Mindful Poetry Gathering- April 10, 2024

Fleeting temples of tenderness.

Thank you to all who attended our second Mindful Poetry Gathering of National Poetry Month 2024! We listened and contemplated the poem "Small Kindnesses" by Danusha Laméris. Trina Basu –violinist, teacher, composer and improviser– opened our session with a grounding meditation with drone sounds and violin, inspired by the winter solstice. And Eddie Gonzalez –chaplain and writer currently working at the intersection of media and social healing– facilitated our tender exploration of the poem and writing time.

Writing Prompt: Turn on our radar for kindness/joy/delight. Scan back - the last week, the last month, the past few months - what “fleeting temples” have you seen - that are beautiful, that have resisted despair, that have moved towards kindness, repair, care, tending with care? BONUS: Try writing in the second person.

Watch the Gathering on YouTube

Join our next Gatherings in April 2024 for National Poetry Month!

Connect with Trina Basu
Website
Instagram

Connect with Eddie Gonzalez
On Being Website

Read poems created by the group below. And send us your poem to include!

Copyright © for all the poems below belong to their respective authors. 

Trina Basu

Eddie Gonzalez

When the moon temples the sun.
By Stacy Sims

You can’t figure out where to look. The moon is about to eclipse the sun and your special glasses are slipping off of your actual glasses.

And over there, Julia is making a temple of her body over LIzzy, so Lizzy can see if the cat she made from punching tiny holes in paper is projecting crescents of light as promised.

And over there, Sonya and Daniel are creating a soundscape to accompany the celestial bravado, with gongs and chimes and didgeridoo and love and care. You give thanks to two Patricks, who brought the electricity to boost the heavenly sounds of the harmonics of kindness.

You watch the clock.

You remember Dean Regas, our very own astronomer (ours, not yours, go Ohio!), said to take your classes off when the moon centers and the annular ring of fire is left to its flickering delight.

You hope that the planets and stars understand the math of time.

You exhale because wow.

Your heart pounds. This is a thing. A real energetic, strange, up is down and day is night and the geese are freaked out too.

You look at everyone else, with loved ones and new friends, all equally gobsmacked by nature’s complexity and verve.

You love each and every one who is staring at the sky, eclipse or not, looking for a sign that the world is still amazing.

Steep Personal Stakes
by Ellen Austin-Li

title taken from Ed Hirsch in Dion O’Reilly’s interview
on The Hive Poetry Collective podcast

Just when you (a retired nurse) were questioning
whether what you are doing with your life—writing
poems—matters, a text from Bonnie comes in: Thinking
of you with every point made and every poem read
on this amazing podcast. So, you put in your AirPods
and go for a walk, and your eyes cloud with tears
when you hear Ed Hirsch say how he’s drawn
to the luminous and to poems that transform grief
into a made thing. Poiesis from the Greek, to make.
In philosophy, the process of emergence of something
that did not previously exist. You hold these words
in wonder as you study the explosion of redbud trees
in the neighborhood, the impossible shade of purple—
truly more orchid pink—tiny sweet-pea-like blooms
tightly clustered on each tree limb. Lacy-sleeved
Judas trees, someone once named them. How
can something so beautiful symbolize betrayal?
You keep walking, though your vision stays blurred
by the thought that someone has seen your work
for what it means. And just then, walking in another
world, your neighbor Joy appears on the sidewalk
across the way. So, you take out your earbuds to hear
her shout across Lafayette: How are your brothers
and sisters? And you remember it’s Siblings’ Day
or some such Hallmark Holiday, and you smile
because Joy remembered to ask about your family,
the ones you most love, as you told her last month
how you worried about their suffering. And you think
how kind Joy is to have asked you, How that kindness
softens the light on the rest of the way to Mt. Storm
before you turn home. You choose Beethoven,
Lento assai, catante e tranquillo on repeat,
the grass that preternatural green only seen
on rainy days in April.