A Tempered Sword

By Michele T. Fry, ã 1996

 

I thought myself ungainly as a child,

but my Mother, feeding fancies of her own

pasted labels on my unformed soul with oft-repeated phrases such as

     "Come to me, my precious ballerina."

 

So I grew up a cynic,

disbelieving any praise I got from her

as well as every disingenuous

remark that pierced my ear.

 

My strengths went undetected

but I managed, hanging on

to some nameless noun

I knew to be my SELF.

 

I read in classic literature

of heros who had risen like the Phoenix

from the ashes of their own annihilation.

I took heart, and I smiled

(with that Mona Lisa smile —

distant gaze, folded arms, cool resolve) . . . . . . .

and laid siege to the deafening defeat

which was roaring all around me day and night.

 

I was certain I was strong

and I knew I had power.

Something beautiful was stirring deep within me,

though it seemed no one else could see what I saw.

 

"You will metamorphosize in good time",

said my soul to my heart, and I believed it!

As an article of faith this became my religion

as I slogged through the slights and the nays

and the disapproving looks and the backstabbing ways

of my fellows towards their fellows.

Through the endless disappointments of my life,

I saw light through the darkness and myself in the light.

 

As a Samauri does,

I became what I am:

 

     Folded once. Folded thrice.

     Thrusted yet again into the fires of Life,

     then again, layer on layer,

     I was bent and beaten flat

     on the anvil of Strife

     'til the edge I could hold

     was undullable in conflict

     and the arc my blade could trace

     matched a ballerina's grace.

     and the handle fitted to me

     gleamed with polished usefulness.

 

Thus, I sprang from the Master's hand —

A Tempered Sword.

P.S. Mom, if you read this, it isn’t about you.  You never called me your precious ballerina.  It’s a poem about the damage done by all sorts of people  who place false (good or bad) labels on others, especially children, and about surviving such cruelty by being true to ourselves.

A Teacher's Manifesto

By Michele T. Fry, ã February 1991

An autobiographical poem: I owned, operated and taught in my own Montessori school for 27 years. 
This is the understanding I came to have of what I was teaching. 

 

This school is My Church,

and I am the Pastor of this holy place.

 

This is My Spot on Earth in which to be effective,

the only place on Earth over which I have Dominion.

 

Conceived in Love.

 

Whose Divine Purpose it is

to glorify the Human Spirit

and discipline the mind and body to it’s Will.

 

To be a Friend.

 

To Teach each of my Pupils

the Natural Laws that govern Every Thing;

to tune them in to the Diversity of Truth

and the Vastness of the Universe;

to free them from the Darkness of Superstition;

from Mistrust and Fear of fellow humans;

And to trust Themselves;

to teach the holy art of Gratitude

and celebrate with them the Blessings Of Our Age;

to cultivate that holy mix of

Humility, Personal Power, Empathy and Joy

which resurrects the soul

and frees the heart to feel Compassionate toward Self and Others.

 

To guide them to such discoveries

that they may reach whatever Heights they may aspire to;

take responsibility for the Depths that they explore;

add to the Beauty of this world;

reduce Suffering;

increase Pleasure;

triumph over Adversity and help others do the same;

see the Connectedness of all things;

accept Aloneness and the Great Unknown;

Forgive;

and wherever they are in the vast millieu of Life,

to dance in gratitude with a song on their lips

whose lyrics are simply, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

 

And in the end,

to have each of my pupils come to know

and to Enjoy

the God within Themselves,

and Everything,

and Everyone.

Beware Icarian Friends I and II

© 1991

I - Beware Icarian Friends

For a moment I thought I'd fly into the Sun.
My friends said "Do it! Why not? Have fun!
You're adult, and you're free. You've a right to explore
what you want. Who you are. There are no holds barred.
So do you thing then let us know how good it was.
You deserve it. Don't fret what the World thinks or does.

Some of you waxed my wings. Some held me high
as drunk with excitement I rose to the sky.
My desire was focused on radiant Sunlight,
seeing the rapture I held as my Right.

By coincidence, then, I saw a blind flash,
heard blood-curdling screams of another's Sun crash.
That writhing hot agony was horrid to see.
I thought "OH MY GOD, OH GOD! That could have been me.
I fell from my fantasy, shaken withall.
No friend had warned of Icarian falls!

