A covid poem
Waking the days
of the months
lining our lives,
counting rhythms
of lungs and of heart,
suddenly glimpsing
the count gone awry,
the code gone astray,
the message amuck.
In the beginning of all this
Perry had died,
and his dying
meant changes
to the meaning of living
and the practice of mourning
in part of this world.
I attributed hot feelings
to you, I had said,
before one of us
suddenly flamed and unloosed
from the margins
that were formerly home
and always before
to where we returned.
But it was me, alone,
walking face first
into challenging sleet wind,
overhearing the words
of lovers making light
for folks whom they love.
Some stranger above
throwing stones in our way,
he observed in comic lament,
adding a theatrical shrug,
and she laughed,
a sweet sound
fading to echoes
overtaken by oracular
proclamations
of the stinging wild wind,
sardonically offering
to set us all free
in a world of neglect
that mocks
the speakers of dreams,
and puts us to work
pounding on rocks.
Yes, confronting the winds
that do not forgive
requires moving ahead,
because going can get
to the peace we will build
with new song
and new dance.
Accepting the threats
that plague all the paths
revealed ahead,
I take the longish stride
and stride again,
and stride again,
toward the route
on which peace
is path and peace
is way
and not the goal I cannot reach.
***
If we were still
talk to ear to lips to talk,
then you would share,
maps and mantras—
the ones that moved you so far—
but you, arrived so long ago,
are gone away again,
leaving only remnants
and clues to joint discoveries
about the pain
that spots all paths,
and all the peace
that grows from pain
and grows from prayer
and grows from
never giving in.
So, yes, a reverent thanks
before a sweet whisper rises
above the bellowing wind
asking, in the brief and quiet,
on which iteration
of all our plans
are we working now?
And what in between
might we find there?
Inventing the many answers
we will need
falls to each of us.
The outcome
may be better,
but maybe not,
said still another voice,
escaping the wind into which
we have been walking
all this while.
The voice came not
to tell a joke,
not to leave a laugh
or two behind, it said,
confidentially adding,
up to you, entirely,
to rise again
or fall at last
when and as you will.
And in that brief
and in that quiet
I did briefly, barely cry
for all the everyones
counting all the losses,
and all the everyones
not bothering to count,
and all the losses
left to lose.
And in that grief
and in that quiet,
it was resolved
to spread the news
of songs and glories
anyway,
and when the store of all
is lost and empty,
and entropy threatens
a joyless reign,
it remains forever resolved
to reach beyond
the end of now.
***
Courage is not
the word to use to say
that you did what you had
no choice about the doing.
And though I do not say
or write what that word
might be, it spells itself
obstinance-rebellion-
distraction-trembling-
grace-accidental-
if-at-all.
But whatever that loaded word
or words may be,
it takes great gangs
of fevered poets
grinding at the front
and grinding at the rear,
reloading words
to fire anew,
to set our hearts
our lungs our upraised fists
to rhythm
roaring fast and fresh.
So, summon all poets
with shouting and welcome.
Call them to council.
Write urgent letters
to gather the pack,
speaking the sharps
and speaking the blunts,
singing the streets,
soaring the skies,
scratching for pennies,
escaping the jails,
emphatically signifying
here on the way,
sketching and spelling
time after time,
always forever,
upright and hopeful,
here at the ready.
The hall of poets full,
the graveyard fuller still,
we linger to read the stone
marking William A. Thigpen Jr.
born 1948
died Detroit streets 1971,
upright and ready
and full of unspent hope.
Further along,
a restorative visit
to write-it-well John,
urging the poets
to wing on the breath,
to roll off the tongue
to land here,
in the ear.
So, yeah, the breaktime
namechecking done,
there is sometimes
giving of ground
that belongs to the earth,
sometimes ground
firming up
under feet
launching for stars,
claiming, reclaiming, declaiming
the dreams of forever
and all the beloved.
Send me only replies
conceding no ground,
but affirming the prayer
that floats in the air
and remains to be written.
Hear every voice,
every sobbing and wild,
every cringing and proud,
every full in the mouth,
rich on the tongue,
roaring and grieving,
weaving and soaring,
pleading and cursing,
voice after voice
landing here in the ear.
Count all the lives
we ought to have loved;
make infinitely more
of the lives
we have wasted.
Open doorways
for leaders
grown tired of waiting;
expect and applaud
new words,
and new dreams,
ahead of the launch
of the last of our poems
shouting blessings and praises
to you, to sky,
and beyond.
