A Thing Worth Feeling

3 short poems on power - of poetry, of experience, of a voice

“I wasn’t aware that words could hold so much”
Where the Crawdads Sing—Delia Owens

Photo by Joshua Kettle on Unsplash

A Thing Worth Feeling

Every poet knows
the only measure of a poem
is if you feel something —
something worth feeling.

All the rest —
Rhythm, rhyme, meter —
Incidental flotsam.
Detritus shuffling by
On a slow-flowing creek.

Bobbing like yellow-red jonamacs
In Cracker-Barrel-Fair contests
On apple-cider-crisp autumn nights.

Like the cotton-candy memories
Of halcyon days.

At the urging of my wife, I recently listened to “Where the Crawdads Sing” — the New-York-Times Bestselling tale of a girl growing up alone in the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

I started slow, listening to maybe a chapter over the first several days. But then I got hooked, listening to almost the entire recording in a single day. In th novel, there is a lot of discussion about poetry. With the central character, the “Marsh Girl” Kya frequently referring to her favorite poet, a local woman named Amanda Hamilton, who write verses on nature and love.

Early in their story, her once and future soulmate, Tate, who teaches her to read and introduces her to the worlds of biology and zoology, also introduces her to poetry, saying what is special about poetry is that it makes you feel something.

And from that seed, was this poem born.

I recently came across the writing of a writer who made some big waves her on Substack and stirred the pot in a major way with a post that suggested that we could find ourselves starving here in the United States in a few months due in large part to the ever-worsening situation in Iran.

Much like me, he refers to himself using the term “mystic,” using strange visions and divine revelations as evidence of his election, his annointed-ness. It reminded me of the magical and profound experiences, bouts of uncontrollable crying, full-body tingling and the like that I encountered more frequently at the beginning of my journey, and how that has largely faded.

And I realized this is not a bad thing, and it’s not exactly a good thing either.

It Simply is.

And from that thought arose the following poem.

APPETIZERS

Mystical experiences,
however pleasant and thrilling they may be in the moment
Are not the goal.

They are fleeting, like existence itself.

Appetizers.

Anticipatory omens.
Harbingers of the nourishment to come.
Tantalizing, tempting,
Whetting the tongue
For the fullness of the main course.

When that dish appears
Sense fulfillment falls away
And true focus arrives —
As the archer raises the bow
And carefully take aim
At the heart.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

Tap, Tap
On your knees, staring into the inky black of the
bottomless ravine, a cold gun jammed hard into
the back of your head, is not the
time to
begin
your
protest.

This poem was inspired by a story of the Zen Master Ryokan. The great monk had been falsely accused of a crime. The people of the town he was visiting were convinced he had stolen something valuable from them, and so enraged, threw him in a pit intending to bury him alive. He remains perfectly silent. Not protesting. Not saying a word of his innocence.

Just then, a man comes by who recognized him. He says, urgently: “What are you doing? This is the great master Ryoken, who survives by begging, relying on the generosity of others.”

Once Ryoko is freed, his friend asks: “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Nothing I could have said could have changed anything. The people were convinced. I wasn’t going to change that. There is nothing better than saying nothing.”

While there is truth to these words, the larger truth is that it is a matter of timing. It is clear that there is a time for silence. But there is also a time to speak. That’s what this poem is about. Not to wait — to speak, to act, to protest injustice. Not to wait until the time for speaking is over, and only a time for silence remains.

Before they built the gas chambers, THIS was the picture of the Nazi’s cruel efficiency. A line of women, stripped naked, marched to the edge of a ravine. One shot. One kill. Lifeless bodies sent tumbling down into the abyss.

But they were doomed long before that fateful moment. They were doomed the moment people started to believed the LIE. Doomed the moment people started searching for scapegoats. Doomed the moment good people decided the best thing was to remain silent.

Once you start that long march, you’re already dead.

The call has sounded.

Are you lining up?

I know that last poem was heavy. I couldn’t bear to end that way. So in closing I leave you with a more hopeful, hopefully more inspiring thought.

The core characteristic of human beings is that we have free will. That we are not beholden to our animal impulses and that no matter what has happened to us, no matter how we have been conditioned, no matter what anyone else says or does, we have the choice to be whoever and whatever we want to be. As long as we have awareness that there IS a choice we have that choice. that is what sets us apart. That is what makes us akin to God.

People argue vehemently against this. They say that we have no power. That free will is an illusion. That we have no agency. That “free will,” along with concepts like “God” and “Spirit,” is a construct of a mind that cannot accept the cold truth that forces beyond our grasp push us hither and thither, like trees swaying in the breeze.

But I have taken that path, and I know where that way leads. It is a trap. A swirling eddy of philosophical inquiries that have no answers, that only serves to keep us stuck, fearful, doomed as a prisoner bound by chains of our own construction.

If free will is a myth, then I will believe that myth.

I still have a choice.

YOU still have that choice.

Will you recognize it?

Who WILL you BE?

Photo by James Qualtrough 🇮🇲 on Unsplash

Sending Love and Light,

Aaron

Namaste

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Want my collection of mystical poetry? It’s only $3! Get it here!

If this resonated with your inner being, if it soothed your soul, I’ve love you to let me know in the comments!

And don’t forget to tap the little heart button to show your appreciation and love. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but that tiny gesture signals to Substack that something is worthwhile reading and deserves to be spread! Plus, it keeps the fire in my heart burning!

Sharing is also a great way to show you care!

Every resentment is another turn deeper into the labyrinth.

Forgiveness is the string that leads you out.

Like this? As Rumi said, there is no “up-to-the-neck” in Love. Immerse yourself fully in this deepening blue.

A note in closing:

Everything that I publish here on Substack is completely free for all to read and share - for the simple reason that I don’t want the pressure of having to churn out content to meet outside expectations. Only to share what I am called to from my heart.

If you’re wondering why I have cut my schedule to once a week, it’s simply because I know you are already inundated with demands on your time, and I don’t want to add more.

If you resonate with that idea and wish to support me in this journey, without expectation, I would be more than grateful.

You can read more about my philosophy and find other ways to support me in the following post.

Peace and blessings,

Aaron