I could have lost everything I care about!
What fiend was it urged me to follow that route?
I wondered if my friends had all wished me ill,
or if they're just careless, or run-of-the-mill.
Where was their concern when I lost my cool head?
My reason was fuddled. "Follow it", they'd said.
One said "I was joking, and all I was doing
was helping you relish a mood you were brewing!"

II - Icarian Friends Beward

Well, hear now! I pick friends for reasoning so fine
It stands up beside me when I have lost mine!
What kind of friend were you? What kind will you be?
And what kind of friendship can you get from me?
Be sure, if my loved one should head for the Sun
they'd hear words from me of the risk that they run.
I may let their wings singe with some minor burning,
but not risk a charring death, even for learning.

There are all sorts of danger this could apply to, but this one relates to a friend of mine experimenting with drugs and me wrestling with what role I should play in cautioning him, and how he should appreciate my friendship for caring enough to confront him.

Without Potential

© 1964 (Age 17)

I am a man without Potential
I've got none of that essential
STUFF to show the world.
I've no pride in all the Doings
that all men seem bent on strewing
o're this raged and ragged, stripped and staggered globe.

I've no Motive, nor the Taste
for just living life in Haste
as it seems we're all required to.
And in treatment of my Brethren
no examples seem as Reverent
as I'm told they are . . . . . and should be!

Wish I could charge down a Path
spewing love and venting rath
letting those I trample lick their wounds alone.
Then perhaps I'd give THEM hope
I'd be climbing up the laddar
towards the Virtues OTHERS value.

But, alas, I'm doomed to Caring
and my heart is chained to bearing
all the woes and harsh indignities of Man.
And my tongue gets tied for Trying
and I freeze for fear of Lying.
What if I, too, do not know the Truth?

Those who love me, my how Queer!
For they know not how they seer
my heart to blackened embers.
For they whisper that I'm Empty
when it's only I'm attempting
for a better reasoned way. Where's the way?

If I'm lost and I seem vacant
Truth is this: I am waiting
for a sign that those who teach me
actually know the Proper Pathway.
Doesn't look like it from here
when all I see is fear, selfishness
and contradictions everywhere.

Though you mean no pain, nor scorn me
you don't realize how you've torn me.
I am lost among your Ambiguities!

Written in high school, shocked at the conduct of our church minister who ran off with another man's wife; adults around me who didn't remotely live up to the loving Christian values they preached; and a variety of teachers who played favorites and seemed to enjoy humiliating, with impunity, the students they didn't like.

No Longer Alone

© 1994

Tonight I discovered the Mother in me
and I'll never be lonely again.
I felt Her Madonna-like presence surrounding me,
hugging me, being my friend.

When Moms are around, it's nothing to fall.
You pick up, dust off, and go on.
There's always that circle of comfortable arms
to love you and welcome you home.

Moms frame your pictures, and treasure your scribbles,
and brag to their friends about you . . . . . . . .
but when you leave home there are lonely betrayals . . . . . .
and stunning hurts to suffer through.

Oh Mom! How I've needed your love all these years
when I've felt alone and far-flung,
running the gauntlet through blind and unfair,
lashed by carelessly poisonous tongues.

I've hid behind smiles, and "I see's", and "Oh well's",
a child still needing support.
I've hid in my comfortable home and my jobs
and not ventured much further forth.

I've watched others draw from some river of strength
that's not been a resource for me.
The gains that I've made have been modest indeed
compared to what's locked up in me.

I've hoped that some knight in white armor might save me.
Expected right reasoning to fix things.
I've been on my knees praying hard for assistance.
Invested in family and friendships.

But tonight I discovered the Mother within me,
Inside me, my best friend by far.
With my own love's protection, no longer abandoned,
I finally can reach for the stars.

How Like The Plants We Are

How Like The Plants We Are

Or (Lines Composed at Jackson Square, New Orleans)

(My attempt to keep a metaphor going for as long as possible.)

 

by Michele T. Fry Ó April, 1992

 

I cannot help but notice, as I sit here in the breeze
Along the river banks at Jackson Square in New Orleans,
O'erflowed with flowers, product of some visionary's dream,
How amazingly alike the plants and tourists are beneath.

Both put much energy into making of themselves such vivid flowers.
Asymmetry and natural curves make many a fine design
But onto these we sprig contrived devices of our own.

We hybridize, to colorize and lengthen lines,
To captivate with sweeter scents and subtler charms.

Adorned with these, we throng the avenues,

Line the bars, decorate sidewalk café’s, populate the beaches,
Fill the dance pavilions, ski resorts and malls throughout the world
As if by some unspoken signal we all know
To sow ourselves in public places.

