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Archive for November, 2023

Poetry on Difficult Times


Oh friends, so many beautiful collaborations:

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I needed today the soft voice of the man
from Bethlehem saying,
Put yourself in the pain of others.
Not in their shoes, but in their pain. 
I needed to see his eyes
when he said it is olive picking season 
and the families are too afraid 
to go to the orchards. 
I needed to hear it is the hardest 
his life has ever been,
needed to hear his fear, his anger, 
his willingness to wonder 
again and again,
What does it mean to love your enemy?   
I needed to see the open face
of the man in Israel as he listened,
needed to hear his gentle tone
as he rejected the phrase us vs. them.
Needed to hear the resolve in his voice
as he called for creating an us together. 
And because in the arms of terror
these two men find ways to love,
I invite a war into my heart 
and imagine myself on both sides, 
imagine the ache that fuels the rage. 
I don’t have to imagine fear, distrust.
It is in all of us, this war, 
not somewhere far away.
It is for all of us to ask in every interface,
How do I love my enemy?
How do we become an us? 

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I hope you enjoy a new cine poem from my new spoken word album DARK PRAISE–this one honoring how we might meet the dense and dark world and make it more porous–featuring the amazing Steve Law on guitar and the art of the wonderful Marisa S. White. This poem, and the whole album, is available for free download anywhere you listen to music (spotify, apple music, etc) or you can support the project by purchasing the album on bandcamp

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One in the Cemetery

barefoot in the grass
we sang and read poems
amongst the dead so wildly alive

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Oh friends, it’s so heart-warming, heart opening, heart-filling, the response to this poetry project begun just this week by my friend Jess. Here’s a note from her:

Thank you so much for your contributions to the Prayer Bead Project. 

Click HERE to see the Project in progress. 

The response has been overwhelming, in the best of ways. My heart continues to be gently cracked open, and also refilled, as I read not only the poems but the accompanying notes. Some of you are caring for new lives, infants. Some are arranging for hospice care for loved ones. Some of you are traveling through heavily guarded airports. Some are watching birds out the window. You have been moved to write for the first time in years. And, you sent no poem at all, while acknowledging your numbness and despair. I wish there was a way to share THIS part of the project with you. So I am offering it back, as best I can.

As I wrote to one contributor-poet, I have a unique opportunity (via email) to unwrap each offering, roll it around in my heart, give it some time. See what lingers. 

I hope you’ll do the same as you look at the thread.

To read them quickly one after the other… something gets lost in that.

I hope your participation brings you something meaningful. It is so beautiful, I am aching with the beauty of the thing.

With love and gratitude,

Jess

Any ongoing contributions may be emailed to: jessstevensyoga@gmail.com💙

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A Saint is someone who has become fully themselves and left a legacy of courage, compassion or creativity that has left a light to encourage us on our path.
            —Kayleen Asbo
 
If, as my friend suggests,
a saint is someone
who has become fully themselves,
who offers us a light on our path,
then you, Dad, are a saint.
Saint of fishermen who stand
in freezing rain. Saint of fathers
of daughters who want to be poets.
Saint of grandfathers
who listen to their grandchildren’s stories.
Saint of ice cream lovers.
Saint of men who remember
to bring their wives flowers.
Saint of cars with loud horns.
Saint of those who giggle till they cry.
Saint of rummage sales
and all who fix everything with duct tape.
And you are the saint of the ones
who are in terrible pain
and yet wake up each morning
and bring kindness.
And you are the saint of the ones
with fathers who were cruel
and did not pass on that cruelty.
And you are the saint
of fathers who coach wrestling
to their sons.
The saint of fathers who cry
at their daughter’s plays.
The saint of this woman
who loves you,
saint of this woman
still learning to pray.

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