As I continue on my path of becoming less of a nurse and more of a writer, I decided to attend a writer’s conference.  For me, writing takes  a lot of time.  Studying writing and learning about it takes even more time, which is why I don’t usually do much of it.  I know I should read more but life takes over.  I know I should read more but I fall asleep after about an hour of it (unless it is absolutely riveting).  I have a daughter who reads a lot and writes beautifully – she is the one who suggested I come to the conference, which she also will be attending.  I have a feeling that for three days we will be immersed in a world that is different from the one we normally inhabit.  I have asked myself, “how can I prepare for this?”   The voice in my head answered “By reading some of the books (untouched) on your shelf – stupid.”  My inner voice calls me stupid sometimes but I know it is said with affection and I don’t let it bother me.

I picked up a book this morning and read a poem that I liked.  I liked the way the author analyzed the poem too.  The book is “Praying through Poetry: Hope for Violent Times” by Peggy Rosenthal.  The poem is “The Translation of Raimundo Luz: My Imitation”

I sold my possessions, even the colorful pencils.

I gave all my  money to the dull. I gave my poverty

to the president. I became a child again, naked

and relatively innocent. I let the president have my guilt.

I found a virgin and asked her to be my mother.

She held me very sweetly.

I watched father build beautiful shapes with wood.

He too had a gentle way.

I made conversation in holy places with the chosen.

Their theater was grim.

I suggested they cheer up.  Many repented,

albeit elaborately.

I floated the wide river on a raft.

I set Jim free.

I revised every word.

One morning, very early, I was taken by brutes and beaten.

I was nailed to a cross so sturdy I thought

father himself might have shaped it.

I gestured for a cool drink and was mocked.

I took on the sins of the world and regretted my extravagance.

I gave up and died.  I descended into hell

and spoke briefly with the president.

I rose again, bloodless and feeling pretty good.

I forgave everything.  

-author, Scott Cairns