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8.10.14
Dear Friend,
The harvest is on here in Missoula. Labor in the garden has shifted from choosing sides for competing plants to keeping up with berries.
The sweeping undercurrent of this year's harvest is the movement of all that has remained relatively stable of earth long enough for this plenty to establish itself. Earth is on the move everywhere.
I stand amazed that plants still bear fruit.
Having been uprooted with this amazement since January, I am especially grateful this season for friends who are rooted, able to maintain backyard gardens and harvest berries from the hills.
My life has become a prayer. Writing poems keeps me from running naked, frustrated in the streets because I am otherwise helpless to stand in the way of fire shots, to be the one sacrificed instead of the child. I write in solidarity with butterflies and children, the brilliance of summer’s harvest fading. The poems are testament to the insanity of war on ourselves and one another, ideally a lantern in the dark.
When I let Satao's death in, I wanted desperately to let go of rehashing my past and recoil with the present into a single poem. I was tired of telling my own story and the 8.5.14 letter proved to be my exhaustion. I pray that the sharing of experiences fueling and shaping me has been helpful in some way to you and others.
From now on, ex·tinc·tion wit·ness letters will include some reflection from me and/or another on the present monthly witness as introduction to selected poetry, prose, and visual art.
This letter continues with butterfly and the great transformation. Included here are poems from David Whyte, me, Claudia Sanders Brown, and Mahmood Faris, and a reflection from me on right speech.
Mahmood Faris is a young man from Iraq in the zone of fire that rings through the blood. Whatever our relationship to the violence between men and between man and Earth, we all know the poet’s well.
We are born of this water and die to it. Eventually, we all break the surface and live to tell it.
Poems are tendered below the surface. The writing is an inhale, the sharing an exhale. Poems are proof that we can drink a cup full of sorrow's hour without disappearing from ourselves and one another.
I am taking two weeks to be with my son. I will return for another writing with butterfly the last week of August.
I do not know how to measure the monetary value of this witness or a poem from the well. If the writings have been of service to you and you look forward to receiving this monthly witness, please consider offering dana. You may do so by clicking on the ‘support ex·tinc·tion wit·ness’ link at the end of this letter. Soon you will be able to make an offering through the ex·tinc·tion wit·ness website. There is open invitation to contribute toward the $1,500 for programming the full site. 5% of contributions goes toward keeping us up to speed online.
There's a great book Fatal Harvest: The Tragedy of Industrial Agriculture that expounds the mess costing bees and butterflies. May word of this tragedy soak through the marrow of our bones so that stamping out fear becomes the passion of these waking and dreaming hours.
So much of our greater body is gone and going fast. A record is being broken, a record that is old and wanting, a record worn by appreciation of its design, so worn that the song it was made to sing is distorted, too painful to hear. The breaking is to remind us of the original song, a song without borders ~ God's love song.
Love takes the shape of grief when the pleasure of a body goes. There is a relief of joy to be found in diving head first into the well. Breaking the surface of this water is an act of sanity and solidarity, sending ripples of care through the world.
May we all trust that we are free to do whatever we need to do to maintain peace in our persons now and always.
Much love and many blessings,
Megan
PS Please read Kristin Dombek’s opinion article ‘Swimming Against the Rising Tide’ in the New York Times Sunday Review.
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BEGINNING THE END
OF HER BAD DREAMS
she could hear the sound of vinyl
shattering against the wall, to say
stop this, please
she knew then, from the other side
that he'd thrown her favorite record, not because he wanted to floor her,
but because it was the one on the record player
the closest object he could find was the most tired record, played
at least one too many times in that lonely mood, old love songs,
the sad kind, full of lyrics she sang by heart, old man take a look at my life down in a young girl's town screaming in the rain turned loose your mama too not a thing you could do
a razor love cuts clean through
the sound of vinyl shattering against the wall cleared her head
to the beginning of the end of her grief, the first thought arising
from the last note she read
oh my god you just broke my heart
the broken record was the end of all her sad songs, the only way to shatter the illusion of loneliness is to prove the love
tell her there is nothing left to lose, tell her it doesn't mean a thing,
it is not and never was anything real
tell her nothing lasts forever, not even her wildest dream
the only cure for loneliness is God's love, the hand
that cared enough to break the record
~holli
www.meganhollingsworth.com
photo: Yellowstone River Fire Light ©Tom Murphy www.tmurphywild.com
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GUILTY OF POETRY
 1919. The Salish sunset
in the land of the Surrounded
In-mis-sou-let-ka and Sin-yal-min
echoes my longing
to live the poetry in my soul.
