FEAR ITSELF

MICHELANGELO Buonarroti
Last Judgment (detail)
Fresco
Cappella Sistina, Vatican

Fear Itself

Fear itself …
that is the thing explaining
why bombers bomb
why we cannot control guns
why the Pope suppresses nuns
speaking “radical” humanist words
why “real men” loathe nerds
and arm themselves against
delusions of apocalypse.
Fear is the power of coercion
trumping all notions
of civility, compassion “fittest” assumed to mean
the ruthlessness of nihilists
protecting their own small niche
at the expense of all “soft” targets
“not my problem”
“take care of our own”
dismissing the thoughtful
the adaptive, the truly strong
who mean it when they say
life itself is sacred.
Fear is the tool of men
protesting too much, claiming
to be defenders of liberty
when what they are protecting
is their consumption of advantage
their right to shoot, to profit
to procreate any way they choose
but not you, not you
you must be frightened into
compliance with their rule
their privilege, their proprietary
fist enforcing the lie of superiority
“emotion” labeled “girly” “useless”
except when it is “manly anger”
an excuse to pretend the violence
is just … but it is just their fear
their adrenaline addiction
raging, tolerated, “just the way it is”
not inevitable
just the way things will be
until the greater we
says no
passes the laws that prevent
paranoid bullies from expecting
and getting
our cooperation in their death industry
fear itself.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

Image from the Web Gallery of Art.

POEM FOR ST PATRICK'S DAY - MARTHE G. WALSH

                                      Just In Case

There’s a leprechaun in my tea – seriously,
a pale green porcelain figurine tucked between
the bags of shredded leaves, no cane on which to lean,
but clearly winking, conspiratorially.

Surprised, read the side of the box – the purveyors
of serenity by the cup appear to think
offering “fine collectibles” will make me drink
ever more of their product, reward conveyors
of mulch as beverage with a brand loyalty
driven by some obsessive need to have all twelve
characters in the series, but they troll and delve
into the psyche at their own risk, pointlessly.

This is no secret decoder ring, no cartoon
hero-movie-marketing-tie-in appealing
to six-year-old susceptible to the squealing
delight of laugh track peers, must-have-now-coming-soon
episode of consumption programming disguised
as entertainment, fantasy wish fulfillment
key to an economy built on discontent,
no precious-memory-by-kitsch niche plan franchised.

The little green men may, might, indeed, be coming
for me, but not through my tea or the Lucky Charms
that would only have set off sugar shock alarms
had they been allowed in deprived youth, and numbing
foiled entirely by sensible nutrition
considerations, thrift, parental volition
dismissing all things magical, mythical, missed
as useless to ponder as the frog left un-kissed.

Not prone to hoard, crave or worship acquisition,
put the elf on the shelf, nod to superstition.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

PENCIL - MARTHE G. WALSH

 

pencil

there is something satisfying

in the friction

the drag of graphite

across a blue lined page

reassuring, the slightly slower

pace of pencil

translating synaptic surges

into symbols meant

to convey the thing

I was not supposed to say

   (erase the worst of it

   the jarring jagged bits

   too painful for response)

feel the sharp shaved point

soften under it

this pressure to covey

in loops and strokes and dots

all the woulds and shoulds

and swollen knots

of life sharpened and ground

and sharpened again only

to shorten into nubs

   (rubber long gone to

   endless hesitant revision)

I do not toss away

sentimental fool

to keep the spent penny tool

of impermanence

never mind the humility

inherent in the reluctance

to commit to ink

   (brush away pink and gray

   lint of things best not to think)

the world it seems

has no use for either

random longhand thought

or the scratching glide

on rough recycled sheets

analog obsolete profitless things

unlikely to go viral

privacy maintained by

disinterest, not firewall

the 2.5 preferred to the

more common No.2

for a small pleasure

whole generations will not know

the future’s quill

my Ticonderoga

shorter now

  (Marthe G. Walsh)

I obliged Marthe by picturing her favored 2.5 pencil.  The poem is in response to Elizabeth Kaeton's post on her blog, Telling Secrets, on using pencils.  If I were on Facebook, I would definitely click "Like" upon reading the poem.

ASH WEDNESDAY - THE LIGHTNESS OF LOVE

It is necessary that at the beginning of this fast, the Lord should show Himself to us in His mercy. The purpose of Lent is not so much expiation, to satisfy the divine justice, as a preparation to rejoice in His love. And this preparation consists in receiving the gift of His mercy—a gift which we receive in so far as we open our hearts to it, casting out what cannot remain in the same room with mercy.

