E. B. White said that. He viewed writing as something almost holy. Writing for him was an act full of hope. A writer tries to make the world a better place, letter by letter, word by word, sentence by sentence. Faith is a belief in something better.
Now, if you read my posts from yesterday, you are well aware of the fact that my faith, at the moment, is at a low ebb. Yet, I sit down at my laptop this evening and write. Perhaps I can exorcise my negative feelings by composing this post. I doubt, but I suppose it's worth a try. I guess that, in itself, is an act of faith.
I'm supposed to write about what's in my book bag this evening. Well, for the last week, I've been lugging around the Spring 2014 issue of Rattle, a poetry journal. The entire issue is devoted to love poems, and the work contained in its pages is uplifting, depressing, disturbing, but always beautiful.
This morning I found a poem by Leonard Orr that really touched the raw edges of my waning faith. I want to share it with you, because I want to return to a place of hope and happiness. Leonard Orr did that for me for a few moments this morning.
Saint Marty was grateful.
by: Leonard Orr, first published in Rattle, Spring 2014
Each time I vote, I pretend that this time
everything I hope for will take place, that
not only will everyone I vote for win,
but they will turn out more liberal than anyone
expected, that the evil half of the Supreme Court
will take a powder, wars will end, oil will die.
Every night, I visit your side of the bed
to pretend that you are just away for a moment,
it is warm from you and you will rush back to
place your head back on the pillow beside mine,
my nose nuzzling into your hair, to breathe you in,
my arms around you while you push sleepily
back into me, surrounded by my heat,
not fully waking by your brief absence,
and for some minutes I am whole again.
|The eternal optimist|