Maggie Smith's Good Bones

Tonight we experienced a wonderful literary experience.  At the Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing at the Arizona State, we heard Maggie Smith read her poetry.  It was in the evening, outdoors in Arizona.  I was comfortable, Maggie Smith was hot (she lives in Ohio).  I'm sure most who read this entry have heard or read her poem "Good Bones".  It has been consumed by more than a million people.  Ah-h-h-h . . . the power of poetry.  Sitting outside and listening to such a fine craftsperson, what struck me was the atmosphere in which the poems were delivered.  In the backdrop was the sound of a city of more than four and a half million and the sounds of a nearby airport, the kinds of sounds people walk through day and night without a thought.  People, worldwide, do want to live in cities.  The air was thick with urbanity and in the middle of an  apocalypse rehearsal rose the voice of a poet that shocked the senses.  As familiar as everything was, I was on a journey to somewhere I'd never been.  Her poem fit the atmosphere beautifully.  Thank you, Maggie.
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Good Bones
Maggie Smith
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
 

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