Dunya Mikail’s poem today seems to echo the words of Etty Hillesum which I read this morning in Daily Meditations with Matthew Fox.
It reads as follows … With so much horror in the world, it is easy to sink into despair. But then we find inspiration in the form of Etty Hillesum, the Dutch Jewish author killed in Auschwitz in 1943. What is amazing about her is that she was able to “stay human” in the midst of the most unspeakable suffering. She was already interned at a transit camp when she wrote the following: The sky is full of birds, the purple lupins stand up so regally and peacefully, two little old women have sat down for a chat, the sun is shining on my face – and right before our eyes, mass murder… The whole thing is simply beyond comprehension.And: Living and dying, sorrow and joy, the blisters on my feet and the jasmine behind the house, the persecution, the unspeakable horrors: it is all as one in me. Etty was somehow able to hold both extremes in her awareness.
I wonder if this is our invitation in this world we find ourselves in today? Can we “stay human” by caring and listening, crying and laughing, comforting and suffering, seeing the beauty and the pain? How do we live with our heart and soul portals open to it all?
My heart is breaking because I don’t know how to hold them both - the beauty and the pain…..really. And every morning I feed the birds, change their water, watch them sip - because they deserve to live. Thank you Mary for amplifying Padraig’s offer from Dunya Mikail with Etty Hillesum’s wisdom. My remedy is showing up to protest, every Saturday, and working on the July 4th handouts from the US Campaign for Palestinian Rights. The poetry helps from tearing apart…
Thank you, Mary, for bringing the phrase "stay human" into my morning. I reflect many times every day on how to keep my heart open in the face of all suffering.
Reading Etty's autobiography, whilst on a silent retreat several years ago, was and still is one of the most profound heart-opening experiences of my life. Thank you for bringing her to a wider audience.
my poem will not save you.” It seems to me that she knows that the poem indeed has the power to save us from indifference, inertia, and the paralysis of analysis.
I reread the poem and changed the line to “I am sorry my poem WILL save you” and it became a clarion call to action.
The first paragraph takes my breath away as I remember when I first saw that picture. I wanted to howl with grief and anger and I knew then that I would never forget that child. Reading those lines got my attention really fast and I found myself holding my breath as I read it. And yes, I again want to weep.
Yes, “when we need to touch the soul,” we tap into our deepest, truest self by “connecting to a larger, eternal reality” (John O’Donohue). I am reminded of a wonderful phase that my dear friend often quotes: “a bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song” (Maya Angelou).
That a woman poet is saying I’m sorry the way many women say I’m sorry, not as apology for their actions, but bc they have a hard time bearing that they cannot change the way the world is. But maybe by apologizing they can soften it a little? The apology is a litany or a prayer .
Each morning, my cat and I sit in the window and listen to the birdsong as the sun rises. We tune out the sirens, car traffic, and noise from jets overhead and hear a symphony. Like Dunya, I am sorry that I cannot board one of those planes and gather the broken, fearful children of the world in my arms. I am sorry I cannot tuck the unhoused, bereft, hungry, angry people into clean, crisp, safe space so they can rest and heal. I am sorry I cannot share the beauty and comfort in nature that has reminded me in the darkest times that we are all kin: Brother Sun, Sister Moon, our cousins the trees, bees, worms, fleas. All have beauty, wisdom, and worth. I am glad to hold them all up in loving regard.
“The news the news the news,” begins Padraig’s newsletter. And then: the volta (a word I learned from Padraig)! We are turned from the news to this exquisite and true poem. What a relief. The repeated “I am sorry,” which Padraig mentioned, is a statement of desperation and grief and powerlessness - but only almost. A magical “although” ushers us through a doorway to hope. As Emily Dickinson so famously did, Dunya Mikhail recruits a bird to be the ambassador of hope.
Padraig reminds me of why the world loves William Carlos Williams’s words “It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.”
