the letters move onto the wall and spell the word Love, I start to think that it is my spiritual calling nonetheless. I couldn’t say if God for sure would want me to do this, but
I wouldn’t be surprised if He wants me to. I hope it’s inspired by God, because then poetry could be raised to the status of Poetry. It could be divine language, but for real. That thought makes me happy, I have to admit. I turn to my mother, who is listening intently to the message. I begin to sign, and she notices, turns her head. Hey, Mom. I’ve been doing some thinking. What is that, kiddo? she signs. I’ve been thinking about … going on an adventure. I’ve been thinking about becoming a poet that travels the world, or at least the state. A poet that isn’t bound by any kind of institution, that shares his poetry with anyone and everyone who crosses his path. I want people to hear my silent noise. My mother looks intrigued at the idea, but also a little bit uncomfortable. She looks up at the pastor for a moment, then turns to me, and signs: Do you think you would be cut out for that? You know the world can be a scary place sometimes, and it would be hard if you go on your own. I smiled, and signed, Yeah, I know. It would be scary. But it would also be exhilarating. It would be worth it because it would give me the experiences I need to become a professional poet. It would teach me things. When would you want to leave? I don’t know. Maybe after church? Give me some time to think about it, Micah. I know already: it’s a yes. I mentally give Dante a high five. It seems he’s been looking out for my poetic interests, my linguistic excursions. It seems indeed that my spiritual calling is going to try and fulfill itself, and rise to the ranks of Beatrice. This makes me happy, I have to admit. It makes me super happy, at the very least. Think of all the things I could learn. Think of all the things I could do, all the people I would meet, all the poetry I’d get to listen to, in my silent way, and share. It sounds like a dream life. I lay back in the seat. I can’t deny that what I’m considering is a risk. I know my mother is thinking I’m too young to be skipping town, but a poet has to do what a poet has to do. Poets are language vagabonds by trade, like a kid outlaw. As Mom listens to the pastor talk, I can’t help but think and wonder what they are talking about. They usually have someone sign for me, but the person who usually signs for me was sick today, and Mom is the last person to make a fit when I’m not accommodated, because as she sees it, she doesn’t want me to be spoiled and given extra attention. Mom knows if I was interested enough in the lesson, I could read lips, and that’s good enough for her. She doesn’t believe in spoiling me with attention, or putting me down a peg just because I’m mute and deaf. In short, she doesn’t see them as disabilities. I’m not disabled in her eyes. But anyway, today, there’s no need to listen to the pastor. God has spoken to me through poetry, and through a vision. A very powerful vision. I can already see where all of this is going to go. I can already see myself being elevated through poetry. And not just poetry, of course, with a mortal lower case “p,” but Poetry: immaculate, divine, perfect, immortal. The lesson finally ends, and Mom grabs my hand gently and leads me outside. Her hand is warm and soft, and very, very comforting. We go out into the parking lot, and I look at the small car, which I know I can get into, if I want to. I can get inside that car, and forgo my adventure for a safe place to sleep, for a warm meal, and a warm bed to sleep in after morning
church. However, the road before me (metaphorical of course) also looks pretty tempting … but not in a daredevil sort of way, of course. I’m not about to bite into the forbidden fruit of the metropolis, here. Are you sure this is what you want? my mother signs. I nod. It’s awfully brave of you. I don’t know what got into you … maybe the spirit of poetry, or the Muses. But I think you’re tough enough to do it. I think God will keep you safe. I think so too, I sign. I wouldn’t worry about me. I’m going to be okay. I’m going to be elevated, through language. Through the beautiful quiet noise of poetry. My mother smiles, and then hugs me. Okay, kid. If that’s what you want, I’ll let you go. If you ever need anything, you know where to find us. I smile. Any other mother would have thought I was crazy, said no, and locked me in my room for a month, grounded. But I knew that my parents had a different way of looking at the world. They saw it as a safer place than the average human would. I think it was because they believed in the power of poetry to insulate a fellow poet and keep him safe. I think because they knew poetry could keep anyone safe. My mother nods, and then she gets in the car and drives away. For a moment, I’m not sure what hit me, if this has really happened. It’s like being stranded in a surreal dream. But then I know what I need to do. I start walking on the sidewalk. I have no idea where I’m going. Maybe just searching for true contemporary poetry, I don’t know. Like I said, I haven’t figured out what the semiotics of my idea means. I don’t know what the semiotics of my adventure will signify. But that’s okay. I’ve never felt closer to poetry. I’ve never felt closer to hearing sounds, and speaking my poetry.
