Poiema

I have been thinking about this idea of poíēma (ποίηµα) for a few years. It’s one of my favorite Koine Greek words, meaning a work, something that has been made, crafted, fashioned. It appears in the New Testament twice, first referring to all of creation: “God’s eternal power and divine nature have been clearly observed in what God has made;” and also referring to humankind: “We are God’s masterpiece.” If you hadn’t guessed already, it’s the word from which we get our word poem.

My husband got me this Etsy bracelet, and if I ever get a tattoo, this is what I want stamped on my skin forever, as a reminder to myself about myself, other people, and everything around me: ποίηµα.

“So every day

I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth 
of the ideas of God,

one of which was you.” 
― Mary Oliver

Yesterday I followed my nephew, with his wife and five-month-old daughter watching, as he ran the Boston Marathon. I tracked his bib number online, and I watched the livefeed of the elite runners, those men and women who ran 26.2 miles in just over two hours. Nate finished in 2:47:51, which amazes me. I'm so proud. poíēma

My heart was in Boston already, for many reasons.

Others have written beautiful words, like here and here, about yesterday’s marathon, about Boston, about the explosions and the human spirit. The glimpses of poíēma in spite of awful circumstances.

I think of Anne Lamott’s three prayers: Help, Thanks, Wow. I’d tuned in at 3:00 to find out about the Pulitzer Prize announcements but instead I saw the first few tweets about the explosions in Boston. Minutes passed and more tweets picked up the news, links posted, pictures, stories. I tried to get in touch with Nate’s wife. More minutes passed; friends who’d read my posts about him running checked in with me: “Have you heard from him yet?” HELP

My brother talked to Nate’s wife, they were fine. THANKS

And yet, HELP.

And yet, WOW. There were helpers, there was mercy. There is still help needed, still mercy needed.

ποίηµα poíēma

It is a constant struggle to keep my heart open. Some days easier than others. Yesterday, I wanted to be angry, yes, at the person who set explosives at the finish line. But even more at people who would conjecture, who would joke, who would cast blame, who would from their own pain and fear lash out unjustly.

Yesterday felt personal. Even if I hadn’t had a family member in the race. I’m a runner. I’ve been in a marathon and I know what the finish line is supposed to feel like. A celebration of life, of commitment, of family and community. For someone to intentionally ruin that… I have no words.

Yesterday felt personal. I’ve spent lots of time in Boston, most recently at a big writing conference (AWP). From the convention center one month ago, I watched people throng a snowy and beautiful Boylston Street, and I myself trudged across Boylston to a restaurant. Before that, I attended five 10-day residencies in Cambridge and fell in love with the neighborhoods of Boston. Watching the marathon made me feel nostalgic for one of my favorite cities. To have that city and that street that holds recent memories marred makes me sorrowful.

It makes me wonder whether the person or persons who inflicted this pain are actually poíēma. How could they possibly? Why would someone? Why? It is ugly and hateful and evil. Not poíēma, not ποίηµα.

Nine months ago, my husband’s cousin was killed defending his girlfriend in the Aurora theater shootings. For that tragedy we have a face, a guilty party, to throw our grief and anger upon. But somehow back then, I forced myself to see his hurt, to imagine what went wrong, went wrong, in his life to glaze him over. He is a marred poem; someone or something evil redacted what was supposed to be, creating evil instead of poíēma.

When the pain gets personal, it turns my thoughts and prayers to the people around the world who face the possibility of violence like this every day. It shouldn’t be like this. Yesterday shocks us because we aren’t inured to the danger and the risk of violence. Some are. It shouldn’t be.

HELP.

I want to close my heart off sometimes, to rail in anger against the people who offend me and the ones I love. Against people whose words are small and beliefs tear apart rather than heal. Against those who hurt through ignorance and pride. Against those who would set out with intent to kill.

It is a bitter fight not to be marred or to mar.

To remain a poíēma. To see the poíēma in everyone. To grieve lost poíēma. To keep my heart open and my mouth quiet. To keep looking. 

