– either a surfeit or a deficit of faith. Either way,
all my incredulous anger somehow elects
to curl itself around, back inwards,
sets to something far more solid: I refuse
(with a stubbornness I’ve been told is unbecoming,
unfeminine, inappropriate), right from the root,
to let this experience diminish me,
to beat my heart down
back into the easy shallow peace of cynicism,
keeping pace with the mute, drowsy rhythm
of our shitty broken culture
of forgetfulness, resignation.
I know this poem is like something a teenager
might write, too raging and too earnest,
but so what? Why is it so embarrassing
to allow ourselves to feel anything?
I don’t want to be inured, resigned, despondent
in the face of all the senseless destruction and injustice,
the dull complicity. If I’m angry
then I have every fucking reason to be.
And that anger is beautiful: a great bright
thrust of energy, action, hope, confidence,
knowledge,
love.
Cate Chapman