My plan was to include in this blog our discussion from last evening. As often is the case, however, my mind has gone off into a slightly different direction. More important to me now than the actual content of the discussion is the act itself. Through everyone's willingness to engage, analyze, talk, sing, share, listen, and experiment, we left these poems as different people. Like cats pushing themselves against will ankles, we rubbed ourselves up against these poems for the simple pleasure of doing so. And, at least for me, it became a spiritual act.
The connection between word and spirit is of course not a new one for me. For several years I have been working on a series (I know... Do I EVER NOT work on a SERIES?!?) of poems which I refer to as "Conversations with the Virgin" in which I address my thoughts to the mother Mary. The reason for this is multifaceted, but it is basically just my way of reaching out to a feminine spirit.
Here is an example:
ENAMORADA
Lady of long silence and restraint,
these flailing words are predetermined
to become more active than sound,
for I have found myself again
longing for a sacred heart,
Hot and cold all at once,
my fogged eyes
have been ignored again
by the spirits of the dead,
and my prayers sound
as though I am spitting
bitter fairy tales
in a foreign language.
Abandoned by my mother tongue,
unspoken laws cause me to alter
my discreet black street clothes
for attire perhaps more expressive.
I seek a temporary reprieve.
But real-life stories
confuse the heart.
Oh, how I want to give up this place today,
to ride off into crimson brilliance
looking for the perfect simile,
like someone to come home to
every night.
SUNDAY MORNING COMING DOWN
Well I woke up Sunday mornin', with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, so I had one more, for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet, for my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt.
And I shaved my face and combed my hair and, stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I'd smoked my brain the night before on, cigarettes and songs that I'd been pickin'.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid cussin' at a can that he was kickin'.
Then I crossed the empty street and caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken.
And it took me back to somethin' that I'd lost somehow somewhere along the way.
On the Sunday morning sidewalks, wishin' Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin', half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin' city side walks, Sunday mornin' comin' down.
In the park I saw a daddy, with a laughing little girl who he was swingin'.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school and listened to the song that they were singin'.
Then I headed back for home and somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'.
And it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On the Sunday morning sidewalks, wishin' Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin', half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin' city side walks, Sunday mornin' comin' down.
"TAKE ME TO CHURCH"
My lover's got humour.
She's the giggle at a funeral.
Knows everybody's disapproval.
I should've worshipped her sooner.
If the heavens ever did speak,
She's the last true mouthpiece.
Every Sunday's getting more bleak.
A fresh poison each week.
"We were born sick," you heard them say it.
My church offers no absolutes.
She tells me, "Worship in the bedroom."
The only heaven I'll be sent to
Is when I'm alone with you.
I was born sick
But I love it.
Command me to be well.
Aaay. Amen. Amen. Amen.
Take me to church.
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies.
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife.
Offer me that deathless death.
Good God, let me give you my life.
If I'm a pagan of the good times.
My lover's the sunlight.
To keep the Goddess on my side
She demands a sacrifice.
Drain the whole sea.
Get something shiny,
Something meaty for the main course.
That's a fine-looking high horse.
What you got in the stable?
We've a lot of starving faithful.
That looks tasty.
That looks plenty.
This is hungry work.
Take me to church.
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies.
I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife.
Offer me my deathless death.
Good God, let me give you my life.
No Masters or Kings
When the Ritual begins.
There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.
In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene,
Only then I am human,
Only then I am clean.
Ooh oh. Amen. Amen. Amen.
Take me to church.
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies.
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife.
Offer me that deathless death.
Good God, let me give you my life.
I will close with this:
"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit."--Albert Schweitzer