Rage and Poetry from the Road 6/29/22

I recently wrote the words below for another post in an online group I belong to called The Light House. Once a week we share about a spiritual practice that we have been practicing for the past week. One of the things I love most about these posts is how varied they are, and the many ways that the writers find to connect with the Divine in their lives. As I considered what my practice had been for the past week, the only word that came to mind was rage. And so I wrote about it saying this:

“We are in Tulsa right now visiting our daughter and my father flew out here last weekend because it is the 100 anniversary of Route 66 and there was a car show at the fairgrounds (side note - my dad builds hot rods and refinishes cars so he is a bit of a classic car guru).  As we walked through the displays I came across this picture of Woody Guthrie and it spoke volumes to me about my practices as of late.

I would say that my main practice for the past week has been rage.  And it feels affirming to name it as a practice - and to acknowledge that it is real.

I have been raging at the way our world is heading - and all the suffering that these latest rulings and wars are creating.  I have done my fair share of crying.  Plenty of yelling out loud my lamentations.  

I am scared.  And I know that the God that I believe in is standing right beside me and does not judge me for my anger.  

I recently read an article in Christianity Today about the cursing Psalms.  It really helped me to understand that the Psalms not only provide words of comfort but that they give us words to speak out loud when we are angry.  That the ancients cursed and I can too. And right now I am cursing alongside them.  Borrowing their words to yell out curses - at the Supreme Court, our divided country,  the Patriarchy, Putin and all the leaders in this world that choose war as a means to gain more power.  So many curses coming from me right now.  

Many years ago in a interview of On Being I heard the poet Michael Longley say, "the first people that dictators try to get rid of are the poets and the artists, the novelists and the playwrights. They burn their books. They’re terrified of what poetry can do. "  And I would add to that music and the words of Woody Guthrie. 

So in the face of my rage I am embracing my practice of being a poet.  It is all I have to offer in the face of what is happening in this world. And I thank Woody Guthrie for reminding me of that right now.“ 

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Poetry has this way of tuning us into the present. It helps us to see things with more clarity and it takes what might be simple and mundane, and reminds us that it is sacred in some way. And it is the only tool I have right now to help me process all that is happening in the world right now. One of the few things that is giving me a sense that we have not collectively lost our minds as a world.

So I thought for this weeks travel post I would share a couple of new poems that I have written. They do not have gigantic messages to share. They are not political in any way - except that they remind us that it is this earth that we belong to.

Poetry - writing it and reading it - is what I do when I can’t take in any more data about the bad things that are happening. Both of these poems were both written while we recovered from Covid in a field in Kentucky.

I don’t know what other poems may emerge in this time but I will keep writing them. If only to serve as a reminder that we have not lost all our humanity. And that there is still beauty and mystery in this world despite the losses we see mounting up around us.

And perhaps a couple of simple poems about fields, and rain, and bugs are not so simple after all. Especially when we remember that one day - whether from climate change, or war, or greed, or some other imaginable act of violence- they might be gone too.

Part I - A morning in a field after the rain while recovering from Covid

The mud returned
but also the cool breeze

And the birdsong
feels louder

Or maybe just
the insistent crow
hammering out a
staccato beat
with its constant
cawing.

The tall blades of grass bounce
about and wave – heavy with droplets
and yet lighter and more buoyant
than when saturated with the
heat.

I have not had a sense of smell
for days but my body knows
what it smells like –
damp earth
fresh cut fields
the heavy headiness of earth
composting.

Across the field a tree
sways her branches in greeting
I smile and nod my head
dipping my face to the earth

She lifts her dampened leaves to the sky

I wish I could explain how one single
blade of grass
damp with dew
could feel so holy.

There is exile
and there is life

Even a microscopic insect
on my knee finding
its corner of the world

I on the other hand
keep wandering

My indomitable spirit
still making its way
slowly across the fields
-Bardstown, Kentucky June 7th, 2022

Part II - Another Morning in the Field

As long as the breeze continues
and the shade -
the humidity will not
feel so overbearing

Settling in like a cozy bottom
in a comfy chair
pressing down and out on the edges
filing all the available space
until there is no fresh air to breath

A tiny bee struck dumb
from the heat rests on the table
languid and unable to leave

The lady’s mantle so lacy
and delicate yesterday
wilts under the sun

Early morning now
and already the stillness is thick
like treacle and honey

Summer arriving at last and
I am sure all things that sprout
are celebrating

Plumping up
and reaching out long
vines into the soil
blossoming little fruits

I wipe the sweat
beading on my forehead
and wonder –

Was it only yesterday
or the day before
that I sat out here
in long sleeves?
- Bardstown, Kentucky June 16th, 2022