The Lilies

When I learned I might have cancer,
I bought fifteen white lilies. Easter was gone:
the trumpets were wilted, plants crooked with roots
bound in pots. I dug them into the garden,
knowing they would not bloom for another year.
All summer, the stalks stood like ramshackle posts
while I waited for results. By autumn, the stalks
had flopped down. More biopsies, laser incisions,
the cancer in my tongue a sprawling mass. Outside,
the earth remained bare, rhizomes shrunken
below the frost line. Spring shoots appeared
in bright green skins, and lilies bloomed
in July, their waxed trumpets pure white,
dusting gold pollen to the ground.
                                                                                                    This year,
tripled in number, they are popping up again. I wait,
a ceremony, for the lilies to open, for the serpentine length
of the garden to bloom in the shape of my tongue’s scar,
a white path with one end leading into brilliant air,
the other down the throat’s canyon, black
and unforgiving. I try to imagine
what could grow in such darkness. I am waiting
for the lilies to open.

--Dr. Karenne Wood (1960-2019), member of the Monacan Indian Nation, poet and anthropologist, from Markings on Earth, 2001

Caged Bird

A free bird leaps 
on the back of the wind 
and floats downstream 
till the current ends 
and dips his wing 
in the orange sun rays 
and dares to claim the sky. 

But a bird that stalks 
down his narrow cage 
can seldom see through 
his bars of rage 
his wings are clipped 
and his feet are tied 
so he opens his throat to sing. 

The caged bird sings 
with a fearful trill 
of things unknown 
but longed for still 
and his tune is heard 
on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom. 

 The free bird thinks of another breeze 
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees 
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn 
and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams 
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings 
with a fearful trill
of things unknown 
but longed for still 
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill 
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

--Maya Angelou (1928-2014), African American poet, activist, and memoirist, from Shaker, Why Don't You Sing?, 1983

When Peace Become Obnoxious

Mt 10: 34-36

A few weeks ago, a federal judge handed down an edict which stated in substance that the University of Alabama could no longer deny admission to persons because of their race. With the handing down of this decision, a brave young lady by the name of Autherine Lucy was accepted as the first Negro student to be admitted in the history of the University of Alabama. This was a great moment and a great decision. But with the announcement of this decision, the vanguards of the old order began to emerge. The forces of evil began to congeal. As soon as Autherine Lucy walked on the campus, a group of spoiled students lead by Leonard Wilson and a vicious group of criminals began threatening her on every hand. Crosses were burned. Eggs and bricks were thrown at her. The mob even jumped on top of the car in which she was riding. Finally the president and trustees of the University of Alabama asked Autherine to leave for her own safety and the safety of the university. The next day after Autherine was dismissed the paper came out with this headline: “Things are quiet in Tuscaloosa today. There is peace on the campus of the University of Alabama."

Yes things were quiet in Tuscaloosa. Yes there was peace on the campus, but it was peace at a great price. It was peace that had been purchased at the exorbitant price of an inept trustee board succoming to the whims and carprices of a vicious mob. It was peace that had been purchased at the price of allowing mobocracy to reign supreme over democracy. It was peace that had been purchased at the price of the capitulating to the forces of darkness. This is the type of peace that all men of goodwill hate. It is the type of peace that is obnoxious. It is the type of peace that stinks in the nostrils of the almighty God.

Now let me hasten to say that this is not a concession to or a justification for physical war. I can see no moral justification for war. I believe absolutely and positively that violence is self-defeating. War is devastating. And we know now that if we continue to use these weapons of destruction, our civilization will be plunged across the abyss of destruction. 

However, there is a type of war that every Christian is involved in. It is a spiritual war. It is a war of ideas. Every true Christian is a fighting pacifist. In a very profound passage, which has been often misunderstood, Jesus utters this. He says “Think not that I am come to bring peace. I come not to bring peace, but a sword.” {Mt 10:34-36} Certainly he is not saying that he comes not to bring peace in the higher sense. What he is saying is: “I come not to bring this peace of escapism, this peace that fails to confront the real issues of life, the peace that makes for stagnant complacency.” Then he says, I come to bring a sword—not a physical sword. Whenever I come a conflict is precipitated between the old and the new, between justice and injustice, between the forces of light and the forces of darkness. “I come to declare war on evil. I come to declare war on injustice."

This text is saying, in substance, "Peace is not merely the absence of some negative force—war, tensions, confusion but it is the presence of some positive force—justice, goodwill, the power of the kingdom of God." 