There's a question thats been challenging me lately. What is this undeniable pull to create more and more art in these horrible times? These lines in particular reached into my poet spirit. The whole poem in general, yanked me inch by inch toward a better understanding. Toward an answer to why and how we can keep finding ways to insert beauty into a very ugly, hurting world. No, poetry won't correct all the mistakes. Nor will it ever answer all the questions. But it this poem does something to move me, to jolt me from the stupor of doom. The line, "I am sorry"- seems such a delicate sorrow, juxtaposed on so much horror. Such a tenuous reach. And yet it does reach, doesn't it? The birds singing feels like an act of resistance; like writing a poem.
Suggesting we each have work to do, saying “leave me alone, dear reader” and get to work.
Please don’t ask a poem to remove the dirt from our hands,
The dust from our hearts.
I too have work to do. Escapism
Is not a poem’s duty, poetry isn’t meant to be an IV bringing morphine into our veins.
There are many forms of creative action. For instance, lend a hand and help clear the rubble off a child’s body. A poem is not a shovel. You or I can pick up a shovel and sweat a little. Maybe, save a life? Clearly, poetry has
A vital place in our lives. This is not a game of hide and seek. Save this child’s life, lift the rubble up, and then, just maybe, there too we will uncover a poem’s gifts. 🏮
I am not in Gaza or at the site of a beached child. I am sipping coffee in my abode on Long Island and supposedly readying a sermon to be delivered in a few hours. What can I tell my parishioners that they can do here, today, soon?
That that dead child is a messenger, like Jesus was and we still don't get it. That we all have the agency to redeem ourselves and we don't use it. That birdsong is within each and every one of us and it lays dormant and allows inertia to fill the gaps, when we know that for good to reign, we must make effort to fill the world with so much birdsong, there is no room for war. And until that day, there will always be children face down in the sand.
The acts to take right now are what they always are and all we have: to see, to care and to act in protest. It seems to me that’s what the poem does. To see, you don’t turn away. To care, you feel the pain, loss, anger and frustration of the current moment, and to protest, you give voice and take action for what else is possible beyond the horrors you’re witnessing. Maybe that’s writing a poem that helps people remember themselves and their humanity, maybe it’s calling Senators and registering your anger at what the government is doing, maybe it’s starting a protest or joining one that already exists, maybe it’s donating to those who are fighting in ways you can’t - legally, providing food and care, to those in government who are fighting back and those who are on the frontlines of the battle risking their lives. Maybe it’s sharing successes in some way the fuels us all to keep going. I think it is always remembering what the religions teach of compassion, responsibility and humanity. I hope your sermon is everything you and your congregation need today.
In this world that is so addicted to artificial stimulation—social media, substances, etc.—the idea of “touch[ing] the soul to know it’s not dead” is such a balm. A poem that arouses empathy and the senses and does not provide escape, but instead makes you stop and see and explore and reflect. That reaches me today. It strikes me that it doesn’t say “this will be ok,” but instead, this is what is and you are alive in it. How will we live in it?
Thank you for the opportunity to reflect on this poem. The first lines bring back the image that was seared into many of our minds of the toddler wearing a red shirt who lay lifeless on a beach after drowning; never running to be held on a lap again…
And the line about not knowing why the birds sing recalled to mind the poem by Maya Angelou, who did know “why the caged bird sings.”
Sing, sing, sing. I will go sing today, as I am free and alive and will throw music to the world.
"Feed the birds" is a line in a song from the mid 1960's movie Mary Poppins. Those few words and the song remind me that the birds don't engage in evil maniacal power struggles. Mr Banks almost succumbs.
I am sorry I don't know how to stop the greed
I am sorry I don't know how to stop the hate
I am sorry I don't know how to dismantle the bombs
...but when I need to touch my soul... this poem really touches my soul. The raw grief of a beautiful little boy's body lifeless, the many innocent lives ruined by bombs, guns, greed for power, for control... all become more alive when my soul is touched. Thank you so much for sharing these powerful words today. 💔💗
This phrase is what I hold onto today for hope and solace in a world that seems to become more cruel and devastating by the day. May the soul of humanity rise up in song and protest.