he did with language and poetry. His language is beautiful, at the very least. Beautiful is in fact an understatement! My Mom taps me on the shoulder. I turn to her. You okay, kid? I can tell you’re in the clouds again. Yeah, I sign back. I’m fine. I’m just drifting. Thinking about Dante. My mother smiles. A loving, warm smile. I see a dove in her smile, I think I even see an angel in her smile. I think that’s why I like Dante. His poetry seems to be everywhere, ethereal and omnipresent, particularly when you get to Paradiso. Suddenly every simple gesture, whether a smile or a hug, seems to hold the weight of a thousand lines of poetry, holds a divine light that no one could ever squeeze out, holds a white light that’s purer than anything, really. I wouldn’t be all that surprised if when, Dante died, he rose from the ranks of Great Earthly Poet to God’s Universal Poet. Of course for the reasons I’ve mentioned already. Regardless: I can feel myself elevating. I can’t explain why, or how. Maybe because I’m thinking about Dante and his elevated poetics. Maybe because I can feel my spirit growing, like a rose in sunlight. I’m traveling on a higher and higher plane of existence as the moments move by, going from the Inferno to Purgatory to Paradise. And nothing can stop this great ascension. My mother puts her arm around me, and then we sit down. As we sit down, that’s when I begin to drift. Spiritual calling … I look around, and that’s when I see letters start to float in the air. The letters literally came from nowhere. I see an L, and then an O, and then an E, and then a V. I know what it’s going to spell, of course, but the letters are out of context right now, scrambled and just floating in the air. I wonder if I should point this out to my mother. I decide against it, for two reasons: one, because I’m so fascinated by the letters, and two, because I know my mother is listening intently to the lesson. Dad would be here, but he’s out working. Anyway, I watch as the letters continue to fly around. The typescript is old fashioned, and definitely in italics. It looks like someone wrote out the letters in a fancy and distinguished cursive. I watch as the letters continue to move, and that’s when I get an idea. I’m not quite sure what to do with my idea at first. I’m not sure what my idea signifies, in a semiotic sense. I’m not sure if it signifies the abstract concept of freedom, or language unfettered, or something else entirely. But I imagine myself leaving my home for a while to go out on an adventure. I imagine leaving my family. You’re probably wondering what I would do during that adventure. That’s a good question, but it’s also self-evident: share poetry, of course! I think if I did that, it would be hard, because a lot of people can’t speak sign language, but I think it would be worth a try. I could get on a corner, and just start signing my poetry, as it comes spontaneously, or poetry I’d written in the past. It would be completely noninvasive; if people are in tune enough with the poetry and the world around them, they would pick up on my poetry. I start to give it some serious thought, and that’s when I decide that I think it’s what I want to do. What would I lose? Mom probably won’t completely like the idea, of course. And I understand. It is dangerous. But as I watch the letters move onto the wall and spell the word Love, I start to think that it is my spiritual calling nonetheless. I couldn’t say if God for sure would want me to do this, but
I wouldn’t be surprised if He wants me to. I hope it’s inspired by God, because then poetry could be raised to the status of Poetry. It could be divine language, but for real. That thought makes me happy, I have to admit. I turn to my mother, who is listening intently to the message. I begin to sign, and she notices, turns her head. Hey, Mom. I’ve been doing some thinking. What is that, kiddo? she signs. I’ve been thinking about … going on an adventure. I’ve been thinking about becoming a poet that travels the world, or at least the state. A poet that isn’t bound by any kind of institution, that shares his poetry with anyone and everyone who crosses his path. I want people to hear my silent noise. My mother looks intrigued at the idea, but also a little bit uncomfortable. She looks up at the pastor for a moment, then turns to me, and