Poetry & Prose by Jo VonBargen

Many have asked me what it is, exactly, we do….we poets, writers and journalists who scramble up words with deliberate dictions and loaded meaning.  I can only say that it is a calling, a compulsion, a formidable responsibility, and an incurable disease…not to be wished on anyone.  Driven to lie low in sacred cow pastures, we wait for a first whiff of “something’s not right here”, then race maniacally through the streets raving incoherently, tearing our hair, screaming foul play.  Who in their right mind, I ask you, would consciously choose such a vulnerable profession?  Truth is, most of us have no choice.  It descends uninvited, like a pox…destiny’s cockamamie idea of a good joke.

We’ve been here through time, the world over, harnessing our energies for holocausts to come, ever poised to become red-faced with howling at perceived injustice and abuse of raw power whenever and wherever it occurs.  The fact of the matter is that, however it may really seem, we are not builders of the world, but its explainers.  We are keepers of the collective sanity, in our ironically imprudent way.  Striving to crush the vain idols of greed and intolerance with our sadly inadequate feet of clay, none of us is immune to falling prey to those same false gods.  It is an hourly struggle to not only examine the ills of society, but to police our own deepest motives as well.

This is not to say that all we do is look for blatant negatives. Among us are powerful creators who weave the tender and the magnificent into incredible poetry and stories that wholly transport us to another plane of existence. There is much in the world that is beautiful, positive and inspiring…and even more for which we should simply be thankful.  Certain of us neglect these aspects more than we’d like in an effort to speak for the otherized, forgotten and voiceless.

It is a fact that in writing about hopelessness from our lofty, secure havens, not many of us would be willing to relinquish that security to become one with the hopeless…but maybe that is what progress is all about.  Whoever is lucky enough to get out of the muck first reaches a hand to others still struggling in it. At least that is the ideal.

For all that is wonderful about humanity, there are many of us who serve in the capacity of exposing life’s not so pretty underbelly in an effort to awaken and enlighten those who deny or don’t know of its existence.  It is increasingly easy in our high-tech lives to become smug and complacent…blind to those problems that do not tangibly affect our own orbits and concerns.

The fact is that we are intricately connected to every facet of this planet and its inhabitants in ways that may not be immediately apparent.  I would say yes, we are our brothers’ keepers; and if this species is to continue to flourish, we must give respect and acceptance to each member and rejoice in our glorious diversity.

At times in our history, even in the present day, writers have come close to being an endangered species… having been exiled, imprisoned, executed and greatly maligned. But, will we go the way of dying herds, massacred by intolerant, mumbling prigs?  I think not.  We may be plowed under, buried, or our ashes flung to the winds, but we will inevitably sprout again the unkillable weed of our discontent from the rotting field of misused power…fueled by the sweet, soft rain of all that is good.  For all the manic highs and lows, the agony, joy, the sheer frustration and isolation a writer’s life brings, we are powerless to find the heart to do anything else. It is, after all, a labor of love.

–Jo 2008