I am interested to know: What of the many messages in Dunya Mikail’s poem speaks to you today? Is it the contents of the text? The work of art created between the poem and you? Something else?
My first reaction is a visceral punch in the gut from the memory of the photograph of the toddler, lying face down in the sand. Each line where she evokes the deaths, the devastation in the world is like a slap in the face almost, a reminder of the powerlessness of each of us. And the sight of the birds, flying overhead, oblivious to what is down below, because in many ways, while what we do in a global way affects them, what happens to us is really not a part of their world.
The poem evokes many feelings. Yes, it evokes powerlessness and sadness and despair. But the poem was written. I read the poem. Others read the poem. The words affect us. And I cling to the belief that we must not only despair. We must do the thing that we can do. We must each do the thing that we can do. We must do it alone and we must do it together. I feel in a way it is a such a luxury to be able to ask, does this do any good, does this matter? If I need an immediate response to change, yeah of course it doesn’t look good, what I do doesn’t matter. But it’s the long haul. It’s the long road that we must take. If there is any hope for our future, poems still need to be written, litter needs to be picked up, rallies need to happen, postcards need to be sent, phone calls need to be made, whatever is in your lane.
Dunya Mikail’s poem today seems to echo the words of Etty Hillesum which I read this morning in Daily Meditations with Matthew Fox.
It reads as follows … With so much horror in the world, it is easy to sink into despair. But then we find inspiration in the form of Etty Hillesum, the Dutch Jewish author killed in Auschwitz in 1943. What is amazing about her is that she was able to “stay human” in the midst of the most unspeakable suffering. She was already interned at a transit camp when she wrote the following: The sky is full of birds, the purple lupins stand up so regally and peacefully, two little old women have sat down for a chat, the sun is shining on my face – and right before our eyes, mass murder… The whole thing is simply beyond comprehension.And: Living and dying, sorrow and joy, the blisters on my feet and the jasmine behind the house, the persecution, the unspeakable horrors: it is all as one in me. Etty was somehow able to hold both extremes in her awareness.
I wonder if this is our invitation in this world we find ourselves in today? Can we “stay human” by caring and listening, crying and laughing, comforting and suffering, seeing the beauty and the pain? How do we live with our heart and soul portals open to it all?
My heart is breaking because I don’t know how to hold them both - the beauty and the pain…..really. And every morning I feed the birds, change their water, watch them sip - because they deserve to live. Thank you Mary for amplifying Padraig’s offer from Dunya Mikail with Etty Hillesum’s wisdom. My remedy is showing up to protest, every Saturday, and working on the July 4th handouts from the US Campaign for Palestinian Rights. The poetry helps from tearing apart…
It sounds like you have found a way just like Etty to hold them both. I wonder if the challenge is to breathe the beauty in as deeply as the pain?
I was born in April 1943. Thank you for the introduction of Etty Hillesum. I am happy to know she is not forgotten.💔
Thank you, Mary, for bringing the phrase "stay human" into my morning. I reflect many times every day on how to keep my heart open in the face of all suffering.
Reading Etty's autobiography, whilst on a silent retreat several years ago, was and still is one of the most profound heart-opening experiences of my life. Thank you for bringing her to a wider audience.
I do not believe her when she says, “I am sorry
my poem will not save you.” It seems to me that she knows that the poem indeed has the power to save us from indifference, inertia, and the paralysis of analysis.
I reread the poem and changed the line to “I am sorry my poem WILL save you” and it became a clarion call to action.
The first paragraph takes my breath away as I remember when I first saw that picture. I wanted to howl with grief and anger and I knew then that I would never forget that child. Reading those lines got my attention really fast and I found myself holding my breath as I read it. And yes, I again want to weep.
Yes, “when we need to touch the soul,” we tap into our deepest, truest self by “connecting to a larger, eternal reality” (John O’Donohue). I am reminded of a wonderful phase that my dear friend often quotes: “a bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song” (Maya Angelou).
