Rebel Girl isn't up to much these days, hence the light posting. (Some of you have asked.) She is sunk instead in a place, a soul kitchen of sorts, where she keeps measuring what all has been done for what result and, well, the sum distresses her, suggestive as it is of cool, conscious betrayal, pervasive corruption and a jaunty disregard. She is certain that there must be another way to weigh and measure, to count and figure but she hasn't found it. 2 plus 2 continues to equal four. So, more poetry until her own words come back. This one is by Stephen Dunn.
To a Terrorist
For the historical ache, the ache passed down
which finds its circumstance and becomes
the present ache, I offer this poem
without hope, knowing there's nothing,
not even revenge, which alleviates
a life like yours. I offer it as one
might offer his father's ashes
to the wind, a gesture
when there's nothing else to do.
Still, I must say to you:
I hate your good reasons.
I hate the hatefulness that makes you fall
in love with death, your own included.
Perhaps you're hating me now,
I who own my own house
and live in a country so muscular,
so smug, it thinks its terror is meant
only to mean well, and to protect.
Christ turned his singular cheek,
one man's holiness another's absurdity.
Like you, the rest of us obey the sting,
the surge. I'm just speaking out loud
to cancel my silence. Consider it an old impulse,
doomed to become mere words.
The first poet probably spoke to thunder
and, for a while, believed
thunder had an ear and a choice.
7 comments:
Sounds like you're suffering from an historical ache yourself Reb.
Love ya Reb, but what the hell are you talking about? Soul kitchen?
Cool poem. "a country so muscular" - that's us, all right.
Sensitve and to the point. Those who don't have a feel for words (their histories and under and over tones) will miss the significance of a thinking heart and feeling mind.
11:01, don't be such a dolt. Google "Soul Kitchen" and you will find that it is a song by the Doors. It is about a lost soul, wandering the night, seeking refuge in a warm place. Kitchen...warm--get it?
It is, of course, important for those rare soldiers for decency, of which the Reb is one, to resist falling into despair.
One has so little control in a war. One does one's best, and history does not clearly teach that that is not worthwhile. It is so hard to know. But even the best events might be subtle and hidden in corners, the product, still, of a decent soul laboring and fighting seemingly against an indifferent universe.
I hope that we will carry on. I believe that we will. And there are those at least who will remember us and be inspired.
I have seen this before--maybe thanks to you--and love it still. Hold fast, Reb, you are not alone.
Lots of aches these days, Reb, some closer than others. Kiss those boys of yours and give thanks. You are good.
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