poem: Letter to a Soul Sister, April 16, 2013

for EB

 

No, I told the economist who asked,

  I do not think making my jewelry

      is going to solve world hunger.

    Nor, I thought, will my poetic ramblings

penned on the back of receipts

  for the large green teas I bought

       with spare change scrounged from

the laundry, and nursed all afternoon in

    Starbucks, on a day I was supposed to be working,

       but felt I had something a little bigger to do-

   and I was just craving human company

in a world where past 5 pm that needs to be bought,

     stamped, ticketed, and sold-

nor will THAT ever change the world.

 

But we do not attend to our needles and wires

    to get rich, we merely let them   

   escort us to someplace fine and focused

      and interior- a cultivation

of mindfulness that helps us to see

         that much more clearly the bullshit

     that is constantly spread around

  our feet as we try to merely walk

     forward into the light from within

so many lightless places.

 

And the poetry, well- her presence

   is sometimes the only life-affirming sanity

       there can ever be.

 

Since our courage is not the red kind-

    the willingness to die on a battlefield

  of guns and tanks and IEDs-

        but rather the blue kind, the sky-blue,

true blue, gentian violet twilight blue

   cornflower summer blue,

        hopeful, strained indigo bunting blue-

the blue of every beautiful thing

     you ever desired would find some

         eternal purchase in our local

   general stores and farm markets-

          you might just miss it,

       if you are only looking for that damned

 badge, the hair shirt, the externally

     validated words-

   the signed piece of paper declaring

        to the world, I have proof I was never

a coward; this document tells me so.   

 

Those kinds of papers are too constricting

     to have enough air for good poetry

    to survive, anyway.

We fight on other battlefields,

      using other weapons.

 

we tremble when faced with our own cowardice-

   the admission of the thing,

             makes us strong.

 

How can you go for a walk, when the world

   up the road is exploding? I was

     asked yesterday, by a man who

meant well.

 

And I sat in the forest, thinking of you-

     and how alike in temperament we are.

 

I answered him quietly, gently.

   Women have ever turned to normalcy

  when caught up in grief

     and anger and fear amd desolation.  

We go to the forest because

        she is the breath of sanity that

lets us be mindful of our letters

            and scribe our quiet words

     examine the power we both hold

          and have let go.

 

We go there because we must find

    some inspiration

  that makes us willing to

live on the world's battlefields

    anew, each day; and our strength

      is knowing, then, with exactitude-

 how valuable is each and every word

     precisely scribed, each and every stitch

placed just so on quilts

    and beadwork and the dreams

            of our children.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

Art and poetry are the only life affirming sanity there is.
Creating is what it is all about
Communicating that creation is sublime.
All true, honest, good, inspiration comes from a sublime mind.
A sublime mind looks and then see's
all other minds don't.

[Marie Anzalone]

I read about a term recently. "Critical awareness." Putting what you see in context of social, economic, and psychological influences. Call it an awareness perhaps of anatomy. Most artists paint the cat's fur. A sublime one makes you believe in the muscular and skeletal structure underneath. Call it the bones of our belief, maybe. All else is just so much window dressing. Without the foundation, the castle sinks into the swamp. Everyone who has ever laughed at Monty Python knows that :-)

[Ken Simm.]

I find I only know why I've painted something, what my influences were and are in post mortem. I read that, I saw that, I heard that. The experiences, act just as that, experiences, that combine in a painting or a write when I decide to use the best tool I have at my disposal to communicate.
Of course the artist composes critically but may not be aware fully of stimuli until the work appears in the flesh.
This is my theory, which is mine, my theory, ahem, about the brontosaurus, which is mine and no one else's, ahem, my theory, yes Chris, my theory is, ahem by Ann Elk, (Miss) my word yes, ahem this is my theory, ahem. What my theory that it is. Yes Chris.

[Marie Anzalone]

This made me smile. There is this beautiful exercise, called the Cube game, that at one point asks the participant to close his eyes and imagine various things; a desert, for example, with a ladder in it. It is very rare that you find an individual who imagines the backjground, and something for the ladder to lean against for support. I mentioned the other day that we seem to have this mistaken belief in the US that we can either be completely independent or completely dependent. They miss what scientists know- the world is interdependent. We have a sayign in science: we stand on the shoulders of the giants who came before us. All that we have, is a product of the influences, advances, and knowledge that came before us. We do not always recognize them when we create- but I still think that a good artist shows you that the background is there. That is why the best artists are those who have spent hours studying the works of the masters in fine detail, and the best writers are often [but not always] those who have read the most books. The tapestry of possibilities is not limited to the creator's own mind. S/he borrows his inspiration and shapes it by his/ her experience and processing.

[Ken Simm.]