How beautiful. Ty! 🙏
That a woman poet is saying I’m sorry the way many women say I’m sorry, not as apology for their actions, but bc they have a hard time bearing that they cannot change the way the world is. But maybe by apologizing they can soften it a little? The apology is a litany or a prayer .
thank you for the comment 'I'm sorry is not an apology for their actions..." And "the apology is litany or a prayer'. This piece is both.
Yes
Each morning, my cat and I sit in the window and listen to the birdsong as the sun rises. We tune out the sirens, car traffic, and noise from jets overhead and hear a symphony. Like Dunya, I am sorry that I cannot board one of those planes and gather the broken, fearful children of the world in my arms. I am sorry I cannot tuck the unhoused, bereft, hungry, angry people into clean, crisp, safe space so they can rest and heal. I am sorry I cannot share the beauty and comfort in nature that has reminded me in the darkest times that we are all kin: Brother Sun, Sister Moon, our cousins the trees, bees, worms, fleas. All have beauty, wisdom, and worth. I am glad to hold them all up in loving regard.
“The news the news the news,” begins Padraig’s newsletter. And then: the volta (a word I learned from Padraig)! We are turned from the news to this exquisite and true poem. What a relief. The repeated “I am sorry,” which Padraig mentioned, is a statement of desperation and grief and powerlessness - but only almost. A magical “although” ushers us through a doorway to hope. As Emily Dickinson so famously did, Dunya Mikhail recruits a bird to be the ambassador of hope.
Padraig reminds me of why the world loves William Carlos Williams’s words “It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.”
Oh my goodness. Thank you for this quote from William Carlos Williams. Poetry connects us to each other. It helps us care. Beautiful.
"Many mistakes in life
will not be corrected by my poem.
Questions will not be answered.
I am sorry..."
There's a question thats been challenging me lately. What is this undeniable pull to create more and more art in these horrible times? These lines in particular reached into my poet spirit. The whole poem in general, yanked me inch by inch toward a better understanding. Toward an answer to why and how we can keep finding ways to insert beauty into a very ugly, hurting world. No, poetry won't correct all the mistakes. Nor will it ever answer all the questions. But it this poem does something to move me, to jolt me from the stupor of doom. The line, "I am sorry"- seems such a delicate sorrow, juxtaposed on so much horror. Such a tenuous reach. And yet it does reach, doesn't it? The birds singing feels like an act of resistance; like writing a poem.
This poem sings to me
A plea to us all,
Stop ignoring our responsibilities!
This poem steps aside,
Suggesting we each have work to do, saying “leave me alone, dear reader” and get to work.
Please don’t ask a poem to remove the dirt from our hands,
The dust from our hearts.
I too have work to do. Escapism
Is not a poem’s duty, poetry isn’t meant to be an IV bringing morphine into our veins.
There are many forms of creative action. For instance, lend a hand and help clear the rubble off a child’s body. A poem is not a shovel. You or I can pick up a shovel and sweat a little. Maybe, save a life? Clearly, poetry has
A vital place in our lives. This is not a game of hide and seek. Save this child’s life, lift the rubble up, and then, just maybe, there too we will uncover a poem’s gifts. 🏮
I am not in Gaza or at the site of a beached child. I am sipping coffee in my abode on Long Island and supposedly readying a sermon to be delivered in a few hours. What can I tell my parishioners that they can do here, today, soon?
That that dead child is a messenger, like Jesus was and we still don't get it. That we all have the agency to redeem ourselves and we don't use it. That birdsong is within each and every one of us and it lays dormant and allows inertia to fill the gaps, when we know that for good to reign, we must make effort to fill the world with so much birdsong, there is no room for war. And until that day, there will always be children face down in the sand.