Now one of the things we must cast out first of all is fear. Fear narrows the little entrance of our heart. It shrinks up our capacity to love. It freezes up our power to give ourselves. If we were terrified of God as a terrible judge, we would not confidently await His mercy, or approach Him trustfully in prayer. Our peace, our joy in Lent are a guarantee of grace.

And in laying upon us the light cross of ashes, the Church desires to take off our shoulders all other heavy burdens—the crushing load of worry and guilt, the dead weight of our own self-love. We should not take upon ourselves a “burden” of penance and stagger into Lent as if we were Atlas, carrying the whole world on his shoulders.

Perhaps there is small likelihood of our doing so. But in any case, penance is conceived by the Church less as a burden than as a liberation. It is only a burden to those who take it up unwillingly. Love makes it light and happy. And that is another reason why Ash Wednesday is filled with the lightness of love.

From Seasons of Celebration by Thomas Merton.

The emphasis is mine.  The words in bold text struck me like a thunderbolt because they are so very true and wonderful as applied to the beginning of the season of Lent.  Let us pray that our hearts may open to receive the lightness of God's love.

And then from my friend, Marthe: 

Ash Wednesday

Rituals, meant to teach, can become
public piety, for show
gloom, dismal fasting, tests to divide,
exclude, not repair the breach
greed and error tears in mortal souls
too weary to hear blessing.
Let these ashes signal life, not threat.

Marthe G. Walsh

Amen and amen. 

FAILURE TO TOAST

 

Failure to Toast

The blue flash particular
to a circuit fried
wisp of smoke, the smell
half charred crumbs
half wire sheathing burning
on the day the toaster oven died.
A small thing, familiar
UL certified
no whistle or bell
or grand sums
spent on “status” baking
just bagel warming at morningtide.
Here beneath the floorboards
of security
where we soften scapes
long past thrift
with twenty-five watt light
the “expired appliance warranty”
is epitaph the wards
of prosperity
hear as time to traipse
options sift
at the mall where no right
exists but the harsh rule of plenty.
To the bin, the broken
trash the obsolete
count as lost, beyond
repair those
who failed to court with toasts
network or successfully compete
of these no word spoken
judged human sleet
as if to respond
would impose
on best kept private ghosts
hold in abstraction cold bread, defeat.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

Well done, Marthe. 

"TENSE" - A POEM

Tense

What was or is or will be, no sense

in this craving certainty

facts on which to safely stand, defense

the default pose of wisdom

as if all imperfect past pretense

of knowing could guarantee

passage through high reeds or forest dense

tangle of conformity

assumed, silent threat of violence

individuality

an idea, in practice the province

of lone eccentricity

tolerated in rare great talents

muffled in society

where ritual mutes the mass conscience

to accept disparity

as the price of managed turbulence

balance of security

held in place by a gossamer fence

decorum of brevity.

The perfect, not without flaw, complete.

Some believers claim just one

error free leader, teacher, God’s Son

fret that he/she/it with us is done

indulge the urge to compete

mark clear grace with penitence

as if the gift was some short-term loan

a debt re-paid in fragments

pain the test of unearned interest

currency of consequence.

Love, the real thing, is given, not lent

no tensile integrity

of high wire show, by no human rent

just response ability

the impulse to pray, a need intense

to veil the fragility

of subjunctive, iffy existence

in terms of nobility

power vested in high thrones

armaments, mobility

secrets glorified, the work of drones

scorched credibility

on the altar of the last unknowns

what shall not, cannot, should never be?

To lose the true living sense

present tense, that life is, is holy

each and every one intense

precious, not some beta test worthy

only if one can convince

some self-appointed authority

eager or reluctant prince

to hold Love bestowed as surety

against the void, the absence

of even one, small, humanity.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

"Love, the real thing is given, not lent..."   True and lovely words.  Thank you for the poem, Marthe.  It is all good.

FOURTH SUNDAY IN ADVENT

 

           An Advent Pantoum

We treasure light lessened in seasons of sleep,
an axis tilting toward beginning,
“and darkness was on the face of the deep”,
light candles on a wreath, imagining.

An axis tilting toward beginning,
restart anew from the first and best resource,
light candles on a wreath imagining
all that is and was and will be in due course.

Restart anew from the first and best resource,
the raw material from which God made
all that is and was and will be in due course,
the dark that was all before it was shade.

The raw material from which God made
earth and sky and sea and a precious Son,
the dark that was all, before it was shade,
now know in the flicker of stars set to stun.

Earth and sky and sea and a precious Son,
we have need of this, this stuff of creation,
now know in the flicker of stars set to stun,
guide us past our fear of last devastation.

