Good Friday poem

This will probably offend some folks, but I wrote this after recalling a statement made at a Holocaust Remembrance Service some years ago, based on the line from the Psalm, "by his stripes we are healed."  The speaker commented:  "by their stripes we are healed,"  referring to the victims of the Holocaust.  So years later I came up with this poem, which is in my collection, Field Water, available at www.lulu.com:

by our wounds

from his high perch he watches us, the ones

normal as shoe leather and sandal straps

who go about the dailiness of life while

the world in madness destroys itself                                     

for gain or for food it doesn’t matter

the wounds he bears center in

barely breathing now, air scarcely

helpful, the pain numbed by mercy

he was wounded for our transgressions

            and by his bruises we are healed

                                                                                   

in a distant place children wander

in search of lost parents who may

lie hurt or dead in the streets

of the city ruled by hate –

out of sight now we wander aimlessly          

toward the shadows accomplishing little

but passing by the terrors of night and war

the suffering ones cry out despair splits air

carried in waves to the crossbar beam           

overlooking agonies we never saw

each sorrow or hurt or dying or death

appear to serve as balm on his skin

peeled from the overbearing sun and

blows with instruments of battle

those soldiers lying in heaps from the small

explosions pounding them beyond necessity

bring their pain to soothe the thirst their blood

to staunch the flow from his brow where sweat

mingles with the covenant of redeeming love

the child whose belly holds nothing but gas

to fill the empty body takes one last look at him

upon the high beam before death comes

and offers another solace to the pain-stricken figure

by this small sacrifice to the gods of war

each sorrowed death each tortured frame

comes to this hill this place this one

who watches and receives and finds healing

one wound at a time one stripe from the lash

of the whip one piercing one piece of torn flesh

and the nails loosen from heavy wood one slight bit

at a time as the cries of victims bring release

           

            by our bruises he is healed

            crushed by our iniquities

            upon us is the punishment

            that makes him whole                                                 

            there is balm in Gilead

            there is balm in the land

upon the high beam he leaves our infirmities             

upon the high beam he lays our diseases

makes them all disappear he leaves . . .

what is left is not him not the one not not not him

there is no one there the high beam the heavy wood

is empty nail holes remain but with nothing to hold

it is a freedom statement a shalom word a peace

we have liberated him through our pain        

through our deaths and wounds and sorrows                        

by our stripes by our bruises by our love redeemed

empty timbers on a hill where he stands free

                       

            it is accomplished

                 

Excerpt from My Book

Here is a piece from Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War,  published by All Things That Matter Press in September, 2010.  Perhaps this will pique interest in reading more:

A seven-year-old girl living in Honolulu at the time of the attack on Pearl Harbor retained memories “of fear and horror as a war began without warning just a few miles from our family’s home.”  Later, living in Oregon, she and her family returned for visits.  “Now, we take our children and grandchildren back to Hawaii to see the Arizona, still visible just beneath the surface of the water.  There is little else to remind us of that Sunday morning when bombs fell from the sky and children awakened to learn that their world was no longer secure.”⁴⁰

               we cannot live forever in that time

               life refuses to indulge our

               memories yet we know and we remember

               so that grandchildren will be witnesses

               to our stories.

Memories for children in the European war theater were strongly laced with fear and terror.  The remembered siren sounds, the air-raid shelters with crying babies and frightened adults, the overpowering dank smell of the earth surrounding them, remains for a lifetime.  The conviction that such events must never again take place is also a result of these experiences.  Never again a war.  Yet our histories since that time show that these determinations have been disappointed many times over, as each war in turn makes way for the next one.

             Reminders of earth stenched by human use survive

             in nostrils depriving memory of moist soil

             rich with smells of life blooming to fullness.

            Forever lingers the shrill song of the sirens of death.

            We learn that never is what happens despite our hope

             in every moment.  Yet we cannot forgive the stink of war

             on earth, our good earth, earth of home.  Never again,

             we swear, never again, never must the raven of death

             dare cover itself in false purity.

             Never again must children remember

             forever what dirt smells like underground

             what hunger tastes like what fear feels like

             never should they ever know this for the rest

             of life and afterward in the dark earth.

