supplication: a poem is a prayer

q: what's the difference between a face like that & a prayer,

a cupcake, an easter dress, & a prayer? a: no difference at all.

it seems that no matter how mad i get at god

i keep supplicating to her

or whatever/whoever

god is being

on a particularly tight day.

it seems that supplication is unavoidable

or maybe it's just me.

when i was birthing lula

the midwife said:

here comes the part

where every woman curses god

and calls for her mother.

what is the difference between

the two?  the curse and the prayer?

god and a mother?

what is a prayer and

what is a poem?

& why

no matter

how frustrated

doubtful

uneasy

or resentful

we feel about who listens--

who understands

& what we do

& don't understand

we continually

draw back

to these words

that say everything

& nothing? to,

as herbert says,

the land of spices/

something understood.

two poems for

you today:

jean valentine, my poetic mother

though she knows it not

(the link is to her reading the posted poem)

& geo. herbert

my poetic father

(i've told him, he knows he's my father as

i've prayed to him many times.)

The Rose

by Jean Valentine

a labyrinth,

as if at its center,

god would be there—

but at the center, only rose,

where rose came from,   

where rose grows—

& us, inside of the lips & lips:

the likenesses, the eyes, & the hair,

we are born of,

fed by, & marry with,

only flesh itself, only its passage

—out of where?    to where?

Then god the mother said to Jim, in a dream,

Never mind you, Jim,

come rest again on the country porch of my knees.

 i forgot to post this on easter.  can't let the season pass without sharing it, or reminding you of it.

Easter Wings

by George Herbert

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,

      Though foolishly he lost the same,

            Decaying more and more,

                  Till he became

                        Most poore:

                        With thee

                  O let me rise

            As larks, harmoniously,

      And sing this day thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne

      And still with sicknesses and shame.

            Thou didst so punish sinne,

                  That I became

                        Most thinne.

                        With thee

                  Let me combine,

            And feel thy victorie:

         For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

(also, you might like this huffington post article on prayer and poetry.  jean valentine's quote was particularly good:  "There's a likeness between poetry and prayer that is not so much thanks or supplication, but the more unconscious activity of meditation or dreaming. The likeness lies in poetry and meditative prayer and dreaming all being (potentially anyhow) healing, and all being out of our hands.")

legwear:  nada

inspiration: the mysteries that call us to prayer and poem

looking forward: dinner and bowling tonight with five of my six siblings (miss you, hilary!)