MOTHER TERESA: A BEAUTIFUL SAINT WITHOUT FAITH

Mother Teresa was as human as the rest of us. I know this to be true, because I read it in TIME magazine. She often doubted the existence of God, and felt that Jesus rarely heard her prayers. In fact, she even wondered if there was any sense in praying to a God that seemed not to care about her. I was initially shocked to learn this, because like many people: I see Mother Teresa as a woman of great spiritual strength and faith. The saint of the gutter, forever helping people that the world has given up on. But she was only human. She said so in a series of letters she'd written (and requested they be destroyed).

But the letters were preserved against her wishes. So now we discover that her loving smile was often a mask, and the beautiful words she often stated in public were not words she honestly felt in her heart. She suggested ways to make the world a more loving place, but often felt her words were insincere. She'd learned how to say all the right things, and smiled for the cameras when she was weeping inside.

Does this make Mother Teresa a hypocrite? No, it makes her human, and all the more remarkable. She was a saint without faith, and there are not very many of those. She continued to love the poorest of the poor (and help them even after her doctors had warned her that she was ruining her own health). She taught us that we all have the potential to become saints: that there really is nothing special about it: Give help where it is needed most; love people the world has given up on; any act of kindness (no matter how seemingly small) is better than doing nothing at all.

In short, she taught us to save the world by saving one person at a time. And that is how she lived her life. And to accomplish such a miracle without faith, makes her even more heroic in my mind. Mother Teresa was a saint, but she was a very human one: She moved mountains without faith. I know this to be true, because I read it in TIME magazine.

Essay © 2007 by Dylan Mitchell

My Computer is Done For...

My computer is on the brink of death. It is with great regret that I inform my faithful readers of this most tragic news.

But I'm really not complaining. Sure, I'll miss sending (and receiving email). Plus I won't be able to update my blog: I was looking forward to composing a chapbook review or two. But perhaps it's time to take a break from all that.

Hell, my computer is OLD. And we've shared many good years together. May my tired old Mac rest in peace. Amen.

It's time to buy a notebook and a really good pen. No shame in that. Just ask Whitman and Dickinson.

I'm grateful my days of being alive online -- ended on a happy note: James H Duncan (he edits Hobo Camp Review) included one of my poems in the spring issue of his online poetry and fiction review.

I suggest taking a long peek: The poets and writers are the unafraid kind (think Whitman, Dickinson, Ginsberg, Sexton, Plath, etc.). Plus add Corso and all the other major Beat writers. And you will discover a new generation of poets and writers that are quite happy to be on the unpredictable road -- and have little desire to settle down in the safe suburbs. It's all about taking risks. Hell, no lives of quiet desperation for these folks! And I should know! We are like a family of deliberate misfits (IMHO).

Anyway, here's the link to the site: http://hobocampreview.blogspot.com/

And this is my poem: I'd like to thank James for including my work with the poetry and prose of so many truly gifted writers. I am genuinely humbled.

So here you go. I'll be thinking of all of you as I put pen to paper. Be happy and well.

In The Dark Café

It grows cold out there.
But I didn't call, I didn't call
before I ran away from home.
The large hot tea is sweet and good.
I've finished my cake, but hunger
for something more. Young people
smile and smoke, and remind me
I am getting old. Too
old for the insane games
he forced me to play at home.
The small voice inside saying:
be careful be careful.
(He watches my window, and
wants me to know. Five days
in a row, shrill messages at dawn,
until I took the phone off the hook.
Now notes on my door. Red
rage bleeding on every page.)

It seems so much saner here.
Two skeletons play chess.
A homeless girl reads The Catcher In The Rye.
The hot waiter dances,
like a young Travolta.
I glance at a poet and become calm and bold
(he counts his long fingers after every line).
I remember a sonnet I wrote in school:
A disconnected phone can't make you cringe,
and better locks may keep you safe inside.
Because you failed to give back love to love –
the angry ravens watch you from above.
I am far far from home.
I've come to this place to think and mend.
These smiling strangers are my only friends.
My stalker's at home.
It grows colder outside.
I write this poem instead.

© 2011 by Dylan Mitchell

FALLING DOWN

New York City is falling down
as I rise from my bed
like a stubborn corpse
While people are burned
and buried alive
here I make stiff fingers move
shuffle my numb feet
toward life

Mad planes seek easy targets
in the sky Here I put on my
hat, let the elevator
drop me down
to the basement
below Maybe a miracle
will come in the mail
one day soon
The Disability checks

won't stop
I won't lose the subsidized
roof over my head
untold loaves of
bread will appear in the
empty cupboard like magic
And good blood will
flow through my sick
veins once again
Thank you
America

The Twin Towers fall
and some 3,000
souls are gone
Here I abandon my bed
sip weak coffee
and squint at the
12 inch screen

In New York City
a homeless man has
hung an American flag
across the side of his
cart But I only see
hunger and early
coffins here Red is the
color of blood, ashes
are white, bruises are
blue Now a barefoot girl

has wrapped a flag
around herself like a
shroud Her face is a
mask of ash, her dark
eyes are ringed with
blood, blue bruises
disfigure her feet
She is an American
saint on display

A letter in the mailbox
is a dangerous
thing now, but
I am already falling, falling
Since bombs or germs
won't make my world
worse: I open my mail
never think to wash my
hands, check the empty
cupboard one more time,
and wait for my world
to explode

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell