Cures are Facts; Healing is Poetic
Myth, Mirth and Meditation: Free;
Medicine for what it’s worth
I spent my Salad Days in Cambridge as radical dandruff in the long hair of Harvard and now I seek with meanders of poetry and prose paths to share with kindred spirits.
Not much yet, but I hope to grow on you. For now contemplate Mariangela Gualtieri's poem.
This Poem was brought t my attention by Denise Provost who found it on
“March the Ninth,” a Poem by Mariangela Gualtieri, trans. by Lucy Rand and Clarissa Botsford.
I'm telling you this
we needed to stop.
We knew. We all felt it
that it was too furious,
our frenzy. Being inside of things.
Outside of ourselves.
Squeeze every hour – make it yield. Newton
We needed to stop
and we couldn't.
We needed to do it together.
Slow down the race.
But we couldn't.
There was no human force
that could hold us back.
And since this new
was for all of us a tacit wish
like an unconscious will –
perhaps our species has obeyed
loosen the bonds that protect
our seed. Opened
the innermost cracks
and let it in.
Perhaps this is why there was a leap
in the species – from the bat to us.
Something in us wanted to be opened.
Perhaps, I don't know.
Now we are at home.
It is extraordinary what is happening.
And there is gold, I believe, in this strange time.
Perhaps there are gifts.
Nuggets of gold for us. If we help one another.
There is a very strong call
of the species now and as a species
we must each see ourselves. A common fate
holds us here. We knew it. But not well enough.
Either all of us, or no one.
The earth is powerful. Truly alive
I feel it thinking a thought
that we do not know.
And with what's happening now? Let us consider
whether the earth is not what's moving.
Whether the law that rules
the entire universe, whether what's happening, I wonder,
isn't the full expression of that law
that governs us to – just like
every star – every particle of the cosmos.
Whether the dark matter was this
being bound together in an ardor
for life, with the sweep of death that comes
to rebalance every species.
Keep it within its dimensions, in its place,
going in the right direction. It is not us
who made heaven.
An imposing voice, without words
tells us to stay home now, like children
who are in trouble and don't know why,
and won't get kisses, won't get hugged.
Each within a suspension
that takes us back, perhaps to the slowness
of ancient ancestors, of mothers.
Look more at the sky,
daub a dead man ocher. Bake bread
for the first time. Look intently at a face. Sing
a child softly to sleep. For the first time
hold someone else's hand tight
feel the strength of the agreement. That we are together.
A single organism. The whole species
we carry within us. We are saving it inside us.
To that grasp of a palm
in another person’s palm
to that simple act that we are now forbidden –
we will return with expanded awareness.
We'll be here, more attentive, I think. Our hand
will be more delicate in the doing of life.
Now that we know how sad it is
to stand one meter apart.
On which I try to twist brain worms onto a fork of reason. If the sauce seems meager supply some of your own.
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