Words of Wisdom Greater than My Own
Words of Wisdom Greater than My Own
Five Poems of Inspiration
Today half of the country is rejoicing while the other half is mourning. I find myself in that latter half, fearing the worst for marginalized individuals – people of color, women of child-bearing age, the disabled, the elderly, the poor, LGBTQ+ – and far more than I can include here.
Trauma is stored in the body, and today, many of us remember our attackers. We are reminded that the system never holds them accountable. It is designed by them to defend them.
Today, I find solace in the words of great writers who have gone before me. My hope is that these poems and quotes may bring some comfort to you as well.
Tired
by Langston Hughes I am so tired of waiting, Aren't you, For the world to become good And beautiful and kind? Let us take a knife And cut the world in two — And see what worms are eating At the rind.
The Second Coming
By William Butler Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Still I Rise
By Maya Angelou You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard ’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin’ in my own backyard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.
Perhaps the World Ends Here
By Joy Harjo The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite. Copyright Credit: "Perhaps the World Ends Here" from The Woman Who Fell From the Sky by Joy Harjo.
I leave you with a poem of my own which celebrates survival.
42 Scars
By Dawn Levitt Lying languid across the mattress – my naked flesh exposed to the caress of my lover’s eyes. Afternoon sunlight filters slanted through the window blinds. Zebra stripes on my skin intersect with the interstate highway map of my scars. 42 scars he counts, fingers tracing pinkish silver lines cobwebbing flesh with jet trails of survival. Surgical scars from those who worked to save my life. Combative scars from those who tried to end my life. Accidental scars from trying to live my life – navigating a body that often operates independently of my mind. 42 times I did not die – blood pounding in my ears, insisting “I live. I live. I live.” If determination is a virtue, I’m a saint. Patron saint of stubborn rock creatures, dandelion weeds and vermin infestations. I swallow poison every day just to stay alive, making me toxic to those who would consume my flesh. Originally published in “Intangible Magazine” October 2024.
And one final quote from Kurt Vonnegut:
“And how should we behave during this Apocalypse? We should be unusually kind to one another, certainly. But we should also stop being so serious. Jokes help a lot. And get a dog, if you don't already have one.”
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Thank you. I’m keeping my loved ones close, keeping the news off. I’m focusing on my family, looking after them and myself, and I’ll paint a lot over the next four years. We don't do ourselves any favors by letting that monster occupy our headspace. I won't give him my power. One day at a time.
42 Scars is so sad, but so beautiful!