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"The poem isn’t political — it’s pre-political, just like every poem is, or should be," writes Koehler. "It's about feeling the pain, the love that hovers beyond the codified world."
(Photo by Marek Studzinski on Unsplash)
The Blood We Bleed: Poetry Before Politics
Poetry is one of humanity’s windows into the raw unknown — which happens to be both beyond our wildest dreams and deep within our inner being.
Dec 25, 2023
What’s ordinary about life suddenly becomes sacred. This is my definition of poetry — my deepest plunge into being alive.
It seems more relevant than ever, as innocent blood flows in the wars being waged by military-political bureaucracies across the planet. How many more stunned facial expressions will I see on YouTube, of parents who have just lost their children, their spouse, their siblings?
As I have noted, I have recently released an album of spoken-word poetry, plus crazy artwork, thanks to my good friends Andy Mitran and Scott Wills. Much of the poems go back to an earlier period of my life, shortly after the death of my wife from pancreatic cancer. At the time, my daughter was not quite 12 years old. Dad and teenage daughter — those were the days! (We both survived, I’m happy to say.)
Losing myself in these poems so many years later is a mind-blow not merely because of the memories they unleash. They also have a relevance — so it feels to me — to today’s news . . . the ongoing abstraction of human life, the dismissal of the value of every living soul. Poetry is the opposite of that — not in simplistic but, rather, paradoxical ways. Its essential purpose is to break through the shallowness of normalcy, quite likely in surprising ways.
. . . God bless every finite movement
of your heart’s laughter,
the rich earth of your love,
the milk of your breasts,
the tremor of your flesh.
And God bless diapers and tricycles
and “Make Way for Ducklings” . . .
This is a passage from “Letting Her Go,” one of the poems I wrote in the aftermath of my wife’s death. The poem is awash in the small details of family life, so easily overlooked in the moment. The day simply pushes on. But when the normalcy is shattered into fragments — soul fragments, you might say . . .
God bless tantrums,
ice cream, swimming pools,
bugs and curiosity.
God bless every dropped pearl,
every birthday cake,
all the soft inner matter
of family life,
felt, lived,
and pushed along with
too much hurry.
The value, the depth of each moment, starts pulsating. As the poem pushes on, as I describe — relive — the last months of her life, I even write: ”God bless cancer. . . ”
Those may be three of the strangest words I’ve ever written. They bled forth from my pen almost as a Zen koan. Do I know what I meant? Not really, but not knowing can be deeper than knowing. Indeed, “not knowing” is the human condition, and it includes knowing. For instance:
The city’s streets are alive
with the eyes of beggars. . . .
This is the beginning of another poem, called “Open Souls.” Here again, “normalcy” conceals the troubling reality in which we live.
. . . They poke through the glass skin
of prosperity,
too large and too human.
I am disturbed anew each time
I step around them,
but I seldom break stride.
ot to look
would be to ignore
open souls . . .
Ordinary guys, homeless, asking for spare change. They’re just collateral damage of the system. But the poem isn’t political — it’s pre-political, just like every poem is, or should be. It’s about feeling the pain, the love that hovers beyond the codified world. Poetry is one of humanity’s windows into the raw unknown — which happens to be both beyond our wildest dreams and deep within our inner being.
In the world of poetry, there is no separation between church and state. The homeless guy at the subway station helped me grasp this.
The northbound train arrives;
shoes clatter faster around us.
From the wracking depths
he moans
“Pray for me.”
I did my best to gather together the pieces of this moment in my words. Yes, I prayed for him, in contradiction of my own beliefs (because, what do I know?).
. . . Let him have
a room tonight
and breakfast in the morning
and a lucky break,
oh Lord,
if thou art merciful.
Let him not be the one
to die for our sins.
