Martin Willitts Jr
As a Quaker, I practice silent meditation daily. I wait for the quiet voice inside me to stir. I write from the messages I receive. We call this “spirit led”. This is not the same as writing a great poem or even a good poem. But when the spirit stirs, no telling what will be stirred. My new full-length is “The Uncertain Lover”, Dos Madres Press, 2018.
I turn to listen to every forgotten, lost voice,
abandoned and discarded along the way.
Somewhere in all that missing is the one
wanting temporarily to be found.
Haven’t we all had that urge to search
or to be desperately found?
Haven’t we all lost some object
only to look for it restlessly?
And there it is, right where we left it,
although we swear it wasn’t there before.
It waited to be discovered
to replace all uncertainty.
It begin with some simple light
reflected off a normal, unglazed red clay pot.
There was some strangeness about that light;
or the utter basic nature of the pot
or the earthen source of the clay;
or the forming of intense heat in the kiln;
or the faltering coals expended into ash
made this revelation
possible and necessary, and opened
the invisible gateway to the Creator,
whose name changes from religion to religion
like a chameleon, while the Creator
remains both the same and flexible.
I had not been noticing — and now, my eyes blend
like the dirt spun into a clay pot, like light
coming great distances to glance off a pot
as simple and basic as air. In the swirl of dust.
But it was not one revelation; it was many —
the prism of light; the earth we take for granted;
the purpose of fire to create, the voiceless God;
the white baby breath flowers lasting two months —
all things possible and impossible.
It had been a bittersweet day,
concluding with an applause of birds.
All that had transpired today —
Are you alright?
those background pleasantries
nimbly tossing from a mouth:
perfect, hinged-together words,
cooing like pigeons.
I was not alright.
Loss would pass, eventually.
Consider the amount of time
necessary to respond.
My heart would still be shredded,
and I did not know how to stitch it together —
with frayed pieces of thread?
Sighs? gigantic unsettling?
An unknown bird was singing:
It is just another day.
And it was correct.
It cannot be all that bad.
This misery, too, shall pass.
© 2018 Martin Willitts Jr
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