What can poetry do?

Sometimes you get an email message that makes writing these things called poems seem that much more important! Case in point...(shared with permission of the email writer):

Subject: To the Murdered Larry King
Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2008 17:10:05 -0700

Mr. Hennessy,

....I am a 9th grader at Santa Ynez Valley Union High School, in California.

Over the last two months, our school has done a peer training program involving the Anti-Defamation League, for which I was selected and in which I participated.

On March 5, we held a peace walk in memory of Lawrence King. It began on our campus and ended in a neighboring town four miles away. 70 people participated-- nothing compared to Oxnard's thousand, but enough to get our tiny conservative town to notice anything at all.

I read your poem at the service, Mr. Hennessy. I found it deeply moving, as did my teachers and peers. Thank you for your words.

My response:

I can't tell you how much your email means to me. A poet writes, of course, because he or she feels compelled to speak. However, it means so much more to know that readers find the work out there and find in it something that touches them. I only wish I had happier things to write about; Larry's death is just so senseless.

Students like you and your peers make me have faith in your generation! Keep up the great work and spread the love.

Peace and poetry,

Christopher

To the murdered Larry King, Oxnard, Calif.

Tuesday, Feb. 13, 2008, 15-year-old Larry King was shot in the head in his computer classroom in Oxnard, Calif. He was later pronounced brain dead. This poem was written on Feb. 15, 2008, as Larry's killer faced hate crime charges for allegedly targeting the eight h-grader for wearing makeup, jewelry and high heels and telling people he was gay.



You selected lilac
fingernail polish,
a touch of peach
blush, and deep
purple eyeliner
the day before
you were murdered.

I am making this up,
the make-up colors.
For all I know, you
wore makeup so little,
so rarely, no one noticed
but the boys afraid
of how their skin pricked,

their pricks tensed
when you cast
your eyes down
as you passed them
in the halls.
In the news photo
you could be coy,

shy...or maybe
you know something --
your smirk worthy
of Mona Lisa,
but with your full lips
and eyes like saucers
full of sweet, spilt coffee.

Tell them to sing
"Long Time Gone"
at your funeral, Larry.
I know you prefer the trio --
Nothing against Mister Young
I can hear you say -- but
we all need an elegy these days.

When you shot hoops,
I hope your earrings jangled.
caught the sunlight
and spun rays of color
as if from a prism.
I hope a pretty bracelet
warms your wrist.

Even though we are
a nation of little boys
with clenched fists,
you wanted to sing
The Star-Spangled
Banner at your little bro's
baseball games.

Your diabetic mamma
is asking the blank-faced
reporter, Who
will remind me
to take my shots? Who
is going to feed Jasmine?
The name you gave the stray

dog who would only come
for you. Did you prefer
the canary or cream petals?
'Poet's Jasmine' for the perfume?
Or Arabic for the tea?
Why can't I stop
wishing you'd shot first?

During the days
your gone mind hummed
in your living body --
its gifts waiting to be 'harvested'
(the heart, a tiny gourd,
the kidney, summer beans?) --

I would, if I could,
give your purgatory
this one memory:
losing yourself
in the black glisten
of anise licorice sticks
hooked and dangling

in Bubbling Springs,
(Snagging crawdads!
For real!) -- and conjuring
a boy, his eyes wet, black,
his skin scented with jasmine,
his voice whispering,
I wish I had your smile.