April 17, 2013

Going Home


There are things to be said. No doubt.
And in one way or another
they will be said. But to whom tell

the silences? With whom share them
now? For a moment the sky is
empty and then there was a bird.

--Cid Corman

Sometimes I'm conflicted on what to write in my blog--it was designed as a fun place for me to share memories, favorite poems and family pictures with my friends and family.  And by friends I mean not only the ones that I can hang out with in person, but also all the wonderful people who have come into my life and enriched it by reaching out to me via our blogging worlds.  Yesterday was my 200th post and I intended to celebrate with all my readers, as I am excited that even after that many posts I can still find something to say! But even though I wanted to celebrate in today's post, my heart  was telling me that as the mother of three precious sons I cannot move forward towards joy without acknowledging the pain in so many Boston families right now, and the loss of that sweet, innocent eight year old boy.  My heart goes out to everyone involved in this terrible event.  

All I can do is offer my prayers for the injured and departed, and healing wishes for all the injuries, both physical and emotional.  This beautiful poem by Cid Corman sums up my feelings of loss and pain and sorrow so eloquently.  The promise that after the silence and the emptiness a bird will appear to comfort and console is so breathtakingly simple and moving.  I hope it brings you comfort as well.

A young writer, Gregory Dunne, met frequently with Cid when they both lived in Japan and discussed poetry and the ability to write truthfully and honestly.  I want to share Cid's comments with you, as I find they have the ring of truth in them.  There's no sense praying that I suffer no more sorrows...it comes with the territory.  If life means anything to anyone it means ... living this very moment aware of how it is shared--generously, magnanimously, tenderly.  To that all I can add is Amen.

Cid wrote: "Life is the music - Greg - and your life your music. No one can take it from you - or give it to you (beyond those who did) - but you may need time to hear it or let it come through. It happens when you are moved beyond yourself into the open. It requires an honesty with oneself that is always rare - and often when you think your ARE being honest - you are deceiving (kidding) yourself most. It needs a terrible ruthlessness.
It isn't a matter of sounding good but of being good - living each word in its fullness as they OCCUR. Not to get ahead of yourself, but not to fall behind either. It WILL come, if you have the staying power. And even if you fail - it may still feed richly into your life. Ego - despite all the accent put upon it - isn't the issue. But how to share life with others and in a way that makes it even yet (in the face of what we all face) possible. Given what it is - for any of us - there's nothing to get hoity-toity about.
We're all small potatoes - Nobelists and Presidents, Kings/Queens and Champions.
Why should what you feel or have felt be of any interest or concern to ANYONE ELSE?
And how can it be unless you open to others to core? This is hard to do. We hide from ourselves as well as others.
The poem you want to write maybe will not come clear to you till within moments of your death. That's the way it goes.
There's no sense praying that I suffer no more sorrows. It comes with the territory. There is nothing to pray for - as my poems try to make clear. If life means anything to anyone it means precisely life and living this very moment aware of it and how it is shared - generously - magnanimously - tenderly.  
Little boys should be enjoying life, hanging out with their family and savoring an ice cream cone.  In memory of Martin Richard, who loved to play baseball and ride his bike, I offer the beautiful song by the boys' choir, Libera, performing Going Home (Original Song by Antonín Dvořák (Largo from Symphony No. 9 in E Minor "From the New World").
Going Home, performed by Libera

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