NaPoWriMo #1
Holy crap I haven't been on here in forever. I need a new avatar.
This poem is for Dr. Darryl "Babe" Wilson who spoke for my film study class tonight. He is a Native American elder, a member of the California Indian Storytelling Association, and he had a stroke recently. His hearing, sight, and control of his left arm are fading since the stroke, but his mind is a sharp and beautiful thing. His spirit is not broken, and never was even when he believed the will of his people had been, and he touched me deeply tonight.
Dr. Babe also has a blog at www.haydutsila.com
The Best Laid Hands...
(for Dr. Darryl "Babe" Wilson,
a native american elder who spoke
to my class tonight.)
It sits across the chair's arm,
a worn band of skin
with withered bone beneath.
It's owner jokes about
the stroke
and how this hand now
takes rough shapes
and rougher shakes
when he doesn't hold it.
His right hand
is George,
steady and true,
hopeful to a fault
as the hands of such
a wise man
should be.
His left hand
is Lennie,
brutish, squirming,
hopeful
beyond restraint.
This hand
is not wise.
I am watching this
while he speaks of genocide;
I am anguished, not for
millions slain,
but for the hand.
He tells us it grabs things,
that he can't control when this happens.
It especially likes women,
he says.
Their hair,
their clothes,
their skin.
This man and his hands,
they are dying.
I want to hold his right hand,
I want to whisper
"George,
remind Lennie
about the bunnies.
Remind him
if he is good,
soon you will be
in a better place--
a land the Christians
can't steal.
There will be many things,
soft as clouds,
for Lennie to grasp.
George, keep holding Lennie,
keep him thinking
of the bunnies."
This poem is for Dr. Darryl "Babe" Wilson who spoke for my film study class tonight. He is a Native American elder, a member of the California Indian Storytelling Association, and he had a stroke recently. His hearing, sight, and control of his left arm are fading since the stroke, but his mind is a sharp and beautiful thing. His spirit is not broken, and never was even when he believed the will of his people had been, and he touched me deeply tonight.
Dr. Babe also has a blog at www.haydutsila.com
The Best Laid Hands...
(for Dr. Darryl "Babe" Wilson,
a native american elder who spoke
to my class tonight.)
It sits across the chair's arm,
a worn band of skin
with withered bone beneath.
It's owner jokes about
the stroke
and how this hand now
takes rough shapes
and rougher shakes
when he doesn't hold it.
His right hand
is George,
steady and true,
hopeful to a fault
as the hands of such
a wise man
should be.
His left hand
is Lennie,
brutish, squirming,
hopeful
beyond restraint.
This hand
is not wise.
I am watching this
while he speaks of genocide;
I am anguished, not for
millions slain,
but for the hand.
He tells us it grabs things,
that he can't control when this happens.
It especially likes women,
he says.
Their hair,
their clothes,
their skin.
This man and his hands,
they are dying.
I want to hold his right hand,
I want to whisper
"George,
remind Lennie
about the bunnies.
Remind him
if he is good,
soon you will be
in a better place--
a land the Christians
can't steal.
There will be many things,
soft as clouds,
for Lennie to grasp.
George, keep holding Lennie,
keep him thinking
of the bunnies."