IV.
“Shut that baby up!”
And the child cries on.
Mary Justevich sings
her raucous song of life
& the child cries.
“The next time you come,
you leave that baby at home.”
And in the wounded eyes
of the mother, I see
her cry:
There’s no one there
no one there
no one.
V.
They sit as if they’re
used to waiting.
Staring off into space
thinking their own
thoughts.
Waiting. Waiting.
And I am angry.
I watch the waiting
from behind the desk
and I know.
My heart hardens
against the saints
as they talk
and wander about
ignoring the waiting.
thoughtless passages
of time.
VI.
And in the “real” world
I see that I’ve changed.
The lights have gone gaudy –
I’ve seen the war
behind the glitter.
There will always be
dark, empty buildings
and Al & Fifi, &
even Buddy fighting
for a way of life
fighting for life
fighting.
The homes of the rich
frustrated me –
repugnant desire
of my fickle heart.
I will be gentry one day.
Will I forget
the other side of town?
The Bug posted one of these poems last week, and another post explaining what it was about and what she thinks now. This is what I think they are about: the humane, giving heart. But also, the world of humiliation that seems to go along with poverty and assistance. The humiliation of having your best impulses rebuffed--maybe because you've misjudged the scene or don't have the right thing to offer, or even that there is no right thing for someone in distress. She also writes how people on both sides shut down their best impulses, become indifferent. But there's also hope in these observations. She plunged into the work: recorded it, one poem per day. She Saw. And she knows things now that the rest of us can use. Very much so.
Thanks again, dear Bug, for an invaluable chance to gain some insights.
Thanks again, dear Bug, for an invaluable chance to gain some insights.
No comments:
Post a Comment