Keep looking.

slow down fast train

Writing a first draft is a lot like an act of prayer. You're stuffing your conscious self behind a wall of surrender and then waiting, hoping, for the spirit to give rise to the truth that is beyond conjuring or controlling. You're constantly battling distractions the conscious mind wants to assert: "Do this. No, don't do that. That's a dumb idea. This'll never work. Don't you need to feed the cats?"

In prayer, as in writing, you have to guard against the conscious self, catch it off-balance with a change of scenery, stretch it out with physical exercise.

Sometimes you have to cry, make it feel bad so it'll go sit in the corner for a while and let the subconscious, the Imagination, out to play. I know cause I spent 3 hours yesterday with my notebook in my lap, wordless.

Brenda Ueland said it well in her book If You Want to Write:

You have the creative impulse.  

But the ardor for it is inhibited and dried up by many things; as I said, by criticism, self-doubt, duty, nervous fear which expresses itself in merely external action like running up and downstairs and scratching items off lists and thinking you are being efficient; by anxiety about making a living, by fear of not excelling.  

Now this creative power I think is the Holy Ghost. My theology may not be very accurate but that is how I think of it. I know that William Blake called this creative power the Imagination and he said it was God. ...  

Now Blake thought that this creative power should be kept alive in all people for all of their lives. And so do I. Why? Because it is life itself. It is the Spirit. In fact it is the only important thing about us. The rest of us is legs and stomach, materialistic cravings and fears. How do we keep it alive? By using it, by letting it out, by giving some time to it.

Quoting W.B. again, she later said,

"Reason, or All we have known, is not the same it shall be when we know More." And how will we know more? Only through the Imagination which comes from God, and from which the prophets and all great people have spoken.

I can't think or reason my way toward a good story, or well-drawn characters. When I write what I think would make a good story, then put the pen down and read, there's no life in it.

When I wait, when I give my imagination time to come out and play, when after 3 hours I finally cry the self-conscious conscious self away, that's when the authentic story shows itself to me. It still takes work--no golden-egged goose here--but I'm learning that in the work is waiting, praying, writing, and playing.

Quotes from pages 10 and 170, respectively, in the 1987 Graywolf Press edition. 

Door-to-Door

The doorbell rings and I freak out because it's 10am and I'm still in my pajamas, sleep crusties in my eyes (I'm sure), and hair all askew. I know this sounds horribly antisocial of me, but I don't usually answer the doorbell when it rings. This time, though, I assume it's a friend I'm half expecting to come pick up something. But he was supposed to text me first. I run around the house, getting the envelope I'm supposed to give him, checking the mirror again to be sure I don't look like a troll, and peek the door open.

There stands a woman, wearing a floral skirt and fuchsia blazer, pleasantly perfumed, apologetic for intruding. "Hi, I know you weren't expecting us," she begins with a light Latina accent--and she's the only person I can see. And while I stand there with the door open ten inches and blocking it with my legs so none of the cats run out, she presents me with a glossy bi-folded pamphlet describing that Jesus takes away the sins of the world and if I visit her church on the anniversary of his death, April 17, after sundown, they will answer why, for whom, and what it means for me, and she invites me to visit, finishing with "we don't take any collections, ever."

As I have listened to her voice and watched her hold the pamphlet open and point to the date and address, I know I won't remember exactly what she's saying, but I have a strange affection for her. I study her calf-length a-line skirt and her light brown hair and big brown eyes, her short unpolished fingernails, and I think she could have a couple kids nearing middle school, probably would make a good mom. I know she is doing her duty as a church member, and yet I sense that she wants to make this strange and intimate visit as painless as possible for her hostess. When she hands me the pamphlet and wishes me a good day, I smile and reply likewise, hoping she catches my sincerity.

I probably won't be showing up at her church, but she keeps returning to my thoughts. The idea occurs to me that I wish I could get to know her a little better--maybe I could have even invited her in for tea or coffee. As long as she could spend a few more minutes before knocking on the next door.