Thirsting

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In my "real life" I get some amazing opportunities to be creative with words, which is one of my favorite things to do. This is a poem written for my new church community's first spoken word poetry event, held in the basement on a Friday night. (I'm not sure the last time that church has been rocking at 10:00 pm; we're shaking things up!)

The room was filled with people of all ages, races, places, and experiences. During the open mic, poetry came from pastors, students, strangers -- one woman came up in a walker to present her poem. It was a truly beautiful thing.

But what drew people to that place was the dream-child of my pastor and friend, Jeff - a poet's interpretation of the Seven Last Words of Christ. Each poet took one of those last sayings, and soaked in it, until a new thing rose out of it.

I felt lucky and phony all at the same time when I was asked to contribute a poem. (Which, incidentally, is one of my 31 Things...) I'm not really a poet, I like to say. I'm a writer who happens to sometimes choose poetry. 

But the real reason I can't quite claim "poet" is because it is a terrifying thing to be, to do. Poetry (specifically spoken word poetry) thrives in vulnerability; it rises to life when it's given hot air and moving lips. The best poetry comes from honest and humble and heartbreaking places. Even humor is actually rooted in this vulnerable truth.

When I write for my blog or for my work, I'm able to pad the hard truths or little bits of shame with softer words or humor. I'm allowed, even expected, to make the difficult things easier to swallow, for myself and others.

Poetry is pads off, increasing the risk of pain and injury and bruising.

So yeah, I try to stay away from poetry, and I often succeed. Then something like this poem happens, and I realize that it's been forming itself in me even without my intent. To be honest, this is my darkest poem to date. Maybe one of the darkest things I've written because the visual pieces came first and the words followed. And the process of writing it was excruciating, sometimes leaving me shaking and without sleep.

I hope you find some of your own truth in its words, and as always, I hope you'll share those thoughts with me. Because this poem is its own creation, I just gave it some words to ride...

Later, knowing that everything had now been finished...Jesus said, “I am thirsty." A jar of wine vinegar was there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put the sponge on a stalk of the hyssop plant, and lifted it to Jesus’ lips. (John 19:28-29)

I have been hung dry
Wrung out by sweat-soaked parade palms

I am cracked canvas of creation
Raped of resource, of consequence, of circumstance

I am but a memory of ancient waterways
I float, flakes of white ash in the wind
Burned up, burnt out
Blazing remains of apathy

ignorance

arrogance

Fleeting fancies of fire bugs

I am the long black train crossing heroin tracks
I am the twisted spine riding sweatshop backs
I am thirsty

I am the empty shell of man-hurled mortar rounds
I am the piercing smell of mass grave undergrounds
I am thirsty

I am the spaces within skin-lined sidewalks
Flash bulb imprint on a black and white portrait
Low hanging fruit of a Polish prisoner camp
A face forgotten

I am the sun-soaked pavement under whittled down stiletto heels
Stuck to a concrete corner
Lap dancing for dogs

I am the dehydrated souls of children sold across borders
Stolen childhoods, hung to wither in back pages of magazines

I am dry
I am deeply dry

Desperate for a day of harvest, for a reaping of the vineyard
I thirst for the wine of foot-crushed grapes
For the stain on a new community
Forged not in blood but in Living Water

I am the Living Water
And I am so thirsty