tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5910291709965283166.post3809386933267455454..comments2024-01-14T12:04:49.488-05:00Comments on Behind the Lines: Poetry, War, & Peacemaking: Sand Opera Lenten Journey Day 28: Healing, Nurturing, and “Hung Lyres”Philip Metreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05449159681282927289noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5910291709965283166.post-91751204310075379082016-03-08T21:22:26.283-05:002016-03-08T21:22:26.283-05:00Thanks for sharing the Beers poem! It is a mystery...Thanks for sharing the Beers poem! It is a mystery, raising children despite the darkness of the world, maybe in spite of that dark.Philip Metreshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05449159681282927289noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5910291709965283166.post-3427735489768218512016-03-08T16:41:30.577-05:002016-03-08T16:41:30.577-05:00Phil, beautiful post! I can so relate. My son was ...Phil, beautiful post! I can so relate. My son was born premature and as a result suffered three months of colic. And when it stopped. . . well, you know. <br /><br />Reading 'Hung Lyres' again reminds me of the poems in Shaindel Beers's 'The Children's War and Other Poems', and of the recent photo in The Washington Post of a mother and her three children denied further safe passage as refugees. The cutline for that image easily could have been the closing line of the first poem in Beers's collection (". . . Always, there is a mother screaming.") and of the concluding lines of the final poem (". . . There is the part where you realize every broken window is a piece of you."). So often I've had the thought, what kind of world is my son born into? He's 27 now and the thought still haunts me.Maureenhttp://writingwithoutpaper.blogspot.comnoreply@blogger.com