Pages

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Litany


We need poems for the saints and for the sinners.  We need poems that praise what is praiseworthy.  We need poems that praise what is lackluster, what is ordinary, what is all-too-fallibly human.

We need a poem for the sixty-something widow in the supermarket who is wondering if she has enough eggs.

We need a poem for the angst-ridden teenager with the pierced nose, the one who underlines her copy of Ariel.

We need a poem for the street tough in whose cold eyes the world is a punk-ass bitch.

We need a poem for the politicians, the ones with the photogenic families, the ones who send other folks' sons and daughters to war.

We need a poem for the businessman on his fourth vodka-and-tonic.

We need a poem for the bicyclist who likes going up steep hills.

We need a poem for the addict of cyberspace, lost in dreams of fleshly decadence.

We need a poem for the shy bisexual poet who fills his notebooks with imitations of Walt Whitman praising the love of boisterous cameradoes.

We need a poem for the prisoner who made the newspapers for all the wrong reasons.

We need a poem for the therapist who has grown too tired for compassion in her practice.

We need a poem for those nameless birds outside the tenement window which almost beautify the grim surroundings.

We need a poem for the middle-aged athlete whose career is long since over, a casualty of pizza, beer, bad knees.

We need a poem for the crying child.

We need a poem for those who love immoderately.

We need a poem for those who mourn, for those who revolt against the reading of the beatitude.

We need a poem for those whose pain-racked bodies are twisted and yet somehow beautiful beyond the bland blond glossy magazines.

We need a poem for the renegade monk who turns to bourbon and women and activism.

We need a poem for the protesters who are ardent, righteous, inflexibly convinced.

We need a poem for the Judases--disloyal, dejected, cowardly, despairing.

We need a poem for the bad thief who wants his suffering to end, who thinks first of himself, who mocks the God he feels is mocking him.

No comments:

Post a Comment

In the Silverware Drawer After Dark

The steak knives are playing the Ramones at full blast. The salad forks are dancing with the teaspoons to the tune of "Come On, Ei...