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This morning, not ten minutes ago, I removed eight poems that I have written over the last few weeks about a particular political situation, and a particular politician whom I intensely dislike.

Nothing I write can change the course of History, the course of the news cycle (whatever direction it takes) or the ultimate balance of power in Washington D.C., or Columbus, Ohio, or my own municipality.  But what I write can damage a friendship; and, for a time, did damage a friendship---damage done not just because I wanted the last word to assert my own political views, but also over a perfectly legitimate disagreement about a type of poetry I have written and its ultimate value.  

About five minutes before I deleted the political poems, I had received a Christmas wish from the friend with whom I had become angry (three years ago this very month), and whose---through God's Grace and Mercy upon me, has forgiven me and resumed conversation.  That Christmas wish, delivered through PostPoems' PM system, is a tremendous gift to have received; and I have thanked my friend, and also the Lord, for this unexpected gesture.  

My friend is wiser than I am, more discrete, and more of a gentleman.  I should like to say that I hope to be such a gentleman when I grow up, but I do not believe I will live long enough to be that grown up.  

I have believed that my vocation to Poetry placed upon me certain expectations---a couple of which I have not finished or completed yet.  To spend my poetic capital on controversially political subjects is a violation of my Faith, I now realize.  Did the Early Christians write doggerel about a politican they disliked?  No, not even when one of those politicians was using them as human torches to light his late dinners in his extensive garden.  Can I do less than they did, and then hope to enjoy their fellowship?

Postpoems is a major part of my existence, the more so since I became semi-paralyzed and confined to this chair, except for the few instances when I am taken out for fresh air on my way to a medical appointment.  I have cherished and valued my membership at Postpoems since my very first day here; it has fulfilled my wildest dreams, and then some, by allowing me to publish to my heart's content.  In 2001, I wanted to be a Poet---but an internet Poet, just a name attached to a poem, like a Poet I admire, whose wrote under the name Void, and whose too few poems are mighty hard to find, but worth the search.  

I think my New Year's resolution should be made early, and should be this:  to ensure that my poetry, such as it is, iswritten according to my understanding of Poetry since July 16th, 1994, when I felt myself really called to Poetry---not to political commentary, not to satire, and most certainly not to vitriol and vituperation.  In his first letter to the Corinthian Christians, the Apostle Saint Paul said he would give up eating meat if it offended one of his brethren.  Now I, myself, never miss a meal, so I do not think I can make so sweeping a statement; but I would like to modify the intention such that I will not write a political poem---and we all know what they are and how they sound---if I suspect it will offend one of my neighbors at PostPoems.  

From 2012 or so until November of 2016, we used to play Euchre with a couple with whom we attended church.  These were Saturday night events, usually with pizza or lots of ice cream.  We never, until about October of 2016, discussed politics---or even who should be elected to the deaconships at church.  During our card party just prior to the election day of that year, our friends---not us, but our friends---demanded we discuss the candidates.  We attempted to decline politely, and they continued to press.  Finally, we admitted that we could not, in all conscience, support the candidate whom our friends happened to apparently believe was next in godliness to Christ Himself.  The remaining hads of Euchre to complete a tenpoint game were much quieter than usual, and we all excused ourselves at the end of that game, claiming exhaustion.  We departed their home; and . . . since that time . . . we have never been invited back; and when I was hospitalized in November and December of 2019, and then stayed in a rehab facility for a couple of more months, they neither visited me, nor even called to inquire of my family how I might be doing.

I cite this as an example of how divisive politics in this country have become, almost like the decades prior to the Civil War.  I am not willing to bring any part of that divisive spirit into Postpoems again.  I believe I have purged my collection of poems of any political stuff; but I will be checking, in the next several days, to make sure of it.  Poetry is an art form that enters politics at its own risk; and I am not willing to risk any further friendships, or the peace and quiet of Postpoems (at least in my corner of it) for politics.  Politics is for the polls, not for my poems.

Starward

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