MARRIAGE

Poem for Today - May 25, 2014

BECAUSE

Because the night you asked me,
the small scar of the quarter moon
had healed — the moon was whole again;
because life seemed so short;
because life stretched before me
like the darkened halls of nightmare;
because I knew exactly what I wanted;
because I knew exactly nothing;
because I shed my childhood with my clothes—
they both had years of wear left in them;
because your eyes were darker than my father’s;
because my father said I could do better;
because I wanted badly to say no;
because Stanley Kowalski shouted “Stella…;”
because you were a door I could slam shut;
because endings are written before beginnings;
because I knew that after twenty years
you’d bring the plants inside for winter
and make a jungle we’d sleep in naked;
because I had free will;
because everything is ordained;
I said yes.

© Linda Pastan

PAIN

Poem for May 24, 2014

ARABIC

(Jordan, 1992)

The man with laughing eyes stopped smiling

to say, “Until you speak Arabic,

you will not understand pain.”

Something to do with the back of the head,

an Arab carries sorrow in the back of the head

that only language cracks, thrum of stones

weeping, grating hinge on an old metal gate.

“Once you know,” he whispered, “you can enter the room

whenever you need to. Music you heard from a distance,

the slapped drum of a stranger’s wedding,

wells up inside your skin, inside rain, a thousand

pulsing tongues. You are changed.”

Outside, the snow had finally stopped.

in a land where snow rarely falls,

we had our days grow white and still.

I thought pain had no tongue. Or every tongue

at once, supreme translator, sieve. I admit my

shame. To live on the bank of Arabic, tugging

its rich threads without understanding

how to weave the rug … I have no gift.

The sound, but not the sense.

I kept looking over his shoulders for someone else

to talk to, recalling my dying friend who only scrawled

I can’t write.  What good would any grammar have been

to her then?  I touched his arm, held it hard,

which sometimes you don’t do in the Middle East,

and said, I’ll work on it, feeling sad

for his good strict heart, but later in the slick street

hailed a taxi by shouting Pain! And it stopped

in every language and opened its doors.

© Naomi Shihab Nye (1952 - )

From Red Suitcase, © 2000

POETRY

Poem for Today - May 23, 2014

INTRODUCTION TO POETRY

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

Then begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

© Billy Collins.

INTO THE WOODS

Poem for Today - May 22, 2014

THE FOREST LAST DAY

death comes at the end of the chain saw

with spears of shrieks that split the air and red of the sun

biting into  the flesh of wood

that is shocked by the sudden pain and alien din.

its world overturns all, strange as fainting

sap flowing, its essence denying the steel’s

base and supporting roots trembling

In its canopy birds will play

its air made fragrant by the essence of the forest

the sky is witness with clear eyes.

fallen is the cengal

  fallen is the meranti

    fallen is the merbau

      fallen is the pulai

fallen is the seraya

   fallen is the nyatuh

            fallen is the resak

fallen is the halban

                       fallen is the nibung

                          fallen is the rattan

a family of trees aged by the centuries

the beautiful and great lying in the shadow

with a presence in the root’s fibers and shoot’s sway.

heat rushes into the air tunnel, existence is scalded.

the wheel of nature turns slowly

listening to the rhythm of the season and the sun

With a sense of presence in the roots and the sway of the shoots

after the death shatter and scatter of roots

heat rushes into the tunnel, searing existence.

morning-purple flowers fall

as red as cliffs, as white as cloud, as brown as trunks.

buds and fruits on heavy branches fall

lire dotted near the stem or full with the seasons

a universe of colors falls

a hundred stripes of green painting the leaves' personalities

the moon falls, caught by the branches

as light that sketches difference,

morning falls, the afternoon and the night.

with the rustle, tenderness drips from shoots

the secret mist of nature evaporates

the frame of balance is broken, since trees became earth

the quiet beauty filtered by light fades away,

leaves are dumb, branches speechless, no song, no echo

no deer, no baboon, no elephant herd

no pulse of mouse deer’s bleat,  no question.

the full epic of the forest

is ended by a convoy of lorries with tyres of concrete,

a gang of paid lumberjacks who wear no pity in their eyes.

and a bloated logger

who stands on the red desiccated desert

our future.

© Muhammad Haji Salleh -  

Translated from the Malay

 by the author

NADIA ANJUMAN -
AFGHAN  GIRL 

Poem for Today - May 21, 2014

THE SILENCED

I have no desire for talking, my tongue is tied up.

Now that I am abhorred by my time, do I sing or not?

What could I say about honey, when my mouth is as            bitter as poison.

Alas! The group of tyrants has muffled my mouth.
This corner of imprisonment, grief, failure, and regrets          –

I was born for nothing that my mouth should stay               sealed.

I know O! my heart, It is springtime and the time for           joy,
What could I, a bound bird, do without flight.
Although, I have been silent for long, I have not                 forgotten to sing,

Because my songs whispered in the solitude of my               heart.

Oh, I will love the day when I break out of this cage,

Escape this solitary exile and sing wildly.
I am not that weak willow twisted by every breeze.
I am an Afghan girl and known to the whole world.

© Nadia Anjuman, 

Translated from the Dari

by Abdul Salam Shayek

NEW YORK TIMES

November 8, 2005

Afghan Poet Dies After Beating by Husband

By CARLOTTA GALL

KABUL, Afghanistan, Nov. 7 - Nadia Anjuman, who had been gaining a name for herself as a poet in Afghan literary circles, died over the weekend in the western city of Herat after being beaten by her husband, police officials said Monday.

