In Memoriam: For Henryk Górecki

Hi, LL here. 

Well, as I promised, I'm opening up this blog to more than just politics. We began that with Culture Thursday and True Crime Friday. We already had done it with our weekend self-care posts. And now Wednesdays will be for whatever tickles our fancy.

I've been writing poetry since I was in my teens. I've gone through long fallow periods. It's time to get back to the creative writing.

For those who don't know: Henryk Górecki was a Polish composer. His Symphony no. 3: Symphony of Sorrowful Songs had a huge impact on me. I wrote this poem soon after his death in 2010. This was my homage to him.

***

This sorrow, it burns inside me;
I cannot shake it.
I breathe it in with the air,
filling my lungs to their full.
Even in joyous moments—here,
with you, in bed in warmth at night—
I cannot escape its grasp.
It envelops me completely.

One could be clinical, a gimlet eye
cast at the surrounding world.
No, clinical, is that not the word?
Oh, well, it rhymes, and gives the same
effect. Our words have a well-known
bias towards those with no voice—
or at least no voice to be heard.
Scribblings on prison walls don’t count.

How much happier to be of the
elect. All would be much simpler:
a sunny life, with the once-in-a-while
balming rain to wash away the doubt
that, perhaps, in some corner
things were as dark and as not right
as the agitators alleged.
Easily forgotten and sloughed.

Or? Chip away, chip by chip,
the stone flaking into the pit,
the marble revealing the form
beneath—beautiful or horrible,
your choice, pay your money, no
refunds after six days, all is
set in motion inexorably.
Life always continues, heedlessly.

Sorrow chooses who it will; chooses
you, or me; him, or her; but it’s
imposed on no one; the gift
can be rejected. It often is.
Sorrow is not despair; it
is fire, and fuel, and heat to warm
the soul. It is the blood of life.
Rest, now; the sun is yet far away.

***