It's Hard Down Here (a poem for Advent)

Holy, holy, holy!
Lord God Almighty!
Now might be a good time to say
we miss you in the worst kind of way,
'cause it's hard down here--
hard, I tell you!

Holy, holy, holy!
All the saints adore thee,
throwing down Crown Royal every night
in crystal glasses filled with ice.
We drink 'cause it's hard down here--
hard, I tell you!

Holy, holy, holy!
Though the darkness hide thee,
we come bowed down with grief,
barnyard shepherds in need of relief.
See, 'cause it's hard down here--
hard, I tell you!

Holy, holy, holy!
Merciful and mighty,
have mercy on us who thirst for this--
peace and justice joined with a kiss.
It's just so hard down here--
hard, I tell you!

Holy, holy, holy!
Lord God Almighty!
Oh! How we await thee,
'cause it's hard down here--
hard, I tell you!

A Common History

I just finished a powerful collection of poetry by Natasha Trethewey called Native Guard. Her poems are haunting, filled with the paradoxical beauty and brutality of the South as experienced both historically and personally. In addition to her content, I love that many of her poems have more formal structure than the free verse that I'm used to reading.

Her collection is also dear to me because it adds one more elegant voice to the relatively few who tell the story of what it means to be biracial in America, particularly in the South. Though she was born in a much different, much harder time than me, there is nevertheless overlap in our stories. One of my favorites from the collection is below:

Southern History

Before the war, they were happy, he said,
quoting our textbook. (This was senior-year

history class.) The slaves were clothed, fed,
and better off under a master's care.

I watched the words blur on the page. No one
raised a hand, disagreed. Not even me.

It was late; we still had Reconstruction
to cover before the test, and -- luckily --

three hours of watching Gone with the Wind.
History, the teacher said, of the old South --

a true account of how things were back then.
On screen a slave stood big as life: big mouth,

bucked eyes, our textbook's grinning proof -- a lie
my teacher guarded. Silent, so did I.

Pillow Frame

I am driving, cutting
through fields of sorghum
and soybean, but
all I can see is the dying
day fire, glowing behind
clouds pink and blue,
a familiar hue,
like pillow shadows
framing your face flushed
and drunk after
making love.

Ghosts

Ghosts
are watching me
on bustling campus walkways pulled
toward rooms of drab florescent bulbs,
inducing convalescent lull.
As I lay me down to sleep
and rise again to coffee need,
they're watching me bemusedly.

Ghosts
are calling me
with wedding bells aloft and ringing,
from window sills where doves are winging
through heavens rent apart with singing.
Laughing in the yard, they are
a choir of love for all the parts
I've hidden in the closet's dark.

Ghosts
are urging me
to look their way and witness how
they walk the line but don't allow
their consciences to weigh them down.
Floating on the midnight sea,
they have not ceased condemning me,
nor will they heed my guilty plea.

Ghosts
are keeping me
from resting in peace.

Desert Time

Brilliant, blistering sun
beating down on head
exposed to the brutal blanket
of heat burning the brand,
the mark of wanderers on the back of
your neck, behind your ears.
Lips cracked, cheeks chapped,
calloused lids worn thin by
dust flying on the arid winds
blowing through barren dunes adrift
on a sea of emptiness.
This is the desert.

And when gritty eyes open,
they see differently, clearly,
like they were born again
for softer vision.
Rough edges are worn down,
your heart tuned to the rhythm of hope
working its way around the mountainside.
You know now, like love,
sowing hope is hard work;
but the harvest is peace,
an oasis on the sandy steppes
where you find rest for your
weary, wonder-full soul.
This is the desert.

Wild Beauty

I want to write something beautiful about you,
to remember you were beautiful to me once,
in the days when our eyes could not
slake their thirst for
the other.

We were lovers in the most elemental of ways,
carved from the embrace of crimson
clay bed and balmy breeze
beneath the blazing
sun's heat.

But I will always remember the night you
leaned into my lips and sighed, "Qué
delicioso y tan peligroso,
mi amor," before you
wept.

To this day I don't know if your leaving was
blaming or saving you, but I believe in
fate too. It goes down smoother
than rejection and/or
self-protection.

Surely fate is the only way to tame your wild beauty,
confine it to a frame of reference that gives
deference to the capricious graces
of love, lest it escape into
heartache.

Politics and Poetry

It is National Poetry Month, and the torrent of poetry that I was hoping to unleash on my unsuspecting readers has not materialized. It's been two years since my poetry took a great leap forward through regular deadlines for production, but I'm finding it hard to set that time aside this year. Perhaps studying Chinese is enough for now; it can certainly be poetic at times (i.e., the idea of jealousy can be expressed by saying "eating bitterness").

In lieu of being a productive writer, I have been trying to keep up with international news. The U.S. government has been undertaking enough provocative political maneuvering to raise China's hackles and eyebrows, that I find it necessary to stay abreast of global happenings in case visa troubles are on the way. In so doing, I came across two recent stories dealing with political resistance and the role of violence. The first is from the familiar Israel/Palestine conflict, but it reveals another side to the story that we don't often get to hear. The second is about the recent violence-tinged overthrow of the government in Kyrgyzstan (highlighted in U.S. news sources due to uncertainty surrounding a US Air Force base used for operations in Afghanistan). This is the same government which came to power as a result of the peaceful Tulip Revolution in 2005, but has failed to deliver on promises to turn away from autocracy.

What does it take to live in peace? What does it take for an enemy to become a neighbor, or even more astonishingly, a friend? These questions have deep political, sociological, philosophical, and even theological underpinnings. But, I will let poet Khalil Gibran's parable "Peace and War" from his collection The Wanderer speak to that issue as only Gibran can:

Three dogs were basking in the sun and conversing. The first dog said dreamily, "It is indeed wondrous to be living in this day of dogdom. Consider the ease with which we travel under the sea, upon the earth and even in the sky. And meditate for a moment upon the inventions brought forth for the comfort of dogs, even for our eyes and ears and noses."

And the second dog spoke and he said, "We are more heedful of the arts. We bark at the moon more rhythmically than did our forefathers. And when we gaze at ourselves in the water we see that our features are clearer than the features of yesterday."

Then the third dog spoke and said, "But what interests me most and beguiles my mind is the tranquil understanding existing between dogdoms."

At that very moment they looked, and lo, the dog-catcher was approaching.

The three dogs sprang up and scampered down the street; and as they ran the third dog said, "For God's sake, run for your lives. Civilization is after us."

Night Doves

I have a sister.

She is

filled with spring,

tingling with life,

singing with the

night doves.

She is

soft and gentle

and ripe with

hope.

She is not

beyond her years,

but wears them

like tears,

flowing freely

to leave their

trace down her face,

turned toward

home.