Vox Populi
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Luray Gross: Catching Sight
“. . .each morning, and amid valleys, volcanoes and debris of war, I catch sight of the promised land.”
Claribel Alegría, “Ars Poetica,” trans. by Darwin J. Flakoll
~
Each morning, I too, catch sight of the sun
even when clouds or wall obscure its burning.
I catch sight of the improbable possible
below the debris of our societal war,
the threats and accusations,
the impossibility of trust that has
seeped into the minds of so many.
But how do you know it’s true? they insist,
to which I silently answer, through your bones,
by the tingle on your skin, by the way your hair rustles
on your scalp, by the lessons you’ve learned
year after year, day after day–how you know that truth
will never be confined to fact, to information or
disinformation, that truth will always,
as the old story goes, be young and beautiful;
its youth a declaration of resistance
as hale and boisterous as storm,
brilliant and searing as lightning.
Can we bear to look at it, we often wonder?
And how will that truth witness against our
small acts of jealousy and greed, the fears we harbor
beneath our breast bones, in the belly
where the dailyness of life passes through?
I catch sight of the promised land, as did Moses,
and even if I, like him, never reach even its boundary
where the timbral and dance ring out,
I know it is there. I have found small parcels,
those slim lots in crowded cities, in over-taxed minds,
in the one lawn on our street where dandelions and clover
are welcome, where dogs and children frolic,
where an old woman, who remembers her own grandmothers,
shakes out tablecloths so birds can forage among the scraps.
I know the promised land is in this land,
just as there is another world and it is in this world,
Here, now, not in the neverland of a future no one believes in.
Take my hand. Let us walk together, even with war raging,
with the sea rising, with the oriole’s winter home
yielding to chainsaw and bulldozer.
With so many songs being left unsung,
let us sing.
~~~~
Copyright 2025 Luray Gross
Luray Gross grew up on a Pennsylvania dairy farm in a household full of music and books. Her poetry collections include With This Body (Ragged Sky, 2023).
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“I know the promised land is in this land,
just as there is another world and it is in this world,
Here, now, not in the neverland of a future no one believes in.
Take my hand. Let us walk together, even with war raging,
with the sea rising, with the oriole’s winter home
yielding to chainsaw and bulldozer.
With so many songs being left unsung,
let us sing.”
Saint Catherine of Sienna said, “All the way to heaven is heaven.” Oh, let us sing!
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Lovely!
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Oh yes, Luray! This poem sings and we sing with you. Thanks for this much-needed beauty.
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Sing along to the patient hymn of life,
before it grows too late and too quiet.
Discover small parcels of delight
where we may tend perfect moments.
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I love this quatrain, Jim. Thank you.
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My yard is the only one on the street with no lawn. There are bird baths and feeders among the native trees and the Toyon ( California Holly Berry) provides a drunken feast for the Cedar waxwings that briefly visit on their busy schedule. In the back is a labyrinth around a Palo Verde tree with stone benches and stone Jizo. Now the driveway is lined with blooming Brazilian bird of paradise, not the exotic smooth Hawaiian kind, but the one with feathery leaves and ruffled yellow and orange flowers. Yesterday I saw Monarchs, sulphurs, and swallowtails, lesser goldfinches, and towhees. I think I am pecking this out on my phone so I have an excuse not to get up, but Tashi needs breakfast, and as usual, I am late to take my damn pills. I may soon have to transition away from my paradise. I don’t putter in it as I used to, but VP has a way of giving me a good ache.
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Lovely description, Barb. Thank you!
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This and everything this poet touches with sight and hand are so right on! I knew the poetry garden was great as I was walking through the gate, watching with every step, but I haven’t made it to the fence in the back. I keep stopping here and there, finding these poets you planted and brought up, Michael.
Is there a back fence?
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No back fence, Sean. The field of flowers goes on forever.
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“I know the promised land is in this land,
just as there is another world and it is in this world,”
As the sages have said for eons in various forms, what you seek is seeking you, or you already contain, or is right here. What if we realized we are each other’s promise? That all land is our land, meant to be loved into being. Thank you Luray for this poem.
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This, and everything this poet touches with sight and hand are so right on! I knew the poetry garden was great as I was walking through the gate, watching my every step, but I haven’t yet made it to the fence in the back, I keep stopping here and there, finding these poets you planted and brought up, Michael.
Is there a back fence?
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“in the one lawn on our street where dandelions and clover
are welcome, where dogs and children frolic,
where an old woman, who remembers her own grandmothers,
shakes out tablecloths so birds can forage among the scraps.”
Yes, Christine, a vital poem. It is this image, this moment I’m grateful for and need to remember — and copy, daily…
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Let us sing. Soothing, dissonant, perhaps we will learn to harmonize? Vox Populi provides the songs that stir me to finally rise and meet the morning.
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let’s face the day together, Barbara. we’re here for you.
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This, and everything this poet touches with sight and hand are so right on! I knew the poetry garden was great as I was walking through the gate, watching my every step, but I haven’t yet made it to the fence in the back, I keep stopping here and there, finding these poets you planted and brought up, Michael.
Is there a back fence
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Such a beautiful and vital poem. I’ll be sharing it.
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Me, too!
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Thanks, Christine. Yes, it is the end of the world as we know it, so let us sing while there’s still time.
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