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Dear Common Dreams reader, It’s been nearly 30 years since I co-founded Common Dreams with my late wife, Lina Newhouser. We had the radical notion that journalism should serve the public good, not corporate profits. It was clear to us from the outset what it would take to build such a project. No paid advertisements. No corporate sponsors. No millionaire publisher telling us what to think or do. Many people said we wouldn't last a year, but we proved those doubters wrong. Together with a tremendous team of journalists and dedicated staff, we built an independent media outlet free from the constraints of profits and corporate control. Our mission has always been simple: To inform. To inspire. To ignite change for the common good. Building Common Dreams was not easy. Our survival was never guaranteed. When you take on the most powerful forces—Wall Street greed, fossil fuel industry destruction, Big Tech lobbyists, and uber-rich oligarchs who have spent billions upon billions rigging the economy and democracy in their favor—the only bulwark you have is supporters who believe in your work. But here’s the urgent message from me today. It's never been this bad out there. And it's never been this hard to keep us going. At the very moment Common Dreams is most needed, the threats we face are intensifying. We need your support now more than ever. We don't accept corporate advertising and never will. We don't have a paywall because we don't think people should be blocked from critical news based on their ability to pay. Everything we do is funded by the donations of readers like you. When everyone does the little they can afford, we are strong. But if that support retreats or dries up, so do we. Will you donate now to make sure Common Dreams not only survives but thrives? —Craig Brown, Co-founder |
Robert C. Koehler
Robert Koehler is an award-winning, Chicago-based journalist and nationally syndicated writer. Koehler has been the recipient of multiple awards for writing and journalism from organizations including the National Newspaper Association, Suburban Newspapers of America, and the Chicago Headline Club. He's a regular contributor to such high-profile websites as Common Dreams and the Huffington Post. Eschewing political labels, Koehler considers himself a "peace journalist. He has been an editor at Tribune Media Services and a reporter, columnist and copy desk chief at Lerner Newspapers, a chain of neighborhood and suburban newspapers in the Chicago area. Koehler launched his column in 1999. Born in Detroit and raised in suburban Dearborn, Koehler has lived in Chicago since 1976. He earned a master's degree in creative writing from Columbia College and has taught writing at both the college and high school levels. Koehler is a widower and single parent. He explores both conditions at great depth in his writing. His book, "Courage Grows Strong at the Wound" (2016). Contact him or visit his website at commonwonders.com.
What’s ordinary about life suddenly becomes sacred. This is my definition of poetry — my deepest plunge into being alive.
It seems more relevant than ever, as innocent blood flows in the wars being waged by military-political bureaucracies across the planet. How many more stunned facial expressions will I see on YouTube, of parents who have just lost their children, their spouse, their siblings?
As I have noted, I have recently released an album of spoken-word poetry, plus crazy artwork, thanks to my good friends Andy Mitran and Scott Wills. Much of the poems go back to an earlier period of my life, shortly after the death of my wife from pancreatic cancer. At the time, my daughter was not quite 12 years old. Dad and teenage daughter — those were the days! (We both survived, I’m happy to say.)
Losing myself in these poems so many years later is a mind-blow not merely because of the memories they unleash. They also have a relevance — so it feels to me — to today’s news . . . the ongoing abstraction of human life, the dismissal of the value of every living soul. Poetry is the opposite of that — not in simplistic but, rather, paradoxical ways. Its essential purpose is to break through the shallowness of normalcy, quite likely in surprising ways.
. . . God bless every finite movement
of your heart’s laughter,
the rich earth of your love,
the milk of your breasts,
the tremor of your flesh.
And God bless diapers and tricycles
and “Make Way for Ducklings” . . .
This is a passage from “Letting Her Go,” one of the poems I wrote in the aftermath of my wife’s death. The poem is awash in the small details of family life, so easily overlooked in the moment. The day simply pushes on. But when the normalcy is shattered into fragments — soul fragments, you might say . . .
God bless tantrums,
ice cream, swimming pools,
bugs and curiosity.
God bless every dropped pearl,
every birthday cake,
all the soft inner matter
of family life,
felt, lived,
and pushed along with
too much hurry.
The value, the depth of each moment, starts pulsating. As the poem pushes on, as I describe — relive — the last months of her life, I even write: ”God bless cancer. . . ”
Those may be three of the strangest words I’ve ever written. They bled forth from my pen almost as a Zen koan. Do I know what I meant? Not really, but not knowing can be deeper than knowing. Indeed, “not knowing” is the human condition, and it includes knowing. For instance:
The city’s streets are alive
with the eyes of beggars. . . .
This is the beginning of another poem, called “Open Souls.” Here again, “normalcy” conceals the troubling reality in which we live.
. . . They poke through the glass skin
of prosperity,
too large and too human.
I am disturbed anew each time
I step around them,
but I seldom break stride.
ot to look
would be to ignore
open souls . . .
Ordinary guys, homeless, asking for spare change. They’re just collateral damage of the system. But the poem isn’t political — it’s pre-political, just like every poem is, or should be. It’s about feeling the pain, the love that hovers beyond the codified world. Poetry is one of humanity’s windows into the raw unknown — which happens to be both beyond our wildest dreams and deep within our inner being.
In the world of poetry, there is no separation between church and state. The homeless guy at the subway station helped me grasp this.
The northbound train arrives;
shoes clatter faster around us.
From the wracking depths
he moans
“Pray for me.”