Self expression is life itself.
I was born in a lillied prison
secured by patriarchal love.
They tried to make me a hot-house violet.
But I am not tethered in this earth.
I have tendrils and tentacles
that reach for the world and grasp
exotic truths to reveal my own life in high relief.
In tamed Salish lands I learn
from sad and proud natives, fashioning privilege
into visions of justice.
I cast off the fetters
of family and convention
to drown myself in experience.
Hunger consumes me,
"Can it be that sometimes sin
is the crucible that purifies the soul?"
I fly to my fate
how could I know that my wings of wax
and feathers
would carry me too near the sun,
would plunge me deep into the sea?
~Claudia Sanders Brown
Title and quote are taken from THE DREAM MAKER by Helen Fitzgerald Sanders
Photograph: Helen Fitzgerald Sanders 1833-1955
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FLUTTERING WINGS
From cages to freedom sky
from caves to summits so high
from an acumen of a peace man's brain
from the dreams that descends heavily like rain
the wheezing sounds of wind, I listen to
how much I love those sounds knocking my ear
a mythical trumpet of air
at midnight when everything is quiet
life, birds, and even souls
sleepy ticks of the clock
beams of a little lamp
sitting beside me
illuminating the words of a book I dive in
shadows of the beams cast over a wall carrying a masterpiece of art
narrating stories of determination
such a beautiful time to remember
to remember faces in the throng of my life in years and December
some of the faces I can no longer live without seeing their radiance
some, peace banner can't be raised without their brilliance
some let down peace at time when the forest is in dark and you hear nothing except horror sounds.
Full of snakes
when a child weeps of being deprived
deprived, being an orphan
deprived, being hungry
deprived, being thrown in the lap of loneliness and thirst.
The peace weeps
yes, peace weeps
so deep
but peace washes its tears
yes, peace rises
and then beeps
beeps a little sound, its vocal cord, like that of the winds', no one hears it except whose soul leaps
but a gush of pure water force
will remove the entire evil source.
CREED OF PETALS
Dream
rises
each day
next day
a day before
and after tomorrow
till nowhere
still bearing the sorrow I am in
a paper thin
a rim of petals
making the hedge of a flower
an edge for embracing the bee within.
Green
brim
wildlife sanctuary
threatened with extinction.
Should we make an exception? Or distinction
It's not just a destination, it's a destiny
tiny
fine
to be, or not to be
I just want to break the ice.
Well, you already broke it, and actually, you are sinking!
Miniature of the old days
swift
glimmer man walking with the aid of a cane, though he's healthy, and has no plain or hidden problems
trying to fly
phantasmagoria.
Is it beautiful? Painful
or ugly to be experienced?
So it might be my dream next time
whether the weather is withering
what's your favorite color my dear?
Is it vanishing away through the wind?!
The sun is squashing, a squeezing light
or
a possessed puppet, a crying mouse wearing a gown, that's a bat!
We should stay pursuant to feelings of our hearts
whirlwind but worthwhile
begin boarding on your imaginary plane, a giant taking you to the Land of Bright
but a bet's a bet
so
my temperature spiked on hearing the news
but
again
limbering up
waiting
for a touch of magic that causes a breath to be taken away enchanted!
I support you with all my might
OK?
A river from up a mountain
down to the deepest hole to come out as a well, youth fountain
natural or burrowed by some exploits
Me
is someone
a swain
yearning
to the
swan
a moment and a whim
~Mahmood Faris
Mahmood Faris is a 23 year-old junior doctor. He has been writing English poetry for about five years. Mahmood is influenced by the modern American poets and literature. He loves peace, tranquility, and tolerance. He is a philanthropist and a volunteer. He believes that humanity links us all above all ideologies, because we all carry the same set of 46 chromosomes. He is Mesopotamian. He has lived in the conflict of war, which ruined his country these past years, and he tries all his efforts to change the wrong ideas about Iraq and Iraqis, and to help rebuild his torn country.
Next month ex·tinc·tion wit·ness together with Sister Cities Missoula & Mosul will host poetry readings with contributions from Mahmood and others who survive war, whether explosions veil near stars or defy distances from the core.
You can join wherever you are with 100K poets for change September 27.
Everywhere is war on innocence. The disappearance of butterfly is no less an assault on the soul than target practice on children. May this assault transform our daily practice into something that is honest.
Peace is attention to the present even when the present is war and mass extinction. Attention to what is happening now makes peace with now.