I had a long talk the other day with a man about this bus situation. He discussed the peace being destroyed in the community, the destroying of good race relations. I agreed that it is more tension now. But peace is not merely to absence of this tension, but the presence of justice. And even if we didn’t have this tension, we still wouldn’t have positive peace. Yes it is true that if the Negro accept his place, accepts exploitation, and injustice, there will be peace. But it would be an obnoxious peace. It would be a peace that boiled down to stagnant complacity, deadening passivity and 

If peace means this, I don't want peace: 
If peace means accepting second class citizenship I don't want it. 
If peace means keeping my mouth shut in the midst of injustice and evil, I don't want it. 
If peace means being complacently adjusted to a deadening status quo, I don't want peace. 
If peace means a willingness to be exploited economically, dominated politically, humiliated and segregated, I don't want peace.

In a passive non-violent manner we must revolt against this peace. Jesus says in substance, I will not be content until justice, goodwill, brotherhood, love yes, the kingdom of God are established upon the earth. This is real peace. Peace is the presence of positive good. Finally, never forget that there is an The inner peace that comes as a result of doing God’s will. 

Our Father God, who dost overarch our fleeting years with thine eternity and dost undergird our weakness with thy strength, in the midst of the pressures of another day, as we face its vast concerns. Above all else save us from succumbing to the tragic temptation of Of becoming cynical. 


 -- The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King,  Jr.  (1930-1968), African American pastor, civil rights leader, preacher, and martyr; Sermon Delivered on 18 March 1956 at Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, in Papers 3:207-208. 

Dexter’s 18 March 1956 program indicates King preached this sermon. King's trial began on 19 March 1956. Judge Eugene Carter found King guilty after a four-day trial and sentenced him to either pay a $500 fine plus court costs or serve 386 days in jail. The sentence was suspended following an appeal by King’s attorney (Testimony in State of Alabama v. M. L. King, Jr., 22 March 1956, in Papers 3:183-196). 

My Standard Response

I. 
      The first question is always phrased this way: 
      “So. How much Indian are you?”

II. 
      We did not live in tepees. 
      We did not braid our hair. 
      We did not fringe our shirts. 
      We did not wear war bonnets. 
      We did not chase the buffalo. 
      We did not carry shields. 
      We were never Plains Indians. 
      We tried to ride, but we kept falling off of our dogs.

III. 
      A local official came to our office to ask our help with a city event. He had a splendid 
     idea, he said. To kick off the event and show everyone in town that our tribe was still 
     around, we should go up to the bluff overlooking the city and make a big smoke 
     signal. Then they would know we were here. 
      Who ever heard of smoke signals in the forests? I imagined us upon the bluff, lighting 
     one of those firestarter bricks. We haven’t made fire since the Boy Scouts took over. 
     And how would the citizens know it was us? They’d probably call the fire department.

IV.
     As they ask, they think, yes, 
      I can see it in her face. High cheekbones 
      (whatever those are) and dark hair. 

      Here’s a thought: don’t we all have 
      high cheekbones? If we didn’t, 
      our faces would cave in. 
      (But I do have a colonized nose.) 

      I’m sick of explaining myself. 

      “You know,” I finally say, 
      “It doesn’t matter to my people.” 
      I ride off to my ranch-style home. 
      Time to weave a basket, or something.

--Dr. Karenne Wood (1960-2019), member of the Monacan Indian Nation, poet and anthropologist, from Markings on Earth, 2001

A Litany in Time of Plague

ADIEU, farewell, earth's bliss;
This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys;
Death proves them all but toys;
I am sick, I must die.
     Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade.
All things to end are made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick I must die
     Lord have mercy on us! 

Beauty is but a flower 
Which wrinkels will devour; 
Brightness falls from the air; 
Queens have died young and fair; 
Dust hath closed Helen's eye. 
I am sick, I must die. 
     Lord, have mercy on us.

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate, 
Earth still holds ope her gate. 
"Come, come!" the bells do cry. 
I am sick, I must die. 
     Lord, have mercy on us.

Haste, therefore, each degree,
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage;
Mount we unto the sky.
I am sick, I must die. 
     Lord, have mercy on us. 

--Thomas Nashe (1567-1601), English poet, playwright, and satirist

Follow

Let the river rock you like a cradle
Climb to the treetops, child, if you're able
Let your hands tie a knot across the table.
Come and touch the things you cannot feel.
And close your fingertips and fly where I can't hold you
Let the sun-rain fall and let the dewy clouds enfold you
And maybe you can sing to me the words I just told you,
If all the things you feel ain't what they seem.
And don't mind me 'cause I ain't nothin' but a dream.

