Despite (and because) of our fears, tears, wounds, trials and tribulations, we must return to innocence – again and again. We must return to innocence to be truly ourselves. In innocence, there are wonders, joys, gratitude, and joi de vivre.
And by innocence, I do not mean selfish egotism, ignorance, false consciousness, delusion, careless license, or self-deceit. By innocence, I mean, sanctity. Purity of heart.
Enigma’s song, Return to Innocence, reminds me of my need to revisit the place of innocence. And sometimes, the song takes me there. To innocence.
It may take you there too. For a moment. But if it does – even if only for a moment – it will fix you.
Macklemore, Ryan Lewis and Ray Dalton, Can’t Hold Us
…
There are friends with whom I shall never share poetry. Because, unfortunately, poetry is superfluous to those who lack an intellectual spirit. Or spiritual life.
Or brave heart.
I’m not obsessed with poetry. It’s not a daily ritual for me. Nor weekly. But reading it (or remembering it) on occasion, one may find a place for thegenuine - as the American modernist poetess Marianne Moore put it.
Today, there may be no necessity for the genuine when our questions can be managed with addictions, prescriptions, hook ups and outrageous materialism. Until you want to live wholeheartedly, feel strongly and love… fiercely and truly.
And only then will you know that you too cannot live without great books, beautiful music, art, illuminated friends and, oh yes, poetry.
I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all
this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf
under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that
feels a
flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician–
nor is it valid
to discriminate against ‘business documents and
school-books’; all these phenomena are important. One must
make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
‘literalists of
the imagination’–above
insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, ‘imaginary gardens with real toads in them’, shall
we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.
Below is a poem by Simon Curtis: Comet Over Greens Norton. Like the political scandals, natural disasters, fears and anger that ripple through the milky (sour) radio and tv waves (or remain ignored for obvious and not so obvious reasons), Curtis’ poem reminds me that God is working. Sometimes, in strokes that paint a bigger picture than we will ever see with our own eyeballs.
But, perhaps, our imagination can grasp the square when we have seen the corner. Just as Confucius suggests of the gentleman. Perhaps.
The past repeats itself – this is a quaint yet profound reflection on the cyclical nature of things. And the evidence is overwhelming and undeniable to all but the most obtuse. Or intellectually impaired.
That God is working.
To what? Why? How?
What is the function and destination of God’s work?
Einstein’s pursuit of such questions took him to the theory of relativity. Thomas Aquinas, The Summa Theologica. Raphael, the painting, The Engagement. Carl Gustav Jung, to a theory of personality – which modern psychology has abandoned for lack of intellectual and intuitional capacity to extend his vision further. Or even apply the legacy of his thought and work.
Perhaps, this too is why the Founding fathers of the American Experiment laid out the most ambitious of plans for a nation.
…
The U.S. National Archives where the Declaration of Independence and U.S. Constitution are preserved and exhibited.
…
As much reason as there is to fear, rage and protest God’s work, there is more reason to wonder, thrill and find great inspiration. And that, specifically, is what Curtis’ poem did for me. It reminded me of the wonder, majesty and bigness of God’s work. Perhaps, it will do it for you…
In the fearsome face of unprecedented political scandal and tyrannous masquerades behind untenable promises for peace, security and prosperity, scientists argue the risks of x-class solar flares, falling stars, melting glaciers, bee death, epidemic and hyperinflation. We step forward to the brink of a world war and back again, but the leap into the inferno, the fateful decision – it belongs to the ambitions and vanities of a few – none of whom are greater in intelligence, wisdom or virtue than you or I.
It is like watching the perfect storm. The bright flashes dance and shoot across our eyes. The roar, rumble and growl of thunder shakes the world.
Some will lift up their hearts in excitement and anticipation. Others will stay still and quiet. Take cover. We are not masters of our destiny, life, property, and happiness – this is what natural disasters remind us. And man-made disasters (environmental, political, social and economic) – they too remind us of our frailty and vanities.
…
His lightnings lit up the world; The earth saw and trembled.
