Yesterday, I made a declaration
to serve writing
and today I hear
the siren call
of pressure
hitting the alarm.
My inner social activists
and prosperous coaches
glare at me.
I have traded
my vision
for theirs
and made theirs nobler.
“What the hell
are you doing
for the cause?”
they sneer.
(I am the only cause
I know to serve.
I have dug through
the endless task of trauma
to get to the other side of fear
and I judge that long process
harshly with much shame
and hiding behind parentheses.)
On the fragile cusp
of my announcement
Mary Oliver gazes down
from the heavens.
“Do you think I worried
about pandering to the world?”
she asks, using my name.
“Do you think I worried
whether my volumes
would solve world problems
or start a revolution?
Whether I would be
a prosperous poet?
Would you say
I did not serve?
Do painters and other artists
pass the judgment
of your miserly inner social activist
and prosperous coaching circles
when they open hearts
and speak to souls?
Surely those circles do not want
the burden you have placed on them –
nor do you want their approbation.
Your life is none of their business.
You are in your own hands –
the only person you can help.
Take back your power
your projections
remove those inner despots
from your path
and be loyal
to the playmates
of your soul.
Feed them.
© 2019 Miriam Linderman