I did my best to gather together the pieces of this moment in my words. Yes, I prayed for him, in contradiction of my own beliefs (because, what do I know?).
. . . Let him have
a room tonight
and breakfast in the morning
and a lucky break,
oh Lord,
if thou art merciful.
Let him not be the one
to die for our sins.
Robert C. Koehler
Robert Koehler is an award-winning, Chicago-based journalist and nationally syndicated writer. Koehler has been the recipient of multiple awards for writing and journalism from organizations including the National Newspaper Association, Suburban Newspapers of America, and the Chicago Headline Club. He's a regular contributor to such high-profile websites as Common Dreams and the Huffington Post. Eschewing political labels, Koehler considers himself a "peace journalist. He has been an editor at Tribune Media Services and a reporter, columnist and copy desk chief at Lerner Newspapers, a chain of neighborhood and suburban newspapers in the Chicago area. Koehler launched his column in 1999. Born in Detroit and raised in suburban Dearborn, Koehler has lived in Chicago since 1976. He earned a master's degree in creative writing from Columbia College and has taught writing at both the college and high school levels. Koehler is a widower and single parent. He explores both conditions at great depth in his writing. His book, "Courage Grows Strong at the Wound" (2016). Contact him or visit his website at commonwonders.com.
What’s ordinary about life suddenly becomes sacred. This is my definition of poetry — my deepest plunge into being alive.
It seems more relevant than ever, as innocent blood flows in the wars being waged by military-political bureaucracies across the planet. How many more stunned facial expressions will I see on YouTube, of parents who have just lost their children, their spouse, their siblings?
As I have noted, I have recently released an album of spoken-word poetry, plus crazy artwork, thanks to my good friends Andy Mitran and Scott Wills. Much of the poems go back to an earlier period of my life, shortly after the death of my wife from pancreatic cancer. At the time, my daughter was not quite 12 years old. Dad and teenage daughter — those were the days! (We both survived, I’m happy to say.)
Losing myself in these poems so many years later is a mind-blow not merely because of the memories they unleash. They also have a relevance — so it feels to me — to today’s news . . . the ongoing abstraction of human life, the dismissal of the value of every living soul. Poetry is the opposite of that — not in simplistic but, rather, paradoxical ways. Its essential purpose is to break through the shallowness of normalcy, quite likely in surprising ways.
. . . God bless every finite movement
of your heart’s laughter,
the rich earth of your love,
the milk of your breasts,
the tremor of your flesh.
And God bless diapers and tricycles
and “Make Way for Ducklings” . . .
This is a passage from “Letting Her Go,” one of the poems I wrote in the aftermath of my wife’s death. The poem is awash in the small details of family life, so easily overlooked in the moment. The day simply pushes on. But when the normalcy is shattered into fragments — soul fragments, you might say . . .
God bless tantrums,
ice cream, swimming pools,
bugs and curiosity.
God bless every dropped pearl,
every birthday cake,
all the soft inner matter
of family life,
felt, lived,
and pushed along with
too much hurry.
The value, the depth of each moment, starts pulsating. As the poem pushes on, as I describe — relive — the last months of her life, I even write: ”God bless cancer. . . ”
Those may be three of the strangest words I’ve ever written. They bled forth from my pen almost as a Zen koan. Do I know what I meant? Not really, but not knowing can be deeper than knowing. Indeed, “not knowing” is the human condition, and it includes knowing. For instance:
The city’s streets are alive
with the eyes of beggars. . . .
This is the beginning of another poem, called “Open Souls.” Here again, “normalcy” conceals the troubling reality in which we live.
. . . They poke through the glass skin
of prosperity,
too large and too human.
I am disturbed anew each time
I step around them,
but I seldom break stride.
ot to look
would be to ignore
open souls . . .
Ordinary guys, homeless, asking for spare change. They’re just collateral damage of the system. But the poem isn’t political — it’s pre-political, just like every poem is, or should be. It’s about feeling the pain, the love that hovers beyond the codified world. Poetry is one of humanity’s windows into the raw unknown — which happens to be both beyond our wildest dreams and deep within our inner being.
In the world of poetry, there is no separation between church and state. The homeless guy at the subway station helped me grasp this.
The northbound train arrives;
shoes clatter faster around us.
From the wracking depths
he moans
“Pray for me.”
I did my best to gather together the pieces of this moment in my words. Yes, I prayed for him, in contradiction of my own beliefs (because, what do I know?).
. . . Let him have
a room tonight
and breakfast in the morning
and a lucky break,
oh Lord,
if thou art merciful.
Let him not be the one
to die for our sins.
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