I attended a poetry reading tonight, secular, well lit, modern, well decorated, galleries of juvenile art work decorating, creating for the sake of the one creating establishing an identity, academic and students flailing, fairly well attended. The reading by two women, one young, one older, Lizzie Harris and Lesle Lewis respectively, allowed the graceful wasting of time, an inquisitive effort into using words to alleviate. I attended based upon reading online the poem posted below. There is an honesty, the insight of an observer preparing for something greater, while putting to sleep pains from the past, coming to terms. My conviction to the Catholic faith is deep in practice, the consequence of some remarkable personal experiences. Reposing within the practice, not the preaching—declining outward displays, I enjoy, silently and stealthily, observing creative efforts outside the faith. Artist non-Catholic, non-Christian, can move me deeply. I quickly point to Nick Cave, Belixa Bargeld, Michael Stipe, Cormac McCarthy, and Wim Wenders, names that quickly slip from the mind. There are others. To capture the sense of hopelessness, the longing and urging for something beyond the ordinary, the rejection of conformity–the refusal of accepting banality without regret, the need for suffering the reckoning of a consciousness awake, taking life serious, the brutality and enlightenment of experience: it is a fine start to contemplating mysteries. The dread is the attachment, the establishing of an identity one cannot release. To become a poet is to become something one cannot let go of, seeing all things through twistedness. It is a perversion. One step beyond as Madness sang, through the collapsing of self, not through elevation, rather negation, seems difficult while enduring the trauma and excitement of becoming a recognized artist. All in due time, all in fun. The older poet, speculatively identified with free love, free thinking, the rejection of organized religion, the destruction of hierarchy–appeared hopeless, a disillusioned hippie, mistakes, melancholy, miscalculations, a lack of fulfillment, and not through a divinely infused dark night. Deep, penetrating in concentration, sincerity, and authenticity, not a doubt she has seen much, garnered profound insight, intelligently suffered, caused suffering, bled and was bled, debated and won, debated and lost, yet through it all a presence of satiation, silent joy, a joy without the need to show itself, was inaccessible, within was one spitting anger everywhere. Through it all one can only observe, loving, offering everything to the immaculate heart of Mary and the bleeding Sacred Heart of Christ, while grateful for quality entertainment, a reprieve from cleansing, and an inspiration directing toward virtue. Mystical, simple, the ways of Catholicism soar and plunge into depths it is a shame others cannot access. The grace of a Rosary prayed before the exposed Eucharist, the reprieve and offering of peace, so wonderful to share.
Poem by Lizzie Harris. Notifying her of the posting, in case she wants it removed.
When Linear
Somewhere in the future
My father is dying—frantically
Searching a white beach
For quarters. All my life I’ve tried
To buy, but everything came free—
Falling through air where I
Caught stuff by the tongue.
I was spitting anger everywhere!
Miles overhead, planes drop
Fun-sized candies to the people below,
Who are suffering from illnesses they caught
On the subway. I’m not afraid
For nothing. I can hear the planes
Not landing. The dog silent
In the distance. I fill my grocery bags
With other grocery bags. I graze
On what feels like very little time.
