What about Africa? What about the Oceans?

 

We cry for Ukraine and beg Russia to stop.

We agonize for Gaza and beg Israel and Hamas to stop.

We pray daily.

But what about Africa? What about the health centers destroyed, women and girls at risk of rape and murder? Children dying of hunger? Aid workers forced to leave and food programs, vaccination efforts and HIV prevention ended?

 

We fight for our endangered species and forests.

We beg for habitats to be left alone.

We beg to keep our national parks and protected lands free from pipelines and drills.

We demand clean air and forests.  We write letters and march.

But what about the ocean? What about the dying coral reefs? What about the beached whales, dolphins and sea lions? What about the fish swimming north to colder waters?

 

Africa, you are enormous, with scores of countries – each with its own resources, needs and priorities.  Why are we leaving you vulnerable to exploiters?

Mother Ocean, you are the source of all life.  Hidden.  Mysterious and Inviolate.  Until now. Why are we polluting you and heating you and overfishing you to the point of no return?

Africa and the Ocean.

This is a short love letter.

Year of the Snake

 

The falling snow says it’s okay to hide.

We have a blanket under which to consider

The extremity of our emergency –

An emergency of perception, of consciousness

And understanding –

Our human connection to all life

And even to each other

Now a topic for debate.

 

We’re watching a battle of storytellers

The eloquent and the unintelligible –

Given equal time by the conmen.

The most appalling thing is how well organized

And constructed the shell game was,

Each move calculated to hide the worst crimes

Amidst outrageous and unbelievable acts

That must be fought singly.

 

Meanwhile, they tighten their grip on us

In their aeries which we cannot enter,

Even with the tallest ladder.

Does that sound too abstract?

In fact, the stage of action happens

On the plane of imagination.

A battle of ideas where the key to winning

Is to link up soul to soul.

 

Keep reaching out to grab another hand,

And reunite,

Until our majority is too obvious to ignore.

And if they attempt to divide us,

We remerge, incorporate our limbs

Drawing into ourselves

New strength.

 

One act at a time, one hand at a time,

Even one poem at a time,

Until our long body of separate segments

Joins and begins to hum –

You can hear it like a song –

Beneath the snow,

Without words and more powerful for that.

 

Our one long body sheds its skin

Uncovering the deep and vibrant pattern

Of our true design –

With full mobility – now freed from

Counting steps,

We glide into our own future,

Orienting ourselves by

The heartbeat of the earth.

 

Zakir's Gift

 

 

1

 Each of us is a hollow bone

That can fill with the sublime truth of music,

And carried on that wind

Our rascal selves dissolve,

Our will-o’-wisp trails

Shimmer insubstantial,

Like motes in a rolling wave,

And when enticed again into form,

We know the miraculousness

Of simple acts.

 

Each step has rhythm if we can find it,

The call and response of life.

Each of us no more and no less vital

Than the notes within a symphony.

It is the counterpoint between us

That makes the harmony.

And shall we call down that wind of sound?

It only works through us if we hollow ourselves.

 

To find the common thread

In the frenecy of the marketplace

Is the gift of a master.

One needs a different ear

To find that melody.

Perhaps an old sense must be deadened.

The sound of birds in flight,

The cacophony of monsoon rain

No less than crickets murmuring in the night,

Or growing grass

Reaching for the sun.

 

It is a kindness (music)

Some may feel as touch.

(Music) shows the common taste

Of happiness and sadness.

The bottomless joy that is beyond

That great ground from which we spring.

We keep returning to this place

Because the ending always makes us want for more.

 

2

 

Zakir says “the second half will be …

The second half.”

 

And how can we not dance

When every part of us vibrates,

And how would the bird fly

Without the wind?

Oh, let me be the flute

Through which your wind blows,

And let me be the drum

On which your hands thump.

 

 

Zakir Hussain, master percussionist, inspired me to write this poem when I attended a free concert at Skinner Hall, Vassar College on October 7, 2012.

This incomparable musician just died December 15, 2024 at age 73. I will never forget hearing him play.