I mean, are we sure he didn't steal her weed . . . like just a little bit of it? It might explain all that preaching of love in a context of fear. This is such a fun and thought-provoking poem. And I'm with you . . . poor Mary! I really hope the world is okay with me messing my kids up at least an itty bit because I'm not sure I can avoid it.
LIsa, we all mess our kids up a bit, and thankfully, kids are more resilient than we think sometimes! I imaging Jesus may have acted out in various ways, stealing weed included!
This is remarkable Rebekah. You capture the emotional aspect of the burden Mary carried and the loving way she raised her child, regardless of origin. The Roman Catholic church can sometimes assign an almost divinity like status to Mary, but that, too, obscures her humanity and the difficult road she travels. I like that your poem brings out the parenthood of Mary, her connection with the challenges of raising children, and how it was she who had perhaps the msot difficult burden, rasing a child and watching his execution as a young adult.
I must confess, though I have appreciated your likes I have not responded because in topically checking your substack space I saw messages of love, love, love. My fingers are but blackened stumps burnt by trying to touch all the love of the sixties. I was in San Francisco during the summer of love, a love not to be shared with me because I had the misfortune of being in the Navy, in dry dock for a year.
All those that talked love and flowers branded me a baby killer as they frolicked in their mantra of Sex, Drugs and Rock n Roll.
Sorry, I should have changed this into a poem. However, I do not Howl like Alan Ginsburg.
I am sorry that this has been your experience of folks who hail from the sixties. I know that much misplaced scorn and anger was directed at those who served, which was ignorant and misguided in my view. I have many family and friends who’ve served and have lost some to Vietnam and the wars that followed. Growing up in the sixties and living through the decades since has only served to deepen my belief that love is the ultimate key to bringing us to beloved community, despite all the fits and stumbles. Blessings of love to you Jim.
Of all the great musicians who left at 27, Hendrix is the one I most wish we could zap back to earth. I would love to see what he would have done with these last 55 years.
Thank you for your brilliant poem, Lisa. The figure that came first to my mind is Martin Luther King, Jr. who was alive on this earth for the first 14 years of my life as a white kid in the segregated south. David Wilcox's song "Single Candle: helped me frame the poem, and let's hope it does Dr. King justice. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTKDGjPJufk
I didn't know that MLK Jr was sick on the night he was assassinated. Something about that very human, very tender, seemingly mundane detail really brings the beauty, heartache, and hope of your poem to life for me. Thank you, Larry. ❤️
Thank you Lisa! He was feeling ill and told his close friend Ralph Abernathy to deliver the porch for him. His team came back and said that the crowd wanted him, and he went over and delivered his famous speech. The end of the speech that night was like the I Had a Dream speech where the final part was extemporaneous and not in the script.
This is remarkably beautiful, Lisa. The reading and the listening to you speak it moved me so deeply it is hard to express in words. You have a masterpiece here, in my view, very timely and so very neccessary to ponder as we watch the fabric break and wonder what to do, how to repair and heal, how to survive. The last two stanzas stopped me and brought tears to my eyes:
"Instead, he simply broke
wide enough for a nation,
wide enough to hold the tension,
feel division
like the tugging of his own
fractured heart,
like wholeness is just
holding the wreckage
tenderly
with open palms.
Now I am trying to hold this:
the darkness stitched in me,
the brightness woven in you.
We are one cloth,
pulled at the edges,
a single fabric,
breaking."
Imagining what President Lincoln must have felt in those tumultous times, and how his own shadows and darkness helped him to navigate our nation's darkness and shadows. Thank you for your poem, your spirit, your true north that brings you to hope, again and again.
Thank you so much, Larry! And the book you pointed me toward brought me to this poem, so I think you get at least half the credit. (Or, I don't know, maybe we can give 99% of the credit to the Universe, .05% to you, and .05% to me.)
I am always glad to recommend Parker’s books. Your inspirations come from a multitude of places, all cosmically flowing into you and creating so brilliantly.
I'm glad that line landed for you, A! (Even if it only landed in the sense of being a fractured, imperfect thing still worthy of holding tenderly in your open palms!)
The power you like is not mine but that of either Chloe of Birds and Death or one of the Jensen ladies—I’m guessing sisters—sorry for memory lapse, as I reworked her poetry to show a different take.
Don’t want to take credit for inspiration that is not mine.
