OUT OF THE QUARREL WITH OURSELVES WE MAKE POETRY

SYRIA DECEMBER THIRD

My words are useless. They will not prevent
a single starving child or stitch in place
an arm torn-off or smooth acid burned face
or turn aside the bloodiest event
heart can conceive. Perhaps announce my grief
in organ tones of sorrow, bring a tear
to hardest heart’s stone eye. i disappear
from my best work. A poet is a thief
who stands inside the mirror of her eyes
watches the world bleed, but I cannot change
the pieces that I steal, that I arrange
in pleasing shapes. At best I offer lies
pretend that art can make what’s damaged whole.
I damn myself pretending to console.

Advertisements

About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to OUT OF THE QUARREL WITH OURSELVES WE MAKE POETRY

  1. papersky says:

    I don’t believe that’s true. I think sometimes
    the climate shifts, improves, opinions change
    the window slides, we can affect the range
    of what’s acceptable, our thoughts, our rhymes.
    If we can make it scandal, get that tear
    instead of shrugs, instead of saying “Such
    things happen don’t they?” And it isn’t much
    but half a step is better than a sneer.
    Perhaps. Sometimes, Well, it’s the way to hope.
    It worked for Orwell. But it all grinds on
    relentlessly, the dead are really gone
    and what was helped? So maybe I’m a dope.
    It isn’t theft or lies when you’re sincere
    it truly helps this one, this day, this fear.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s