Tomas Tranströmer, "Kyrie"

Hi all --

Happy New Year everyone. It feels both strange and intuitive to say that; these are exceedingly grim times. We are surrounded by murder and death. Those in charge only know how to throw fatal tantrums, as we witnessed in the multiple bombings of Venezuela and, just yesterday, the shooting in Minneapolis. And a lot of us don't know how to deal with power other than defer to it, so we pretend that everything is fine, that the news of our neighbors means to distract.

How can anyone wish a Happy New Year under these circumstances? For my part, I'm struggling to write out my resolutions–we are nearly 10 days into the new year!–because I don't know if I recognize that 2025 has passed. Resolutions connect directly with hope. If given a chance, we believe things can change, we resolve that they will. Against that is the classical understanding of political instability, of revolution gone awry. When disorder and violence reign, time stands still. The revolution is only a circle, if that.

The Trumpian project is regime change, as Roosevelt Montas once said. It explicitly aims to replace democratic norms with rants from cable news and Facebook groups. A fundamental loneliness stalks many of those who argue that U.S. citizen children with cancer should be expelled from the country, and they have no choice but to use the full power of the U.S. government to validate themselves. So here we are. Many flood this country with incredible goods, making sure people are cared for and can care for others. And despite this, it isn't clear we have a future. We'll never know the greatest heroes because they are overwhelmed with superhuman tasks to prevent further damage. Society lacks the capacity to let them shine.

It would be nice to have hope as a grounding spirit for resolutions, but that is a luxury at the moment. I need to resolve myself first and learn to hope. I resolve that I will find ways to be happy in this new year, despite the preeminence of ignorance and hatred.

"Meet Tony, the Bird Protector of a Texas Prison," by Cesar Hernandez

I did say that whenever I write for this blog, I will highlight the voices of the incarcerated.

Mr. Hernandez is currently incarcerated in Beaumont, TX. "Meet Tony, the Bird Protector of a Texas Prison" speaks to the complicated dynamics of prison life. People will pay for birds, as they would love animal companionship, or just a hint of the natural world and its wildness:

It’s incredible to see a neighbor instantly change when they are holding a baby bird. Recently, I walked out of my cell and saw Ricardo, a fellow resident, glowing. He smiled nonstop while feeding the baby bird a bread slice. People told him there was pizza for lunch. “I’m not going to lunch,” he said. “I’m holding on to this baby bird since it’ll probably be permanently gone out the window when I let it go.”

But the birds are struggling to survive, too. I came away from reading this thinking about how incarceration uncovers deeper needs all of us have but don't quite realize. I take for granted I can pet a dog or cat. I don't dwell on what a privilege it is to be able to do that, nor do I realize how that informs my sense of being in the world. Maybe it is time I reflected more closely on both those things.

Tomas Tranströmer, "Kyrie"

Tranströmer's "Kyrie" brings us to a dramatic, powerful moment which I struggle to imagine: "At times my life suddenly opens its eyes in the dark." It sounds like a combination of revelation and nightmare, like Yeats in "The Second Coming," but serves as less a vision of the apocalypse and more a worry about abandonment. E.g. "...I remain here and no one sees me."

I was drawn to the poem because I am thinking about the new year, the hell we're going through, and Tranströmer's line "my life suddenly opens its eyes in the dark." Have I ever experienced such a thing? I can recall wonderful experiences, like the time a class threw me a surprise celebration for my birthday. I remember trying, awful times I was not at my best. But a sudden revelation? I may dwell on the past too much to have the sudden awareness, the sudden terror, that all is not as it seems.

Kyrie
Tomas Tranströmer (tr. Robert Bly)

At times my life suddenly opens its eyes in the dark.
A feeling of masses of people pushing blindly
through the streets, excitedly, toward some miracle,
while I remain here and no one sees me.

It is like the child who falls asleep in terror
listening to the heavy thumps of his heart.
For a long, long time till morning puts his light in the locks
and the doors of darkness open.

Current events estrange me from what Tranströmer outlines: "A feeling of masses of people pushing blindly / through the streets, excitedly, toward some miracle." As I'm writing, thousands are protesting murderous state and federal policing. They are in the streets, yelling at cops "You can't kill us all." I don't know that those opposed to them are "pushing blindly... toward some miracle," either. Those who wish violence upon their neighbors are trapped in their sadness.

Weirdly, this means it is all the more important to know what Tranströmer feels. What is it like when everyone yearns for a taste of the miraculous, abandoning anyone not part of the throng? Do they even see each other? And I think the depth of Tranströmer's vision becomes apparent here. I am watching my fellow Americans learn to yearn for justice and solidarity. But this has always been the country of land speculation schemes, quack cures, and religions which tell you what you want to hear. If you strive for authenticity, not the so-called honesty indulged by those who continually act out, you are alone. Note how few people can diagnose President Trump with the lack of courage to face his own mortality. The triviality of legacy ties to a mass inability to appreciate maturity.

Tranströmer tells us he has been like "the child who falls asleep in terror / listening to the heavy thumps of his heart." The mere mention of "child" makes me think of Jesus' "Let the children come to me," the priority of childlike wonder in a world of con-artists, know-it-alls, and fanatics. In this poem, there is no wonder, but the resolve that fear is justified, that a retreat and loneliness are not the worst thing. The worst is to thirst for acceptance no matter what. Enlightenment, you could say, depends on accepting one's own skepticism, the task of reason. The child must wait "[f]or a long, long time till morning puts his light in the locks / and the doors of darkness open." Patience with the uncomfortable is the only serious response to massive, unyielding ignorance.