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I haven't attended church since sometime in the 1990s. Sometimes I miss the singing. I grew up singing alto in the choir, as my mom was the choir director and pianist. I've been reading Walt Whitman poems, and poems by many of you, and Billy Collins, Denise Levertov, Mary Oliver and Emily Dickinson. It's time for praise. Poetry is praise, I think, or can be, even when it rages. There is something about the slowing of its condensation that makes my heart rise up and sweeten (like sap into syrup, maybe), both reading it and writing it. So I call this one "Hymn," remembering praise songs. The poem ends with a word that symbolizes many different meanings, probably at least billions. My three-word glossary is just a start. The picture above is from a bathroom stall at the Cass Café on Cass Avenue in Detroit, taken in 2006 when our Lesley was attending the College for Creative Studies. I wonder if you have ever taken a picture inside a bathroom stall?
Hymn
Praise the sky to the tree
And praise the tree to the ground
Praise the word on a leaf
And paraphrase some praise in song
Ride the curve of a question
streaming down the wing of a swan
Uncurl your tongue with a holler
Or fly on praise without sound
Exhale the body to praise the air
Burn brittle sticks of hate
Clean the room with incense
Sniff the glue of “Celebrate”
Blossom a path to the plum
And flower-fountain the moon
Waterfall your hair on rocks
Then tease it out like the sun
Shout in yellow and laugh out red
Amen the sinners, admonish the dead
Swing on the tire to praise the clock
Then hug the hammock and sleep full stop
Heat up your heart
And mercy your mind
Climb on the couch, bounce
your jiggles divine
Puff milkweed pouts and explode the pod
Shake your bones till they’re humble
Fill that space with God!
March 2012
Glossary:
God = Love.Light.Life
Poetry should be heard.
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