I sit in darkness, waiting, yearning,
Dependent on vast cosmos for Light,
Praying not for order, not
Length of life, but for Fire of Love
To penetrate the dark, bring Presence
To Empty Space, Spirit to Dance,
Immediate, Refined, the Restitution
Of all things, changed by this instant
Incarnation— mystical and bright as the
Star that so long ago sang in distant night
An Eternal Hello, grounding Love to Earth.
The Moon and Earth form a symbiotic truth,
One enfolded by the other in closed orbit,
Not in perfect circle, but asymmetrically,
Oceans heaving at each pass, exchanging
Mirrored light as they spin around the Sun.
It is not quite true that the Moon merely
Revolves around its planet. They orbit
Center of shared mass,
Barycenter within the Earth, but not at heart of
Inner core. Each body dances, tangos
With its partner, nodding silently, miraculously
Together, heavy, fast, day and night,
Separating by further distance
An inch and a half each year. Oh, dear!
It’s quite the soundless sight, glory coalescing
Age after age, two heavenly bodies pulsing in
Eternity of space, drifting in a larger plan.
Last night I went to bed in darkness,
Blind to the presence of the lake outside my window.
This morning I gaze upon the snow covered expanse,
Quiet in holiness—a white silence
That says both nothing and everything.
The trees on the mountain are bare,
No apparent sign of life, yet they wait,
Singing in their quiet way of tenacity, hope, prayer,
Waiting for the return of spring.
Do they know greening is possible? Do they care?
The whole world turns in its perfect imperfection.
If only I had more than one pair of eyes to see,
Wings to soar, petals of the heart to blossom,
Open fully to the fragrance that now lies wrapped
In the silent praise of soul.
So many thoughts I cannot think,
Depth of feeling too deep for words,
A tongue that cannot taste the fullness of the delicacy
Laid before me. The idea of God flies by
In the form of a bird, flying away.
I cannot hold the Presence;
Cannot touch Holiness nor can I capture love.
But I can reach out. Keep my heart open,
Aware of the clear, blue air.
To every lover whose heart has broken;
To those who want to be together but are separated
By seemingly impossible obstacles, intransigent bureaucrats,
Great distance that keeps you from another’s arms;
To those immigrants living in what is supposed
To be the land of liberty, who are in hiding, deprived of justice,
Separated from their families that they miss;
To those who have held a loved one as they breathed their last,
Who know the weight of grief and the silence of the grave;
To those who walk on beaches against the wind,
Who hike into forests or mountains alone,
Who sleep in empty beds and cry themselves to sleep;
To those who hunger for fulfillment that may never come;
I gently hold your heart in my heart.
My silence also has unsung sadness,
Longing for someone who is not here.
I know the power and pain of love that still lives within the heart,
The ache for tender, loving touch.
I know the salt poured on open wound,
The sting of rejection, the loss of cherished dreams.
I feel the heat of anger when others senselessly exercise their power,
Blindly cause another hurt and pain.
I know how easy it is to prosecute or defend,
To call another names, to fill the mind with indignation and complaint.
Yes, I know love comes with vulnerability,
How easily promises and expectations are broken.
And I know a tragic symmetry of pain,
Where few, especially not myself, can claim innocence of hurting others.
I have broken promises, know the burden of regret and
Stand in need of ever-constant grace.
Whoever you are, wherever you are…
I sense your hurt and pain, your sadness, your aloneness, your lack of strength.
I know what it feels when you feel someone will never understand,
That there is no justice, no hope, no escape, no way back.
On this day, in this place of unending unrest, I am with you.
If you have voice, whisper to me your name.
This time of year ice forms on the lake,
Later melts, freezes again next day,
The silver cover inches thinly
As it narrows against the shore.
The suspense is worth the looking
Several times a day to watch the water
Solid, then flowing, then solid in the frigid air.
Two days ago, a neighbor down the street
Said her poodle ran out on the ice at night.
She raised her head to call,
Threw off her coat, prepared
To take a dive to save his life
If crust of ice gave way, gave him
Thirty seconds space before
He turned and walked her way.
How does it feel, I wanted to ask,
To have such warmth of heart
You’d risk your life to save your dog?
What transcendent feeling, what urge
Within her dizzy head?
What foolish, thoughtless spiral
Plunge into the ice, what revealing story
Would they repeat at her cold wake?
That she gave her life for love?
It is a variation on a chilling theme,
This love, this desperate adoration,
This surge or sickness that
Locks the joints of self-preservation,
Freezes blood to sacrifice, to trust
A flash of light to save a life.
I once stared for hours at a line drawn on a page,
Just a simple, hand-drawn penciled line on
Parchment, held within a thick, gold frame.
I do not recall a name, but the townhouse was in
Manhattan, owned by an Armenian Jew
Who had a collection of exquisite, antique crucifixes.
Christ, the floors were of purest marble, white
As sand on a Hawaiian beach. I stood
Silently, the graphite of that single, penciled line
Sinking into blue waters of my divided soul, helpless
To prevent the loss, the way love fades to grief.
Did I mention he was a psychiatrist, this owner
Of the parchment in the townhouse? Under the
Soles of my feet I felt the edge of line complete,
The journey from left to right, with no meaning,
No interpretation to guide the way, just sitting there
In his office with marbled floors, richly appointed,
The pilgrimage of pencil so fine of hand
That the subtlety of beauty, perspective, intention
Made me weep, floating as I was into the truth of it,
With no comma, no period, no punctuation—
Only a simple line drawn across a page.