Set four wicks ablaze in anticipation,
“and darkness was on the face of the deep”,
study the ways of holy incubation.
We treasure light lessons, in seasons still, steep.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

Collect - Fourth Sunday in Advent

Purify our conscience, Almighty God, by your daily visitation, that your Son Jesus Christ, at his coming, may find in us a mansion prepared for himself; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Many thanks to Marthe for permission to use her pantoum.

FROM THE CHURCHLADY - FEAST OF ST NICHOLAS

"The Dowry For Three Virgins"
Gentile da Fabriano

Churchlady (aka Marthe)

The St. Nicholas Clause

Q: I’m really tired of the whole Santa Claus version of Christmas and the pressure to buy our way to bliss.  Why does the church play along with that whole marketing nightmare?

A: The Church, Gentle Inquirer, doesn’t endorse Santa Claus and hasn’t had much effective control over daily life for a very long time. You must be longing for some “good old days” that exist mostly in myth and, as much as we sympathize with your yearning for simpler days and a focus on the actual birth of the Saviour, any attempt at de-mythifying Christmas (yes, we know that’s not a real word – humor us) is highly unlikely to succeed. Look anywhere in the world and you will find people who cling to their myths and legends with fondness and perpetual vigor. The Church does endorse peace, generosity and expressions of good will to all (which includes tired, cranky, reluctant shoppers).

Q: Can’t we at least ditch Santa Claus and stick to St. Nick? That at least suggests some religious tie to the real meaning of Christmas.

A: We are sorry to disappoint you, but St. Nicholas is an Advent (the season of anticipation, beginnings, hope) saint, celebrated on the 6th of December, not a Christmas figure, and his very existence is disputed by some scholars. He is said to have been Bishop of Myra (currently part of Turkey), renowned for his generosity to children, and an attendee of the Council of Nicea (325 ad) although there are no mentions of him on the surviving documents from that important meeting. The patron saint of sailors, early images showed him arriving by ship or traveling on a white horse to deliver small anonymous gifts to sleeping needy people.

Sinterklaas
The Netherlands

Q: So modern marketing guys morphed him into a fat guy on a reindeer powered sled arriving on the
wrong day?

A: Basically, yes, but let’s not put all the blame on anyone; as vile as modern advertisers may be, they didn’t invent popular culture or myth making! The early church sainted quite a lot of fairly normal, admirable people to be examples and role models for believers. The stories of their lives got bigger and saintlier with every re-telling, eventually including miracles to qualify for sainthood. Surely, this tendency to embellish stories doesn’t surprise you, now does it?

Q: Maybe not, but isn’t it just wrong to keep feeding our children silly stories that kind of scare them into thinking that if they aren’t “good” they won’t get presents?

A: While Gentle Inquirer’s instinct to avoid manipulating children with threats is laudable, most parents will laugh (a hearty ho, ho, ho!) at the notion that one must not use tangible incentives to encourage positive behavior. Do we detect disappointment of your own in your tone? The pony never materialized? The fire truck with all the bells and whistles never arrived despite your sincere efforts to stay out of trouble? These aren’t reasons for canceling a whole season that encourages peace, good will toward all people and the sharing of gifts as a remembrance of God’s gift to us of a Saviour, no matter how garish the packaging of the message may have become. Celebrate without Santa or the Grinch if you like, but do celebrate the Christ child’s birth with all the joy you can muster!

Pictures from Wikipedia.

Note: St Nicholas is also remembered for being generous to poor virgins in need of dowries.  Padre Mickey has a splendid post on St Nicholas, which includes the story of the three virgins depicted in the painting at the top left.

ADVENT YOU'RE HERE AGAIN...

Asperatus clouds - Scotland

   Partly Cloudy With A Chance of Seeing

Low clouds slumped, lingering, leave a thin sheet
of white on glass, metal, bowed grass and asphalt
just wet and shimmering, no need for salt,
brace for winter closeout, a year end retreat
except in the vault of the soul’s heartbeat.

Advent, you’re here again, begin anew,
back to page one, annual re-booting
of what is meant or real or just fragment
of divine texting by star re-routing;
but first the penitence, the harsh review
the wardens of faith inflict to deny
any foolish expectation of clean,
cleared slate, repent or miss out on pardon
that is the point of birth in stable mean,
gift for which they insist we must apply.

Ignore the frantic forecasters warning,
a new cloud, undulatus asperatus,
rough waves perhaps disturbing the status
of science known or a sign, wind fresh forming
old verse, “Lo, he comes with clouds” upending.

