Psych Ward
By John Isbell
Shekhinah in the diner was a sight
to warm the soul as she moved through the crowd
and we ate breakfast, brought to end the night.
Of course, I never said her name aloud.
The smokers and the drinkers and the lost –
I think of them. The strugglers with pain,
when hope is precious. All the tempest-tossed,
the sleepers. Now, I see them all again.
In the clear light of suffering, a place
some know and some do not, I come to find
the lines of sorrow written in your face.
This is my business. It is not unkind.
On the Fifth Floor, with every window barred,
I spent time playing cards without my belt.
I blessed my snacks. The truth is: life is hard.
Look out your window. Play the hand you’re dealt.
Welcome to madness. Easy gig,
some say, though few will volunteer.
And as the small yields to the big,
so will your reason disappear
We read this in the IU emeritus poetry group. John Isbell was once an Indiana French professor. I knew him a littl then. He recently retired from teaching in Texas. Wikipedia says:
Shechinah, (Hebrew: שְׁכִינָה Šḥīnā,[1] is the English transliteration of a Hebrew word meaning "dwelling" or "settling" and denotes the presence of God, as it were, in a place. This concept is found in Judaism.[2]
The Hebrew Bible mentions several places where the presence of God was felt and experienced as a Shekhinah, including the burning bush and the cloud that rested on Mount Sinai. The Shekhinah was often pictured as a cloud or as a pillar of fire and was referred to as the glory of God. The Shekhinah was also understood to be present in the Tabernacle and the Temple in Jerusalem, and to be seated at the right hand of God.
The word shekhinah is not found in the Bible. It appears in the Mishnah,[3] the Talmud, and in midrash.
My revision:
The diner’s Shekhinah was a sight
to warm the soul as she moved the crowd
and we ate breakfast to end the night.
I never, of course, said her name aloud.
The smokers, the drinkers, and the lost –
I think of them. Strugglers with pain,
when hope is precious. Tempest-tossed,
and sleepers; I see them all again.
In suffering’s brilliance, a place
some know and some do not, I find
the lines of sorrow in your face.
This, my business, is not unkind.
My Fifth Floor home, with windows barred,
Is good for playing cards without my belt.
The truth is, life is hard.
I bless my snacks. I play the hand I’m dealt.
The small must yield to the big.
Just so, your reason disappears.
Welcome to madness. Easy gig,
some say, though few are volunteers.