Faith

In 2001, the day after the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the United States, American Poet Laureate Billy Collins was asked if he was composing a poem for the nation. No, he said. The events had stripped him of words, as they had countless other poets, including myself. Was art, we agonized, now meaningless?

Today? The Ukraine, Middle East, Africa, Far East—conflict and mindless destruction. Closer to home—dark clouds of prejudice, division, and right-wing extremism.

Once more, I find myself soul-searching. And again, naïve or just stubborn, insist the simple act of writing a poem or a story, no matter how modest the result, in itself is an affirmation of what is finer. Out of nothing, something has been created. Through its images and symbols, art celebrates our ability to shape, to order, and to find meaning, and by so doing, to nurture good. We continue to write, because we must. It’s an act of faith.