I first shared this poem last year in the aftermath of October 7th. I started writing it a year before that. And still, it feels more relevant than ever. I’ve edited it slightly. The words are almost entirely the same, but I’ve changed the line and stanza breaks a bit. Playing with enjambment has always been one of my favorite poetic pastimes. I like this version better, but you can find the first version here if you’d like to compare the two.
An Invitation
The world did not go as planned.
Everything fell apart.
The center could not hold.
Who will perish by fire
and who by water?
Who by sickness
and who by war?
By the millions, they perished, but
we cannot grieve. Something worse
is always slinking toward us.
We should only focus on the pain of others.
Others should focus more on our pain.
Don’t come to me with your questions.
Find the answers yourself. No matter
that without me, you won’t
even know where to start.
I hate it here.
I love it here.
Here is the whole planet if you try
hard enough. But nobody wants to try.
We want everyone else to do the work.
Everyone else wants that, too.
One day, we’ll realize we’re all yelling
about the same things. The meaning got lost
in the noise. Before we knew it,
the noise was everywhere.
We’ve become a parody of ourselves.
This is fine.
You’re so vain. You probably think
this poem is about you. That makes you angry,
but you fucking love it. You’re salivating
at the chance to rip someone’s head off,
at the opportunity to get high on
outrage and moral superiority.
We no longer rage against the machine.
Rage is the machine.
It’s in the water. It’s in the air.
It’s in the processed food
and the equally processed media.
Half the ingredients are fake.
The other half are buried
at the bottom of the box, long past
where you stopped reading.
Who cares? We’re all going to die anyway.
Some of us sooner than others,
whether by stupidity or dumb luck.
Why don’t we stop fighting
and enjoy the sunset?
Why don’t we hold hands
while the world goes quiet?
Tell me you love me even though
I’m fucked up. I’ll tell you the same.
I’ll mean it. I’ll rip my own beating heart
out of my chest if you ask me to, if
it means we can whisper and live
forever in the twilight.
Dusk inhabits my dreams
not as a setting but as
the peace I seek. Live oaks
dripping with Spanish moss
cool the fires in the sky. A fever dream
of normalcy. Quiet. Something so old
it’s become new again. Broken
pieces of glass coming together as
a mosaic, the small shapes and colors
all part of the larger whole.
Even the jagged edges
find ways to fit together.
A canvas awash in a single color is not art.
A song with only one note is not a story.
A metronome is an entrance, an invitation
to become a symphony.
Repeated trauma transforms
into a callous. Brute force cannot
break it. It is already a broken thing.
Salve dulls the pain of new injuries
and knits the skin back together. Clean
bandages cradle and protect the raw
margins. The wounds weep;
they expel the hurt within.
Maybe we’ll never understand each other.
My pain is not your pain.
But frayed nerves burn no matter
whose body they’re in. Hungry ghosts
consume whatever is in their path.
Let us feed each other willingly, offering
full tables and fuller hearts. We have everything
we need to make this place
beautiful once more.
WEEKEND POTPOURRI:
Currently on repeat:
Michela Griffith of Find Flow shared some stunning photos of spiderwebs and their makers.
Anyone with a chronic illness can relate to Jenna Putnam’s poem “The After.”
A(nother) poem:
UNDER THE HARVEST MOON
By Carl Sandburg
Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers. Under the summer roses When the flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
"Before we knew it the noise was everywhere" . Yes that is exactly how it feels right now. I wish the noise would stop. When I go for a walk in the woods, I can escape it for a while.