Faith

Good writing often comes when it is least expected. Over the last several weeks I have found myself mulling over old poems, reading work by new poets, subscribing to new magazines - all in search of inspiration. I wanted to write something fresh. Something new. Ever since I came back from Guatemala in March it seemed I hadn't been able to write anything good. Nothing was coming together - which, at least in my experience, is what a good poem must do on its own. Finally, last week, it hit me. I don't know what it was, but something clicked. I found myself writing out what became a two-page long poem. Then, last night, lying in bed and looking up at the ceiling, contemplating what it means to find peace and where I had seen it most in my life, it came again. The words started turning over in my mind. At first it was just a tone, then an image. Soon it became sounds, which then formed into words. Finally, I had to get up. I had to write this down before I forgot the words so perfectly wrought in my creative conscious. This is what came.


FAITH

Zacapa, where hot
wind whistles
in tamarind trees
and we lay star staring
on the roof at night,
the sing-song sound
carried to our ears,
and through the leaves
we saw it –
a single-room church
with white plastic
chair pews, where dirty,
starving, people still
come to pray.