 |
| Image credit: C. Matthew Hawkins |
By C. Matthew Hawkins
February 10, 2019
For me, one of the benefits of participating in a poetry workshop before this conclave of poets is that I got a chance to find out how other people hear my work. Explaining a poem to someone is like explaining the punchline to a joke; to explain it ruins the experience. I want to take a moment to highlight three key phrases from the poem: (1) where the taunt that “God can’t hear you” comes from and what it refers to; (2) what it means, within African American discourse, to be “felt” and not merely to be heard; and (3) the meaning of the practice, within African American culture, of the practice of “pouring libations.”
Many of the images and emotions in this poem are from my childhood in the East End of Pittsburgh. Children will often notice beauty in the details that adults pass over with indifference. Beneath an often frightening surface, there was much that was beautiful in the neighborhood of my childhood.
On the frightening side, however, the phrase, “You pray to God, but he can’t hear you” was used to ridicule someone who was about to be badly beaten or maybe even killed. It showed contempt for the person who prayed and affirmed the nihilistic idea that we live in a Godless universe where raw power is a law unto itself.
That phrase, “God can’t hear you,” turned Matthew 10:28, “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul,” on its head. Instead, the message was this: “Don’t place your hope in an absent God. Fear me; I’m as real as the boot that is about to smash your head in.”
Tupac Shakur adapted that phrase in the lyrics for one of his songs. He took the phrase and fleshed it out to chilling effect: “Scream to God, he can’t hear you. I can feel your heart beating fast cause it’s time to die,” (from “Starin’ Through My Rear View”).
 |
| Image credit: C. Matthew Hawkins |
A second phrase that deserves attention is this: “I feel you.” In African American discourse this is used instead of “I hear you.” This is not a linguistic error. It is consistent with the sense, in our culture, that people are better understood through the heart than through verbal abstractions. Even the power of the spoken word moves toward that end.
African American culture is highly relational and emphasizes the importance of empathy. In many ways, the phrase “I feel you” is not very different in meaning from what Cardinal John Henry Newman intended by the phrase “heart speaks to heart”.
Third, there is the pouring of libations. While pouring libations may conjure the image of Greek classical literature or Ancient Roman funeral rites, in African American communities the practice comes from traditional African religions and culture. One pours libations in memory of the dead. This takes on a sacramental dimension within the context of Christianity and in relation to the Eucharist.
Other images in the poem should be fairly self-evident. In the end, it is best for the reader and the listener to attach their own meaning to the poetic images that follow.
The Body and Blood of Christ
 |
| Image credit: C. Matthew Hawkins |
stringing light across the surface
A trace of accidental beauty
Slitting the fingertip, drawing blood
Our heads are like bricks in the street.
Our lives, the jagged edges of broken bottles.
We cry out, “Where is God in all of this?”
A face deformed with power
Sneers mockingly, “He can’t hear you.”
“He can’t hear you,” echoes through the darkness,
And fills the dead of night
We sob as our lives bleed into streets
And you, God, are nowhere to be found.
 |
| Image credit: C. Matthew Hawkins |
Suspended between heaven and earth
Twisting in pain and in agony
No solutions to be found on the cheap.
“He can’t hear you --”
But maybe he can feel you.
The priest holds bread and wine in his hands,
Transformed into the sacramental offering
We, the assembled, gathered in prayer,
We too are transformed and become sacraments.
“He can’t hear you,”
the terror of darkness and being alone.
Bread is cracked open and ripped apart
Our hearts, too, are torn open
Broken and poured out like blood on the sidewalk
In the pouring out of ourselves, we become whole.
“Maybe he can feel you,”
No longer alone.
 |
| Image credit: C. Matthew Hawkins |
Pour libations into the street
Remembering souls that were snatched in an instant
Leaving behind a mural on the wall for a memory
In silence, we encounter your mystery
In silence, we confront and embrace our pain
In silence, you clear the muddy waters of our minds
In silence, you whisper your truth.
We are heard and we are felt,
especially when we are alone.
