Teodros Kiros - Two Dogs

Philip

18 December, 2009 | Teodros Kiros (PhD)

The street lamps just turned on, when I went to Brattle street in
the middle of January, when the trees lost their leaves, but stood
tall and ready to face the raging New England winter. The street
lamps wore bright yellow color, adding a joyous luster to an
otherwise austere street. Philip ward lived alone on that street
for thirty years, until he died at the age of 58, from
complications of manic depression.

I remember Philip with his finely sculpted nose, his long fingers,
his thin lips, and his intense eyes born to desire women, when
Philip was in his early forties.

When Philip turned fifty, his nose became puffy, his lips
quavered as he spoke, his hands shook when he greeted you,
and he could hardly walk without a cane.

Philip was a librarian during the day and a consummate poet at
night. He wrote every single day, and had accumulated over a
thousand poems, which he refused to publish during his lifetime.
He used to say to his friends that does he does not like to mess
with publishers; his heart cannot take those rejection letters.
He ones told his daughter that she should deal with publishers
after he passes away and that he has resolved to write what ever
he could until it is time to go.

His living room walls were decorated with pictures of women of
different ages. Some were conservatively dressed. A few were
naked women. With teary eyes, he used to say. “ Oh. Those
women on the wall, how they contributed to my joy, I must add,
freely given joy”

A poem, which he wrote days before his death, celebrates his
love of women.

Eveline sat comfortably on a high chair
Puffing smoke to the air.
Troubled by the world
Smoked her worries out
Inhaled the perfumes of
A man who just walked by
Rolled her eyes and swayed her hips
She smelled freedom itself
Uncluttered by fear
Those round green eyes
Said it all
I am free
How about you?