Thursday, December 19, 2019

III. The Heart in Anguish



III. The Heart in Anguish

Here in my heart
Is a tiny prayer
That the world would
Grow in kindness and love,
That the pain of a million
Voices would cease,
And laughter run wild
Over all the world.

I closed my mind and heart
Because I could not bear
To hear the tears
Or feel the pain around me.
I lived in a void
For many years,
But nothing changed.
The world remained the same,
Even when I was not.

I lived in the safe world
Of grocery stores and J.C. Penney,
Counting my money,
And learning how to spend it.
I bore my child
And adored my loving husband.
They became for me
My fixtures, my sanity,
The sum total of my life.
But life does not end
With safety and happiness,
For while you are safe,
Others are in danger.
While you are happy,
Others suffer.
And it is not right,
No, it is not right
To shut the door behind you.

A heart in anguish
Is a heart which feels
The pain of a million suffering people
And knows that death is near.
A heart in anguish
Touches the open wound,
Binds the broken limb,
Tastes the salty tears,
And does it lovingly,
Reverently, without fear.
The heart in anguish knows life
And death and suffering,
But lives ultimately, and dies happy.

Dawn Pisturino
1985
Copyright 1985-2019 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

Tuesday, November 26, 2019

II. A Soul in Anguish



II. A Soul in Anguish

A soul apart from God
Is a soul in anguish,
Lost in the wilderness,
Out of touch with its own creator.
Like a child without its mother,
It cannot function on its own.
Creator and created: they are one,
Inseparable, indivisable;
And when one is lost,
All is lost.

I need my Lord, my God,
Every day of my life
To give me courage and strength;
To fight the invisible
Battle of life
And resign myself to death;
He IS Life
And he IS death:
I do not agree
With all he is or does,
But he is all, everything, there is.
I cannot argue
With his greatness
Or doubt his power and strength;
He may be wrong or right,
But he is,
And I cannot close my eyes to that.
The tall mountain rises into the sky
And I see his majesty before me;
The tiny flower in the grass,
And it is his tenderness;
Man may have proven to be
HIS GREAT MISTAKE,
But all else, at least, is perfect,
Fits into a logical order,
And intertwines beautifully
With each other.
Man stands on the outside of the puzzle
Seeking answers, seeking answers,
And making the picture more complicated.

God is good and he is bad,
He kills his enemies and makes
Innocent people to suffer;
He draws the darkness of night
Around the big, wide world,
And causes the sunshine to fall.

And I will fight him as I love him,
And I will fight for what is right,
Unto the death,
       As he would.

Dawn Pisturino
1985
Copyright 1985-2019 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

Tuesday, November 12, 2019

I. A World in Anguish





A World in Anguish

A world in anguish
Is a world at war,
Suffering the throes of poverty,
Living in fear,
Desperate for freedom
From unfeeling despots;
One man kills another
And crowds cheer for more:
A bloody holocaust screams
The victory cry.
Women weep for children
Dying in the womb,
And fathers beat
Their screaming brats in rage,
Placating the demon-gods.
The dark-faced villain
In the streets
Pushes his deadly wares
To the wayward and unsuspecting,
Supplies the knowing,
And murders the human spirit.
The Godly are intimidated
By the unholy-ungodly
And cry out in vain for vengeance.
God does not hear
Or does not want to.
"Let them fight their own battles,"
He must say; and looks down
In amusement at the skirmish of ants
Crawling in the streets.
It is not a funny sight, no,
But a sorry commentary
On the uselessness of the human species.
God Himself must weep
At the awful destruction wrought
By pitiful creatures.
It is not worth his powerful strength
To save them or his loving heart
To love them or his abounding mercy
To forgive them.
Let those who will survive, survive.
Death to the others.
The battle is just begun.

Dawn Pisturino
September 20, 1985
Copyright 1985-2019 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.


Wednesday, October 30, 2019

In a Breton Cemetery



Photo by Sir Simon Marsden




In a Breton Cemetery


They sleep well here,
These fisher-folk who passed their anxious days
In fierce Atlantic ways;
And found not there,
Beneath the long curled wave,
So quiet a grave.

And they sleep well,
These peasant-folk, who told their lives away,
From day to market-day,
As one should tell,
With patient industry,
Some sad old rosary.

And now night falls,
Me, tempest-tost, and driven from pillar to post,
A poor worn ghost,
This quiet pasture calls;
And dear dead people with pale hands
Beckon me to their lands.

Ernest Christopher Dowson

1899

Happy Halloween!