Psalm 97:4
…
For those who put their faith in their own prudence and capability, they will prepare for the worst. At great cost, effort and sacrifice – if they have any sense of justice, conscience and freedom. The combination of a lack of spiritual hope and a lack of preps is evidence of an inferior intelligence and/or moral character. Such optimism is the refuge of the domesticated and pitiful slave bound by the necessities and envies of today.
For those who drink from the waters of faith, God is working in the storm – regardless of the apparent, invisible, and heart-breaking casualties. Two weeks of preps and certain self-sufficiency is prudent, but the real work is to love strongly (without fear), to give and lift others up (including and beyond our circle of family and friends), and inspire the same duty in the hearts of the human family.
I’m riding shotgun down the avalanche Tumbling and falling down the avalanche
So be quiet tonight the stars shine bright On this mountain of new fallen snow But I will raise up my voice into the void You have left me nowhere to go
I love you so much and it’s so bizarre A mystery that goes on and on and on This is the best thing and the very most hard And we don’t get along
…
…
I’m disappointed – not disillusioned. I’m riding shotgun down the avalanche.
It feels like self-defeat. Sometimes, I want to run (gladly and passionately) but there’s no where to run to with arms wide open.
The poet blogger, Anthony Wilson of the Lifesaving Poems blog, writes today about his encounter with Michael Symmons Roberts’ poem, Ultramarine. His blog post is here:
Anthony’s post reminds me of my first encounter with the same poem years ago. Roberts’ Ultramarine provoked questions about life and death, self-reflection (not to be confused with navel gazing), and [gulp] a necessity to write – to write (bad) poetry.
If a poem does that to you (like what Roberts’ Ultramarine did to me) – it’s good poetry.
When I say I do bad poetry, I say this not out of false modesty in anticipation of future praise. But I do say so with the lingering shame of those many, many letters of rejection taped to the bedroom wall of my younger Patsak self.
Nonetheless, I share my prose with you (below) – that you can get a feel for how not to write poetry. Also – I share this to share my self with you. Perhaps, Johnny too will discover it someday.
“Nobody” is everyone, a person without accomplishment, and also a reference to the Odyssey when the cyclops, Polyphemus, asks Odysseus for his name. - in case you wondered about the alternate title.
…
…
Cerulean Blue
or A Self-Portrait of a Nobody
…
I knew him well, better than you. Knew him
like a warm wool scarf wrapt around the face
on a cold January morning stroll
along Spuistraat, passing Magna Plaza.
…
I knew the hidden smile sweeping the street
with tassels of saffron, burnt umber, thyme,
gold, sandalwood, dark plum and a little gray -
the man wasn’t as tall as Tom Baker.
…
And the scarf had stretched beyond twelve feet.
…
Knew him like the dull pain – its claws gripping
his ankles and its teeth burying into his calves
as he left the Willis on South Wacker -
an exhausting, inescapable friend
…
that persecutes, tries and tests your patience.
There were times he couldn’t take one more step
down a fragrant spring path in Cismigiu
and he would linger with a cigarette -
…
as if he meant to. And maybe he did.
…
I knew him like a Solomon searching
for a perfect blue – cerulean, in fact.
…
Ultramarine may be a misadventure
like forbidden, swollen areolas,
like a shuddering gasp of completion.
With someone that does not belong to you.
…
Does anyone?! Ever belong to you?
…
Cerulean is ubiquitous – not cheap
like kitsch (to be displayed) in a Florentine curio -
I explained in the comments of the previous post. That I was going to do my small part in caring for creation. To summarize, I’m planting flowers and bushes that will feed and nourish the pollinators: bees, butterflies, fireflies and hummingbirds.
Here in my neck of the Northern Virginia suburb, we have many varieties of pollinators. Of bees, we have wild European honey bees, bumblebees, and carpenter bees. I think that my favorite local butterflies are the orange-speckled, brush footed butterflies (Nymphalidae). But any bright colored butterfly makes a heart smile.
…
Opus Dei
I planned eight flower beds – a work bigger than me infact. It was easy to imagine, but proving a beast in the execution. But that’s how I roll – throwing myself at the impossible. Or improbable. Success promises immense satisfaction and upliftment. Failure, of course, threatens at every inch. That’s how I think of God’s work – however erroneous that conception may be. Read the rest of this entry »
Posted by Stan Faryna 
Follow me on Twitter: @Faryna