I brace myself for what comes next,
Not knowing, only caring,
Hurting in a tender heart,
My future upside down
From what I thought last week.
Am I pretending the party hasn’t ended?
Was the kiss hello the last? I hate
Roller-coasters, just want a straight
Line of love in my hands, a month,
A year, an answered prayer.
Give me carrot soup with crusty bread,
Tapenade and ham, fresh cranberries,
A lover’s eyes before my midnight dreams.
Sometimes the ego fails to protect the heart,
It breaks apart, splits open, the energy unmetered,
The system shocked, including the exclusion of
Protection, knowing that something’s amiss,
Useless prayers laying on the ground.
Impossible to be still in body or mind
With a number on my back, the slander,
Suspicions swirl deep into the lungs until
It knocks me flat, no space between
Hearing and listening, between a kiss hello
And a kiss goodbye, burning dreams alive.
I sway as though riding on a camel’s back,
Inaudible grind of creation outrageous,
Recounting over and over where I lost the way,
Falling into snowdrifts that cannot hold
Such weight as I now bear, trying to sooth
The grief, the loss, the trip to places I
Will never go, might have lived, facing
Backwards, into the future, alone.
The Preface of the Poem:
Recently, I’ve been reading one of Mary Renault’s historical novels of ancient Greece, “The Praise Singer,” about the poet Simonides, one of the nine lyric poets of that age (you might also recognize Sappho, Pindar, and Bacchylides), who wrote and sang their songs from the seventh to the fifth centuries BCE. Many of these are mentioned by Plato and some fragments of their poetry survive to this day.
One of the remarkable stories told by Renault, verified through Herodotus and other ancient sources, is the story of Kimon (some early sources spell his name as Cimon).
In the ancient Olympics, played every four years on the sacred plain of Olympia, the Greek cities met to compete in athletic events. Women were generally not allowed to even view the games as spectators. Everyone took a sacred oath of peace and non-violence during the games, which evolves to this day as an event that brings the entire world together in peaceful competition.
One of the highlights of the games was the chariot race. This was considered the premier of all equestrian events. Each chariot was pulled by a team of four horses, and a huge racecourse was constructed, the Hippodrome, the remains of which was only recently discovered by satellite, buried under centuries of sediment.
In 536 BCE, Kimon won the race with a team of white horses, each of which was three years old. Four years later, he won the laurel crown again, but forfeited the honor to the reigning tyrant of Athens so that he might return from exile. In 528 BCE, Kimon entered the Olympic chariot races a third time with the same team of horses as before, now eleven years of age. Against all odds, he became the first in history to win three times—all the more remarkable was that he won all three victories with the same team of horses.
The crowd went wild. He became the hero of the hour. In the long history of the games, there was never another victory such as this: three victories running with the same team. Forever, men would speak of this triple victory. Celebrations broke out that lasted far into the night. Songs were composed that survive to modern times of this remarkable event.
That night, while returning to his tent in the darkness, Kimon was murdered by men hired by Hippas, son of Pisistratus, the tyrant of Athens, who also had had a team of horses entered in the chariot race. The Sacred Truce had been violated. The judges of the games decreed that Kimon be given a public funeral and a great tomb was prepared on the Valley Road, the cost of which was borne by Athens. Tens of thousands of people gathered at the conclusion of the games at the time of the full moon to watch the grand funeral procession. All the great Hellene cities sent embassies with offerings to the gods. After Kimon was laid in his tomb and the stone placed upon the vault, the four mares were also sacrificed, their blood poured upon the ground and they were entombed alongside the victor.
For some reason I cannot fully explain, I was stunned and enormously saddened by this ancient tale of tragedy. It was yet another variation of the myth of the Hero cut down in his prime, at the very moment of triumph. All that was sacred had been cast aside in the name of vengeance, hatred and destructive envy.
I wrote the following poem in honor of Kimon, who breathed his last breath over 2,538 years ago. May his spirit be honored through the ages.
The Glory of Victory
In Honor of Kimon, son of Stesagoras
The wind slowly winds
Through darkness down the Sacred Way.
Stillness on the dusty plain
Yields to weeping from awakened sleep.
No more shall Kimon blaze across the finish line,
Nor hold the reigns, guide the steeds
Past bronzed dolphins to win
Laurel crown upon his furrowed head.
How brightly heralds sound the trumpets!
Give glory to the beauty of the hour:
Three times upon Olympia’s valley floor—
All paths of victory lead to death tonight.
Notes of praise, sung in morning light
As thousands held their breath—
Fleets of chariots raised the yellow dust.
Gods watched, as even gods must.
Eleven years he ran his dauntless mares,
Stroked the living empire of their flanks,
Eyes as dark as wine-cast seas,
Now sacrifice their blood upon his breast.
His history is read within the people’s eyes.
Songs of joy turn to wails of lamentation.
Who could fathom this same night
Assassins turn to darkness Hero’s sight?
At the tomb we contemplate his fate;
Women wail their woes and men relate
A lingering tale that killed a glorious day.
Forever, death sweeps the sparking dew away.
With dirge, we watch him slowly borne.
Crazed, forlorn, we stand beside his grave.
No more travels his countenance upon the Earth.
Approach and know the cost of human birth.
"Headwinds" ---Fred Turpin's Poetry Blog 