Why We Suffer
Why We Suffer
All the apples Eve didn’t eat fell and rotted on the ground, leaving brown seeds, lifted by birds, floated on wind or on God's watery wrath downstream and into the dirt until it sprouted everywhere— this thick green sorrow with which we stuff our mouths.
Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash
The Prompt
I know I’m a bit late with this post! I meant to send one out yesterday or the day before, but I couldn’t make up my mind whether the right poem for the moment was one about giving thanks or about over-consumption or about sometimes-drama-filled holiday gatherings or about the genocide of indigenous people in America . . . and so I simply didn’t post. Admittedly, I spent the most time thinking about that latter reality yesterday. This is the first Thanksgiving when I’ve really paused to consider America’s history and the way it’s been white-washed—and the way this white-washing has given rise to strange traditions like eating until you want to vomit, which apparently has something to do with gratitude. If this is something you would like to learn about or sit with, may I suggest
’s post “Thanksgrieving.” In any case, for those of you here in America, I hope you came through the day with all the best and truest parts of you still intact. A couple weeks ago, I participated in a Conscious Writers Collective craft class with poet Caroline Bird. The class was phenomenal and oodles of fun and has been kicking around my brain ever since. One of the exercises Caroline had us try was to write a wrong answers only poetic response to a question of our choosing. The poem above is my presumably wrong answer to the question of why we suffer.
If you’d like a prompt to play with, then I invite you to do the same with one of the questions below (or a question of your own). Let the question (or some variation on it) act as the title, and let your brilliant, absurd, hilarious, dark, angst-filled, hopeful, or deliciously cheesy (wrong) answers flow from there. Here are some questions for inspiration:
Why do we suffer?
Why do good things happen to bad people?
What happens after we die?
What’s the meaning of life?
What is the highest good?
What is real?
I look forward to your illuminating responses to these age-old questions, friends. Remember to have fun! The world needs our playfulness and humor and curiosity—not just our grief.
Oooh, I love this poem -- it is whimsical and haunting at the same time. That might be my favorite poetic combo! Here is mine. I couldn't decide whether to break it up into stanzas or not. I went with not for now, but I'm open to feedback!
.
Why Do Birds Suddenly Appear?
.
They are born in the hidden copses
of my home and yours – under dressers,
between cushions – seeding as summer
splits its seams and we lose our pep.
The dog days plump up pillows
of dust and fur for their wee heads
until the first gasp of fall, when we
become suddenly too busy to clean
a thing. They hold their breaths
all winter but are quite safe by then,
couch and mug having
claimed us, snow slowing
every pulse. It is not until March,
when the ancestors begin flashing
their little flags from the treetops,
that our eyes clear and the broom
comes out. By then they are
winged and itchy.
We throw open the doors, clear
all lurkers for takeoff as the circle
runs home.
I'm not actually sure how much sense this makes, but you said "wrong answers" so, here it is 😅
.
The meaning of life is cheese
.
the melt-in-your-mouth kind
that you want to spread on everything;
the kind that oozes
from every nook and cranny;
the kind you want to savour,
even when it's a little sharp -
or, perhaps, because it is;
.
which is to say:
life is meant to be devoured,
even when we no longer have a taste for it,
even when we feel fed up with it;
and there is no need to swallow it politely.