poem: A Blessed Way of Being

for Mario, whose conversations inspired this

I.

I am told the French had a saying,

after a meal with loved ones and friends:

"Well, that is one more that the Nazis will not get."

because of this: the Scientist in me knows the score.

I study wind patterns and see, feel, hear:

Yeats' gyres, centers of things giving way.

as if we ever really knew what was central, anyway?

in the anthropomorcine- where does the blur shift-

towards that which we sustain, or that which sustains us?

the chicken and the egg, all over...

but the egg is the size of the world

and the chicken is omniscient when God goes blind.

and Stupid always applauded the loudest

whenever Mean took the stage;

listen and verily, you shall know this for truth

and then take a good hard cold look, around us;

then look again, a little softer now

let some gentleness seep in

before rigidity makes such, impossible.  

II.

and I have seen my children die...

Because I am Poetess, thus have I seen.

in visions, or is it already memories?

yes, I have seen how my children die.

and I have seen Them come for you and me,

one by one, two by two

and the Warrior in me would meet Them headon

standing firm on two feet planted in spring mud

with the tenancity of anthracite miners in my spine

uttering blasphemies of Truth and Insight

with my tongue...

a communion of not-necessarily holy, other salvation;

the audacity of empowerment,

the breaking of invisible bars and chains.

I would tell them, "Take this bitter heart"

They can have me, but they cannot have you

III.

I read, as a nation, we have lost half our compassion...

in less than half of a generation

Fear and Stupid stink. they reek of unwashed minds

decaying morality amidst psychobabble about morals...

and I notice the conversation is never about Them.

The Visionary in me sees it, as if an old movie...

clicks and reels and graininess, bad dialogue

overacted pieces: tendrils of fog in morning mist, melting

into substantial pieces; a terrifying form whose coming

is obfuscated by dust.

medicine, we lose first; with that, subjugation

of the double X chromosome... after

it goes too fast to recount. we will disremember how

the blade descended so fast, everywhere at once.

Ignorance wears the mask and makes a rather

well appointed, fine and efficient headsman.

IV.

"The world is too much with us, late and soon..."

And this is why, my friend, I make the effort-

I wash off the day's weariness, don the dress,

pass blush on my cheeks, cover the tiredness in my eyes;

take you by the hand and say,

"Come dine with me, please."

amidst it all, is the value of infinity. You.

the measure of any human who understands your heart

approaches mathematical limits: far above

the riches we fein to tear

from our Mother's veins.

when the great hoarding begins,

where compassion spreads thinner than butter

on cold toast; every single moment COUNTS.

every sharing: laughter. food. story.

every divine and confused hug; every small knowing look

of frustratingly immobile, undefinable in-between-ness;

every private joke that passes my eyes to yours:

each is a small tenacious thing

clinging a landslide to the roots of the earth itself;

that not a force on the planet can take

from either of us.

The Little Girl in me... she steps into your tiny tended

corner of the world, and finds an Oasis.

and that is as close to an admission as you will get.

you and I, we walk with careful step

but we walk forward.

Neither of us ever knew any other

blessed way of being.

Author's Note

work in progress, maybe?

picture is my own painting, done for the recipient of the poem

Reviews

[Leslie Philibert]

This is a really fine poem, and deserves a longer and better review that I can produce. Just some points that I admire. Stupid and Mean as proper nouns are perfect, as is all the finely spun capitalisation right through the poem.Anthropomorcine I will have to google. The first quote is brillant, and would have delighted my French grandfather...I could go on and on and on, I will simply say to all WC readers...have a look at this fine poem.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you very much, Leslie, for such a deep and thoughtful review. Almost all fo my writing is deeply personal, and I often do try to weave larger, more complex themes into it, as a way of challenging myself to wite more of what others may find worth reading. In this one, yes, I write of a conversation on views on resource economics, the beginnings of fascism, impending environmental collapse, and the surge of violence against human rights workers, especially in Central America. The person I wrote the poem to is under threat of death as he attempts to get his daughter and grand-daughter away from gang influence. I beleive that under such stressful times, it becomes even more necessary to celebrate small daily joys, even exalt them, as a triumph of Life over Death. I borrowed a concept from Buffalo poet Vincent Quattroche in the use of Stupid and Mean... ran with a concept and trend he noted 15 years ago.

