Why Poetry

After a somewhat mundane day (funny how days that involve packing are often also somewhat depressing), I come to learn my blog has been blessed with a poem (Thanks, Peter!), and this got me to thinking. . .

Somehow poetry has acquired an image of snobbery, of unattainability, of. . . intellectualism in a negative sense. So, what do we do? Well, I don't know about you, but I grew up a little bit afraid of poetry, because it was a distant, unreal thing by mythical creatures we call poets.

Well, that's simply not true, unless I have been fooled all along and the world's poets are secretly faeries (I wish!). By reading each other's poetry, we enter into reality--of the specific, the concrete, the personal, the nitty gritty, the language, the politics, the passion and compassion of another human being. I'm still afraid of poetry, but because I'm afraid of who I will meet and no longer be able to think of as merely an idea, what images I will face, and what questions I may have to consider.

Now I'm getting preachy, and that has to stop. And I have to finish packing.

Poems by Children

As my exploration of poetry as peacemaking continues, I find that not only do different poets have their own specific focuses stemming from cultural experience--Naomi Shihab Nye and her Palestinian-American heritage, William Stafford and WWI, Christian Peacemaking Team members in Columbia-- but age itself also makes its mark on poetry. Sure, sure, you may be thinking, "Well, of course. Children are not self-aware, or culturally aware, or linguistically aware enough to write poems like adults do, just quality-wise." To think that, my friends, could be one of the biggest mistakes in human history. Not joking.

Granted, children may not have many years under their metaphorical belts (although they may be able to come up with a less over-used idiom than I just used), but what they lack in quantity they often make up for in clarity. I will not go off on theory or mechanics; my young poet friends do not. Please, read this poem found in A Chance To Live: Children's Poems for Peace in a Nuclear Age, edited by Gayle Peterson and Ying Kelley. And listen to children.

Please Don't Kill

Please don't kill
Other people
In a war
'Cause God made people
to live.


~Daryl Williams
2nd Grade

Reading Irish Poetry

For the past two weeks I had left a stack of books in the Religious Studies office on a shelf. With so many books to read, I let a few wait for me there. Today I retrieved them, and as if it were Christmas, was surprised by all the lovely titles I rediscovered. No wonder I requested them from other libraries!

One of the books is a very large, green volume with a golden emblem pressed into the front cover. It's titled Ireland in Poetry. Page after page has old and new poems and color photographs or images of paintings. And I don't know what it is about Irish poetry, but it makes me feel a deep sense of mourning, fear, and inspiration, almost anticipation (of what? I do not know). I don't even know that much about Ireland's history or conflicts, it's people or places. The most intimate look at Ireland I have (besides my Lit. professor Kathy) comes from Eavan Boland's Memoir-ish Object Lessons.

What is it about Irish poetry?

Remembering the Gardens

This morning I am working on a few things: my reflection paper on poetry and peacemaking, packing and sorting for MN and the U.K., random life happenings, and a poem about the gardens in the Bethlehem refugee camp we visited in June. Only a month ago. All the images came flooding back of the home we visited with the garden planted into the ground, and the metal arch for vines. And I saw in my imagination the gardens comprised of sawed off plastic jugs and handleless buckets. Anything that would hold dirt was used to incubate life. Someday I want a garden like that. A garden that doesn't really care where it is or what could become of it; it climbs or spreads, or stands tall without fear or second thoughts.

Confessions of a Frequent Flyer

I know what it feels like to be completely lost in that limbotic land between terminals. Bags in hand in a country where I don’t speak the language, no less. I know what it feels like to only understand the hand motions of an airport security worker, and to look like a fool when I go through the line that she specifically motioned me to bypass.

I know what it feels like to wander around Frankfurt for three hours with no place to sit, the sound of a gate alarm screeching when I choose to buck the system. I know what it feels like to be caught in a cattle call boarding session.
I know what it feels like to be culturally ignorant, to have no idea what is socially acceptable. I know what it’s like to be at the mercy of another person’s pursuit of a language not their own to help me in mine. I know what it feels like to not know who I can ask, who will understand my question, who will treat me with kindness.

And I know what it feels like to experience grace, to be the recipient of hospitality. I know what it feels like to receive sympathy from those who cannot help me. I know what it feels like, also, to be turned away, to be dealt with harshly, to not be trusted by people of my home country. To be perceived as a foreigner because of the shape of my facial features and my quiet mannerisms.

I also know what shame feels like—to stand again in the country of my childhood and to witness inhospitality. To hear guards question why international visitors continue to go to the incorrect passport check line when they have been speaking exclusively in English and signs are posted in English and Chinese. And we expect incoming French passengers to understand? I know what it feels like to want to yell at a security guard for snapping at a woman rudely. Then to realize that would not solve any of our problems.

