Even after all this time
The sun never says to the Earth,
“You owe me.”
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights the whole sky.

This is by Billy Collins, one of my favorite poets.

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means

has always said he understands.

He’s always said he was ok. “Ok” without
warm arms around him for so long.”Ok” without
a warm breast to lie on.

You are “cool.” You’re his “really good friend.”
And he’s said that’s just fine. He’s ok.

But today, at 17, he lay in my arms and cried.

He told me how, when he was three, you
asked him if he’d like to live with you

or with his dad and he had wished he
didn’t know the right answer. He’d wished,

even then, that he hadn’t had to say “Dad.”
He’d wished that when he did, you
would have said “No!”

He had wished you’d wanted him.

And while his tears dampened my collar,
he told me that you said you’d never have
had children, if you’d known what it was like.

I want to call you “Sister.” I want to
write about our shared experience. I want to
see you as a part of my tribe.

I want to look into your heart and know
that you’re human–that
you’re woman–just like me.

But I can’t.

If I allow that blood runs through your veins
instead of ice, that your arid breasts
once made milk, I’d have to believe that
you’re more than a human tundra, that
there’s some light, some warmth inside you.

Sister, that is so hard to believe.

If I were to offer you a gift,
it would be to break you,
to get in your face and listen to you
until you can’t hide your pain,
until you are human again.

Until you cry
like my son cried
today.

An earthquake shook my shoes on Saturday night, and
my hat. It was centered, I am told, nine miles below
that first kiss, at Burnside and Thirty-first.

Nine miles seems far,
but the roots I pulled up to get to this place were planted
thirty times as far from that kiss, and long before
an earthquake shook the spot.

My grip on the earth was anything
but tentative, my massive body held firm
by roots that knew the ground
was one thing that would never
falter.

Tornados ripped roofs from houses.
Strong and supple and unconcerned, I bent. Wind
or stillness made no difference. I stood,
unmoved, I stood until your song–

I still remember–touched me, pulsed
my molecules, my very water. Dizzy

in the whirlpool of music, I extricate
myself from that soil, don the shoes
and the hat, brave the winds and
follow
that
sound.

Powerful enough a rhythm that my water boils
itself wet, dances, turns my molecules
mobius, lubricates its own salvation.

No longer planted in the earth, I stand
at this trembling crossroads, a new energy
holding me fluid-erect, soul of water, song
of water, awaiting the tsunami
I know will come.

I know the way you can get

by Hafiz

I know the way you can get,
When you have not had a drink of Love
Your face hardens,
Your sweet muscles cramp,
Children become concerned
About a strange look that appears in your eyes
Which even begins to worry your own mirror
And nose.

Squirrels and birds sense your sadness
And call an important conference in a tall tree,
They decide which secret code to chant
To help your mind and soul.
Even angels fear that brand of madness
that arrays itself against the world
and throws sharp stones and spears into
The innocent,
And into one’s self.

Oh I know the way you can get
If you have not been drinking Love:
You might rip apart
Every sentence your friends and teachers say,
Looking for hidden clauses.
You might weigh every word on a scale like a dead fish.
You might pull out a ruler to measure from every angle in your darkness
The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once Trusted.

I know the way you can get
If you have not had a drink from Love’s Hands.

That is why all of the Great Ones speak of the vital need
To keep remembering God,
So you will come to know and see Him
As being Playful,
and Wanting,
Just Wanting to help.

That is why Hafiz says:
Bring your cup near me, For I am a Sweet Old Vagabond
With an Infinite Leaking Barrel Of Light and Laughter and Truth
That the Beloved has tied to my back
Dear One,
Indeed, please bring your heart near to me,
For all I care about
Is quenching your thirst for freedom!
All a Sane man can ever care about
Is giving Love!

But now I’m reading his memoir, Broken Music. How that happened is this: I was looking up version of “People Get Ready”, and I found one that Sting sung with Jeff Beck on guitar. it was a weird performance… I wondered if Sting was upset or drunk or something. But one thing really stood out. Where all the other singers I’d heard said (regarding the “train to Jordan”, something to this affect,

There ain’t no room for the hopeless sinner
who would hurt all mankind, just to save his own…
Have pity on those
whose chances grow thinner…

… Sting sang instead,

There’s even room for the hopeless sinner
who would hurt all mankind, just to save his own.
Have pity on me…

I searched (and searched, and searched) and haven’t yet found any other version sung that way.

