The idea for this poem came from being sick of American politicians talking about the fact that there wasn't a 'silver bullet' solutions; instead, they say, complex and nuanced issues require complex and nuanced solutions. They would say this, as often as not, before bringing up their own silver bullets solutions: simple answers that they either thought would get them elected (cynical) or that  they actually believed in them (to be optimistic). I thought it was ridiculous. Of course there are silver bullets; it's just a chunk of metal. The problem is, they don't do anything all together that special because they're made to kill myths. So I emailed to myself, "i believe in silver bullets, it's the werewolves i don't believe in. / silver bullets are hope, hope is good and tangible.  but we can't forget that the hope is often based in myth." I filed the email in the creative - musings section of my gmail and forgot about it. Then, over a year later, I found the email and wrote this poem. 

...

SILVER BULLETS


i believe in silver bullets
as the way to kill a werewolf
because i believe silver 
shaped like a bullet
etched with a cross
loaded in the hunter’s gun
fires tangible hope
against real fear
if one squeeze 
of one trigger
may release a light
much brighter than when the moon’s full face
shines on the vain hunter’s path
otherwise empty
he visits it tonight as he stalks his prey 
with his one silver bullet

i believe in silver bullets
a silver bullet yes without a doubt in mind
but werewolves? 
werewolves don’t exist

...


I didn't think much of it at the time. I felt self conscious about my own sincerity and presumed it was more pithy than powerful (maybe it is, i honestly can't tell, although i'm trying to trust my own feelings on matters like this). But, about six months after I wrote it, I was doing a lunch break reading for Southwark Playhouse: Secrets. I chose the poems to read by having  audience members pick numbers from one to a hundred (out of a hat originally, then i had them choose a number from their mind), and would read the corresponding poem from 100 Poems Written at Work. Someone picked the number 5. After I read it, someone gave a very audible, "hm." I thought, wow, someone really liked it; i made someone think. I don't know if he actually liked it or just responded that way, but I took the poem seriously from then on. Thus far, it's my only poem to win anything resembling an award and it was the opening piece in my Oxford application. So, there you have it.

The poem below was inspired in part by Father Sean's homily one easter sunday. In it, he followed the possibility of Jesus' lover being the beloved disciple in the Book of John through to a reenactment of the moment of Jesus' resurrection. 

After the three days, Jesus shows himself to the beloved disciple  She knows him by the way he says her name, as only a lover can. I vividly remember Sean saying, "They have taken my love away, taken my love and I don't know where he is," as he recounted that which was precious and lost in a show of faith that they aren't lost forever.

It was an extraordinary talk; as rare and powerful and haunting a moment as i've ever had in a catholic church. I tried to write a poem about it, basically steal Sean's idea. The problem i came up against was that Jesus' love life is too distant. The original poem risked being an intellectual exercise, not  a personal expression of something essential. After several rewrites over two years, the poem settled into my grandfather's death, my grandmother's grief and my attempt to touch on what 67 years of marriage might mean.  

I kept the title, "Easter Poem," because it remains about the death and resurrection of a lover.


...

EASTER POEM


I died on a Friday
In our house
In our lounge
On a bed
That they brought me to comfort my passing

You stayed with my body all night
And you called the next day
For them to come
With their van to take my body
They came almost right away

Sunday is today
And without my body
They have taken your love away
Taken your love
And you don’t know where I am

But I am here
Standing beside you
Whispering your name
As only I know how
Whispering my presence to you 

And I know your name
Because I learned your name
Under one blanket
Over one lifetime
That has belonged to us

And I know your name
As a secret we share
In our own language
Written aloud
In words we invented

And I know your name
Because it is my name
Written in your hand
In the same calligraphy I used
To scrawl myself in you

And I know your name
Sculpted from my breath
Blood’s secret ingredient
Your name is all I know to say
Because it is the shape of my mouth

So I must whisper your name
Because I know your name
And you know mine
And though you cannot hold me
I am here