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Glimmers
Alone in rumination, distant dawn
Eludes the desperate aching of my eyes,
My senses blunted by a cheerless pall,
Upon a cratered landscape, dazed hope lies.
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Unbridled chaos there for all to see
In unrelenting waves from every side,
Strong breakers pound the ever-shifting shore
And leave me with the choice to hold or hide.
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Our leaders puff with exploitative aims
To stroke the plumage of their boastful breasts
While warfare, death, starvation and disease
Erupt beneath their finely-feathered nests.
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Stifled desperation holds its breath
In wordless sidelong glances, groping blind
For reassurance midst the looming death
Of adolescent hopes now left behind.
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But faith is blind, they say, yet seeks a spark
Struck courageously from flint to flake.
Can eyes connect and linger one by one,
And kindle hearts and hands along their wake?
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Were I to have the answer, I would share,
From depths of my compassion, I would speak.
Desire is bolstered by a sightless hope;
May longing bring the very light we seek.
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Dan Tuton is a poet living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. After an initial career as a family therapist, he has been ordained as an Episcopal priest since early in 2004. He initially served a parish in the Baltimore area for four years, and have been the Vicar, then Rector of Hope in the Desert in Albuquerque until retiring in 2023.
This poem has a great message which for me is amplified by the third verse that is a great portrayal like a parable of puckish pride in misanthropic delusions placing us all in peril.
Thank you, Roy, for your words. You’ve perceived well my intent in that third verse.
May longing bring the very light we seek! The perfect ending to a beautifully sad poem.
Thank you, Rohini! Longing is the first step, and many kindred spirits are longing with us. When we find each other, good things can happen.
This is a wonderful poem, Fr. Dan, which meditates powerfully and adeptly on the subjects of light, darkness, vision and blindness. I’m particularly taken by the lines “But faith is blind, they say, yet seeks a spark/Struck courageously from flint to flake.” With very economical wording you have brought the whole of history into this problem of moral light, from the Bible to that first prehistoric man who discoered that fire can be ignited by striking flint. I also especially like how this meditation returns to the speaker with such a wistful hope and the desire to offer illumination to others. If only… Oh, of only.
Beautiful work.
Thank you so much, Brian! I’m deeply touched that you plumbed the intended depths of this little piece. I have hope, and I know that you do, too.
Dan, thank you for this beautifully written poem. It captures the mood of these miserable times. I especially like the imagery used in the third stanza with those puffed up, boastful-breasted leaders on their finely feathered nests oblivious to the pain and horror they create. The closing line harks back to those ‘Glimmers’ of the title. Thank you for stoking the embers of hope – this dark world is in desperate need of God’s light.
Thank you so much, Susan! You always delve in deeply and “get” the affect and intent of my little poems. Hope is what keeps me going, and I’m convinced that, ultimately, that hope will be well-placed. Thanks again!
“Glimmers” is an important title that gives the only image by which to characterize this poem as a whole. It’s a conglomerate composition (rock or waste heap) that includes some sparkly pieces. These are the glimmers of hope in a landscape of despair. Other elements are faith, chaos, compassion, selfish uncaring leadership isolated in its own limited center position, and finally an individual decision to rely on desire (better expanded into the longer term, “longing”). It would be easy to miss the action that creates the sparks or glimmers of hope, by a stroke of courage against flint, material that will produce fire. The hopes depend on eyes capable of sight, and willing to see, and motivated to act. The poem lets obstacles to sight be known, especially to shared sight that is the basis for unmentioned love. Compassion isn’t love but common passion or suffering. Along with all this, there is a shifting from first person singular perspective to first person plural that offers a stronger, longer glimmer (to eyes as yet sightless) in the final line. Or perhaps I should say these eyes are clear-sighted about what they do not see, which at least offers a place to stand and try to understand. There is a change of mood from aching to wistful in this healthy serving of stark realism.
Thank you, Margaret, for your very accurate assessment of my intent. I deeply appreciate the care with which you received and integrated each line and every word into its intended message.
A beautiful poem beautifully interpreted by its readers. Thanks to all.
Thank you, jd!
“As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness.”
Attributed to E. B. White