signs: Do you think you would be cut out for that? You know the world can be a scary place sometimes, and it would be hard if you go on your own. I smiled, and signed, Yeah, I know. It would be scary. But it would also be exhilarating. It would be worth it because it would give me the experiences I need to become a professional poet. It would teach me things. When would you want to leave? I don’t know. Maybe after church? Give me some time to think about it, Micah. I know already: it’s a yes. I mentally give Dante a high five. It seems he’s been looking out for my poetic interests, my linguistic excursions. It seems indeed that my spiritual calling is going to try and fulfill itself, and rise to the ranks of Beatrice. This makes me happy, I have to admit. It makes me super happy, at the very least. Think of all the things I could learn. Think of all the things I could do, all the people I would meet, all the poetry I’d get to listen to, in my silent way, and share. It sounds like a dream life. I lay back in the seat. I can’t deny that what I’m considering is a risk. I know my mother is thinking I’m too young to be skipping town, but a poet has to do what a poet has to do. Poets are language vagabonds by trade, like a kid outlaw. As Mom listens to the pastor talk, I can’t help but think and wonder what they are talking about. They usually have someone sign for me, but the person who usually signs for me was sick today, and Mom is the last person to make a fit when I’m not accommodated, because as she sees it, she doesn’t want me to be spoiled and given extra attention. Mom knows if I was interested enough in the lesson, I could read lips, and that’s good enough for her. She doesn’t believe in spoiling me with attention, or putting me down a peg just because I’m mute and deaf. In short, she doesn’t see them as disabilities. I’m not disabled in her eyes. But anyway, today, there’s no need to listen to the pastor. God has spoken to me through poetry, and through a vision. A very powerful vision. I can already see where all of this is going to go. I can already see myself being elevated through poetry. And not just poetry, of course, with a mortal lower case “p,” but Poetry: immaculate, divine, perfect, immortal. The lesson finally ends, and Mom grabs my hand gently and leads me outside. Her hand is warm and soft, and very, very comforting. We go out into the parking lot, and I look at the small car, which I know I can get into, if I want to. I can get inside that car, and forgo my adventure for a safe place to sleep, for a warm meal, and a warm bed to sleep in after morning
church. However, the road before me (metaphorical of course) also looks pretty tempting … but not in a daredevil sort of way, of course. I’m not about to bite into the forbidden fruit of the metropolis, here. Are you sure this is what you want? my mother signs. I nod. It’s awfully brave of you. I don’t know what got into you … maybe the spirit of poetry, or the Muses. But I think you’re tough enough to do it. I think God will keep you safe. I think so too, I sign. I wouldn’t worry about me. I’m going to be okay. I’m going to be elevated, through language. Through the beautiful quiet noise of poetry. My mother smiles, and then hugs me. Okay, kid. If that’s what you want, I’ll let you go. If you ever need anything, you know where to find us. I smile. Any other mother would have thought I was crazy, said no, and locked me in my room for a month, grounded. But I knew that my parents had a different way of looking at the world. They saw it as a safer place than the average human would. I think it was because they believed in the power of poetry to insulate a fellow poet and keep him safe. I think because they knew poetry could keep anyone safe. My mother nods, and then she gets in the car and drives away. For a moment, I’m not sure what hit me, if this has really happened. It’s like being stranded in a surreal dream. But then I know what I need to do. I start walking on the sidewalk. I have no idea where I’m going. Maybe just searching for true contemporary poetry, I don’t know. Like I said, I haven’t figured out what the semiotics of my idea means. I don’t know what the semiotics of my adventure will signify. But that’s okay. I’ve never felt closer to poetry. I’ve never felt closer to hearing sounds, and speaking my poetry.
