Last week, Josh posted a piece, a sermon of sorts, on the meaning of success. He centered his own definition on the peace and presence of God, and he challenged us to add our own thoughts to the symposia.
A few days ago I began working on a response, but as I look at my unfinished draft I see now that my effort had nothing of the testimony of Josh’s challenge. Mine was more of a poem of sorts: a grappling, an attempt to balance things, but, so far, an inconclusion. “I cannot tell you what success means,” I began. But then I went on telling you anyway, and not succeeding.
Yesterday Kirsten posted a piece, another poem of sorts, on a failure she has perceived in our supposedly successful hamlet of Lake Forest. You won’t find that post here, though, because she apparently removed it on the same day.
But what is success, if we don’t also add the f word, failure, to the conversation? And, this being a symposium, by name and by Joshua’s challenge, we should have this conversation too.
Kirsten hesitated about posting her poem because it contained the other f word. We could have a whole symposium on that - and Dan, you have discussed this before, too, on the way Radiohead’s Creep loses its poignancy with a radio edit. But right now I’m more interested in considering how Kirsten’s poem, following Josh’s challenge, ought to be restored to the conversation. With her permission, and with a little editing, I am reposting it.
Lake Forest, IL
Success is making me lose my mind,
the way it twists the truth beyond all recognition
then shames the people who shame themselves
and praises those sent straight to jail
and wonders if victims belong there too
and maybe we do.
Maybe success is right,
and we are the ones who fucked up,
lost control and forgot ourselves,
and maybe it’s failure that’s making me
lose my mind.
But I say no,
no more of this society of slut-shaming
and the judgmental juries of so-called peers.
They type out their verdicts,
and I can’t hold back my tears.
No more defending and pretending,
sweeping morality under the rug.
Success, the fakest town in America,
is getting a reality check.
And yes, success is making me lose
my mind, my morality,
and I need to get away.
---
I will keep working on my own poem, and what success means to me. But for now, thank you Kirsten, for sharing your poem. And consider this: success is not a town on the north shore, and the failures of that town are not your own.
My current definition of 'art' (help tweak, as I want such definitions to be accurate, efficient, considerate): Art is form and content that compels revisits and propels imagination.
ReplyDeleteMy still current definition of 'poetry': Poetry is the height and depth and brea[d]th of language.
And poems like yours, Kirsten, confirm both of these definitions for me. I like the descending stanza structure that forecasts the final line and the personification of success and failure--even on the level of community organisms. I love your discrete and resolute voice and the balance of verve and vulnerability.
Emma has some poems she read at school, and even if she hasn't seen this poem (not that she's never heard the f word, but we'll let age happen as it should), she knows she is among a heritage of poetry-makers. Inspired by your poems on Stillwater, I'll post hers hereafter.
Sbohem