And this knowledge makes me want to throw my arms around the world and shout out in every language known to humanity, “Bienvenidas, bienvenue, ah’len wa sah’len, welcome!” You are welcome in my life.

A Letter to the President of the United States

To the President of the United States:
I am not a politician, or an official diplomat.
I am a university student, a philosopher, a poet,
a theologian, a woman, a novice world traveler,
a feminist, a peacemaker.
I love God, most of the time, and at others, do not know
how to love God, but like any honest
theologian, I must admit I often do not understand
what she/he has in mind for this world,
a world that is both beautiful and broken.
People do many things in the name of “God”
that I also do not understand. Contradiction
is everywhere. And Jesus, let’s not get started
on the things people say about Jesus. I believe
he was God and human, but schizophrenic? Well,
it’s possible. I find it dangerous to talk about
what Jesus could or could not be.

But enough about theology and those confusions.
I recently traveled to the Middle East. My goal
was to speak with women, hear their stories, see
their faces. And from that, write poems about their lives
in their voices, about their homes, their families, their
thoughts, their struggles, their power. Some of these women
were of Jordanian heritage, one an Iraqi, a couple more
Lebanese, most were Palestinian, forced from their homes
and welcomed by Jordan, but Jordan is a small country.
For five and a half weeks, I was based in Amman, and traveled
for too short a time to Jerusalem and Bethlehem.
Do you want to know why? Because of peace.

I am sure, Mr. President, that you know Jerusalem
is in Israel, and Bethlehem is in the West Bank.
I am sure you also know the United States gives a disproportionate
amount of funds to the Israeli government to use to their “benefit.”
I think it’s great to live in a country that helps others.
A country that makes friends of other countries.
But true friends hold each other accountable.
True friends do not let each other do harm.
True friends stay close, and ask questions.
True friends treat each other as equals, not spoiled children.

And I mean no disrespect,
but after my visit, I am sure you do not know these women’s
stories. You do not know their land or their voices,
their struggles, their thoughts, their homes,
their families, their power. You do not know Palestinians.
You do not know hot tea with mint, directions from a kind stranger,
breakfast and lunch that could make you pop—all daily
occurrences, not rare kind Arabs. Normal kind Arabs, who are pained
by their rare, violent cousins.

You do not know the empty streets of Bethlehem,
fresh plums—a gift—from a woman in the market whose land
has been taken from her. I am sure, though, you know who
took it. You do not know the horror of a checkpoint gate, the wall,
or how long six hours waiting at the Israel border for wanting to
visit Bethlehem feels. You do not know the humiliation
human beings suffer every day. You do not know the inequity.
You do not know how closely refugee camps resemble the ghettos
of Eastern Europe during the Holocaust of WWII,
how much hurt the Israelis are still facing, and how much healing
I wish I could bring them. You do not know how they remind me
of children who grew up with abusive parents, vowing to never
be like that, but who bruise and batter their children. When they are old,
they cry themselves to sleep, and whisper prayers of regret.

Their children cry too.

Mr. President, do you want to know why I believe you
do not know these things?
Because if you did, if you knew them, they would be different.
You would be different.
Knowing details makes peace possible. Our enemies become
neighbors. People have faces that cannot be blown up.
I do not know your reasons for aiding Israel with such gusto.
Perhaps you wish to help God’s “chosen” people. But aren’t we all?
Perhaps you want to make up for America’s late entry into WWII,
and the masses of human beings with families and wishes who
should not have been treated as they were. But is this the way to do that?
Won’t our next generation have a debt to pay the Palestinians?
Perhaps you want Americans to feel safe from Arabs. But aren’t we
more afraid?
Again, I do not know, and I am sure it is complicated.

Perhaps we should make it simple again.
I will make a few things
simple for you.
I do not support any violence Palestinians inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence Israelis inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence Americans inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence any humans inflict, on anyone.
I do support the kindness of Israelis. The kindness of Arabs.
The kindness of Americans. The kindness of humanity.
I do not want tax money that comes from my paycheck, that I
have earned in peaceable ways, to go toward the systematic
destruction of lives, those of Arabs or Israelis or Americans.
When we are no longer inspired by the humanity of our neighbors,
something has been destroyed. Many Israelis have been destroyed,
as they destroy Palestinians. And the United States pays for this.
Is that being a good friend?

This is the United States’ conflict. We are involved.
This, quite simply, must stop.
Mr. President, what have you done this week to bring peace
among Israel, Palestine, and the United States?
I will ask again next week. And the week after that. Like the mother
in Bethlehem who will wait 500 years for her son’s prison sentence to end,
I will keep asking, until we are free. Until we have peace.
Salaam, Peace, Shalom.


Respectfully and with great hope,

Kohleun A.