Sunday morning poetry and music

As I sit to try and write something for this morning, I realize that rather than having anything meaningful to share, I’m needing some nourishment myself. I’ve spent alot of time this week watching the convention and thinking about electoral politics. And as Nightprowlkitty and Jay Elias so beautifully captured – some of us have experienced a journey between head and heart…and it has been draining for me.

In addition to that, we know that Gustav is bearing down on the Gulf Coast. That not only brings concerns about the welfare of people who are most vulnerable in that region, it rekindles memories of all the horrors of Katrina.

Finally, I am deeply disappointed already in the gestapo-like tactics my city seems to be employing to deal with potential protesters at the RNC. Due to the nature of my work over the last 20 years, many of the people involved in the city, law enforcement, and courts are friends of mine. I had hoped that they and my home town would rise above what we have seen from other cities in the past. It looks like that will not be the case. I know its happened before, but this time its personal for me.

All these things combine to leave me feeling a bit empty this morning. So I thought that perhaps the best thing I could do is to try to fill myself up with music and poetry. While I’m at it – I’ll share it with you.

Here’s one from Marge Piercy.

A just anger

Anger shines through me.

Anger shines through me.

I am a burning bush.

My rage is a cloud of flame.

My rage is a cloud of flame

in which I walk

seeking justice

like a precipice.

How the streets

of the iron city

flicker, flicker,

and the dirty air

fumes.

Anger storms

between me and things,

transfiguring,

transfiguring.

A good anger acted upon

is beautiful as lightning

and swift with power.

A good anger swallowed,

a good anger swallowed

clots the blood

to slime.

And here’s David Whyte.

Imagine My Surprise

Imagine my surprise;

sitting a full hour

in silent and irremediable

fear of the world,

to find the body

forgetting

its own fear the instant

it opened and placed

those unassuming hands

on life’s enduring pain,

and the world for one

moment

closed its terrifying eyes

in gratitude.

Saying,

“This is my body, I am found.”

And finally, one from Mary Oliver.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.