[Marie Anzalone]

btw... anthropomorcene is the name scientists give to the new age, where the hand of man is in almost every single "natural" cycle on Earth. All ecology is now affected by our actions and influence- oyu cannot find a single ecosystem untouched or un-influenced.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

but the egg is the size of the world
and the chicken is omniscient when God goes blind.

what great lines...and i agree with Leslie that more need to look at this poem.

existence...questions of it...why are we here, what exactly is our purpose.

the poetess has hers...this poem personifies brilliantly and seems the speaker could be a cross between the scientist in Dickinson and the tortured artist and mother that Plath was...

figuring out our hearts by the numbers?

well maybe there is some equation for balance and happiness...

but you sure push the envelope here and raise so many valid questions on what we mean to each other and to ourselves.

my mother's grandmother spoke little English...mainly French...my heritage is over half French...with French Canadian and Alsas Laraine...or however it is spelled...
of course there is the sicilian half...which never knows how to handle the other.

really really strong piece of writing Marie...Bravo!

[Marie Anzalone]

thank you, jacob, for you deep and thoughtful review of my work here. Yes, i am cursed with a scientist's mind and a poet's heart and an economist's calculation of things. I move through all worlds, trying to mend torn corners and track flocks of birds at night. Much of my poetry is an attempt at reconciliation of all things. The world seems too big at times, and I must release soem of it in order that I may continue breathing. French/ Sicilian? Are you single? ;-) Just kidding, of course; but wow what a bloodline. I can laugh as I am half Italian, half German, trying to assimilate into an indigenous/ Latin community. Lord help us all if I ever do pick up theie passion and impetuousness!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

you are a mixture, but your poet's heart really speaks volumes.

[Tree]

My first reaction, was to break this down into bite-size pieces; so much compassion, passion, concern, and wisdom. It is in effect too much, for me to take in in one sitting. I don't want to miss anything, so I eat slow, here. Before I go any further I want to acknowledge the importance of this work, like when a poem expands into the arena of humanity, with one foot firmly placed in the here and now and slightly tethered to "self", that is, in itself an achievement... And here I take with me the sad truth that humanity is composed of billions of selfish "children" who care only (and naturally so because our DNA is wired for self preservation and anything else beyond the "me and maybe You'' is considered a luxury ...) ––– About themselves... But there is always the hope that binds everyone together, right? When I get too cynical I turn to history and find that every 30 years or so there is some small step toward social justice, and, it's measurable, that being said things like religious extremism and outright greedy capitalism seems to be as hearty and sticky as green algae, but even there I see movement, I see large swaths of people crying: outrage. Then the miraculous happens, where for me, in this poem, it comes down to the shared humanity of two people, where faith is restored, where the healing begins. So that we may again find ourselves strong enough, restored enough ––– loving enough... for the challenges of tomorrow.

An important piece, Marie.

[Marie Anzalone]

You are so right, Diego... we MUST cultivate that presence, that healing, that support, defiance, etc. with each other. The friend I wrote this for has been under threat of death for over a month. We sit together each time I see him, each knowing that every day, in a very real sense, may be the last chance to do so. it is a strangely liberating state of being. Petty things fall away; small things become mre important, larger things get said. I bring him an orange rose of friendship, bith knowing I wish I had the right for it to be red, and content with the limited instead of the limitless. Sometimes, there really are no good answrrs, just more questions without response.

[Ken Simm.]

For some reason I could see this written ages ago onto a cave wall for later generations to find. Why do you think that may be? Of course it is a yardstick for how excellent this work of art is.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, Ken, for the great review. Unfortunately, I have always been blessed with something of precognition... which makes my job infinitely harder and more frustrating in surprising ways. That this peice coems across as a message for the future does not surprise me one bit.

Much appreciate you taking the time to read/ review.

[lee von cleef]

“We're here to awaken from the illusion of separateness”
― Ram Dass,

[Marie Anzalone]

and what would happen when we do? I think that is the reason we fear it so much?

[lee von cleef]

Time when there is no Time, Hung the pendulum swing airless, a moment just ,
there,
the suspended trance, uncoupled embrace, musty warm exhaustion
Clarity ,conscious of the consequence
Consequence your poem breathe floats the world ,our world,
Tangible, but the walkers, walk on, see no trail their blinkers on the gallop along ,
I pray your clarity continues on, so so sweet the wind whipped flames of burning beauty,
Worthy, worthy, I will drink with the Hungarians on the rivers bank, if you happen by welcome.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, lee, for your moving impressions of my work. It is my wish that we all get to the point where we realizae how important it is to share a drink across borders and generations and time itself. maybe I even admire my freind so much because talking to him does make me feel that way?