I’ve always had a soft spot for Sting, since I heard him interviewed on NPR way back when Dream of the Blue Turtles came out. Terri Gross, I think, asked about “Every Breath You Take,” and he said folks write to say how the love it, and they play it at their weddings. He said he thought the song was creepy, and, of folks who played it at their wedding, he laughed and said, “Good luck with that.” I loved him a little bit right then.

Anyway, so this led me to his memoir. I was curious. I’m about 80% through it, and, though I’m enjoying the whole thing, there was one part right in the beginning that really got me.

It’s where he talks about his first (only?) mystical experience. His happened under the influence of an “ancient medicine,” in a jungle in Brazil, but it’s clearly recognizable as the sort of mystical experience that other folks report. And it’s remarkably similar to experiences I’ve had, albeit without the help of any ancient medicines.

I love the way he wrote about it.

Yet when we walk outside into the cool of the evening, the jungle is vibrantly alive, in fact disarmingly alive, and I have never felt so consciously connected before. I may be out of my gourd, but I seem to be perceiving the world on a molecular level, where the normal barriers that separate “me” from everything else have been removed, as if every leaf, every blade of grass, every nodding flower is reaching out, every insect calling to me, every star in the clear sky sending a direct beam of light to the top of my head.

This sensation of connectedness is overwhelming. It’s like floating in a bouyant limitless ocean of feeling that I can’t really begin to describe unless I invoke the word love.

Heh. If you know me at all, I’m sure you know how giddy I was at that point.

Before this experience I would have used the word to separate what I love from everything I don’t love—us not them, heroes from villians, friend from foe, everything in life separated and distinct like walled cities or hilltop fortresses jealously guarding their hoard of separateness. Now all is swamped in this tidal wave of energy which grounds the skies to the earth so that every particle of matter in and around me is vibrant with significance. Everything around me seems in a state of grace and eternal. And strangest of all is that such grandiose philosophizing seems perfectly appropriate in this context, as if the spectacular visions have opened a doorway to another world of frankly cosmic possibilities.

Wow. Isn’t that lovely? I was rivited. And then he talked about the implications he sees in that, and that last sentence, the very last one, really, really threw me.

I have to sit down on the steps of the church in dumbstruck awe at the beauty of the jungle and the stars above my head, but it is almost too much to bear. I lower my eyes to see a small gap in the stone steps, and there in the darkness, six inches down, at the bottom of the narrow crevice formed by the rough slabs of granite, grows an exquisite purple flower. It is like a forget-me-not, five petals of magenta radiating from the central mandala of a five-pointed yellow star, reaching bravely toward the light with an extraordinary life force and I am the sole witness to the courage of its struggle. In this moment I am led to an understanding that not only must such tiny, beautiful, and delicate living things be charged with love, but also the inanimate stones that surround them, everything giving and receiving, reflecting and absorbing, resisting and yielding, and I realize perhaps for the first time that love is never wasted. Love can be denied or ignored, or even perverted, but it does not disappear, it merely takes another form, until we are consciously ready to accept its mystery and its power. This may take a moment or an eternity, and there can be no insignificancies in eternity. And if this is true, then I must continue to remember my story and attempt to make some sense of it, to try to remake the drab prose of my life into some kind of transcendent poetry.

I have always had a sort of existential angst that I don’t know how to explain. Whenever I’ve thought there might be “no purpose” to life, or that the universe is a bunch of rocks that happened to spark life, but will just go back to nothing… well, that route it suicide for me. Literally, kinda. I have diagnoses to prove it.

And I had been thinking about this more lately (again). Trying to remember what I hold on to in order not to lose hope. And then I read this. It was one of several messages I got over as many days, but definitely one of the juicier ones.

And if this is true, then I must continue to remember my story and attempt to make some sense of it, to try to remake the drab prose of my life into some kind of transcendent poetry.

