"on finding Antler"
July 5, 2001, 10:15 p.m.

I read an article today about a man I know of.

He is a poet.

He is the first real poet I've ever met.

His name is Antler.

Although Antler probably doesn't remember me from Adam (or should I say Eve), he was one of the first friends of my older sister Audrey who I truly enjoyed knowing.

I met Antler when I was 12 years old and he was a young man who sometimes would come over to the house among the group of friends my sister would bring home.

Antler was the only one who spoke to me. Antler was the only one who listened to me and no one else listened to me except my other 12 year old friends.

Usually I was kicked out of whatever room my older sister's friends came into.

If I was in the kitchen, and my sister's group of friends entered the room, I was soon commanded to leave.

I was invisible until I was not wanted there.

Antler always took the time to pay attention to me.

To my 12 year old eyes, he was handsome, non-threating and I of course secretly fell in love with him. He so reminded me in those days of Peter Tork of the Monkees. And he would talk to me. He noticed that I was alive. I loved him for that.

I always snuck into the same room when Audrey's friends came over, knowing I didn't have long before getting kicked out.

Antler always came to the house with his best friend Jeff. It was Jeff and Antler. Neither one just being referred to by their individual names. It was always "jeff-n-antler". Jeff was nice to me too, but honestly, Jeff didn't happen to remind me of Peter Tork of the Monkees like Antler did. And although Jeff would look at me, he really didn't see me. (Sorry Jeff, but it's true.)

Antler really saw me. Or at least he made me believe he did.

I also liked him for the fact that he liked poetry. I wanted to like poetry because he did. I wanted that connection. It was then I began really reading poetry. I graduated myself from children's rhymes and began my journey to appreciate the art of poetry as a means of expression.

I of course had to announce to the world how much I now liked poetry.

It wasn't a very big announcement. Hardly anyone listed. But somehow someone did because for my 13th birthday I received my very own book of grown-up poetry, "Listen to the Warm", by Rod McKuen. I treasured it and understood it and if i didn't, I pretended to understand it. I imagined myself in a beret standing reciting the poetry out loud as if it were mine. Then somehow along the way, for some reason I cannot remember, I became embarrassed. Stifled. I no longer read the poetry out loud. I wrote poetry in my own secret notebooks. But I began to love poetry - from Blake to Ferlinghetti. It was the start of my own journey.

And from time to time over the years, I saw Antler's poetic journey grow and expand into something extraordinary.

I watched him and read his poetry. Admiring it. Admiring him.

I still do.

So when I came across this page today, I was thrilled. The picture on the page shows an older, wiser, seasoned Antler. But his eyes are the same. The eyes of a man who really sees you. The eyes of a man who listens.

The eyes of a poet.

Photo/Ronald M. Overdahl