---

Overwhelmed

I have trouble understanding why I can't hold to my resolve about pulling back from all the activities I once participated in, issues advocated for, causes I wrote about.  Just as soon as I do that, another compelling issue comes to my attention, and there I go again.

Well, I may be coming to some understanding of how this obsessive compulsion seems to be the case: the internet media.  Each morning I open up my email site and there sit at least half a dozen stories about dire situations in need of my healing touch, my money, my presence, my attention.  Not one of these deserves to be ignored.  The guilt begins when I hit the "delete" key for any of them. 

About two years ago, I think it was, I made a promise to myself: my attention would now turn to matters of writing: poetry, non-fiction, perhaps some fiction . . .  and to do so would mean I would let go of most of the activities which took up my time -- usefully, but all the same, took my energy.  My life's calling began to peep into my psyche like some small Easter chick, insisting upon my attention.  And I was successful to some degree.  Had a book published by a small independent press, unlike my previous self-publications.   Became active in writing groups, mainly those having to do with poetry.  Started attending more readings and studying books about writing good poetry.  Then when my book about children of World War II came out, began concentrating on readings and marketing.  Joined Twitter.  Posted on Face Book.

One problem, however: I was receiving more and more messages, more pleas for help from needy organizations,  more guilt layered on my barely liberated spirit.  But once again, I am vowing to cut back:  the only non-literary endeavors will be my participation with the NC Council of Churches, my responsibilities as a Benedictine Oblate, and perhaps filling a pulpit or two on occasion, in addition to the church choir.  My energies will still address the compelling issues of the day, the needs of the poor and dis-enfranchised, the least of these, but now through the written word rather than my body on a street corner holding a candle or a poster.  All of these groups do important work and I want to support them, from human rights to animal rights, but it will be through what I write.  There's is a definite sense of liberation in doing so.  Now to hold to what I have resolved.

PAIN

About 6 months ago, something happened in my lower spine.  I have learned that the official title for that event is "spinal stenosis."  Or: pinched nerve, sciatic nerve problem . . .  whatever.  It was difficult to ignore the pain that would appear without warning, but manageable.  Since then I have gone through months of pain and finally some treatment that resulted in physical therapy exercises. 

To experience pain that has a life of its own, comes unpredictably, lingers for hours, has given a new way for me to understand the "dailiness of life, " a phrase borrowed from the poet Randal Jarrell.   The constant presence of discomfort is to say the least, distracting.  I learn for this time in my life what ongoing pain does to one's psyche, one's body.  There have been many times of experiencing pain, but only for the short term.  This is big time, all time pain.  And I go through feelings of anger, frustration, self-pity, helplessness, despair . . . and wonder what tomorrow brings.  The one positive effect on me, however, makes up for the down sides of this time: hope.  I know, or I hope, that the next day will be better, less pain, and the next day less, and so on until I no longer have this constant companion, uninvited.  

What has made the difference for me, above all other efforts to deal with pain: writing.  Poems.  Blogs. Articles.  Reading: books, books, books.  Words lined up one after another, each one removing a piece of the pain.  Each one taking my spirits to what matters.  In all this is faith.  In all this is a redemptive element to pain, which becomes the awareness of what pain is like for others.  For others.  Those outside myself.

Determination to overcome and to find the remedy.  Determination to be able to stand for longer than 10 minutes.  Ability to walk for 45 minutes with Katie, as she studies the scents laid down in this meantime in those woods.  It is waiting for the time ahead.  For now, may I learn what this time has to teach me.

Measurements

A lot of my time seems to be spent measuring it: Thursdays I change the bed linens; Wednesday evenings call me to choir practice; Mondays bring the trash trucks to the neighborhood; my pills are apportioned for each day in a little plastic pill holder sectioned by days of the week.  Today is Tuesday.  Usually a free day unless I have household chores to do, or appointments somewhere.  My life seems to be measured according to what the day is, and how much time to devote to particular activities.

Now I begin to consider how others might measure out their days:  by how many rounds of gunfire they hear from rebels or government troops;  by the meager rations of food and water are available for today; by the time left that a loved one has before dying; by anniversaries of marriages that no longer exist.  Some measure their lives by how far they live from nuclear reactors damaged by a tsunami;  some by how many days have passed since the earthquake, or the flood, or the fires.  Some by how long it has been since a clean cup of fresh water has been available.  Others by the children's lives lost because of deadly military actions.