The acts to take right now are what they always are and all we have: to see, to care and to act in protest. It seems to me that’s what the poem does. To see, you don’t turn away. To care, you feel the pain, loss, anger and frustration of the current moment, and to protest, you give voice and take action for what else is possible beyond the horrors you’re witnessing. Maybe that’s writing a poem that helps people remember themselves and their humanity, maybe it’s calling Senators and registering your anger at what the government is doing, maybe it’s starting a protest or joining one that already exists, maybe it’s donating to those who are fighting in ways you can’t - legally, providing food and care, to those in government who are fighting back and those who are on the frontlines of the battle risking their lives. Maybe it’s sharing successes in some way the fuels us all to keep going. I think it is always remembering what the religions teach of compassion, responsibility and humanity. I hope your sermon is everything you and your congregation need today.
Their songs will not save us,
although, in the chilliest times,
they keep us warm,
and when we need to touch the soul
to know it’s not dead,
their songs
give us that touch.
In this world that is so addicted to artificial stimulation—social media, substances, etc.—the idea of “touch[ing] the soul to know it’s not dead” is such a balm. A poem that arouses empathy and the senses and does not provide escape, but instead makes you stop and see and explore and reflect. That reaches me today. It strikes me that it doesn’t say “this will be ok,” but instead, this is what is and you are alive in it. How will we live in it?
Thank you for the opportunity to reflect on this poem. The first lines bring back the image that was seared into many of our minds of the toddler wearing a red shirt who lay lifeless on a beach after drowning; never running to be held on a lap again…
And the line about not knowing why the birds sing recalled to mind the poem by Maya Angelou, who did know “why the caged bird sings.”
Sing, sing, sing. I will go sing today, as I am free and alive and will throw music to the world.
"Feed the birds" is a line in a song from the mid 1960's movie Mary Poppins. Those few words and the song remind me that the birds don't engage in evil maniacal power struggles. Mr Banks almost succumbs.
I am sorry I don't know how to stop the greed
I am sorry I don't know how to stop the hate
I am sorry I don't know how to dismantle the bombs
I will feed the birds
...but when I need to touch my soul... this poem really touches my soul. The raw grief of a beautiful little boy's body lifeless, the many innocent lives ruined by bombs, guns, greed for power, for control... all become more alive when my soul is touched. Thank you so much for sharing these powerful words today. 💔💗
The following line reminded me to reread “I Know Why the Caged Bird Dings” by Maya Angelou. “ I don’t know why the birds sing
during their crossings
over our ruins.”
Angelou’s answer is that the caged bird, even and perhaps especially in captivity, sings of freedom.
Their songs will not save us,
although, in the chilliest times,
they keep us warm,
and when we need to touch the soul
to know it’s not dead,
their songs
give us that touch.
This phrase is what I hold onto today for hope and solace in a world that seems to become more cruel and devastating by the day. May the soul of humanity rise up in song and protest.
I am interested to know: What of the many messages in Dunya Mikail’s poem speaks to you today? Is it the contents of the text? The work of art created between the poem and you? Something else?
My first reaction is a visceral punch in the gut from the memory of the photograph of the toddler, lying face down in the sand. Each line where she evokes the deaths, the devastation in the world is like a slap in the face almost, a reminder of the powerlessness of each of us. And the sight of the birds, flying overhead, oblivious to what is down below, because in many ways, while what we do in a global way affects them, what happens to us is really not a part of their world.
The poem evokes many feelings. Yes, it evokes powerlessness and sadness and despair. But the poem was written. I read the poem. Others read the poem. The words affect us. And I cling to the belief that we must not only despair. We must do the thing that we can do. We must each do the thing that we can do. We must do it alone and we must do it together. I feel in a way it is a such a luxury to be able to ask, does this do any good, does this matter? If I need an immediate response to change, yeah of course it doesn’t look good, what I do doesn’t matter. But it’s the long haul. It’s the long road that we must take. If there is any hope for our future, poems still need to be written, litter needs to be picked up, rallies need to happen, postcards need to be sent, phone calls need to be made, whatever is in your lane.