It makes no sense this ritual attempt
to bargain with the firmament, appease
some imagined angry God with sorrow
and self-flagellation, a show to please
One who knows just how messy and unkempt,
adventitious, disorderly ever
the course of those created with free will,
not quite exempt from seasonal forces,
yet prone to agitate waters made still,
restless, testing the limits of never.

Adventure is a chosen risk the bold
begin with trembling wrapped in joyful hope
that aspiration can uncoil the rope
error ties to souls trapped, seeing only cold;
set out again for Love meant to enfold.

(Marthe G Walsh)

See more pictures of asperatus clouds here. 

UNLESS THE LORD BUILDS THE HOUSE...

Washington National Cathedral, Washington DC

proper 27 meditation

Oh hear now how the proud claim, “I built that!” –

smug in abundance, demanding of praise,

no credit to the carpenter,

anonymous hands bought and bruised to raise

temples of conceit on the habitat

of the wild, the poor, the stranger.

“Unless the LORD builds the house,

their labor is in vain who build it.”

The tests and triumphs of mere mortal rule,

at best, may imitate a discerned

intent of our one Creator,

at worst, displace eternal gifts un-earned

with fleeting fragile robes consumed as fuel

to warm bare greed’s known successor.

“Unless the LORD builds the house,

their labor is in vain who build it.”

Oh Lord, oh builder of The worthy home,

let not our eyes be blinded by false pride

or the bribes of an oppressor

tempt a hungry soul to forsake the guide

of Love that feeds and shelters as we roam.

Praise to Thee, one true confessor.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

St James' Episcopal Church, Bear Creek SD

IN CASE YOU HADN'T NOTICED...

...we have an election coming up.  I can't think of better commentary than the poem below, once again by Marthe G. Walsh.  I guess I should name Marthe poet laureate of Wounded Bird...or something. 

                                                 Imitations of Morality

The scratch of gust blown leaves, stubborn yellows, brown

the last of reds rusted on their way to mud

            just beyond the pavement’s crown

               of civility, the thud

of campaign weary feet tracking voters down

in last gasp desperation of fanatic

            assertions of perfection

               possible in election,

    ignore the gush of faulty candidates erratic.

The patch of virtue tended, meant for harvest

by the flame of ultra-conservative torch

            is but withered interest

               in protecting those who scorch

the very fabric of the soul to invest

with new authority a male government

            not just hostile to women,

               dismissive of each human

   without a suit of cash to cover raw resentment

of all “those people” living their own way,

without permission, without the “guidance”,

            rule of oppressive patriarchs sway,

               smug and proud of their own ignorance

that in secret makes them nervous of prey

turning to stare down the profit stalker,

            challenge the right of a small elite

               to take, to hoard, to gorge on red meat

   while masses starve at the table of the slick talker.

The long, slow fall of a losing argument

turns to an early, ancient, mean, strategy

            of claiming to know God’s intent,

               noblesse oblige theology

that strips away a woman’s right to consent,

to control her own body, the intimate

            used to intimidate, shame, unhinge,

               the tactic of unholy fringe

   threshing force from rape to see sacred seed proximate.

The thatch of suspect false ideology leaks

and rots in the rain of words worth remembering:

            Truth from clouds of glory peeks,

             trails the liar dissembling,

clings like the stench of death while greed prevails and speaks

as if justice were the exclusive property

            of any self-proclaimed elect.

               Truth shines, the timid to protect,

   through fog of moneyed might to reveal equality,

       not some fleeting, fashionable stance or politic,

       just neighbor loving neighbor without fright dogmatic.

THE DODOS OF OUR DAY

The Dodos of Our Day 

Pity the pretend defenders of decency, 
the protests of baffled bullies in the pulpits 
of patriarchal privilege who’ve long relied 
on the fiction of feminine weakness and sin 
to justify the unearned dominion of males 
so easily distracted, disturbed and undone 
by the merest glimpse of soft flesh, of female skin 
that the only way to control themselves is to 
smother women and girls under cover of veils 
and social rules that treat all issues intimate 
as property safe only in male possession. 
Pity those cold and desperate to re-assert 
authority over bodies not theirs, frantic 
with fear of women thinking, working, threatening 
the oppressive cultish deference to all parts 
masculine required to preserve the lie of strength 
exposed in equality, in women living 
by their own choices, without “father’s” permission. 
Sad it is to see the Akins, Imams, Romneys 
irrational flailing ignorance in defense 
of a “right” devoted to hiding the ego 
fragility of the few who must be “in charge” 
to feel secure, the few who over-compensate 
for their own faults with weapons and words demeaning. 
Pity them, so dependent on their own fiction 
that just a little truth can mean their extinction.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

The flightless dodo bird is extinct, but it's human namesake is not...alas.