I have been corrisponding on here with a writer who feels that the only true poetry is that which follows the rules. Or rather to be fair he says he has no experience and therefore no understanding of poetry or writing, or art for that matter that doesn't follow the rules.
One of my points to him has been that whilst saying rules are meant to be broken is very simplistic. Once you know the rules, once your are fully aware of the experiences you achieved by following the creative rules then you can feel free to break them.
This does not give you Carte blanche however. This is like learning a language. The old saw about once you start thinking in that language you know that language.
It is perhaps more like saying. I wonder what will happen to that line that should be drawn here and have this character if I take it over here and allow it to have this character.
You are quite correct, he said rather patronisingly when you said that the best artists are the ones that know the history of art. The ones that realise there is a body of knowledge that needs to be learned before changes can be made with confidence.
Perhaps, (and here I only say perhaps) the scientist who knows the rules can follow the line to another destination because his intuition, his empathy, his understanding of the interconnectedness of things has reached this quantum level.
Your Cube game is really Laeral thinking. And lateral thinking is really creative thinking. And creative thinking is really producing art. And at the risk of stretching this too far the successful ad artist are both creative, lateral thinkers. Thinkers who can be proactive rather than reactive because their creativity is based on what they have gathered from experience. In all my years teaching I learned that learning is a learned skill just as is creativity. It is NOT a God given talent.

[Ken Simm.]

The succesful scientist and artist tha should have read in the bottom third of the writing. Don't know what happened to the sense I was trying to make.

[Marie Anzalone]

no worries; you made it just fine... I wanted to let you know that I really appreciate your ramblings on my pages... I learn a lot form you, and I enjoy the bantering of ideas even without organized direction

[Horizon K.]

we tremble when faced with our own cowardice-
   the admission of the thing,
             makes us strong.
...Such a poem... graceful yet charged and passionate, always you wake me, stir me with your words, make me look within... As a woman, how do we cope with duress... I too, find peace in the quiet of the forest and the sea... I don't think it makes me feel normal, but it stirs me in a way that I remain still, yet open my inner eyes wider...
This makes me think of so much more, consider... how does a women interact, in this world of bold men...
Anyway, You seem to be getting active here again... I am so glad:)

[CrochetRie]

I'm taken aback, simply speechless. You're like diamond in the rough. Extremely well-written and totally captivating write. Truth holds it all together.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you very much, Crochet. This was written for a fellow writer, a dear friend, for our daily struggles to find and create positivity in small ways. It makes me glad that this touched you.

[h d e rushin]

still the finest poem written in 2013/
dana

[Tree]

The act of creation is a shield. It serves as protection, a rejuvenator, of some kind. Even people who have no idea that they are creative are indeed finding a creative outlet, somewhere. Mowing the lawn into a design, or sorting and inspecting produce into shapes. A surgeon, reconstructing a broken body; the mechanic/painter working on a fender. It is the act of creation that we need, desire, to make ourselves Whole. The lucky ones find not only the creative outlet that completes them but one that makes them a living too; especially if it involves somehow making the world a better place. It is a theme I see in much of your work, it's a part of who you are. And nature also looms large in you (as it does in us all) and you find solace there, peace. Clarity, and answers to hard questions.

When I read and saw the people of Boston coming together, like they did at Fenway park, Big Papi with his rousing speech, Neil Diamond with his rendition of "Sweet Caroline", I was moved. The crowd, swaying in unison. I thought, man, this is how it should always be. It's almost courageous when people, even for a minute, think beyond themselves for the greater good. Forget politics and societal philosophies for a minute and let's just be practical. It's the direction we must go if we are to survive as a species. That's not hard to understand, but too many people are frightened by it.

Thought provoking piece Raquelita. This journey of contemplation though foreboding is necessary, and you lead the reader through it gently.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, Diego, for your very thoughtful review. I find, in my convos with you, that it is helpful to go back to other literary quotes, that I use for mirroring and making sure I understand the point you are making. In this case, I was drawn back to Oriah Mountain Dreamer's deceptively simple "The Invitation," where she writes,

"It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children."

That, I think, is the type of practicality you are referring to in your review of my piece on women who return to normal, almost mundane activities for balance in times of duress. Seeking inner stillness, connection, the silence where the spirit speaks the healing heart messages. I wrote this of course for Miss Emily, in response to an ongoing dialogue I have had with her about, among other things, how we ask or do not ask for what we need. Having enough left to give something back to the world is what writing is all about for us. She had a beautiful idea about taking the works we have written for other writers, and sending them to those individuals as a packet for inspiring them when they inevitably hit their low points. It made me realize how much other writers on this site have influenced me over the 4 years I have been here. There is, in this space, among many writers, something that connects us, something that allows others to feel safe enough in our presence, to let them reach out, to be vulnerable, to heal, to strive for that greater good. When we ladies permit ourselves to heal from the inside, our words help others heal, too. I should definitley send on some of the pieces I have written for others.