In some ways, raising Jesus
was probably easy.
I doubt he talked back
or loafed excessively
or pretended he hated her
or stole her weed.
.
But imagine the weight of
the Savior
in your belly, in your arms,
in your heart.
Yours would be an eggshell world:
don’t coddle, don’t snap,
don’t helicopter, don’t spank,
don’t scream, don’t sulk,
don’t roll over and kill him.
.
Jesus was the Son of God
and could do as he pleased.
But Mary was a regular person
asked to work the miracle
of not messing up her child,
not even a little bit,
as a favor to the billions
she could not imagine.
I mean, are we sure he didn't steal her weed . . . like just a little bit of it? It might explain all that preaching of love in a context of fear. This is such a fun and thought-provoking poem. And I'm with you . . . poor Mary! I really hope the world is okay with me messing my kids up at least an itty bit because I'm not sure I can avoid it.
LIsa, we all mess our kids up a bit, and thankfully, kids are more resilient than we think sometimes! I imaging Jesus may have acted out in various ways, stealing weed included!
(From personal experience)
i must add:
Don't feed him milk on a hot day.
Asking a lot from a young woman impregnated without her permission or even knowledge. Kind of like date rape after being drugged but without the date.
Right? I got to thinking she was probably just a teenager too, as would have been customary. Poor Mary.
And hats off to Joseph for sticking by her side in a time when guys did not do that.
Rebekah, most of the scholars that I know put her in early teens, possibly as young as 12.
This is remarkable Rebekah. You capture the emotional aspect of the burden Mary carried and the loving way she raised her child, regardless of origin. The Roman Catholic church can sometimes assign an almost divinity like status to Mary, but that, too, obscures her humanity and the difficult road she travels. I like that your poem brings out the parenthood of Mary, her connection with the challenges of raising children, and how it was she who had perhaps the msot difficult burden, rasing a child and watching his execution as a young adult.
Bruce Cockburn (Coburn) has an interesting take on the birth story: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uq1PpZKMBl8
Did he love with longing
Trying to consume his darkness
With a light of compassion
A light for most
That brightens one’s space
But often seems devoid
Of any warming heat
"Trying to consume his darkness / with a light of compassion." This gives me a lot to sit with!
Very wonderful and thoughtful, Jim.
I must confess, though I have appreciated your likes I have not responded because in topically checking your substack space I saw messages of love, love, love. My fingers are but blackened stumps burnt by trying to touch all the love of the sixties. I was in San Francisco during the summer of love, a love not to be shared with me because I had the misfortune of being in the Navy, in dry dock for a year.
All those that talked love and flowers branded me a baby killer as they frolicked in their mantra of Sex, Drugs and Rock n Roll.
Sorry, I should have changed this into a poem. However, I do not Howl like Alan Ginsburg.
Spent hours in City Lights Bookstore
No one talking to me
I was branded by my haircut
Cursed for short hair
I've never thought before about the experience of soldiers in the 60s through this lens. That must have hurt.
I am sorry that this has been your experience of folks who hail from the sixties. I know that much misplaced scorn and anger was directed at those who served, which was ignorant and misguided in my view. I have many family and friends who’ve served and have lost some to Vietnam and the wars that followed. Growing up in the sixties and living through the decades since has only served to deepen my belief that love is the ultimate key to bringing us to beloved community, despite all the fits and stumbles. Blessings of love to you Jim.
27
If 6 turned out to be 9.
I don't mind.
If all the hippies cut off all their hair.
I don't care.
But 27 is way too early
For the mountains
to fall Into the sea.
Nov 27, Hendrix, 82.
The first four lines feel so playful and light and set me up in the best way for the wallop of the ending. So beautiful and sad.
Of all the great musicians who left at 27, Hendrix is the one I most wish we could zap back to earth. I would love to see what he would have done with these last 55 years.
Thank you for your brilliant poem, Lisa. The figure that came first to my mind is Martin Luther King, Jr. who was alive on this earth for the first 14 years of my life as a white kid in the segregated south. David Wilcox's song "Single Candle: helped me frame the poem, and let's hope it does Dr. King justice. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTKDGjPJufk
I miss you, Dr. King
^
You were ill that night before
an assassin’s’ gun took your life.
Simply wanting to rest and be quiet
you rose and answered the call of thousands
clamoring for a place at the table.
