mark-w-meehan - Hello Poetry

Water erasing stone, Color uncovered with each intimate drip Sandstone? Granite? Clay? Always shifting. Life shaping faith Beauty revealed with each piercing drop Belief? Truth? Hope? Oh, how it keeps shifting. Life sanding stone miles traveled conversation, laughter, grief all sacred sanding, dripping, cutting. Absolute? Sorry. Safe? Please. African refugees and Muslims and holy characters of all walks sorting, sifting, shifting me and my deepest held belief. Kneeling on a roof in Delhi, bearing witness to a thousand rasping coughs offered to heaven as one desperate prayer, ascending with the eternal incense of countless cooking fires. Simmering in the Carolina sun with Waleed warm words and a tender heart intimacy, intimacy with Allah present the way Aquinas could only hope for all of us. For me. Certainty may resist dripping but the cost, the cost. Forced, formal, cheap, and cold. A fearful response to the stunning destruction of being created. What if your faithfulness is foolishness? Who are you, if you miss the beauty of every drip?

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Mar 8, 2017

Mar 8, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC

We are created through destruction

Water erasing stone, Color uncovered with each intimate drip Sandstone? Granite? Clay? Always shifting. Life shaping faith Beauty revealed with each piercing drop Belief? Truth? Hope? Oh, how it keeps shifting. Life sanding stone miles traveled conversation, laughter, grief all sacred sanding, dripping, cutting. Absolute? Sorry. Safe? Please. African refugees and Muslims and holy characters of all walks sorting, sifting, shifting me and my deepest held belief. Kneeling on a roof in Delhi, bearing witness to a thousand rasping coughs offered to heaven as one desperate prayer, ascending with the eternal incense of countless cooking fires. Simmering in the Carolina sun with Waleed warm words and a tender heart intimacy, intimacy with Allah present the way Aquinas could only hope for all of us. For me. Certainty may resist dripping but the cost, the cost. Forced, formal, cheap, and cold. A fearful response to the stunning destruction of being created. What if your faithfulness is foolishness? Who are you, if you miss the beauty of every drip?

34

EAST BOSTON, 1996 ON THE BUS Franz Wright It's one thing when you're twenty-one, and I was way past twenty-one. With unshaven face half concealed in the collar of some deceased porcine philanthropist's black cashmere rag of a coat, I knew that I looked like a suicide returning an overdue book to the library. Almost everyone else did as well, but I found no particular solace in this; at best, the fact awakened some diverting speculations on the comparative benefits of waiting in front of a ditch to be shot alone or in company of others, and then whether one would prefer these last hypothetical others to be friends, family, enemies, total or relative strangers. Would you hold hands? Or would you rather like a good **** sapiens monster employ them to cover your genitals? What percentage would lose bowel control? And given time restrictions - and assuming some still had the ability to move - would ostracism result? Anyway, I knew the rules on this bus. No eye contact: the eyes of the terrified terrify. Look like you know where you're going, possess ample change to get there, and don't move your lips when you talk to yourself: the destroyed and sick, the poor, the hungry and the disturbed estrange. The badly dressed estrange, even, and that is uncalled for. The degree of one's power to estrange will increase in direct proportion to the depth of need for others. Do not cry. This can only bring about, on the one hand, an instant condition of banishment from the sole available companionship, or on the other, a near fatal beating (one more disappointment). Just follow the simple instruction if you ever come here. It's easy to remember - any idiot can do it. Don't cry, the world has abandoned us.

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Feb 27, 2017

Feb 27, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC

On the Bus (Franz Wright)

EAST BOSTON, 1996 ON THE BUS Franz Wright It's one thing when you're twenty-one, and I was way past twenty-one. With unshaven face half concealed in the collar of some deceased porcine philanthropist's black cashmere rag of a coat, I knew that I looked like a suicide returning an overdue book to the library. Almost everyone else did as well, but I found no particular solace in this; at best, the fact awakened some diverting speculations on the comparative benefits of waiting in front of a ditch to be shot alone or in company of others, and then whether one would prefer these last hypothetical others to be friends, family, enemies, total or relative strangers. Would you hold hands? Or would you rather like a good **** sapiens monster employ them to cover your genitals? What percentage would lose bowel control? And given time restrictions - and assuming some still had the ability to move - would ostracism result? Anyway, I knew the rules on this bus. No eye contact: the eyes of the terrified terrify. Look like you know where you're going, possess ample change to get there, and don't move your lips when you talk to yourself: the destroyed and sick, the poor, the hungry and the disturbed estrange. The badly dressed estrange, even, and that is uncalled for. The degree of one's power to estrange will increase in direct proportion to the depth of need for others. Do not cry. This can only bring about, on the one hand, an instant condition of banishment from the sole available companionship, or on the other, a near fatal beating (one more disappointment). Just follow the simple instruction if you ever come here. It's easy to remember - any idiot can do it. Don't cry, the world has abandoned us.

