Quantum States of Mary

Poems I wrote while I was homeless, with autobiographical notes.
November 1995:

Wes Browning, a long-time member of StreetLife Gallery, was also active with Real Change, Seattle's street-newspaper, which covered homeless and poverty issues and was sold by homeless vendors. He took my poem down to Real Change, and the next time Tim Harris, the Real Change director, was visiting Wes at the gallery, they invited me to join the Real Change editorial committee.

The December issue was being collected: a women's issue. I had one poem that I had been working on literally for years, that had begun with the image of Mary nursing the Christ child under the shadow of a cross on the stable wall, and the thought, "Oh my God, did she know?" I had more images now that I wanted to add, and a motivation to get it done for the Christmas issue. When I had it completed, it was a two-page poem -- I submitted it anyway.

Not only was it published, as a two-page spread, it was listed on the cover, and the cover art by Wes Browning was based on it.

Quantum States of Mary

Mary,
holding your baby;
did you see a shadow fall
on the stable wall?
Did the wise men dare to tell you
all they knew?

Mary,
who are you?

Frightened child bride,
towed by an angry Joseph
through the swirl of history,
shouting prophets
thundering over your huddled form...

Untouched maiden
meekly kneeling
to the Master of the Universe,
raising one cuckoo
and a flock of sparrows,
never losing serenity
or innocence...

Conniving seductress
foisting her bastard off on God,
hoaxing Joseph to raise it,
muddling the boy into visions,
all to mask your own guilt...

Daughter of the prophets
poised in ancient wisdom,
cuddling the sweetest infant
to the tenderest breast,
nursing him to sacrifice and glory...

Mary,
who are you?

Mary,
did you ever fear?

Joseph,
cuckold of God -
did he take it out on you?

Or was he so kind and noble
you felt unworthy,
distrusting any moment
of anger
or any human weakness?

Your child-man
who never cried at night,
or begged for toys
then broke them,
who never raided the cookie jar,
or rubbed dirt in his best friend's hair -
did you know how weird he was,
before you raised the other boys?

Did you ever lie awake
with some deep grief;
did he come hold your hand,
wisdom far too ancient in his eyes?

When you found him
lecturing the scholars,
did you see a cross-shaped shadow
on his path?

Did you fear for him, Mary?
Did you fear Him?

Mary,
I am afraid.

To fall,
to fail,
to feel...
I am afraid of pain
and of the long slow numbing dark
without pain...

Mary,
I do not know
who I am.

With no home and no money
am I helpless,
hopeless,
sick and pitiful?

Am I angry,
robbed and ruined
by the System,
Them,
the Others,
Mother,
Men?

Am I stupid,
wrong,
a wicked woman,
reaping the returns
of evil ways?

Am I the player,
one strike down
but grinning,
setting my feet
to jump back in the game?

Mary,
am I your child?
Will you hold and warm me
until I am ready
for my destiny?

Mary,
am I your sister?

Mary,
where are you?

Have you found your ground
beyond the swirl of history,
cascading quantum images
others painted for you;
have you made a place
to be your self?

Mary,
show me.

In Honor of Boyd McLaughlin: November 3, 1995

In November of 1995, we had a tragedy at the StreetLife art gallery. Boyd McLaughlin, a generous spirit who had helped and encouraged many new arrivals to the gallery, died. I wrote a tribute to Boyd which later became the opening piece of a Homeless Memorials webpage.

Nothing Much to Say

(I)

The world seems cruel
     in the face of pain.
A suffocation of silences.
When if we tried to speak
    we would scream,
    then we are silent.
When what we feel
    fills our throat
    then we are silent.
When what we should feel
    is not what we do feel,
    then we are silent.
When we don't feel
    and we don't know how
    then we are silent.

People die curled around their pain _
    unable to say what hurts. 
We cannot find the words 
    to make it right. 
Helpless to help, 
    we turn away.

Nothing much to say...

(II)

When an artist dies
    what can you say
    to equal the art
    that's gone out of the world?

(III)

Rub someone's shoulders.
Drink gingerale. Eat pizza.
Make more art.
What else can you do?

In honor of Boyd McLaughlin 11/3/95

Boyd McLaughlin died on November 2, 1995 at the age of forty-four.

Boyd came into Seattle's StreetLife Gallery, "the home of homeless art," fresh off a greyhound from Montana. He was trying to get off of cocaine and turn his life around; he threw his life into the Gallery.

In a year Boyd went from homeless and searching to housed and working as a prolific, self-taught artist offering inspiration, instruction, love and generosity to hundreds of artists walking in off the street looking to the Gallery for healing themselves.

He was at the Gallery eight or more hours a day, seven days a week, and the service providers who managed the Gallery at that time became concerned about him. They insisted that the Gallery close two days a week, Wednesday and Thursday, so that Boyd would have some time to himself.

Within two days, Boyd was dead. On a Thursday night.

It may be circumstantial, or not. But please hesitate the next time you want to decide for someone else what is best for them.

My first street poems

I grew up in a family where reading and writing were considered normal human activities. I wrote my first poem when I was five. I have written poetry all my life, and even published a few, in spite of Writer's Marketing Block. My poetry has improved the most in the toughest periods of my life.

In 1995, I lived on a friend's couch for eight months, in depression. During that depression I wrote only one poem. Because I now call couch-surfing being "homeless in denial," I will include that one here -- when I find it. A lot gets lost in the Great Gray Fog.

Finally I became officially homeless. I was fortunate: Seattle has good community health clinics, and after 40 years of undiagnosed and untreated manic depression (bipolar disorder), I was finally diagnosed. I was doubly fortunate: the first time I walked into a homeless shelter was the night a mental health outreach worker was there, and she got my prescription filled. I was triply fortunate: I respond well to Lithium.

Only a week after I began taking Lithium, I was able to push myself into participating in a craft project at Noel House, the homeless women's shelter where I stayed. We were making Halloween cards. This was the first poem I had written in several months.

Now all threatening shadows
open
into warmth and light.

I continued to become increasingly active. I moved from the staffed shelter of Noel House to a self-managed SHARE shelter, and became a member of StreetLife Gallery, a self-managed co-op of homeless and formerly homeless artists.

I was still confident of my writing, but I wanted to do something more visual at the art gallery, so I decided to try something new. I checked out some books from the library on handmade paper and found art, and walking back I "found" this poem.

Creating With Found Objects

Out of Limbo
I come
to find
myself
scattered
across the pavement
I search
creating
with found objects
a life.

In the months to come, poetry would help me recreate a life. I started a writing workshop for homeless and low-income people (who often have a hard time finding, or fitting into, other writing workshops). Many times I saw the same, infinitely rewarding, phenomenon: someone shuffles in with that "gray pavement" face; says that they can't write; starts moving a pen across the paper because this pushy old woman tells them to; something from their heart flows out; they read it out loud; they look around the table and see other people listening; their face transforms, their eyes light up with a sense of self, their body sits up and comes back to life.

The first couple of years of the workshop, I often heard lines like, "Homeless people don't need to be writing poetry! Homeless people need to be out finding a job!" I don't get those comments any more. A number of homeless service organizations have started writing programs and art programs. People noticed that if people are going to recreate our lives, we need our creativity.