 "There's nothing heavier than an untold story." Maya Angelou So many forms of untold truth weigh us down; the great tragedies of history, family secrets and the unspoken truths of each moment. Each story wants to be 'told' in some sense, to be given back to the greater holding of life, released from our bodies and our psyches. If each of us can find safe, sustainable ways to release more truth back into the greater holding of life, more healing and transformation becomes possible...poetry and storytelling are just some of the many wonderful ways to do this. This poem is one of endless attempts to play my part.
Coming to Light Maybe, when history’s rewritten from the beginning, to tell the stories of all women, people of colour, labourers, slaves, indigenous, queers, creatures and elements whose backs paved the way for each famous white man’s fame… Maybe, when we stop pretending anyone can be free, be equal, be whole, stay alive, in isolation, or that anyone’s hurt is theirs alone…. Maybe, when every profit ever registered is measured in the balance with its loss… Maybe, when every victory is weighed in the same scales as its costs… Maybe, when the last ‘unbaptised’ child is raised up from their unmarked grave, into light, and blessed, not by the same carrion sacraments which proclaimed their bodies profane, but by being returned a name, being washed in the tears held in limbo’s decades… Maybe, when all the disappeared ones, and all the still disappearing, are spoken of in the same breath as the race for quantum computing, AI and star-colonisation… Maybe, when in one choking leap we speak the terror and grief swallowed from throat to chest to gut to grave, just to keep our heads up on this trading floor… Maybe, when in a single blink we catch sight of our own raised fists and admit, first; we’ve only ever waged war against ourselves, we’ve all played our part in this world that we’ve made, second; how much we love, want to love, all those whom we claim to hate… When the last lie which breaks life into pieces comes to light… When the last love we sought to protect comes home… Maybe, then… We’ll be able to say it: “I dwell here on this Earth.” PS: I first wrote this poem in response to a specific tragedy, the Tuam Babies scandal in Ireland. An underground chamber, a sewage tank in fact, was discovered to hold the bodies of 800 babies which had been secretly 'buried' there. There is still an ongoing struggle to have the full history of these children, and those from other Irish institutions, made public. PPS: Though my posts have had thousands of comments on Facebook, I'm only now adding them to my site, so they may be a bit lonely, without your words to keep them company. Comments are a thousand times welcome.
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AuthorDave Rock is a prize-winning spoken word artist and storyteller, and a conscious writing, speaking and performing arts teacher. He's worked with thousands of people, including award-winning comedians, actors and inspirational figures. Archives
July 2022
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