Month: November 2016

Did any world not begin with love?

Love, by its very nature, is unworldly, and it is for this reason rather than its rarity that it is not only apolitical but antipolitical, perhaps the most powerful of all antipolitical forces.

— Hannah Arendt

Did we not walk through the woods side by side, our hearts bursting with as much light as there was shining through the trees?

Did we not meet on an airplane, our ears popping, but speaking louder to each other in Spanish about literature and South American poetry?

Did you not put your arm around me for the first time while walking down Crosby Street?

Did we not kiss with the Empire State building watching us?

Did we not grow up together, under the same sky? Are we not growing old together now, walking the same earth?

Did we not run through the leaves together, marveling at the sound?

Did we not break bread together, bandages on fingers and coffee in hand?

Did I not think of you while watching the city skyline from a distance; the shadowy outlines of Manhattan coming to life in the morning after shedding itself from the mist and fog of the night?

Did you not surprise me with flowers one spring day?

Did you not disappoint me with your absence one summer night?

Did we not wake at the same time to hear the owl’s song?

Did you not send me a quiet message-in-a-bottle: “The opposite of faith is not doubt: It is certainty. That might be the opposite of love, as well.”

Did you not sit on the other side of the door while I was weeping, your voice reaching for mine?

Did you not sing to me as I fell asleep?

Did we not stand, a river apart, wondering how the other was sleeping?

Are we not countries apart now, thinking of the same thing?

Are we not all of different skin colors and religions and even political beliefs, yet marveling all the same at these little details of love?

Did any revolution not begin with hope? Did any winter not end with spring? Did any change not begin with doubt? Did any world not begin with love?

For it is important that awake people be awake

This morning, B. gave me my first hug when I walked in. “It’s going to be ok, because we have each other.” I could not cry last night, but I felt that her words gave me permission to.

Below, excerpts from “A Ritual To Read To Each Other” by William Stafford. Line breaks and boldface are my own. Full poem can be found here.

***

If you don’t know the kind of person I am
and I don’t know the kind of person you are

a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:

though we could fool each other, we should consider—
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;

the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—should be clear:
the darkness around us is deep.

Poetry always, always, always is a key piece of democracy. It’s like the un-Trump: The poet is the charismatic loser. You’re the fool in Shakespeare; you’re the loose cannon. As things get worse, poetry gets better, because it becomes more necessary.

— Eileen Myles, Jan. 2016