I listened to James Carse this morning on the Net give a lecture.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-962221125884493114. James P. Carse is a retired NYU professor who wrote a profound book you can read in about 3 hours called,
Finite And Infinite Games. Against the war, as well as one who says our country is on the wane unless the ones in power stop playing finite games and begin to play infinite ones instead, Carse was asked by someone in his audience what this country could do to fix this insistance for the finite rather than the infinite. He suggested that we need poets because it is the poets of all times and all cultures, from Thomas Jefferson to Plato to even bin Laden, who inspire change far more than war ever could.
So, Professor Carse inspired me to write the following poem as a woman of lifelong poverty and for many of whom I know and admire for their courage, hard work, and integrity even though we are considered "waste people". I cannot tell you how much I love their caustic, wise and often hilarious views of the people in power who parade back and forth across our lives, our teevee screens and even tramp through our souls while pretending they "care" so much. Because I love these "waste people" value them, I mourn the fact that our society even sees us as that, but know the truth is they do, even though these attitudes actually imperil us all:
impecunious: im·pe·cu·ni·ous /ˌɪmpɪˈkyuniəs/ (im-pi-kyoo-nee-uhs)
having little or no money; penniless; poor.
Impecunious
I raise my fist marveling
At the rotting light of my country
My rage lying like a kundalini snake
At the base of the spine
Ready to strike suddenly
Upwards into my soul
Wondering why it is
That a penniless woman who
Picks up her baby
In the middle of the night
Is considered nothing,
When some woman once
Picked us all up, crooning
And drying our
Confused and agonized
Baby tears
And no one asks why it is that the poor
Who make others rich are “waste people”
Whose only crime is … because
They struggle for nothing tangible?
Yet the rich only have tangible nothings,
Merely airborne words
Flying through the Ethernet
And far more valued than any
Of God’s children, when truly
The only value is whatever they give it …
Like their diamonds, in reality nothing
But a shiny stone, not so rare
Not that precious, also hoarded by few
Full of the ambitious intent to
Hoard even more while right
Under avaricious and clouded eyes
Children they refuse to claim toil for them
Whose fathers endlessly detonate one another
While another woman lying in
The bloody mud
Rises in the middle of her troubled sleep
To pick up her wailing infant
Feeling that kundalini snake’s rattle
Hissing and rising up, ready to strike
May 4th 2008, Catherine Sullivan
Love
Cat In Seattle