Thursday, July 4, 2019

The Knight's Toast


 


The Knight's Toast

Break out the ale and toast our victory.
Now that we've written another page in history,
Let us dance and make merry. Let it ring through the streets!
Come on, come on, wench, and bring out the eats!
We'll drink and laugh and shed our tears
For the poor brave warriors who died so near;
And when crows the cock and the morning bells ring,
'T is music to the ear to hear those bells sing.
Hark! The trumpets of battle beckon again
       to dangerous battle -- and maybe to die.
All ye pretty maidens, do not cry:
This is the life we choose to lead;
For adventure, and Sweet Love, and to do a Good Deed.

Stephen Pisturino
Edited by Dawn Pisturino
May 1986

Won HONOURABLE MENTION in the "Hurray for the Fourth" poetry contest sponsored by World of Poetry, July 1986.

Copyright 1986-2019. Stephen Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.


Monday, June 3, 2019

A Season in Hell - Arthur Rimbaud




A Season in Hell (1873)

A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all the hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.

One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap. -- And I found her galling. -- And I roughed her up.

I armed myself against justice.

I ran away, O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure's been turned over to you!

I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.

I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.

And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.

So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.

Charity is the key. -- This inspiration proves I was dreaming!

"You'll always be a hyena, etc. . . .," yells the devil, who'd crowned me with such pretty poppies. "Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!"

Ah! I've been through too much: - But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned.

Arthur Rimbaud
Translated from the French by Bertrand Mathieu

BIO:  Jean-Nicolas-Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) lived a short but brilliant life. Most of his poetry was composed between 1870 and 1875. Always short of money, he worked as a tradesman outside of France, on the African continent. He died of cancer on November 10, 1891. His long-time friend, the poet Paul Verlaine, published his complete body of poetical works in 1895.

Monday, May 13, 2019

Italian Renaissance Poetry





I Go Weeping for My Time Past

I go weeping for my time past,
that I spent in loving something mortal,
without lifting myself in flight, for I had wings
that might have freed me for spaces not so low.
You who see my shameful and impious sins,
King of Heaven, invisible, immortal,
help this frail and straying soul,
and mend its defects through your grace:
So that, if I have lived in war and tempest,
I may die in peaceful harbour: and if my stay
was vain, let my vanishing, at least, be virtuous.
Deign that your hand might rest on that little life
that is left to me, and on my death:
You truly know I have no other hope.

Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)
Translated by A.S. Kline

O My Own Italy! - Canzone XVI

O my own Italy! though words are vain
The mortal wounds to close,
Unnumber'd, that thy beauteous bosom stain,
Yet may it soothe my pain
To sigh forth Tyber's woes,
And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's sadden'd shore
Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour.

Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying love
That could thy Godhead move
To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth,
Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye:
See, God of Charity!
From what light cause this cruel war has birth;
And the hard hearts by savage discord steel'd,
Thou, Father! from on high,
Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield!

Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confide
Of this fair land the reins,--
(This land for which no pity wrings your breast)--
Why does the stranger's sword her plains invest?
That her green fields be dyed,
Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins?

Beguiled by error weak,
Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast,
Who love, or faith, in  venal bosoms seek:
When throng'd your standards most,
Ye are encompass'd most by hostile bands.
O hideous deluge gather'd in strange lands,
That rushing down amain
O'erwhelms our every native lovely plain!

Alas! if our hands
Have thus our weal betray'd, who shall our cause sustain?
Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state,
rear her rude Alpine heights,
A lofty rampart against German hate;
But blind ambition, seeking his own ill,
With ever restless will,
To the pure gales contagion foul invites:
Within the same strait fold
The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng,
Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong:
And these,--oh, shame avow'd!--
Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold:
Fame tells how Marius' sword
Erewhile their bosoms gored,--
Nor has Time's hand aught blurr'd the record proud!

When they who, thirsting, stoop'd to quaff the flood,
With the cool waters mix'd, drank of a comrade's blood!
Great Caesar's name I pass, who o'er our plains
Pour'd forth the ensanguin'd tide,
Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins;
But now--nor know I what ill stars preside--
Heaven holds this land in hate!
To you the thanks!--whose hands control her helm!--
You, whose rash feuds despoil
Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm!

Are ye impell'd by judgment, crime, or fate,
To oppress the desolate?
From broken fortunes, and from humble toil,
The hard-earn'd dole to wring,
While from afar ye bring
Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire?
In truth's great cause I sing.

Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire.
Nor mark ye yet, confirm'd by proof on proof,
Bavaria's perfidy,
Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof?
(Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honour's eye!)
While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour
Your inmost bosom's gore!--
Yet give one hour to thought,
And ye shall own, how little he can hold
Another's glory dear, who sets his own at nought
O Latin blood of old!

Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame,
Nor bow before a name
Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce!
For if barbarians rude
Have higher minds subdued,
Ours! ours the crime!--not such wise Nature's course.

