I want to see the faces, not the masses
Or what passes for a celebration
In these sacred places. If I must, I'll
Crawl into the alley with the people
Living lowly speaking gospel, drinking
Wine and welcoming the lights beyond the
Blue horizon. City heights, or empty
Valley lanes below the sun, or even
All the homes I knew before: exclaim the
Hidden names of life and make me shiver
With the child I love, the girl I adored.
I want to know what's real despite the doubters
Shouting louder than the dreaming silents --
Let me roll the wheel. My name is nothing
In the streets, a kind of alien blessing
In the jazzy traffic. Noises never
Know the others; lonely are the yellers
Seeking looks, not seeing farther than the
Image in their eyes. The music begs for
Hearers of the names in town of hermits,
Begs in suburbs of social clowns who aren't
What they claim. No deeds can save their names.
I pray that others hear what they have done.
August 5, 2002
This poem is a little rough, a little incomplete, like the person who wrote it and reads it now with fresh eyes.
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10 comments:
Why such good poetry back in 02 03? A very different writer he is.
You skipped over "It's Still Alright, Ma." It's a pastiche of Dylan, but you can learn from emulating the best.
What came out in 2002-03 was a spurt. That was also a year of emotional and psychological highs and lows to which I do not want to return. There was a cost to those poems and songs.
Then, late in 2003, the tap turned off. I had to stop writing like that because it hurt and because it was getting repetitive. I had to find another way to write. Then I came to BU School of Theology and another tap turned on. I enjoyed doing academic theological writing.
Now that tap, too, is turning off, though it's not quite shut. And to my surprise the other tap has turned on again. You write what you have to when the time comes, I guess. You write what you're given to write. But then and now, it's the same person writing.
Ma poetry hit an unexpected fear. Emotion without context nor boundaries. Move on I felt necessary.
An unexpected fear? Emotion without context or boundaries? What do you mean? You give away no secrets, Anonymous.
There are many named fears, but is there anything greater to fear than experiencing unbounded and non-contextual emotion? Experiencing a limitless emotion without association to anything. Consider it, and then you know.
The experience you speak of sounds not only fearful but also traumatic.
For someone whose affect tends to be flat, the fear is that he will never develop the capacity to feel enough, to feel fully and humanly. This kind of writing, the blues songs and the Dylanesque stuff, it helps me deal with free-floating feelings when they do arise, and it helps me feel the feelings well. It helps me look deeper into the human I am and the human I want to be. And it helps me move safely past these strong feelings.
But I haven't considered how the writing affects others. I don't know if that will change how or what is written, but you have given me something more to consider.
Ulysses used wax to block the sirens' call and move safely past their lure. It would seem you have a similar mechanism with regard to feelings. Not all have, tell you I. To where do you sail?
To the eternal Ithaca shaking, stirring, and soothing my soul.
First you will have to get by Scylla... What is your Scylla?
Now that's an intimate question. First, there are probably many little Scyllas, and maybe some big ones, too. Second, cyberspace is not the place, and this blog is not the venue, for disclosing something individually personal like that. I'd rather entrust that to someone face to face.
These poems and songs are a way of speaking universally about the struggle to be human and to touch the divine. The writer is in the struggle but is not the only person in the struggle.
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