Honesty is peace of mind.
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and i know i held the match that burned millions
yes, something of Hitler is in my soul
and i burned too, after he spread tar in my mouth
for telling the truth
in solidarity with the solitary prisoner, i sit alone
with God in search of understanding for the harms
inflicted by the battered child
harms no man will forgive though revenge appeases
~from IN SOLIDARITY I AM |
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THE DELICATE ART OF TELLING OUR STORIES
by Megan Hollingsworth
It is so important to tell our painful stories. Telling lets light into dark spaces. Yet, caution is care. The very fine line between telling our own stories and telling someone else's story is easily crossed. Michael Stone offers a lovely reflection on the poisons of gossip in his Summer 2014 letter.
With fear still at the center last year, I listened to gossip and it clouded my deepest intuition. It is harmful to spread words like labels on others. As Michael notes, labels passed on always reflect moments out of context, incomplete, and out of integrity. To understand a person by way of a label once pinned to him, is like making sense of a puzzle by looking at a single piece. Such narrowness is not understanding. It is ignorance.
Labels poison the well with a snapshot of something past. Labels do not allow the past to be the past, so the past keeps repeating itself. A piece of what was becomes what is.
The person does not grow out of old harmful patterns until those old patterns are released, as in forgiven. Forgotten, as in replaced with a fresh pattern.
To be of integrity in love, a person must be free of judgment of self and other for past harms that stemmed from original wounds. The root of the restorative justice movement is community ritual that ensured this release of harms.
In very rare cases a true sociopath may be shaped by trauma. This person is in need solely of protection because he is so dangerous for himself and others. When the sociopath is not protected his suffering can devour the world.
Be mindful of speech. The safest is to refrain from speaking of those who are absent, holding your attention to your story as if it was written without another even if another happened to be present. Another option is fiction telling. Anything shared of the past in detail is, in essence, fiction.
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DAWN/S 2013 Full Length
from Norma Silva
Set in the public space, DAWN/S explores the rebirth
and transformation into a new being, that keeps, nevertheless,
the essence of what is left behind.
see DAWN/S at Vimeo here
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VIRGIN (7:20 ~minute film)
see VIRGIN at Vimeo here
For this film, virgin is used in the original sense:
“Virgin was a label of strength and independence
by being used to describe the goddesses who were immune
to the temptations of Dionysus, Greek god of seduction
and wine. Virginity was once a term of power.”
~Palo Alto Medical Foundation
To VIRGIN is to proclaim
the GREATEST
HUMAN TRAITS.
VIRGIN documents healing ceremonies in redwood forests of California, weaving poetry and song to convey a message of compassion for the perpetrator and victim in all of us.
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a brief on
VIRGIN
includes some of the poetry
featured in VIRGIN and a brief
on the intent of this production
at vimeo
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Brazilian officials warn of ‘imminent’ death
of uncontacted Indians ~ 26 June 2014
please read Survival
please see aerial footage
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invitation to pause is a 3.5-minute film
introducing ex·tinc·tion wit·ness
and some of the collaborating artists
Please see invitation to pause here
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Feral Theatre's
Funeral for Lost Species
Please see this short film for highlights from a performance and sculpture installation at St Peter's Church, Brighton Fringe Festival, May 2011. Many artists contributed to this innovative exploration of extinction and ecological grief, in which audiences and participants engaged on a visceral and emotional level with humankind's power to destroy and create.
See 'Funeral for Lost Species' on Vimeo
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this Extinction Symbol is NOT
an ex·tinc·tion wit·ness creation
and ex·tinc·tion wit·ness encourages
the placement of this symbol
in public spaces
you may even tattoo this on your skin
per the request of the artist
who is based in the UK
please DO NOT commercialize
the extinction symbol
ie please DO NOT print the symbol on t-shirts
mugs or other products for sale
please create this symbol
in your own way
in a special place
preferably in view for all to see
Thank You!
more at Extinction Symbol
join in at flickr group
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with the exception of a few
this list of sources shifts monthly
in keeping with the specific group
ex·tinc·tion wit·ness attends to
August 2014 is with butterfly
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IMAGE CREDITS in order of appearance
Cup Full of Wild
© Tom Murphy
www.tmurphywild.com
Yellowstone River Fire Light
© Tom Murphy
www.tmurphywild.com
abstract still from DAWN/S
vimeo/DAWN/S
abstract still from VIRGIN
©Tree Ring Productions 11.13/ex•tinc•tion wit•ness 7.14
uncontacted Indians
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