With every size and shape and textured hue of specie turning out,
En masse, we make Parisian garden-like displays

(as Renoir caught in paintings, and Monet)
for all the passersby to see and smell and marvel at.
We energize a view, as flowers do!

We share other similarly deep-implanted impulses, too!

For whether bold or shy, bedecked in gaiety or drab,
Preferring sun or partial shade,
Outside in open air, or tucked away on some small patio,
According to our natures, in our seasons,
We all bloom and preen and bask in ways
that strive to make a statement for our kind.

We flutter in a gentle breeze
Or revel in a drizzling rain, or limp along in summer’s heat.
We open wide to show the world our centers
Or close up tight, as some mysterious guidance bids us do.
The undertow’s the same for us as for the flowers.
We strive to make connections!  Find a mate!  Pollinate!

Then happenly, without knowing why or how or when (it siddles up so fast)—

Lifeforce finds it’s way down that oh so subtle phallopian tube
And hits its mark dead on!  Fertilization!  Boom!
Rose hips swell wide, as hearts in love do.

None can stop the wheel’s spin now.

Everything goes ‘round and ‘round. 
Bellies bulge. 
Meanings change.
Wisdom dawns.
Vivid petals fade, wilt, drop brown to the ground.
Outer beauty spent,
Our cosmic purpose is just now begun.

Without a further conscious thought we’re drawn to selfless nurturing

And harboring little seeds within the bosom of parental love,
Blinded now to all but bearing firm and healthy fruit,
Green foliage, we discover, is noble, quiet, cool –
Beneath which many a wilted flower meets its end
And finds it’s rest-bed soothing, and satisfying too.

We look around and notice now—the countryside is green,

And lush and more becoming than we heretofore had seen.
We spread our roots to gather food and anchor down.

Holding soil and seedlings close our only aim,
Some wise and unseen hand now works its Will
To serve a purpose greater than our own.
We are become the Caretakers Of Earth.
For quite a while, we freshen up the air,
And reinforce the world with jungle shade.

And so the cycle goes.  For there comes at length a time

When we begin to feel the strain of parenting, to feel the urge
To heave forth from our bosom all our seeds,
To let them flutter out upon the breeze,
Away from us, to give us room, to let us breathe.
They’ve grown too cumbersome to hold.
We’re feeling old.  Somehow repulsed.
We must be free to live what life is left to us, and so,
Regardless of their fate, we let them go.

Or if, by some misguided gene

We try and hold our offspring close beyond their time—
Raw nature has an over-riding plan more far-reaching than ours.
For it has plugged into each youth an impulse stronger than our own—
Each ripened seedling wants to scatter from its mother plant
And make it on its own.

So strong this pull that with hooks or fins, or colors bright

It beckons unto bird or bear to eat it whole,
Or tries to sink its burrs into the fur of any passers-by
To be dropped off only God knows where.
Or maybe it attempts to catch a breeze
And spiral willy-nilly ‘cross the green—
(a seed will use whatever device it can to tear itself from home)—
to try and root itself elsewhere
and grow a flower of its own.

We know not how, or even whether they will live.

We watch incredulously on as youngsters preen,
And parade their stupid vanity for all the world to see.
With little thought for us or future cares,
They throng in public places (as we did),
And display gorgeous flowers!
They can’t explain.  They know not why. 
Impulse is their only guide.
But we've grown wise.  We see beyond pretentious, youthful lies.
We know exactly why. It’s to connect!  Attract a mate!

And so our seedlings scatter o’re the world,
and mix in vats of pollen,

‘Til they die untimely deaths.
Or if they count among survivors
They will pollinate themselves and swell around their middles,
And drop their flowers off,
And finally join their elders in the background green.

It’s then they offer up a kind of reverence for their parents—
They’ve followed in our footsteps.  They understand us now.
And while they’re praising us by turning green,
We may begin to primp again, and preen—
To heed some inner call, some deep-driv’n need
To have another go at youth ourselves.  To stage another show.

Are we annuals or perennials?

Can we repeat that floral scene?
Is our path a chosen one, or in our genes?

Who can say what moves a being,

But in that jocund company at Jackson Square
Came crystal clear to me that stripped of all our
Conversation, education, legislation
Theorizing, visualizing, prostelitizing,
Organizing, agonizing, and all the other Human things we do—
When taken just by primitive and underlying themes, on par,
How essentially like the plants we humans are!