It started happening on January 21, after you-know-who moved back into the White House. In the past 45 days, so much trauma and damage have been done by the current resident at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue that I find it difficult when I sit down with my journal or laptop simply not to write "fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck" over and over and over. (I actually did that one day in my journal, from the top of one page to the bottom.)
So that's why my blog posting has been spotty recently. Forgive me. I will try to do better. Finding enough beauty to write poetry is challenging.
So, here's a poem by Sharon Olds that made me laugh and also contains some beauty:
Bestiary
by: Sharon Olds
Nostrils flared, ears pricked,
our son asks me if people can mate with
animals. I say it hardly
ever happens. He frowns, fur and
skin and hooves and slits and pricks and
teeth and tails whirling in his brain.
You could do it, he says, not wanting the
world to be closed to him in any
form. We talk about elephants
and parakeets, until we are rolling on the
floor, laughing like hyenas. Too late,
I remember love--I backtrack
and try to slip it in, but that is
not what he means. Seven years old,
he is into hydraulics, pulleys, doors which
fly open in the side of the body,
entrances, exits. Flushed, panting,
hot for physics, he thinks about lynxes,
eagles, pythons, mosquitos, girls,
casting a glittering eye of use
over creation, wanting to know
exactly how the world was made to receive him.
It's a conversation I could have easily had with my son or daughter at some point. Kids are creatures of curiosity. They spend the first 18 or 25 years of their lives trying to figure out how the world works. And the world is a pretty crazy place. It's up to parents to help their children negotiate their interactions with this insanity.
My wife and I tried to raise our daughter and son to be caring, empathetic, loving people. When my daughter was in second grade, she was the only person in her class to interact with an autistic girl on the playground. My son had a hard time in elementary and middle schools because of his ADHD. He had very little impulse control, and his classmates relished pushing his buttons to get him in trouble. So many days, he came home in tears, vowing he was never going back. Because of these experiences, my son is incredibly sensitive to cruelty of any kind.
In today's politicized society, some people would call my family "woke." Conservative politicians use that term as a way to demean individuals who believe there are systematic injustices in America, like racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, and Islamophobia. If you're woke, that means you’re sensitive to the struggles of others. That you embrace inclusivity, kindness, and understanding.
If that's how you define being "woke," I am proudly guilty as charged. So is the rest of my family.
Really, what I don't get is how being kind and accepting is a bad thing. Ever. I was raised Catholic, and, as I remember the Bible, Jesus never put conditions on love. In fact, the only people he really got pissed at were the Pharisees and Sadducees who were leading people away from the love of God.
Jesus was woke.
So, if anyone uses the word "woke" as a way to insult me, it won't work. Being woke means my eyes are open, and I see this country for what it is: deeply flawed and full of petty hatred and violence.
Saint Marty wrote a poem about being woke today, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Write a poem that begins with a difficult question and ends with an answer. Let the poem meander through different subjects that have nothing to do with the question or the answer. Allow your brain to write in almost a stream-of-consciousness way until you can tie in the answer at the end. And if you can't come up with an answer, that's okay, too, just refer back to the original question, perhaps with an image, and end the poem there.
What's Wrong with Being Woke?
by: Martin Achatz
It allows me to be blinded
by sunrises the color of ripe
peaches, to sit with pen
and notebook, chase feathered
poems singing in the pines,
to sneak to the fridge
and eat the plums my wife
was saving for breakfast,
so sweet and so cold,
to remember the burn
of my mom and dad's coffee
in my nose as I left
for school, stepped outside
after a night of snow, saw
everything erased.
So set your alarm.
Go to bed early.
Wake up and give thanks
for another chance
to save this wild
and precious world.
❤️
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