the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion,
bowling
441, Nov. 25, 2003
440, Nov. 21, 2003
439, Nov. 20, 2003
Number 441, Nov. 25, 2003
Afaa M. Weaver (1951)
“There is a state of mind known to religious men, but
to no others, in which the will to assert ourselves has been displaced by a
willingness to close our mouths and be as nothing in the floods and waterspouts
of God. In this state of mind, what we most dreaded has become the habitation
of our safety, and the hour of our moral death has turned into our spiritual
birthday. The time for tension in our soul is over, and that of happy
relaxation, of calm deep breathing, of eternal present, with no discordant future
to be anxious about, has arrived. Fear is not held in abeyance by mere
morality, it is positively expunged and washed away.”
—William James, The Varieties of Religious
Experience
By Rev. David DeChant
Johnny Appleseed isn’t known so much for his
Swedenborgian zealotry as much as for his apple sowing.
And he never would have been known for that had he
not been a man for his time and place. Never in the complicated history of
American religion has there been such a heterogeneous mingling of sects and
systems as that which surged through Western Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana
from 1790 to 1850.
John Chapman, also known as Johnny Appleseed, knew
Sabbatarians, Free-Will Baptists, Congregationalists, Bible Christians,
Wesleyans, Old- and New- School Presbyterians, Covenanters, Mennonites,
Unitarians, Universalists, Adventists, Jerkers, Millerites, Friends of Jesus,
Restorationists, Jews, United Brethren, and Mormons, but for reasons all his
own, he fixed on Swedenborgian Mysticism.
And why not? John likened himself to the early
Christians, literally taking no thought for the morrow. He was careful not to
injure any animal, and he thought hunting morally wrong. He was often overheard
speaking for hours to angels.
From town to town he preached the gospel of beauty
and of neighborly co-operation to accomplish community good. Wherever he went
he circulated Swedenborg works, and if short of them would tear books in two
and give each part to different persons. He had a great thirst for Swedenborg
converts, but not many people listened to his particular interpretations of the
Christian faith, and of those who did very few comprehended his complicated
views. In fact, he went on for hours if you let him, the documents report.
Why did he plant all those trees when the country was
already one forest from ocean to ocean? His thought was to prepare the frontier
for the coming settlers—an intention and action born of his love for common
men, his desire to help fellow Americans, and of his love of God as a
Swedenborg mystic. John Chapman wasn’t ultimately known as Johnny the
God-loving Hermit, although that was just as fitting as Johnny Appleseed. He
liked faith more than apples; it is just that apples made a better legacy.
Truth is, he bored everyone with his love of God.
The only thing worse than having to listen to someone
brag about their income is listening to someone talk about their love of God.
Your income, your sexuality, and your religion are your business. No one wants
to hear about them, and they are too personal to share with your average
fellow. Leave them guessing, I say.
Now, with that said, I assume everyone knows I am a
rich, gay, Zoroastrian. Okay, I’m not rich. My purpose here is spiritual, not
preachy—I just want to plant apple trees. I don’t claim to be more qualified or
more correct in my beliefs than anyone else—I’m just willing to take the
challenge.
So for the record, I don’t intend to offend or bore
anyone. I hope you will focus on my apples but catch my message. I’m a modern
minister with a message for today’s real people. My organization is the
Universal Life Church but there is no church, per se. I don’t want to be
perfect—I’ve never killed anyone, but it is safe to say I’ve coveted my neighbor’s
wives.
How about an apple?
Rev. David DeChant writes “The
Deacon’s Beacon,” for The Cabbagetown Neighbor, and contributes a monthly column to the poetrysheet.
Today’s poem:
die geiste und gedanken
der kleine schieldkroetenende tiere
die ueber die ewige ebenen
panzerschiene gelaufen
stoerten naechte nicht mehr
sand zerstoert, im glass geschmolzt—
spiegelte planeten, da prinzen
Rommel geschmiedet
in hitze und geschichte
und der kalte wueste nacht
tanzten und sangen
samen von vogel flugel fielen
liegen in schlaf
unter den galaxien der sterne
ganz herum gefallen
souls and thoughts
of the tiny turtled animals
that ran tank tracks over endless plains
disturbed nights no more
sand, destroyed, molten into glass—
mirrored planets where princes
Rommel forged in heat and history
and the cold desert night
danced and sang
seeds dropped from birds’ wings
sleep under galaxies of stars
fallen all around
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Number 440, Nov. 21, 2003
Mari Evans (1923- )
“You know all about unbelievable; you don’t even
think about it, much less repeat it.”
—Jay McInerney, Bright Lights, Big City
1983 was the first summer since the end of the ‘70s
the rabble didn’t stuff themselves into the trunk one night every weekend for
XXX line-up at the Fairlyland. It was in July, and we did it sort of for old
times. Johnny, Schmoey, Chris and Chris, Mike, and me.
We were pretty excited, really. We were looking for
the break, though most of our lives were a break. Everyone but Chris and Chris
had our own places out of mom and dad’s basements and attics, and into someone
else’s we could call our own by virtue of a contract. All of us had jobs and
worked like animals in the heat. And, let me tell you, 1983 was a steam-room
summer. After work, all we did was watch tube, drink, and make whatever girls
we could.