[Frieda P]

This is nothing short of sumptuous, I could live here and be happy. It's superb poetry, this is the reason why I write, the reason to breathe in each day in on this site. A majestic read, I can't say more....

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, Frieda, for your review and its kind words. There are thousands of ways to inspire creative work; thousands more ways to crush the spirit of one who aspires to write greatly. With halting and faltering steps only can we ever progress towards eventually learning to fly, I believe. I am glad this spoke to you the way it did.

[h d e rushin]

One of the finest poems I have ever read.

"we go to the forest
because she is the breath if sanity
that lets us be mindful of our letters
and scribe our quiet words
examine the power we both hold
and have let go"

And because the poets battlefied is the harsh cry of a bird, narrated and then
refined as the most polite civilization; the final stage of cultural development at which writing and the keeping of written records is attained.

Your final stanza has made, yet again, that ringing sound of a war bell.
Not bellicose, but bejeweled.

Just fantastic.
dana

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, dana. I attended a conference on women and courage back in 2008, shortly before joining the WC. It was what ave me the courage to start writing again, and find an outlet for it. They talked about the courage of ordinary women, how it differed from men. Men, they said, had the courage of machismo, of knowing what is worth dying for. There is no name for women's courage, but it is the courage of knowing what makes life worth living for.

One of the speakers floored me. She was Cambodian, an author, a survivor of and conscripted 7 year-old child soldier in the Pol Pot regime that killed half her family. Her mother pushed her and her sister out the door of the house to fend for themselves in order to protect them, shortly before she was shot.

The story she told us was not that one.

It was the story of coming to terms with her mother's death when she reached the same age as her mother, 33. She told us of the courage to revise history- change small facts to allow her mother some dignity in death. To allow her to at least walk with her head held high as she went to meet death. You could have heard a pin drop in a roomful of 400 women.

Those war bells are soundign all over, and if we look hard, we find amazing stories like these echoing through all the halls we walk, from battlefiled where we tally what was lost to hearth where we preare the day's sustenance for a million tired soldiers to return to war. Some of us even pick up guns. Others walk out in the midst of it with no weapons at all and ask for a time-out for hearing the birds singing.

I think we need more of that kind of courgae.

[Emily B]

oh, sister, dear . . . after 9/11 i walked, one eye on the sky, the blackhawks were circling my town, increased security, you know?

oh, and the battlefields, i walk them, on days when the cannons are firing and on days when it is just the echo of rifles and men long dead, and i turn to the most normal things i know, i darn a sock, i mend a tear, i cook a meal, i fetch water and brew tea and tend to the weary and worried and ill

life is a battlefield, too, most forget that the noise can be every bit as frightening, that the emotions that they turn loose can injure, maim, or kill a sensitive soul

i waded through days a year ago, not sure which end of the journey i was going to end up on, i am so glad to be among the living again, and to be able to shine that light that is inherently mine, in this place with poets and dreamers and warriors of every size, shape and color

[Marie Anzalone]

I was in N. Jersey for 9/11. Supposed to be going to Manhattan, to the WTC complex, to hand in the Peace Corps application I finished on 9/10. Then... planned to go to the top of the WTC to see the NYC skyline. As soon as they opened, at 9:00 am. Premonition told me to wait a day.

Numbed and horrified, I had to look it in the face. We were the ONLY cars on the road in that section of Jersey that night. Went to an overlook and watched. To the store to purchase supplies for the rescue workers and dogs that the Red Cross was donating.

Then, I went home to the Adirondack Mountains, and stared at water for a 3 day weekend. I waited a month, while the nation raged around me. I could not fiind it in me to be hateful. I was too relieved to be simply alive. I mailed in my application as my response. Every day since then has been a gift of borrowed time. Every day, a chance to give back.

Did you know? I often envy you the simple normalcy you can conjure in your life when you need it most. I am amde of different stuff... and I swallowed the lie I had to be extraordinary every single goddamned day. That lie pushed me to my knees, and choked me into submission. Something called grace had to replace it, except even that is not normal for me. It has to match a hard definition of truth to be accepted in my heart.

I understand those shadow worlds too well.

People have no idea about us strong women. They see us, and think that because we care for others, and go back to our routines, as normal or not as they are; that we are ok. Resilient, self-sufficient. Able to just weather life's cruelties and putdowns without any support.

You had great strength the other day in reaching out and asking for what you needed. It is a courage I do not have here.

it is we who are honored to be of your acquaintance.

[Emily B]

grace is never ordinary

[Marie Anzalone]

very very true

[Emily B]

These were perfect words to re-visit