These are not poems: no, not by any reasonable measure, even though I've written them in verse. They are merely jottings whereby I'm "thinking through" some issues.
Diary Entries: 8 June 2019
I do not look at the world
with wise and kindly eyes.
I cannot embrace others
with loving, tender arms.
There is wrath and condemnation,
raging of a toxic heart.
Mind seethes with resentments:
I would hurt others
more than I have been hurt.
I would escape my obligations,
those nettlesome small duties.
I would numb myself to pain,
take anodyne against annoyances.
Theodore Roethke, Wystan Auden,
can't you charm my fretful soul?
Can't you transmute this wicked heart,
warped by innumerable hostilities,
soured by numberless poisons?
It is 8.30 of a Thursday evening
in early summer.
I am sitting with dear friend L---
in the meditation chapel
of Spaulding Hospital, Cambridge.
We tell our stories
of recent untriumphant doings.
We are safe in each other's trust.
We are healing each other,
binding each other's wounds.
We are making sacred space
in which each of us may breathe.
We listen for the pulse of hope
beneath each other's words.
we are still.
Essay by Thomas DeFreitas
Read 117 times
Written on 2019-06-09 at 11:32
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