The death of Ms. Anjuman at age 25 was lamented by colleagues and condemned by the United Nations as a tragic example of the violence that so many Afghan women still face despite their advances four years after Taliban rule.

Ms. Anjuman was knocked unconscious by her husband during an argument Saturday evening, Col. Nisar Ahmad Paikar, chief of the police crime unit in Herat, said in a telephone interview.

Her husband, Farid Ahmad Majid Mia, is in custody and has admitted hitting his wife and knocking her unconscious, Colonel Paikar said. Ms. Anjuman died later in a hospital, he said. "She had a dark bruise under her right eye," he added.

Ms. Anjuman, a literature undergraduate at Herat University, published her first volume of poems this year, titled "Gule Dudi," or "Dark Flower." She was to publish a second volume next year, said Sayed Haqiqi, a local journalist and colleague of Ms. Anjuman in Herat's Cultural Association. Her husband, who graduated with a degree in literature from the same university, worked as an administrator in the literature faculty, Mr. Haqiqi said.

A spokesman at the United Nations mission in Kabul, Adrian Edwards, called Ms. Anjuman's death tragic and a great loss to Afghanistan. Her death "needs to be investigated, and anyone found responsible needs to be dealt with in proper accordance with law," he said.

DO  NOT  LET  YOUR  FACE 

BE  TROUBLED 

INTRODUCTION

The title of my homily for this 5^th Tuesday after Easter is, “Do Not Let Your Face Be Troubled.”

In today’s gospel – again from John – we have a  recurring theme - about - not letting one’s heart be troubled. [Cf. John 14:27-31]

As I was thinking about that last night while working on this homily for today, I asked: “Does saying ‘heart’ get to the heart of the matter – with what the text is talking about?”

To a Hebrew – in Jesus’ time – heart would not mean the pump. The doctors in those days wouldn’t know what we know about how our hearts work. The word “heart” would mean one’s command center. It’s the me that I am.  It refers to our mind – our personality – our will – our character – our attitude - and a lot more – the me of me.

So translators might do better - by using the word “center” – instead  of heart – when we hear the call to love God  - our neighbor – and ourselves.

So the translation could be, “Let not your center, your you, be troubled.”

Yet on the other hand, we get heart. Think of Valentine’s Day or all those bumper stickers and T-shirts with hearts on them – that say things like,  “Virginia, or Chocolates or Pugs or Naptown is or are for lovers.”

WHAT ABOUT ONE’S FACE?

What would it sound like if we made the sentence go like this: “Let not your face be troubled.”

We can’t see another’s heart, but we see each other’s face.

How many times has someone said to us, “Is everything okay?” And we say, “Yeah – ah ----- uh --- everything’s okay.”  But along with the response there is that tiny biting our lower lip or that slight shrug of our shoulder.

And as they walk away – and for the rest of the day or the hour we wonder, “Is it that obvious, that I’m nervous about X or Y or Z?”

We are sculptors – the sculptors of our faces?  Is that true?

I always remember a page in a book I read some time in the past. I forget the name of the book or anything in it – other than that one page. It had two pictures on it in black and white. The top picture had a table filled with laughing babies. How did they get them all to smile at the same time – and on the same table?  And the picture underneath had a scene of people in a New York Subway car – packed together – maybe on the way home from a long day at work -  and everyone has a closed mouth - and many have a sad face. And underneath that picture were two words: “What happened?”

How many times do we have to be angry – to form a permanent angry face?

How many times do we have to be sad – to form a permanent sad face?

How many times do we have to be happy – to form a permanent happy face?

Smile someone’s taking your picture.

Smile someone’s being affected by your face.

William Shakespeare said, “God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.” Is that true? What’s your take on that comment?

TWO TRICKS

I guess two tricks are: One - look in the mirror and ask yourself, “Self! What’s going on in there today.” Two - Without looking in the mirror, feel your face from the inside and ask that same question other’s ask us, “Is everything okay?” Then answer that question for yourself.

We’ve all felt our face squinch and squirm and squiggle at times – as we say, “Ah – no - not again. Crud. I hate it when he does that. Every dang time. Dang it! Uhhhhhhhhhhh Ugggggggh!”

William Ernest Henley said in his well-known poem, Invictus, “I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.”

I’m wondering out loud in this sermon, “Am I the sculptor of my face.”

And Jesus looks us in the face – and says, “Peace!”

He says, “Peace in there baby, inside there, baby. What’s going on inside your self – behind that face today?”

See his face. Hear that word of “Peace!” Be aware of what that does to our face today.

CONCLUSION

Uh oh! After Mass, I hope nobody here says in our parking lot about us, “Oh no! Was that person at the same Mass I was just at this morning?”

SPEECH  IMPEDIMENT 

Poem for Today -May 20, 2014

STAMMER

Stammer is no handicap.
It is a mode of speech.

Stammer is the silence that falls

between the word and its meaning,

just as lameness is the

silence that falls between

the word and the deed.

Did stammer precede language

or succeed it?

Is it only a dialect or a

language itself?  These questions

make the linguists stammer.

When a whole people stammer,

stammer becomes their mothertongue:

as it is now with us.

God too must have stammered

when He created Man.
That is why all the words of man

carry different meanings.
That is why everything he utters

from his prayers to his commands

stammers,

like poetry.

© K. Satchidanandan, 

Translated from the Malayalam 

by the author, page 484

 in Language for a New Century,

 edited by Tina Chang, 

Nathalie Handal and 

Ravi Shankar, 2008