Dedicated to Hannah:
No matter where you end up, no matter what degree is after your name, no matter what job you land. I know that you will always be the epitome of this poem, forever discovering little details that change how the rest of us see life that make it fresh and beautiful in a way we would have never seen.
"Advice to Young Writers" by Ron Padgett
One of the things I've repeated to writing
students is that they should write when they don't
feel like writing, just sit down and start,
and when it doesn't go very well, to press on then,
to get to that one thing you'd otherwise
never find. What I forgot to mention was
that this is just a writing technique, that
you could also be out mowing the lawn, where,
if you bring your mind to it, you'll also eventually
come to something unexpected ("The robin he
hunts and pecks"), or watching the FARM NEWS
on which a large man is referring to the "Greater
Massachussetts area." It's alright, students, not
to write. Do whatever you want. As long as you find
that unexpected something, or even if you don't.
Advice to Young Writers
Dive
It's long, but trust me. So worth it. Best thing I've read in a long time. Thanks Hannah!
"Dive" by Andrea Gibson
i often repeat myself
and the second time's a lie
i love you
i love you
see what i mean i don't
...and i do
and i'm not talking about a girl i might be kissing on
i'm talking about this world i'm blissing on
and hating
at the exact same time
see life---doesn't rhyme
it's bullets...and wind chimes
it's lynchings...and birthday parties
it's the rope that ties the noose
and the rope that hangs the backyard swing
it's a boy about to take his life
and with the knife to his wrist
he's thinking of only two things
his father's fist
and his mother's kiss
and he can't stop crying
it's wanting tonight to speak
the most honest poem i've ever spoken in my life
not knowing if that poem should bring you closer
to living or dying
drowning of flying
cause life doesn't rhyme
last night i prayed myself to sleep
woke this morning
to find god's obituary scrolled in tears on my sheets
then walked outside to hear my neighbor
erasing ten thousand years of hard labor
with a single note of his violin
and the sound of the traffic rang like a hymn
as the holiest leaf of autumn fell from a plastic tree limb
beautiful ---and ugly
like right now
i'm needing nothing more than for you to hug me
and if you do
i'm gonna scream like a caged bird
see...life doesn't rhyme
sometimes love is a vulgar word
sometimes hate calls itself peace on the nightly news
i've heard saints preaching truths
that would have burned me at the stake
i've heard poets tellin lies that made me believe in heaven
sometimes i imagine hitler at seven years old
a paint brush in his hand at school
thinkin what color should i paint my soul
sometimes i remember myself
with track marks on my tongue
from shooting up convictions
that would have hung innocent men from trees
have you ever seen a mother falling to her knees
the day her son dies in a war she voted for
can you imagine how many gay teen-age lives were saved
the day matthew shepherd died
could there have been anything louder
than the noise inside his father's head
when he begged the jury
please don't take the lives of the men
who turned my son's skull to powder
and i know nothing would make my family prouder
than giving up everything i believe in
still nothing keeps me believing
like the sound of my mother breathing
life doesn't rhyme
it's tasting your rapist's breath
on the neck of a woman who loves you more
than anyone has loved you before
then feeling holy as jesus
beneath the hands of a one night stand
who's calling somebody else's name
it's you never feelin more greedy
than when you're handing out dollars to the needy
it's my not eating meat for the last seven years
then seeing the kindest eyes i've ever seen in my life
on the face of a man with a branding iron in his hand
and a beat down baby calf wailing at his feet
it's choking on your beliefs
it's your worst sin saving your fucking life
it's the devil's knife carving holes into you soul
so angels will have a place to make their way inside
life doesn't rhyme
still life is poetry --- not math
all the world's a stage
but the stage is a meditation mat
you tilt your head back
you breathe
when your heart is broken you plant seeds in the cracks
and you pray for rain
and you teach your sons and daughters
there are sharks in the water
but the only way to survive
is to breathe deep
and dive
The Pain of Change
No words can convey how much I needed to hear this:
"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another." — Anatole France (French Poet)
Soon after, I ran into this poem excerpt. Though it wasn't written by me, it is for you from me, dear friends. You to whom I am extremely close and you whom, from a distance, I see hurting everyday.
from "Saint Francis and the Sow" - Galway Kinnell
The bud
Stands for all things,
Even for those things that don’t flower,
For everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
Though sometimes it is necessary
To reteach a thing its loveliness,
To put a hand on the brow
Of the flower,
And retell it in words and in touch,
It is lovely
Until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing.
It's tough, and sometimes the pain is immeasurable. But be brave and hope.
(Source)
Turned Around
First set is my favorite. The message was sent to Frank Warren of PostSecret, which he forwarded to the PS community:
May God bless you with discomfort
At easy answers, half-truths and superficial relationships
So that you may live deep within your heart
May God bless you with anger
At injustice, oppression and exploitation of people
So that you may work for justice, freedom and peace
May God bless you with tears
To shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, hunger and war
So that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and
To turn their pain into joy
May God bless you with foolishness
To believe that you can make a difference in the world
So that you can do what others claim cannot be done
To bring justice and kindness to all our children and the poor
This is the Real Tao
I found this poem years ago and came across it in a Word file while searching for something to read for open mic:
“This is the Real Tao” by Bob Engel
Anyone unwilling to settle for ready-made philosophy
must learn to stitch together something suitable
from the scraps life hands us--
and so:
if the bolts aren't rusty
and the wood doesn't split
and the plastic bags provided contain all the right parts,
then I
must balance
that with the times when
I go to the hardware store twice
and return twice
with the wrong bracket, the too-long bolt.
When I hit the nail on the head,
I recall the day it was my thumb
and account the sweet thunk of steel biting wood
to comfort my old injury
and do this without dimming the pleasure of today,
a day when things go unaccountably right.
The Way of Love
I'm struggling with religion. I feel like I'm fine spiritually, but I've had a hard time finding much positive in church or vespers anymore. Much of it seems like a show, my ears pick up nothing but clichés I've heard for years, and I see so much more hatred and judgement than love and understanding. But beyond all these (and a few more), maybe it's me. I'm fully willing to admit that. So because religion only presents as a negative at the moment, and I have quite enough negative in my life, I'm putting it on hold for now.
When I was home for Thanksgiving, my mom asked me to say something before the meal from a devotional or the Bible or whatever. Hesitant, I accepted. And avoiding clichés being a main concern, I pulled out my parent's The Message Bible. Not sure what would be appropriate, I flipped to 1 Corinthians 13. If church was in line more with this chapter, I might be in a pew across the block right now. This is what I read for Thanksgiving:
1 Corinthians 13 — The Way of Love
Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.
Love never dies. Inspired speech will be over some day; praying in tongues will end; understanding will reach its limit. We know only a portion of the truth, and what we say about God is always incomplete. But when the Complete arrives, our incompletes will be canceled.
When I was an infant at my mother's breast, I gurgled and cooed like any infant. When I grew up, I left those infant ways for good.
We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!
But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love.