51

In my mind a yellow one speed, black banana seat and chrome ***** bar, leans casually against unpainted drywall a turned hip’s width from a paneled Caprice Estate a car so big, all three of us could sleep in the back lined up straight, sharing a thin plaid blanket, musty pillows Starcraft popup in tow. Wind still roars through the top of bare Pocono trees comforting coal smoke swirls, stinging as I step inside the kitchen foggy and warm, formica and maple. Zippers clack rhythmically, slapping time in a softly rocking dryer, steel cake cover rattling along. Next to the oven the growth chart is still there, plotting our course by order of birth pencil lines scratched in wood awkward spikes upward, sudden stops sooner than anyone expected the birthday ritual faded we stopped growing up and began fading out. Did we leave it behind? To be sanded smooth, a somber start for a fresh family with their own journeys to take Fears to face Growth to plot Dreams to form Or will the bike always lean and the coal smoke always swirl? Mark W. Meehan, PhD February, 2017

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Feb 13, 2017

Feb 13, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC

A Trick of Memory (we are where we were)

In my mind a yellow one speed, black banana seat and chrome ***** bar, leans casually against unpainted drywall a turned hip’s width from a paneled Caprice Estate a car so big, all three of us could sleep in the back lined up straight, sharing a thin plaid blanket, musty pillows Starcraft popup in tow. Wind still roars through the top of bare Pocono trees comforting coal smoke swirls, stinging as I step inside the kitchen foggy and warm, formica and maple. Zippers clack rhythmically, slapping time in a softly rocking dryer, steel cake cover rattling along. Next to the oven the growth chart is still there, plotting our course by order of birth pencil lines scratched in wood awkward spikes upward, sudden stops sooner than anyone expected the birthday ritual faded we stopped growing up and began fading out. Did we leave it behind? To be sanded smooth, a somber start for a fresh family with their own journeys to take Fears to face Growth to plot Dreams to form Or will the bike always lean and the coal smoke always swirl? Mark W. Meehan, PhD February, 2017

31

I’m NOT upset because my choice for President lost. I am angry because the person who brags, graphically, persistently, about his power to/pleasure in assaulting women was elected as President of my country. He mocks the disabled. He taunts the powerless. I’m NOT irate because I’m a “sore loser.” I‘m astonished that the common consideration of his proposed cabinet isn’t expertise or public service, but obscene wealth. The worst kind of cronyism. I’m NOT a passenger on a plane, irrationally demanding a new pilot. I’m sitting in economy, gripping my cheap seat in terror. The nose of the plane diving, the left wing lifting into a death spiral, while the pilot declares “This is going to be the greatest flight ever.”

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Jan 22, 2017

Jan 22, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC

Inauguration

I’m NOT upset because my choice for President lost. I am angry because the person who brags, graphically, persistently, about his power to/pleasure in assaulting women was elected as President of my country. He mocks the disabled. He taunts the powerless. I’m NOT irate because I’m a “sore loser.” I‘m astonished that the common consideration of his proposed cabinet isn’t expertise or public service, but obscene wealth. The worst kind of cronyism. I’m NOT a passenger on a plane, irrationally demanding a new pilot. I’m sitting in economy, gripping my cheap seat in terror. The nose of the plane diving, the left wing lifting into a death spiral, while the pilot declares “This is going to be the greatest flight ever.”

24

I’m a native Babylonian Born with blood from others like me A strong Babylonian mother who clothed and fed Cultured by my media, a shaved disciple before a glowing screen I breath in unison, initiated into the cult of this land My heart dreams in Babylonian. Not sure what to think when others Further along than I Declare their proud independence “I am in this world, but not of it, a stranger in a strange land!” Sipping Starbucks and glancing at their Seiko. I still unbuckle my discolored jeans They quietly pile on the cold tile floor around my bare ankles I sit on a white Babylonian throne Relieving myself from the burdens of waste Thin paper wipes the excess, fragrant soap and warm water combine to clean A daily reminder of where I’m from. I can’t invade this land A missionary zealot with appropriate passion I’m one of them and this land is already mine I’m changed, yes, I am newly alive A clean heart fixed to a renewing mind. But I know my stripes I know my noise and my quietness I have hope for where I go I walk newly now But as a Babylonian with love Among my people.

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Jan 6, 2017

Jan 6, 2017 at 7:39 AM UTC

Babylonian

I’m a native Babylonian Born with blood from others like me A strong Babylonian mother who clothed and fed Cultured by my media, a shaved disciple before a glowing screen I breath in unison, initiated into the cult of this land My heart dreams in Babylonian. Not sure what to think when others Further along than I Declare their proud independence “I am in this world, but not of it, a stranger in a strange land!” Sipping Starbucks and glancing at their Seiko. I still unbuckle my discolored jeans They quietly pile on the cold tile floor around my bare ankles I sit on a white Babylonian throne Relieving myself from the burdens of waste Thin paper wipes the excess, fragrant soap and warm water combine to clean A daily reminder of where I’m from. I can’t invade this land A missionary zealot with appropriate passion I’m one of them and this land is already mine I’m changed, yes, I am newly alive A clean heart fixed to a renewing mind. But I know my stripes I know my noise and my quietness I have hope for where I go I walk newly now But as a Babylonian with love Among my people.

