Politics from the Grassroots to the Crystal Palaces.
I miss the time when speech was poetic, talk was uplifting, thought was inspiring and the world was a vista to be admired. But here I stand on the edge looking down. God, I think, if only I weren’t one to be struck by vertigo. Where does fearlessness come from? There are times I’ve thought to die rather than go on with what I know. This fear of future, the pains of past and my thinking at moment guides me—I live astride my anxiety.
In the face of our challenges I’ve been called forward. Towards daring and bravery. I’m asked to risk myself, to act upon courage and to venture as far and faithfully as I can. How am I to reply? I’ve only ever been of my nature. And it seems impossible to pin me down as child, youth or man. Perhaps I’m a chameleon, an octopus, a cuttlefish—that which shimmers, changes, wavers and reshapes itself beneath curiosity’s eye.
“Confess! Confess!” Comes the plaintive cry…but I’m not one to conform myself to the present space and time. In my possession is a vast and wandering mind. A gift of my parentage or some such thing which conspires with the temptress called internet. There’s no way to track the course through which I have or anyone has been. I am nauseous.
Interrupted by the world, this train of thought comes crashing to a halt. Beyond my self-obsession something’s gone terribly wrong. What’s become of our peoples and where are they now? In the wee hours I slip outside and join them in things most proper and orderly.
Most remain at a distance and keep to their own but sometimes a person will open up and from them comes the simplest but most meaningful words I’ve ever heard. Things like, “My uncle was a good man.” And doesn’t that mean a lot? Give me some of that hurting. But not all of it! Now here’s some love. And again and again and again. We’ll go around exchanging hands. Terribly bad and something incredibly close to good.
I aim to steer us towards revelry of the spirit in it’s most essential form—poetry. How else can we be pried from our worldly attachments, our stinking sadness, our boiling anger and our teetering madness? All the greatest minds I know of engage with poetics because they alone liberate us from the dirt, age, injury and hurting of which the body is soiled and the spirit is weighed on. Who here has not suffered? For all have been born.
Such times burden our minds but the worse-off most of all. They’re run around in keeping up and I feel guilty…somewhat responsible. I don’t know how to get it all off but my chest feels full. That’s where I start and that’s where I begin. Speak from the heart or speak not at all. Be wordless if you must and always remember to smile as does the sun.
