Poetry - June, 2014

Poetry

Confessions in the key of kenosis

—after Philippians 4

I am the one who has not
rejoiced, always, and again
I will say, is not rejoicing.

Hardly ever my gentleness
is known, even to me, and not,
certainly, to my children. Strangers
report to have seen it on Tuesday
in the library. I do not confirm
this sighting.

                       But I have catalogued
my every worry about everything,
my requests made known in the sharp,
carping voice on my blog. By supplication
and prayer I claim to have been
deserted. I say it again, deserted, justly.

                                                 And still, some Spirit
stays near, alert for the stingiest rejoicing, key
ready in his unclenched hand. Unlock, Heart-Guard,
my chest’s dark vessel. Empty me of treasured
loss. And again, I say, make it emptier, until,
for rejoicing, a space larger enough to echo appears.

Poetry

The farm wife examines her Mennonite roots

They’re the riddle in my garden
           What has eyes but cannot see?
Like a stone, they fit my hand
            as I turn their other cheek.
With love but no regrets,
            I mash them into mounds
or whip them, scallop them,
           dice them for rivel soup.
Cancer could not lessen
           Dad’s affection for them fried.
He tells how they clustered
           like sleigh bells in the sand
where nothing else but winter
           squash and zucchini thrived.
His mother, Fannie Mishler,
           fixed them for every meal
like some cultures live on rice.
           My son-in-law from St. Louis
splashes hot sauce on their skin,
           but I fancy even their pockmarked
faces that shrivel as they age.

Poetry

Christos

Christ lives in my unchosen life, resident
In the upright ashes of these brittle bones,
Mapping blood routes and checking airways,
Catching the breaking news in my nerves,

Ever exploring under wrinkling tissue skin
For portal throughout my temporal universe,
Arriving at last behind these old searching eyes
And, through haunting blur, giving vision to wings

Of candle flames fluttering about the altar’s cross
As pipes, chimes and steeple bells ring, resonate
And indwell, bidding me, familiar beggar at table,
To take bread and wine like a taster for the king.

Poetry

Nearing Lazarus’ tomb

He’d seen it all. Swathes of nothingness
spun into stars, the slapping of the first fin onto land,
and now these creatures, by far the cleverest
and the saddest—though listing it that way
felt faulty, as if all happenings unfurled inch by inch
instead of blooming in one cacophony,
the apple crumpling just outside the city walls.

And it wasn’t even an apple, or fig,
or pomegranate glinting with infernal seeds,
though he’d accommodate their legends,
accept provisional truths, the same way they worked
with the earth un-sphered and stilled
in leaf-thin sketch.
                              To overlook
imprecision in the premises, concede
to the limits of both flesh and paper,
was what it meant to translate, as to love.
Which struck him as strange pottery:
roll everything that’s been into a coil
and score it with each day; cram self into cage
of clay and bone; daub their closed eyes in slip
and wait for it to flake off to new sight. It seemed to take
what they called a lifetime.

But they didn’t have that, not right here,
beside the village known as House-of-Misery
whose people rent their clothes. Before he even spoke
Mary’s tears were falling warm onto his feet,
carving clear trails through the coat of dust.

If you had been here. He stood
enveloped in the sound of all their moans,
entangled in her locks of dampening hair.
If you had been here. All grief’s audacity
pitched in her splintering voice, she raised her head
to look at him, and in her water-darkened eyes
he who’d seen all things felt this:
pain’s veil dividing now from everything
that is not-now. And he began to weep.

Poetry

The story

We stood on a green hill
on a brisk day,
two small sisters in coats, singing
two-part harmony into a tiny grave.
Our preacher dad had asked us
to sing the one about children
and their heavenly father
at the burial of a baby, stillborn
to a couple named Story.


But this was a story
I couldn’t crack. How
could a baby be born
with no breath or life,
how could a baby be dead,
but still, born?

I looked at the mother’s eyes
as the two of us sparrowed on
about how life and death
would never sever—I knew
it meant separate—children
from God’s strong arms.

It was nice to get paid for singing,
but I didn’t want to ever be dead
and flourishing in some faraway
holy courts. Each night I prayed
uneasily that If I died before I woke
the Lord would take my soul—
God suddenly materializing
in the dark room, like a frightful thief
in the night, to spirit some unseen
part of me up and away.

I liked my real home on the prairie.
And I wanted my story: all babies born
unstill into their fathers’ arms,
everyone mounting green hills
unwounded by grave dirt,
all of us singing an old, old story
and breathing, breathing,
grace all around us like fresh air.

Poetry

Natural life with no parole

That’s what it’s called the men tell me
after our discussion of Matthew Five and
what it means to turn the other cheek,
or not, the latter being the path that
brought them here. But what, I wonder
is a “natural life”? Isn’t it, really, the life
led by everyone, those behind walls and
those without, each of us living the one
life given which is to say there’s no parole
for anyone. Yet listening to the men describe
how they found Jesus, or rather He found
them despite everything, or maybe because,
I think of Paul on the road to Damascus,
the sudden light, blinding, transforming,
reforming, or then again this, a slow inner
revealing, the shy gift of sweet snowdrops

Poetry

The deft of it

Just spent four days with my mom and dad,
Who together are hundred and eighty-four
Years old, and there are so many wry funny
Things to report, and some saddening things
Also, like fragility, and the ravines that pain
Cuts in faces after years of wincing. But I’ll
Tell you just one: my dad at one point tosses
A bag of bread from his seat at the oak table
Onto the thin counter to his right. Maybe six
Feet of air, and he didn’t glance at the target.
A little flick of the wrist, and the bread lands
Exactly right. This nailed me, but Pop didn’t
Look up from the crossword puzzle. It could
Easily be explained: former excellent tennis
Player, knows the spatial music of the house
In his bones, probably made that throw sixty
Times, but still . . . the silent casual easy grace,
The deft of it! He’s all bones now, he weighs
Less than he did when he was a reed of a kid
Away to the war they thought would kill him
For sure, but when I hug him he’s still all tall
Though some of the tall is bent. Look, I get it
That someday he won’t be sitting at the table.
I get it. Believe me, I have examined the idea.
But that his deft won’t be there, his sideways
Smile when I gawp at something he says; I’m
Not quite getting that. He says he’d like to be
Buried in a military cemetery in a deep forest
About an hour away. There’s oak and cypress
And pine. This will happen, I guess, and then
He’ll be a thin kid again somehow or the most
Deft of the falcon chicks or the willow branch
That finally figures out how to sip from a lake
All easy and casual, like it didn’t take practice.

Poetry

Gravity-defying gratitude

There’s no such thing as
heartfelt praise too wild.
Yes, wide-eyed, as child
but not bashful, mild.
The thing at hymn sing
to boldly hold in mind,
God sings us, His universe,
in fervent observant verse.
We are His hymns. Amen!
But then, conversely,
might not we be “Her”
shouting forth forte sopranos?