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Poetry by Shigé Clark

"Let the battered heart rejoice"

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The Last Two Coins

May be a black-and-white image of text that says 'You get it all. However small, I'm emptying the stores. The hope. The care. What wealth is there, the last two coins are Yours.'

I need you
to know, if this were
all, it would not only be
enough, but more
than I ever conceived – ever dared
in hoping for.
What a way to live – aflame
with trees, and sky, and sense, and
words like grain
pushing through the hard-packed earth.
Is it possible
to be so full
and not to burst?

That is why you must
know that this piece was enough
to bear the whole. A gasping at the brink
of tide. If this relief
is all you should provide, and even if
my lungs should shrivel in the sinking
now, it is well
received. Goodness is
carried far as grief. Our lighter
gift, too oft dimmed beneath
that oily blanket – but it
burns. It burns the longer,
through the age of man
and yonder. All else is
concealment, that lights at last
on the eternal flame.

I mean to say –

this one spark
proves all
enough
to burn
the dark
away.

to my weary warriors

A little poetic doodle for today:

I wish the world was softer for you. I wish
It touched you with feathered fingertips
And didn’t twist its fist into your chest like
One at war – when I know
That you don’t want to fight,
That you would talk it out if
Anyone would listen. I would lift
This burden from your shoulders
If I could. I would warm the colder
Corners of this house with all the light
That doesn’t shine outside.
I would hide you, if the choice were mine.
I would guide you to align
Yourself with peace, and protect you
From the harm. I would warn you away
From all that grieves you, keep you
From the fray, and ever sheltered
From the world that needs you.

Grateful (from Hutchmoot: Homebound)

For those who’ve asked for it, here’s my poem Grateful that I wrote during Hutchmoot: Homebound.


I am grateful. 
Darkness pulls at the edge of my cloak, and
I am grateful to stand 
in the smoke. I am able 
to laugh as I choke 
under scorched skies. 
Milky eyes leave streaks 
through dust tracks on my cheeks, ash 
rains down around me in the streets,
Father, the world is on fire. 
I raise my hands higher 
in the flames,
I am more than dust, and rust, and pain. 
I am grateful

for the strain
of music running through the veins
of earth. For the birth
of new joy in a hurricane
of woes. For those 
who raise their horns 
to split the night asunder. For thorns
shoved into willing brows and the thunder
of hooves on battle plains. For those who bow
under the weight and laugh beside me. 
For the dark that could not hide me,
and the dawn that always rises in the east. 
For the feast to come, 
that’s starting here
with table scraps of grace
and the light of shattered gold on every face.

Every trace of truth, it matters 
and it breaks 
into the battered body 
like a song. I am wrecked, 
and sore, 
and long to rest. 
But more, and more, and more, and best,
I am grateful.


If you’d like to hear the poem in it’s spoken-word form, you can watch it here on the Rabbit Room blog.

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Advent

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All Anew and Twice as Bold

All Anew and Twice as Bold

Unguarded Ground

Throwback Thursday: A Life Unchained

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