Ah! is not this the soil my foot first press'd?
And here, in cradled rest,
Was I not softly hush'd?--here fondly rear'd?
Ah! is not this my country?-- so endear'd
By every filial tie!
In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie!

Oh! by this tender thought,
Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought,
Look on the people's grief!
Who, after God, of you expect relief;
And if ye but relent,
Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might,
Against blind fury bent,
Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight;
For no,--the ancient flame
Is not extinguish'd yet, that raised the Italian name!

Mark, sovereign Lords! how Time, with pinion strong,
Swift hurries life along!
E'en now, behold! Death presses on the rear.
We sojourn here a day--the next, are gone!
the soul disrobed--alone,
Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear.
Oh! at the dreaded bourne,
Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn,
(Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!)
And ye, whose cruelty
Has sought another's harm, by fairer deed
Of heart or hand, or intellect, aspire
To win the honest meed
Of just renown--the noble mind's desire!

Thus sweet on earth the stay!
Thus to the spirit pure, unbarr'd is Heaven's way!
My song! with courtesy, and numbers sooth,
Thy daring reasons grace,
For thou the mighty, in their pride of place,
Must woo to gentle ruth,
Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse,
Ever to truth averse!
Thee better fortunes wait,
Among the virtuous few--the truly great!
Tell them--but who shall bid my terrors cease?
Peace! Peace! on thee I call! return, O heaven-born Peace!

Dacre.

See Time, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing!
See Life, how swift it runs the race of years,
And on its weary shoulders death appears!
Now all is life and all is spring:
Think on the winter and the darker day
When the soul, naked and alone,
Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown,
Yet ever beaten way.

And through this fatal vale
Would you be wafted with some gentle gale?
Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain,
Clouds that involve our life's serene,
And storms that ruffle all the scene;
Your precious hours, misspent in others' pain,
On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow;
Whether with hands or wit you raise
Some monument of peaceful praise,
Some happy labour of fair love:
'Tis all of heaven that you can find below,
And opens into all above.

Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

BIO:  Petrarch was born July 20, 1304 and died July 19, 1374. An Italian scholar and poet, he has been called the founder (or Father) of humanism because he contributed greatly to the beginnings of the Italian Renaissance when he recovered Cicero's letters. Petrarch developed a form of poetry -- the sonnet -- which became popularized all across Europe. His sonnets became the model for lyrical poetry. He originated the concept of the "Dark Ages" of the medieval period because he felt that classical thoughts and ideas had somehow been lost. Although he studied to be a lawyer, his real passion lay with Latin literature and writing. He befriended the famous Italian poet Giovanni Boccaccio.  On Easter Sunday, April 8, 1341, Petrarch was crowned Poet Laureate. His fame inspired others to pursue an interest in classical literature. He strongly influenced poets such as Chaucer and Percy Bysshe Shelley.  His most favorite theme was unrequited love.



Tuesday, April 9, 2019

If I Were God





If I Were God

If I were God and I could see
The world in its entirety,
I would not hesitate to look
Upon the world that was forsook:
Forsook by humankind itself,
Forlorn and lost upon the shelf;
A bleeding planet left to mend
All by itself, without a hand
Or gentle word to make it well:
A bubbling, boiling mass of Hell.

And if I looked and I could see
The world in its entirety,
What form of madness would there dwell
To make my heart with anger swell?
I would not really want to feel
The broken heart, the wounded heel.
I would not care at all to know
The drunken stupor felt below.
But I am GOD and I MUST try
To feel their pain and hear them cry.

Dawn Pisturino
April 3, 1986

Humorous Short

Sorrows come and sorrows go,
Pleasures last a day;
I know not why He made it so:
I wish it were the other way!

Dawn Pisturino
May 3, 1986

A Prayer

Everything men touch turns to ugliness:
Love turns to lust;
Disagreement turns to war;
Order turns to chaos.

I want a peaceful man with love in his eyes,
Tenderness in his heart,
And beauty in his soul.

A man whose strength comes from moral strength,
Whose words bespeak clear honesty,
And whose passions are tempered by courtesy and respect.

The animal belongs in the jungle
To hunt and lust with the other beasts.
I do not want him in my bedroom
Or in my life.

God did not make us to evolve downward:
He gave us minds to use wisely,
Hearts to feel strongly,
And souls to live in His circle of light.

The mother with child learns instantly
What beauty is,
For she sees God in her child's face,
Her child's life, her child's destiny,
And she seeks only to make this world
A calmer place, a better place,
A more loving place, a saner place.

If men would be so fortunate,
They would die
Rather than live the life
Of the beast any longer.

O God, if You hear me,
Rescue us from our darker selves,
Unite us with Your brighter light,
And love us, only love us.

Dawn Pisturino
October 16, 1985

Copyright 1985-2019 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.