by Ann Grogan
after George Eliot, “The Choir Invisible” and William Henry Channing, “My Symphony”
after George Eliot, “The Choir Invisible” and William Henry Channing, “My Symphony”
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George Eliot prayed that she reach
the purest heaven;
be the cup of strength to those in agony.
I cannot seem to save myself.
I pray only to survive while
grasping at the crumbling edges
of a giant hole into which I fall.
I cannot seem to save myself.
I try to smile, try to join in,
feed pure love, ignore the vile,
turn the world back to being kind.
I cannot seem to find the time.
What sweet luxury Channing had,
to advise we “bear all cheerfully…
await occasions, hurry never.”
I cannot seem to find the time.
I don’t want to live in a world
where immigrants are not respected
or given dignity.
And yet it seems I do.
I don’t want to live in a world
where women bleed out in cars because
craven doctors betray oaths to care for us.
And yet it seems I do.
Better Buddhist than bleary-eyed,
refusing the light that drives me on
to cry for help as we drown.
I cannot seem to find the light.
I try the common, I try the quiet,
I try to listen then to sing,
but stars refuse to shine on me.
I cannot seem to find the light.
the purest heaven;
be the cup of strength to those in agony.
I cannot seem to save myself.
I pray only to survive while
grasping at the crumbling edges
of a giant hole into which I fall.
I cannot seem to save myself.
I try to smile, try to join in,
feed pure love, ignore the vile,
turn the world back to being kind.
I cannot seem to find the time.
What sweet luxury Channing had,
to advise we “bear all cheerfully…
await occasions, hurry never.”
I cannot seem to find the time.
I don’t want to live in a world
where immigrants are not respected
or given dignity.
And yet it seems I do.
I don’t want to live in a world
where women bleed out in cars because
craven doctors betray oaths to care for us.
And yet it seems I do.
Better Buddhist than bleary-eyed,
refusing the light that drives me on
to cry for help as we drown.
I cannot seem to find the light.
I try the common, I try the quiet,
I try to listen then to sing,
but stars refuse to shine on me.
I cannot seem to find the light.
Ann Grogan is a joyful octogenarian, retired lawyer, and emerging poet who lives in San Francisco, CA. Her writing promotes the unequivocal permission to pursue one’s passions at any age. Her poems have appeared in Little Old Lady, The Prairie Review, Querencia, the University of Vermont’s Continuing Education Newsletter, and on KAWL Public Media “Bay Poets”, and is forthcoming in Amethyst Review. She’s the author of two volumes of poetry, Poetic Musings on Pianos, Music & Life. Her music and poetry website is rhapsodydmb.com.
