singular
each of these
falling
is something new
unseen in shape
since the beginning
shoveled from sidewalks
brushed from cars
what was unique
drifts mundane in collective
reduced by quantity
to something less special
and more routine
in plural
I am no god, but pay a divine price
for what I learn.
I did not trade an eye
for wisdom;
Just this heart
bargained for a moment.
Listen.
Absence speaks loudest
in a quiet place
where pulse rioted hope
in a directed torrent.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 28,000 times in 2013. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 10 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.
When I first loved you,
maybe I wrote your name
on a piece of paper and floated it in honey,
or maybe I chanted it at midnight, on a night
cold as this one, where speech is visible
as breath, your name a mantra,
a whisper/song stretched under
all being, a sound given shape
to fly words to an uncaring sky.
It is not as easy to unspeak a feeling
once it has flesh, undo a fabric
spun finer than capillaries
blushing secret under skin
but it can be done. I need the words
to unlove to come, fast and sharp
as what brought us together
only this time, gently and forever.
In Cairo and Palestine
snow is as holy as manna
gathered quickly in the morning
to shape snowmen
or drink in that cold desert–
the same whiteness
covers so many scars in the cities
of my continent
cracked pavement
broken glass
gone in one frozen breath
but not gone, really;
merely covered over.
No sick are healed.
No lame are walking.
No blind can see.
There are no fast fixes
or true miracles
to celebrate
except the everyday
magic of ice and dust
each its own thing
unmatched
but collectively an event
They want to meter sunlight
in a convenient attack of sometimes
where truth is less than the sum of its spin
and I am less in love with language
in favor of words: bone, cup, water;
a simple speech of blood
translating only what’s important:
arrow, sunrise, hands;
your mouth on my neck
defining yes.
I have been swimming in a sea of talking points instead of conversation, and am at risk of drowning. Recently, I joined an across-the-political-spectrum discussion group on Facebook, and generally have been having a lot of fun exchanging perspectives and ideas. Until last night.
Last night, another group member I do not know well used the definition of fascism to describe the progressive movement in this country. As I am a lover of language, I corrected his definition of both terms, as they are polar opposites, and then was accused of being a typical liberal who feels she owns the definition of words.
As a poet and writer, I use words, but do not own them beyond the split second I string them into an image, thought, or sentence. No one does. So–here are those definitions that got me into trouble last night.
noun \ˈfa-ˌshi-zəm also ˈfa-ˌsi-\
: a way of organizing a society in which a government ruled by a dictator controls the lives of the people and in which people are not allowed to disagree with the government
: very harsh control or authority.
noun
: a person who favors new or modern ideas especially in politics and education.
These are not my definitions. They come from Merriam-Webster. Regardless, our exchange deteriorated to the point of snark, and any hope of constructive dialog between us was lost, at least for last night.
***
Our exchange led me to think more of how I define my politics, which are not, and never have been decidedly one way or the other. For example:
So, lately I have been feeling like the term liberal really does not fit me well. It is too tight around the waist. Instead, from now on, I will be calling myself a leftward-leaning pragmatist.
Susan Daniels Poetry 