Many thanks to Marthe for the poem.

MEDITATION ON JOB BY MARTHE

"Job's Torment" by William Blake

for my friends of faith who may not be reading my favorite church blog ... on occasion I write a little meditation based on the assigned texts for the week that my friends in Boston use (composed of things this amateur sees when reading, thinking about what it all might mean) ... and by the way, it makes the most sense if you read the texts noted ... a little thinking of a day ...

peace be and be

Marthe

Proper 22 Meditation

Job 1:1, 2:1-10, Heb. 1:1-4, 2:5-12, Mark 10:2-16

Ah, Job, no doubt of his integrity 
while certain of his blessings, fresh with vows 
of faithfulness and works of charity, 
flush with the love of his generous God! 
His obedience stood up to the loss 
of goods and servants and even offspring, 
no sin of the lips, no curse did he toss 
into his well of naked suffering. 
To love and to be loved with one’s whole self, 
a yearning children know and adults hide, 
shroud in rules, dusty scrolls on a shelf, 
to veil hearts hardened in the to and fro 
of risk and error wandering, contracts 
masquerading as the holy union 
of created partners drawn to compacts 
of unconditional love responding, 
receiving, rejoicing in its one Source. 
Naked as Job, innocent as children, 
a trust no mortal sunders in the course 
of jealousy or trial -- one true gift: 
      for a soul once bound to God, no divorce.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

Posted with the gracious permission of Marthe.

Image from Wikipedia.

"SEPTEMBER 29th, A PENDING AS IF"

September 29th, A Pending As If

The chill begins, the softer bright
of shorter days, the slow adjustment
of chattering wings long last flight
toward the heat of promised love
as if instinct could be memory
of steady guidance from above.

Wiser ones than I know it’s true,
“faith is living as if in great hope”,
from seasons dark springs life anew;
objective harsh reality
counsels rational despair to seek
something more, One we cannot see.

Into the light some call fading
launched a flare of words, once desperate,
of the loneliness of wading
in the run-off of others’ hope,
in the wake of lives that matter;
did they not care? Or think the rope

coiled at their feet was there for show
but not for rescue of the flailing
ones comfort shuns and cannot know
if the illusion is to be
maintained that optimism alone
can change the course of history.

As if – imagination’s gift,
and one last line of poetry,
a ribbon cast into the rift
between what is and what might be,
if only as if could be enough –
leaves flame, fall, mute to gravity.

(Marthe G. Walsh - September 2012)

Marthe is a new online friend who wrote the poem above and graciously gave me permission to publish her work here on Wounded Bird.  The poem is truly fine writing - so beautiful and so perfect for the season.  Of course, the words resonate for me in a very personal way as you see if you read the words beneath the title of my blog.

The photo is not the most beautiful of autumn foliage pictures, but it is mine.  Here in south Louisiana, we do not generally have much leaf color because the first frost often comes too late in the season after the leaves have begun to fall from the trees.  A couple of years ago the weather and the stars aligned just right to produce the colorful tree in front of our neighbor's house.

Marthe's two collections of poetry are available at Lulu.    

LITTLE LORD WILLARD

How little Lord Willard aspires to rule!

So proudly attended the plutocrat school, 

with Dad’s reputation and money in hand,

sharp pencils and spreadsheets assembled a band

of legal and fiscal finaglers supreme

to pillage and plunder and finance his dream;

outsourcing, bankruptcy and capital gain

with zero concern and a cold hard disdain

for regular workers, producers of goods

on low or lost wages destroyed neighborhoods,

called stealing “creating”, insisted on stealth

to cover the truth of raw arrogant wealth

despising “other,” not so clever as their own

at gaming the system, reaping seed once sown

with intent to encourage the average

to strive, help the poor to rise, not leverage

the risk of vultures too greedy even to wait

for the maimed to expire their hunger to sate.

With ambition not limited by conscience,

Lord Willard, now Mitt, purchased the governance

of an unlikely state full of blue Democrats,

“fixed” the budget with fees, a no tax technocrat

without learning the first rule political:

voters are people, not trends or cyclical

losses deleted with the click of a mouse,

a lesson critical to win the White House.

Public service not mentioned in this current

election, but Mitt, demoted to servant

might just be the ticket to inject something

humble into his bubble of pretending

his elitist view is best for a country

of equals humoring his kind, the fake gentry.

(Marthe G. Walsh - September 2012)

Marthe calls the poem doggerel.  I call it Romney to a T.