I simply wonder how long it has been since I wrote my last blog, or how many days before I complete another book.  I watch clocks.  Some watch the skies for signs of danger.  I watch my dog sleeping beside me.  Some keep an eye on the wilderness surrounding them with unknown inhabitants: friend or foe?  I open the refrigerator to see what is available for lunch.  I have no idea of how others measure life. 

Yet today as I write this, how many lives will end because of warfare, or illness, or suicide, or simply old age?  As I write this, and as you read it, what will happen to the sea water we need to nourish us by what is in it?  What ice is melting now in the Arctic and Antarctic?  How many polar bears and seals and penguins will perish seeking the habitat they once had as home?  I cannot measure life that way without realizing how contained my own time is, how regular and certain it is.  Yet I have no guarantee that such measures will continue to be mine.  Do I measure my future or simply the present? 

T.S. Eliot's J. Alfred Prufrock measured out his life in coffee spoons.  He asks the eternal human question: "Do I dare/Disturb the universe?/ In a minute there is time/For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."
Like Prufrock I echo "I grow old . . . I grow old . . ."  So how must my time be measured?  I will never know unless I see how others measure their lives, unless they teach me the meaning of each moment. 

Spring and Daylight Savings Time

So many issues I planned to write about: the earthquake and tsunami in Japan, the Mid-East rebellions, my half-finished poems, information I promised to send out, the outline for a presentation . . . all waiting to be completed.  Today, however, would not allow for those obligations.

Outdoors, in our back yard, Katie stalked squirrels all afternoon, never getting one within chasing distance.  Overhead, birds of all sorts were singing their late afternoon, early spring hymns.  The neighborhood rustled with sounds of yard work, dogs being walked while other dogs barked at them, a few cars moving down the streets.  No cats were visible but they lurked in hidden spots.  Squirrels polished off the birdseed in the feeder.

Finally, Katie and I sat on the top step of the long wooden stairway leading to our lower lot, watching everything.  Two crows flew by chasing the hawk away, "Out! Out!"  they screamed at the predator.  The beautiful-winged bird moved at its own speed and will, not to be completely under the thumb of the black birds and their raucous warning. The warmth of the late afternoon, the brightness, the almost spring, the beginning flowers on tree and bush . . . these lured me outside, denied my attempts to do something useful.

Tomorrow comes soon enough.  Today is sufficient.

Children

Today I think of children, and find this comment by Benedictine Sister Joan Chittister: from The Monastic Way  -- a daily word for each month.  The reference to this quote is the portrait “Head of a Girl” by Paula Modersohn-Becker. This is her word for Wednesday, February 16, 2011:

“All over the country, all over the world, children are being bought and sold, beaten and killed, abandoned and – worse, perhaps – simply ignored by the very people they depend on for food and care and love and security.  We love to think of children as “innocent.”  But, I thought, as I looked at Modersohn-Becker’s “Head of a Girl,” are children really innocent – meaning unknowing of evil – or are they simply the silent bearers of the sins adults commit against them?  And at what cost – to us as a society – as well as to them?”

In researching for my book Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War  (on Amazon)  I now find in Sister Joan's comment a truth that is proven by what happens to children during a time of war.  Not  only during wartime, however, but under all kinds of circumstances, as listed in her comment for today.  I have to wonder what it is we could be thinking of, when we take our future and cripple it emotionally and physically by the actions we are guilty of committing against children.  Even though most of us would never consider behaving in such ways towards children, we are complicit indirectly when we simply sigh and shake our corporate head over such sins.  We accommodate the brutal behavior if we fail to speak out, to draw attention to, and advocate for a change in our common humanity. 

None of us came into this world as full-blown adults.   Along the way we too were wounded in some way, seen or unseen.  Do we avoid advocacy for the children of this world and this time because it would remind us of our own vulnerability in our growing years?  Or do we make judgments that reflect the sense that because we have come through that storm others can as well?  How do we heal our own wounds, or do they simply exist in the shadows of our psyches unattended?

The portrait referred to is a haunting reminder of our own lost innocence, and serves as a reflection of who we are today.  Look it up and define what happens to you as you study this portrait of a young girl who represents more than one child.  What is the secret behind her eyes?