And, by the way, I’m still looking for anybody else who sings the love-grace-version of “People Get Ready.”

we add a thread
to the tapestry of reality

what if all those threads of love and grace
become the substance
that makes up
the universe?

What if they become
god?

What if we
are creating
god?

And what if time isn’t linear?
What if we created god
by the choices we made
tomorrow?

What if the god
of our creation
is empowered
by our love
to be more than we can imagine?

What if that
(non-linear)
god
can swoop back around
and scoop us up
and hold us
and teach us
love
and grace?

But I keep thinking that the truth is bigger than anything that can be captured, not just by me, but even by great artists, even by Madeline L’Engle or Ursula K. Le Guin. I once loved their stories, yet now it seems like fiction and poetry are distractions, spoonsful of sugar to make a materialist, world-bound life tolerable.

I have to agree with Daniel Pinchbeck, who says that “most contemporary fiction, like most current film, has an increasingly retrograde quality.” It’s evidence of our past, like old high-heeled shoes, left over from before we realized we deserve better. It’s time to let go of our tendency toward “inciting and then placating the desires and fears of the individual ego.”

Are you a poet
the new guy asks, trying
to assess my fuckability

I don’t know how to answer
How do I say I’m too busy being
the creative force of the universe
to be his poet,
fuckable
or not

How do I say that being god
occupies nearly every waking moment,
and many sleeping ones,
that molding this glistening river
along the green bike path takes up
less of my time, really, than the
appreciating of it, and the rest
of the view from heaven

You created me, and I you.
The difference is that I know this,
and you do not.

If you did, you wouldn’t ask
if I’m a poet.

I used to be a child.

I had great parents who loved me and respected me as a person. But sometimes, it was scary. And sometimes, I remember.

So tonight, I was explaining something to my son, and I said, “Do you remember the story of that time my family was playing a game, and my sister rolled her die carelessly, and Dad backhanded her?”

M__’s mouth hung open. “Backhanded her? Hard?”

“She had a bloody lip,” I told him. “You sure I didn’t tell you about this? I thought we’d covered all that.”

“Well, we did, but… I mean, I knew you were hit, but I thought it was, like, a rare thing.”

“It was rare. That’s why I remember this particular incident.”

I wasn’t bothered by the discussion, as far as I know, but only a few hours later, when another son was upstairs and said something bold to one of his brothers, I reacted with a rush of adrenaline and fear. Whoa, where’d that come from?

I realized that I was scared. And apparently, my gut was scared that the people upstairs were going to get in a fight and scream at each other and beat on each other and break doors. And I realized why I react so strongly to my children’s inclinations to fight. I have very few non-negotiable demands, but here is one: “We do not speak to each other that way in this house.”

I thought I was done with this a long time ago. I don’t dwell on misfortune, but I acknowledge it, grieve and move on. But this year has held some surprises. This year I remember what it felt like to be that little girl. I remember arguments and physical fights my parents had. I remember not knowing if they would still be there when I came home. I remember my half-brother. (And that memory was a god-send. I finally realized why, before I met my husband, I never believed anyone loved me.)

I know that people do the best they can in their circumstances, and that despite their efforts, certain kinds of chaos can be devastating to kids. I know that adults don’t choose to live in a chaotic hell, if they can figure out a better way, so I don’t feel inclined to lay a lot of blame. And, as I said, my parents were loving, and wonderful in many ways. They encouraged me to think, and gave me strength to endure the hard times.

But I’ve been getting blindsided by memories, and feeling scared again. My body feels it.

In the dark, knees crossed
arms wrapped, I’m not here

I’m not here but I’m shaking

The sounds find me hiding

muffled voices through the floor
front door latch
woman’s grief

car door
engine’s cough

patter of tires on wet road

Daddy’s gone, and I’m rocking
(or the house is)

and I’m waiting
in the dark

and I’m waiting

I’d like to know why I can feel this now, like it’s happening, now. It’s almost like the little girl is still here. Like time doesn’t exist. I can feel it. I could never feel it before.

Funny, to this day when something’s bothering me, I will stay awake at night. I’ve called it keeping vigil, but I never connected it to that memory before. Of course, I’ve never really connected myself with that memory either.