“Hi. How are u tomorrow I wana
go to a picnic I invite u if u come”
The texter appears deficient
in English syntax and this quote is only relevant because it
provides clarity on how subsequent events occurred, and, maybe, it also provides
a small comedic hook.
Naturally, I agreed to
attend the picnic, even though I was somewhat of the skeptic because “tomorrow”
happened to be December 26th and Kurdistan is not warm in the winter. I was also hesitant because, as the text
foreshadows, it seemed evident there would be moments of miscommunication. The linguistic obstacles the traveler
encounters are enjoyable, at first, but in pessimistic moods the novelty is
more exhausting than entertaining.
I met up with the picnic
crew at Soran’s market. After careful
deliberation we bought the appropriate amount of meat, chicken, pita and
vegetables. Then, we left the city chaos and checkpoints to make our way
through the mountains of Kurdistan. We followed a road guided by a clear stream
being fed by meltwater. We picked a spot to settle between mountains and, after a
short climb, we made our temporary campsite. A fire was prepared along with the food, and, before long, glowing embers were making meat edible.
I was soaking up the panorama and, giving nature a nod of approval, I told my friend, “I could write a poem
about this.”
He translated the message. A serious mood settled on the picnic party and the once cheerful faces, now
worried, scattered to find pen and paper.
I tried to quickly explain that my expression was figurative, and that by
wishing to write a poem, I was merely suggesting that the environment was having
an effect on me; obviously if my former statement lacked clarity, the later explanation
appropriately increased the urgency of the search. Everyone began flipping coats and pulling out
pockets for a poem that was never intended to be written.
In an exhale of relief, a loaded
quill was found and the innocent side of a receipt was provided.
There I sat with four sets of eyes waiting for me to write. I wrote things down, but didn’t think they would ask me to read the scribbles; why would they? They didn’t understand English. Then, trying to hand the pen back, with Gabriel’s prodding, I was compelled to recite. Well, the absurdity of the request also makes it equally absurd to refuse. Would you deny your voice to a tone death audience? Or your paintings to owners of braille bruised fingers?
So I read my poem; and
knowing that the words mattered little, but inflection of voice and animation
of hands were paramount, I recited accordingly.
After the curtain closed on my short, bard-like drama, the four men erupted in applause. I returned the claps with a congenial nod downward and we resumed our poetry blessed feast.
After the curtain closed on my short, bard-like drama, the four men erupted in applause. I returned the claps with a congenial nod downward and we resumed our poetry blessed feast.
I may retire from poetry. I reached the pinnacle. What better stage than steep escarpments;
what better ushers than shepherds, what better aisle than a babbling brook; and
what better audience than my four jolly, Kurdish brethren.
I briefly wondered what
elements of this experience were fraudulent: Was the applause earned? What
actually was applauded?