28

My Old Flame My old flame, my wife! Remember our lists of birds? One morning last summer, I drove by our house in Maine. It was still on top of its hill - Now a red ear of Indian maize was splashed on the door. Old Glory with thirteen stripes hung on a pole. The clapboard was old-red schoolhouse red. Inside, a new landlord, a new wife, a new broom! Atlantic seaboard antique shop pewter and plunder shone in each room. A new frontier! No running next door now to phone the sheriff for his taxi to Bath and the State Liquor Store! No one saw your ghostly imaginary lover stare through the window and tighten the scarf at his throat. Health to the new people, health to their flag, to their old restored house on the hill! Everything had been swept bare, furnished, garnished and aired. Everything's changed for the best - how quivering and fierce we were, there snowbound together, simmering like wasps in our tent of books! Poor ghost, old love, speak with your old voice of flaming insight that kept us awake all night. In one bed and apart, we heard the plow groaning up hill - a red light, then a blue, as it tossed off the snow to the side of the road. Lowell Robert (1964). “My Old Flame” (p. 5). For the Union Dead. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, NY.

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Jan 3, 2017

Jan 3, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC

My Old Flame, by Robert Lowell

My Old Flame My old flame, my wife! Remember our lists of birds? One morning last summer, I drove by our house in Maine. It was still on top of its hill - Now a red ear of Indian maize was splashed on the door. Old Glory with thirteen stripes hung on a pole. The clapboard was old-red schoolhouse red. Inside, a new landlord, a new wife, a new broom! Atlantic seaboard antique shop pewter and plunder shone in each room. A new frontier! No running next door now to phone the sheriff for his taxi to Bath and the State Liquor Store! No one saw your ghostly imaginary lover stare through the window and tighten the scarf at his throat. Health to the new people, health to their flag, to their old restored house on the hill! Everything had been swept bare, furnished, garnished and aired. Everything's changed for the best - how quivering and fierce we were, there snowbound together, simmering like wasps in our tent of books! Poor ghost, old love, speak with your old voice of flaming insight that kept us awake all night. In one bed and apart, we heard the plow groaning up hill - a red light, then a blue, as it tossed off the snow to the side of the road. Lowell Robert (1964). “My Old Flame” (p. 5). For the Union Dead. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, NY.

47

Tropical sun shines sharply, forcing faces down The penitent position Of a man newly hung “When the elephants fight It is the grass that suffers.” Refugees slide slowly toward the ragged edge Diaspora into darkness Shoeless journey into air “When the elephants fight It is the grass that suffers.” Dusty human mosaics burn slowly in the sun Fragile forms holding hope Home, when the game is done When the elephants fight It is the grass that suffers.

0

Dec 29, 2016

Dec 29, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC

Conversation with a Refugee. January 2009, Mozambique

Tropical sun shines sharply, forcing faces down The penitent position Of a man newly hung “When the elephants fight It is the grass that suffers.” Refugees slide slowly toward the ragged edge Diaspora into darkness Shoeless journey into air “When the elephants fight It is the grass that suffers.” Dusty human mosaics burn slowly in the sun Fragile forms holding hope Home, when the game is done When the elephants fight It is the grass that suffers.

15

Don't be bitter my friend you’ll regret it soon hold to your togetherness or surely you’ll scatter don’t walk away gloomy from this garden you’ll end up like an owl dwelling in old ruins face the war and be a warrior like a lion or you’ll end up like a pet tucked away in a stable once you conquer your selfish self all your darkness will change to light.

0

Dec 29, 2016

Dec 29, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC

Don’t be bitter my friend. Rumi

Don't be bitter my friend you’ll regret it soon hold to your togetherness or surely you’ll scatter don’t walk away gloomy from this garden you’ll end up like an owl dwelling in old ruins face the war and be a warrior like a lion or you’ll end up like a pet tucked away in a stable once you conquer your selfish self all your darkness will change to light.

16

Just beyond the fogged black glass Boston slides by as a fresh smear Huddled between low green hills Laced with fading white. Worship swells inside The blue nimbus hive As Boltbus pilgrims bow before Their tiny twitching screens. Praise god from whom all content flows Praise god for wireless here below Praise Stephen Jobs, ye gen-y host Praise Reddit, Fox News and Huffington Post. Salvation in the *** of Kim Kardashian. And the green is sliding by Blurring truth in soft blue sky Eternity in deep gray stone Ignored into silence.

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Dec 29, 2016

Dec 29, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC

Boston Slides By

Just beyond the fogged black glass Boston slides by as a fresh smear Huddled between low green hills Laced with fading white. Worship swells inside The blue nimbus hive As Boltbus pilgrims bow before Their tiny twitching screens. Praise god from whom all content flows Praise god for wireless here below Praise Stephen Jobs, ye gen-y host Praise Reddit, Fox News and Huffington Post. Salvation in the *** of Kim Kardashian. And the green is sliding by Blurring truth in soft blue sky Eternity in deep gray stone Ignored into silence.

17