You came to the gathering,
packed auditorium of sanitation workers,
and gave yet another piece of your heart.
In that moment, weary and sick
a spirit sprang from you,
lifting multitudes to a view
they had not seen before.
The view from the mountain to
a promised land,
where the milk and honey were for all
and the poorest among us were first in line.
No bullet or senseless violence
will quiet the voice of freedom.
Tyrannies of hate will not quench
a thirst for justice.
In the quiet light of morning,
Love rises again speaking your name,
beckoning beyond the vile and the vitriol,
“the Promised Land is near.”
I didn't know that MLK Jr was sick on the night he was assassinated. Something about that very human, very tender, seemingly mundane detail really brings the beauty, heartache, and hope of your poem to life for me. Thank you, Larry. ❤️
Thank you Lisa! He was feeling ill and told his close friend Ralph Abernathy to deliver the porch for him. His team came back and said that the crowd wanted him, and he went over and delivered his famous speech. The end of the speech that night was like the I Had a Dream speech where the final part was extemporaneous and not in the script.
💔💔💔
This is remarkably beautiful, Lisa. The reading and the listening to you speak it moved me so deeply it is hard to express in words. You have a masterpiece here, in my view, very timely and so very neccessary to ponder as we watch the fabric break and wonder what to do, how to repair and heal, how to survive. The last two stanzas stopped me and brought tears to my eyes:
"Instead, he simply broke
wide enough for a nation,
wide enough to hold the tension,
feel division
like the tugging of his own
fractured heart,
like wholeness is just
holding the wreckage
tenderly
with open palms.
Now I am trying to hold this:
the darkness stitched in me,
the brightness woven in you.
We are one cloth,
pulled at the edges,
a single fabric,
breaking."
Imagining what President Lincoln must have felt in those tumultous times, and how his own shadows and darkness helped him to navigate our nation's darkness and shadows. Thank you for your poem, your spirit, your true north that brings you to hope, again and again.
Thank you so much, Larry! And the book you pointed me toward brought me to this poem, so I think you get at least half the credit. (Or, I don't know, maybe we can give 99% of the credit to the Universe, .05% to you, and .05% to me.)
I am always glad to recommend Parker’s books. Your inspirations come from a multitude of places, all cosmically flowing into you and creating so brilliantly.
Black
Colin it took a death sentence
to bring me back to you
And when I found you
The joy
Of that voice
That way with words
To find you were gone
Gone as I arrived
Wiped out in a car
Almost as I had found you
"Gone as I arrived." This is haunting and beautiful! Thank you so much for sharing! I'm heading over to Spotify to listen to check out his music now.
Thanks, Larry, first time I’ve responded to a prompt.
This is very beautiful, Tearlach. Thank you for sharing.
Thanks for this Lisa. Our country is entering another deeply divided era and I hope another Lincoln will emerge.
Me too! Or better yet, what if enough of us gather together and collectively become that person?
I think that would be ideal.
Conflict resolution solution
Sorry no dilution
Passions still run hot
But what is not
Feelings with pollution
But with collusion
"Like wholeness is just/ holding the wreckage/ tenderly/ with open palms" 🧡
I'm glad that line landed for you, A! (Even if it only landed in the sense of being a fractured, imperfect thing still worthy of holding tenderly in your open palms!)
It's gorgeous, and it feels so true.
Intensely felt. How beautiful
Thank you so much, Patris! I'm glad.
‘ Now I am trying to hold this:
the darkness stitched in me,
the brightness woven in you.
We are one cloth,
pulled at the edges,
a single fabric,
breaking. ’
As with Sylvia
The “Lady Lazarus”
She was a single note of harmony
On the minor chord of humanity
With occasional changes to a major
But not being a good singer
She sometimes went off key
Until a string broke
And no more music strummed
......we are stardust......
And we are golden!
I like this Jim. The beginning is powerful: "Now I am trying to hold this/the darkness stitched in me/the brightness woven in you." Great work!
The power you like is not mine but that of either Chloe of Birds and Death or one of the Jensen ladies—I’m guessing sisters—sorry for memory lapse, as I reworked her poetry to show a different take.
Don’t want to take credit for inspiration that is not mine.
Yes, we are sisters. Lucky me!!
Interesting. One of you two is little edgier than the other. I’m sure you knew that 😇
Haha if you met us in real life, you might possibly flip that assessment! It really depends on the context, though.