But it was regular, you know. Boring. Mike made the
first call. It was the afternoon. I was watching a rerun of Gilligan’s
Island, drinking a quart of Hamm’s
before work at the pizza joint. “Say, bud, what say we get the boys together
for a triple feature at the Fairyland?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
Friday around seven, Schmoey brought his mom’s tank,
something like a ’75 Bonneville, around to my spread at 43rd and
Warwick. We went over to the Berbiglia to buy a couple of cases of beer and
bottle of McCormick Gold. It took us another hour to pick everyone else up
since they lived in the old neighborhood or beyond.
Once we had everyone in the car, we had time and
drove a while, mostly around the side streets in old neighborhood and little
south to Red Bridge, just to see how things were changing and to talk about the
girls as we drove by their houses, like we were old timers or something. I
don’t know about the rest of the boys, but I was pretty happy to be around
them, even though in all the talking we didn’t say much.
Down the street from the Fairlyland entrance, we
packed Chris and Chris, Schmoey and Mike, the beer and weed into the trunk.
“Two for the X, please,” I said to the same guy who had been working the booth
since we first went there for money-shot movies six years before.
We drove in, tailpipe dragging, found a spot, and let
the boys out. We talked and smoked and drank until the movie started, then we
were quiet. The film wasn’t funny or exciting like it used to be. Sure, there
was a lot of male flowing, but when I looked around, the boys were looking down
into car or outside into the dark.
We milled around outside during most of the movies—Inside
Miss Annie Sprinkle, Foxholes, and something with a lot of underwater work in a
swimming pool. We didn’t talk hardly at all. I don’t remember the ride home. I
mostly blacked out about halfway through the second feature.
Just as I remember summer being hot, winter was cold.
It was the time I started to drink friends away. But I didn’t care. I had a
case of Weidemann on the floor in the kitchen, a pack of Marlboros and a half
pint of Mellow Springs gin in my ass pockets, and minimum wage with free food.
Life was good.
Today’s poem:
by Larry Racunas
Oh, for a pure Winter day of stillness,
for a
white-out of a soul's sad resonance,
for a blanket over yearnings and longings
that yet pelt a heart like a hail-storm,
for
cold to freeze one's fervent blood, not a
wish
for death in one's death, but a plea for
deep
December solace and sound, peaceful
sleep,
while beneath this quiet, preserving
solstice,
silent Spring stirs, blinks its green
eyes.
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tobacco flavor are our highest values
Number 439, Nov. 20, 2003
Anne Carson (1950)
"I could never make friends again
truly, neither in my heart nor in my head. When you cannot make friends any
more in your head is the worst."
—Earnest Hemingway, "A strange
enough ending," A Moveable Feast
Artie
ends it all
“I’m leaving tamorrah for Emporia,” Artie
said. “I’ll be gone three days. When I come back, you can’t be here. And I
expect you'll've called a lawyer. I recommend Jackson Willis. He's a good man,
and fair. He’ll get ya through this cheap.”
Blood drained from Sheila’s face. Her
shoulders drooped. He was disappointed. He wanted her to fight back to sit on
the table and arc her calves over his shoulders. He wanted to bury himself in
her, for them both to lose control one more time.
She leaned forward, one hand on the
counter top, the other with the beer hanging low in front of her. “You can’t do
this."
"I just did. For two years ya been
lying ta me, spending my money and putting cash from whoever he is into your
account.”
“How can you?” She shook her head. She
looked bedraggled.
He ignored her. “In the meantime, I've
taken the credit card and enough money from your account ta make ends meet. And
I’m changing my account before I leave so ya can’t get to it. You’ll have to
use your own money ta get ya wherever you’re going.”
“I won’t move out.”
“You will. I’ll talk ta my lawyer in the
morning when he gets in and arrange ta have the papers drawn up. I trust ya
won’t try ta take anything because you’ll lose.”
Sheila’s mouth hung open.
------
He stood in the empty living room of the
rented house, waiting for something to happen. The clutter was gone. The
furniture had belonged mostly to her, as had the items that made all the
clutter for his mind, the noisemakers. Train whistles echoed up the valley and
tires whined on the interstate. There were no other sounds. He had bent over
and unhooked the wedding ring from the dog’s collar. Jack, the yapper dog, was
silent and still, looking up at Artie.
He sat down in the lone rocking chair and
looked at the empty television stand. He’d miss her. He’d be a long time
finding anyone like her again. Maybe sometime. Maybe never, if he was lucky.
He had a few problems of his own to
solve. Like Jack. They would have to get to know each other, Artie supposed. A
dog, after all, can’t be all that bad on its own. Artie folded his hands behind
his head. He prayed a little. Just a little. Then, he thought about what he’d
do next. Take Jack for a walk, maybe read a book.
Today's poem:
city November
along matted-yellow streets
and between lifted-leg strays,
wind wipes parks clean
of children, painters, and lovers,
lassoes hydrants with bags,
twitches ratcheted fingers
of elm and oak,
makes sunlight sharp
malicious, full of spite
send short poems, short thoughts, fictions, or nonfictions
to the poetrysheet, where whimsy, subversion, and bodice-rending passions are
our highest values
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