The Harmonica That Said Breathe

On a Tuesday night at A Little Slice of NY on 3rd Street in Camden, a room full of people gathered to do something wonderfully old-fashioned: read poems out loud to each other.

My friend Rocky Wilson hosts Pizza and Poetry, keeping poetry and the soul of Walt Whitman alive for decades. Whitman spent his last years right here in Camden, and Rocky's gathering is a place where anyone can stand up and share. This month honored two poets who share a birthday, October 27: Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath.

Camden County honored Rocky in 2019, calling Pizza & Poetry one of the longest-running poetry series in New Jersey. I have been to many of these events over the years, and each time I am reminded why it has lasted. Rocky has provided an open space for poets and for those who just want to be a fly on the wall to experience the poetry live. You don't need to be a poet to attend.

I waited and listened. One by one, people stood and read. Rocky read Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night." One woman shared a lovely poetic piece about a caterpillar and the mystery of its transformation. When it felt right, I raised my hand.

With Halloween approaching, I decided at the last minute to share my poem “Ode to Poe,” which I wrote after wandering through his house and sitting in the garden by the raven statue. Then I read a short poem I wrote years ago about a bumblebee I watched one October, drinking nectar from a late flower as winter approached. I followed it with the final stanza of Plath's "Wintering," the poem she chose to end Ariel, where her bees make it through the dark and taste the spring.

At the end of the night, Rocky invited me to play a song. I'd brought the ukulele. Before the first chord, I shared a thought: Thomas wrote about keeping the light alive, and Plath wrote about rising from the ashes. My song "From the Ground" is about that same climb:

Now we rise, from the ground to the sky

Now we fly, through the clouds on high

Now we shine, through the dark like a star

Simple lyrics. But I've learned that the simple ones often have the most lasting impact.

As I played, I moved freely around the room, embracing the moment. I could feel it, and I knew the poetry of the night and my song were blending into a beautiful uplift. I watched heads nod, and a few people closed their eyes. I remember looking at faces and feeling the power of a subtle moment, maybe even a sacred one: full of presence and uplift, when the soul and heart are open, and the thoughts go quiet, even for a few seconds. In these moments, I am humbled and grateful.

The ukulele keeps teaching me something. It feels honest and liberating. Maybe pure is the word. It helps me carry a message where my words fall short.

Afterward, a woman approached me. She'd been at a Poetic Mindfulness program I led at the Cherry Hill Library more than a year ago, and she told me she still has the harmonica she took home that day. It has one word on it: Breathe.

I keep thinking about that harmonica. A small thing, sitting somewhere for more than a year, still carrying a moment. That's what real moments do when they're shared in a real room. They don't disappear in a scroll. They stay.

Thank you, Rocky, for keeping the room open. And thank you to everyone who stood up and read.

Screen down. Head up. Live now. 📵