The mocking bird sings each different song
Each song has wings - they won't stay long.
Do those who hear think he's doing wrong?
While the church bell tolls its one-note song
And the school bell is tinkling to the throng.
Come here where your ears cannot hear.
And close your eyes, child, and listen to what I'll tell you
Follow in the darkest night the sounds that may impel you
And the song that I am singing may disturb or serve to quellyou
If all the sounds you hear ain't what they seem,
Then don't mind me 'cause I ain't nothin' but a dream

The rising smell of fresh-cut grass
Smothered cities choke and yell with fuming gas
I hold some grapes up to the sun
And their flavour breaks upon my tongue.
With eager tongues we taste our strife
And fill our lungs with seas of life.
Come taste and smell the waters of our time.
And close your lips, child, so softly I might kiss you,
Let your flower perfume out and let the winds caress you.
As I walk through the garden, I am hoping I don't miss you
If all the things you taste ain't what they seem,
Then don't mind me 'cause I ain't nothin' but a dream.

The sun and moon both arise
And we'll see them soon through days and nights
But now silver leaves are mirrors, bring delights.
And the colours of your eyes are fiery bright,
While darkness blinds the skies with all its light.
Come see where your eyes cannot see.
And close your eyes, child, and look at what I'll show you;
Let your mind go reeling out and let the breezes blow you,
And maybe when we meet then suddenly I will know you.
If all the things you see ain't what they seem,
Then don't mind me 'cause I ain't nothin' but a dream.
And you can follow; And you can follow; follow...

--Jerry Merrick (?-2019), American singer-songwriter, famously covered by the late great Richie Havens on the 1967 album Mixed Bag

The First of May

Now the smallest creatures, who do not know they have names, 
In fields of pure sunshine open themselves and sing.
All over the marshes and in the wet meadows,
Wherever there is water, the companies of peepers
Who cannot count their numbers, gather with sweet shouting.
And the flowers of the woods who cannot see each other
Appear in perfect likeness of one another
Among the weak new shadows on the mossy places.

Now the smallest creatures, who know themselves by heart,
With all their tender might and roundness of delight
Spending their colors, their myriads and their voices
Praise the moist ground and every winking leaf,
And the new sun that smells of the new streams.

--Anne Porter (1911-2011), American Catholic poet, from Living Things: Collected Poems

Psalm 4 (NZPB version)

Answer me when I call, O God,
      for you are the God of justice.
   You set me free when I was hard-pressed:
      be gracious to me now and hear my prayers.

Men and women, 
      how long will you turn my glory to my shame?
   How long will you love what is worthless and run after lies?

Know that God has shown me such wonderful kindness:
   when I call out in prayer, God hears me.

Tremble, admit defeat, and sin no more.
   Look deep into your heart before you sleep and be still.

Bring your gifts, just as you are, and put your trust in God.
   Many are asking, Who can make us content?

The light of your countenance has gone from us, O God.
   Yet you have given my heart more gladness
      than those whose corn and wine and oil increase.

I lie down in peace and sleep comes at once,
   for in you alone, O God, do I dwell unafraid.

-- from Night Prayer, A New Zealand Prayer Book | He Karakia Mihinare o Aotearoa, p. 169

Sonnet XCVIII: From you have I been absent in the spring

From you have I been absent in the spring,

When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,

Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,

That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.

Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

Of different flowers in odour and in hue,

Could make me any summer’s story tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:

Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;

They were but sweet, but figures of delight

Drawn after you, – you pattern of all those.

    Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,

    As with your shadow I with these did play.

--William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Pre-eminent English playwright, poet, and actor

To see commentary on this sonnet, click here.

The Garden Is Rich

The garden is rich with diversity
With plants of a hundred families
In the space between the trees
With all the colours and fragrances.
Basil, mint and lavender,
Great Mystery keep my remembrance pure,
Raspberry, Apple, Rose,
Great Mystery fill my heart with love,
Dill, anise, tansy,
Holy winds blow in me.
Rhododendron, zinnia,
May my prayer be beautiful
May my remembrance O Great Mystery
Be as incense to thee
In the sacred grove of eternity
As I smell and remember
The ancient forests of earth.

--anonymous, from the Chinook Psalter, found at Xavier University's JesuitResource.org .


Image: Appletree Garden, Whidbey Island, WA Dec. 4, 2019.