You know how it is… one thing leads to another… and then you wind up with something that at least resembles a poem. Actually, poetry can take almost any shape, any form. Sometimes I see as poetry a photograph that I’ve managed to get… or I see a photograph that someone else has captured that is sublime poetry; or it may be, depending on the subject, poetry that horrifies. This writing is going on longer than usual, but if you’ve read this far, perhaps you will indulge me. One of the photographs in the POWER exhibition at MOPA horrified me (Edmund Clark’s photograph Shackles at Guantanamo Bay Detention Facility), left me almost overcome with a residual sadness that intensified toward evening yesterday. I had volunteered to stay overnight at the Methodist Church where for two weeks a dozen people who are at least temporarily homeless are being offered shelter from five in the evening until seven in the morning. The program is sponsored and managed by San Diego Catholic Charities, with help from San Diego churches and synagogues. Margie L. and I were the two people on duty to put out supper, sleep overnight in the shelter area, and put out breakfast before the folks left at seven this morning. Those we hosted were mostly people with jobs who have for reasons that we did not know and didn’t ask about who had fallen on hard times. They spend two weeks in a “shelter” and then are moved to another place of shelter for another two weeks. In our group were four women, one teenage girl, and seven men. I’ve done this duty every year for at least one night and never fail to come away with a tremendous awareness of my own good fortune. This time, I didn’t take pictures… couldn’t intrude; but as I was having coffee with a friend later in the morning, I saw a woman moving along the street I guessed with whatever possessions she could carry with her after having to leave wherever it was that she had as shelter last night. I aimed my camera and got the photo du jour.
The poem spilled out later.
Homeless in the Land of Plenty
The eighth grader and her father
who has lost most of his teeth
are homeless in the land of plenty
and perhaps haven’t heard that this
is the land of the free and home of
brave dentists and good morning
America and a majority of well-paid
fat and sassy members of congress
who get their teeth fixed for free.
Anybody who has read the Bible knows
If you ain’t rich here, it’s your own fault
for not managing to get God on your side.
It’s as simple as praise the Lord and pass
the ammunition and keep your gun loaded
and at the ready to stand your ground
in case some kid on his way from school
especially if he is the color of chocolate
can’t explain why he’s in your neighborhood.
Jesus said you can get anything you want
if you ask for it right. Poverty is a disease.
If you’ve got that sickness it’s your fault.
If you can’t make it here, you can’t make it.
If you don’t believe me ask any rich man
who pulled himself up by his bootstraps
or whatever he had to pull on or suck on.
Here the means justify the end or anyway
you pays your money and takes your choice.
If you don’t have the stomach for politics
you’d probably just as well forget about it...
there probably ain’t no way for you to get rich.
——
Oh, by the way, My good friend Roz send me the following UTube video. It’s the perfect metaphor for what I’m talking about here. Watch it…if you dare.
No comments:
Post a Comment