Posted on | January 14, 2013 | 2 Comments
Sometimes we don’t know where certain messages come from as we muse, fingering some words to give our intuitions substance. I think this poem comes from the haunting reverberations of the Newtown massacre, but also the dim sense that the nation may have been shocked a little out of its worship of the Great God Gun. While a Congress corrupted by the armaments lobby may yet disappoint us, the voices are still there, calling us to a new birth. So I share it with you, somewhat raw, somewhat incomplete perhaps.
Tomorrow we leave for seven weeks in the Western Cape of South Africa and the central deserts of Namibia. I’ll try to report on some observations and reflections while we are there, but my postings may not be as frequent. On the other hand, this country that we love, with so many contrasts and mirrors to our own, may provoke me to more thoughts. Stay tuned.
Here is the poem, whose tentative title reminds us of an arrogance that led to disaster a century ago.
In the catastrophe
they only knew of evenings
full of entertainment
of food and guns
breaking out of nowhere
to be born