In Spite of Everything, Yes

 

I was a little bit bummed out to find out that “In Spite of Everything, Yes” is now out of print.

There are only a few books I’ve found in my life that have lifted me up and given me more joy than this one. It’s simply a collection of photographs of people dancing, people laughing, a dog stretching its chain to the uttermost limit in joy at the return of its boy…images of powerful simplicity that remind me of how beautiful life can be.

I carry the images from this book in my heart as though they were memories from my own life. They come into my mind sometimes when the days have grown a bit dark and worn around the edges. The images illuminate everything, and I can’t think of a more noble achievement in art.

In contemplating the book, I was reminded of a poem I wrote years ago that was inspired by this book. I figured I’d post it here.

 

Refutation

 

The cynical professor said:

grow up, give it up,

the soul is dead,

and it’s never coming back again.

 

Telescopes and microscopes have probed

the furthest reaches and

the deepest deeps and

not a scrap of evidence has been found

of anything sacred anywhere

at all.

 

Atrophy is King Law in this new, mathematically enlightened land,

no place left for sentimental hearts,

for lovers or dancers or garden strollers;

no, no time left

for poetry, poems, or poets.

I tell you now, listen and listen well,

this new world depends on the bravery of those willing to go

dreamless into the grim, smoke-mouthed future,

of days in the wake of faith.

 

There is no time left for trivial children’s stories,

(and they are ALL trivial children’s stories);

the equation is done,

the forensic evidence too strong to deny;

we live to die

and in dying answer no why.

 

Tell me, boy, tell me, what are we,

but candelflames dancing

against the storm

that someday will, that someday must

inevitably extinguish us

forever?

 

To which I respond:

I will argue not, professor,

the logic of your claims,

for numbers added to numbers can never disprove addition,

but I will say this:

every time an infant smiles a radiant, gum mouthed smile;

every time there is a first kiss

beneath a firework exploded sky;

every time, for the millionth time, some slobbering, ecstatic dog

outruns the length of its chain in excitement

at the return of its boy;

every time a girl catches a bouquet;

every time the blooming chrysanthemums rain;

every time the underdog wins the fight;

every time the doomed-to-die survives the night;

every time the broken radio plays;

every time some outcast kid hits her groove and stands up straight;

every time some arrogant bastard’s comeuppance comes;

every time an elderly couple polkas;

you, professor, are proved wrong.

 

 

No matter what evidence you

and your taut skulled, pale faced, spectacle fingered,

glove eyed, sneery mouthed, rubber spined

blubber hearted, mashed potato footed,

christmas-train-cancellation-suck-toads may accrue and submit,

so long as someone somewhere laughs so hard

that chocolate milk comes out their nose;

so long as the sun rises over wildflowers

in the graveyard;

so long as the neon stays lit in the dark countries

of dancing around the world;

so long as the diner waitress smiling pouring morning coffee asks

whether you’re working hard or hardly working;

you are, again and again and again,

proved wrong, wrong, wrong.

 

 

Candleflames dancing against the storm

we very well may be,

well, then, let the son of a bitch blow harder,

so that we may dance

more wildly.

 

Let us go laughing together dancing

into the end of all our smoking wick days,

and never forget that so long as a single candleflame remains,

there is always that chance that,

however small that,

the stormwind scatters the flame

and sets the whole hillside                                                                                                     

ablaze.