Search

clcouch123

I talk you talk we'll talk

Open Search

Art in Anxious Time

Art in Anxious Time

 

I’m anxious and it’s

hard to write

 

art expressed in pain:

I don’t know how

those artists do it

 

maybe it’s big fear

and nihilistic agony

that keeps them

going, that prompts

expression that might

change the world

and everything

beyond

 

the gardeners at

Hiroshima and

Nagasaki must

accomplish this

 

I have small pains

and many things that

trouble me—yes,

sometimes they are

bad as in raw—

unformed, unfixed,

 

though I think the

only one that might

be changed through

treating these in art

is me

 

still, through all

the small-town

clay-house conflicts

I might strive to

express something

new

 

something that might

relate to you

 

 

 

(the teacher and good

sport in me should tell

you that clay house

is a Puritan metaphor)

8

Psalm 44, a sleep-song

Psalm 44

a sleep-song

 

I nap and still am tired

Good, maybe I’ll sleep

Through the night

Napping was necessary

I was too sore and too

Worn-through

I could have stayed awake,

I guess,

Except I couldn’t

 

Will you still love me when

I’m gone away?

I mean, eventually I’ll

Be closer to you than

I was ever before,

Than I am now:

 

I like you and respect you

I seek to be near you

Is this ever enough to

Bring a dream of you

Or, dreamless, a

Long time of sleep

Because I’m loved

 

Throughout this night

That you have made?

 

I can hope so

Not because I’m smart

But because I’m yours

8

Psalm 43, miracle-song

Psalm 43

miracle-song

 

a miracle of unexpected grace

 

I paraphrase while reading a

line of text, which in fact ends

differently

 

but maybe that is what miracle

is, unexpected science and

grace, an unplanned gift from

divinity,

 

which we need so badly (or so

well)

 

no judgment in receiving, who

is worthy (who is not), no more

than in evaluating the giver

 

something is saved, and that’s

what matters:

 

material of miracles making up

the rest

16

That ‘70s Show

That ‘70s Show

 

The seventies were strange

Times—we were trying to find

Ourselves, though had to be

Told first that we were lost

 

We were the TV generation;

We drank Coke, the real thing,

And sixties protest signs

Became seventies pop art

 

I tried TM, tried to find out if

I am okay, because you are; I

Was too young for this, but it

Was the world we had

 

The generation before had

Failed us not simply for not

Respecting or responding to

Our questions but also for

 

Confessing that the life it

Would leave for us might and

Likely not be better than

Before (what the earlier

 

Generations owned)—we

Could protest with polyester

And acrylic, leisure-suits and

Lounge-lizarding; we could

 

Disco until we were done,

Then pack away our hopes

In a Star Wars kit bag, because

Leaving our universe back

 

And far away gave better

Light than warring over oil,

Other energies at home and

Abroad in new draft lotteries

 

Our cordless phones were

Bricks or in our muscled cars—

And something called the

Personal computer horizoned

 

We left narrow lapels and

Ties behind, prepared for E.T.

Calling, then Buelller leaving

Off the decade’s happy days

5

For the Squeaking Door I Don’t Have

For the Squeaking Door I Don’t Have

 

I make noises like a squeaking door

When I get up from sitting cross-legged

On the bed, where I’ve been tapping

On the laptop surface that sits in front

Of me, there

 

I make the noises verbally, that is—for

Now, my joints are fine

 

I don’t know, it’s my way to speak into

The silence and the solitude: a way to

Say, I’m here

 

For all the world to respond to, which,

Of course, it doesn’t

8

Psalm 42, song about who judges

 

Psalm 42

song about who judges

 

Lord, I hope

My enemies never

Have another good

Day

 

Which is why

It’s good that I don’t

Judge with divine

Power but

Leave that up to

You

 

It’s your job

You do it perfectly

8

And Now One Is Found

And Now One Is Found

 

The Nigerian schoolgirls

(hashtag)BringBackOurGirls

Remember

 

How would we

Understand two hundred

Seventy

 

How would such a number

Be taken without our

Noticing

 

In what kind of truck

And to what place all

Hidden

 

In our neighborhood-filled

Planet-parts, this is

Hard

 

From our earthen places

We cannot count

How

 

But in part we can’t believe

Not because it didn’t

Happen

 

Tragically, criminally,

Numerically—what transpired

Transpired

 

And with our questions and

New trepidations here is her

Body

 

Now we have her with

Child and husband on the fringes

Found

 

We can understand, now

Perhaps, a new story of

One

14

MS804

MS804

 

While they were up there

God took them home

Not to be taken as a platitude

Anger remains below

 

Confusion, aching concern

Managing all that’s in

The brain and

The human heart

That breaks in the world

 

Around, while more loss

Is measured out

And poured over like

Ashes, reminders that peace

Is not on board

Above or on the ground

 

War of attack

War of flawed things

The first mark being profit

Safety will never work as second

9

Psalm 41, steward’s song

Psalm 41

steward’s song

 

You are God

Female and male

You are king

 

I am servant

And for work

I am steward

 

We are bound

Guardians and

Keepers

 

Whose lord

Returns one day

To take an

 

Accounting

What was made

And shared

 

For what we’ve

Possessed

Earth-infancy

6

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