Night Templates

Night Templates________________________

1.

When walls were struck from the sea,
we, buried and hidden in virgin matter
untended, were trumped by enormous waters
thundering seminal waves into the solar vortex.

Now on a wet hillock where ritual is borne
the Priesthood of Patmos encase
the apparitions of God:
robing and girding sarcophagus forms

in a deluge of dust. Wanting the wind,
we structure instead
seven chambered
honeycombs.


2.

We call this place the Valley of God,
where the earth in cupping shape
holds vapors like incense in the temple.
Here is Adam’s grave, his cage of speech
beneath where the leaves rot.
No one recalls white doeskin testimony.
No one mentions the cupping shape of this womb.

3.

We conceive
the white pleated passage into night.
We take a timorous approach
and keep a folded fig leaf behind the altar of prayer.
Our desires climax and pulse wet above the quasars.
We bury our atonement in the sand.

The incessant swarm of death
ruptures our street visions
sacks the Alexandrian library
breaks the wooden cart in its flight
and peals the flesh off our unworthy bones.

Razing the Bar

Razing the Bar_________________
November 18, 2003

Our son was born today, many years ago.
We did not know what we were doing—
Starting a family, I supposed.
We were impaneling the jury:

Young men and women who believe
In the system—who are willing to serve.
I am afraid of the folded piece paper
They are passing on to God.

My son laughs when I tell him this.
He wants to know who the foreperson is.
Whoever is most anxious, I suppose,
Hoping God will vacate their decision.

Wendell Berry's Sabbath Day

Wendell Berry, in his collection of Sabbath poems, The Timbered Choir, speaks of failure and the deep weariness it produces as a kind of prelude to grace. Here is a portion of one story that he tells.

The bell calls in the town
Where forebears cleared the shaded land
And brought high daylight down
To shine on field and trodden road.
I hear, but understand
Contrarily, and walk into the woods.
I leave labor and load,
Take up a different story.
I keep an inventory
Of wonders and of uncommercial goods.

I climb up through the field
That my long labor has kept clear.
Projects, plans unfulfilled
Waylay and snatch at me like briars,
For there is no rest here
Where ceaseless effort seems to be required,
Yet fails, and spirit tires
With flesh, because failure
And weariness are sure
In all that mortal wishing has inspired.

I want to repeat that last bit: failure and weariness are sure in all that mortal wishing inspires. And so Mr. Berry’s Sabbath journey is to the wilderness rather than to church—and it is true that sometimes there is an abundance of mortal wishing in what is said at church. A little further on, the same thought returns.

I leave work’s daily rule
And come here to this restful place
Where music stirs the pool
And from high stations of the air
Fall notes of wordless grace,
Strewn remnants of the primal Sabbath’s hymn.
And I remember here
A tale of evil twined
With good, serpent and vine,
And innocence as evil’s stratagem.

I let that go a while,
For it is hopeless to correct
By generations’ toil,
And I let go my hopes and plans
That no toil can perfect.
There is no vision here but what is seen:
White bloom nothing explains
But a mute blessedness
Exceeding all distress,
The fresh light stained a hundred shades of green.

There is more to this beautiful poem than I extract and emphasize here, but I would like us to appreciate the connection that Mr. Berry makes between the Sabbath day and mortal failure. I am not as convinced as the poet seems to be that the flight into wilderness is so dissimilar to his neighbors' gathering to the village church—not so different as to be thought of as contrary. What the soul seeks in either direction is a sense of the holy. Both seek a Sabbath rest from the inevitable failure of human toil—toil that intellectually manifests itself in explanations. There is a part of us that will relish explanations—and so the homily and the sermon—but that is not what the soul is hungry for.

In another of his Sabbath poems, we find this:

…………… And so the mind
That comes to rest among the bluebells
Comes to rest in motion, refined
By alteration. The bud swells

Opens, makes seed, falls, is well.
Being, becoming what it is:
Miracle and parable
Exceeding thought, because it is
Immeasurable; the understander
Encloses understanding, thus
Darkens the light. We can stand under
No ray that is not dimmed by us.

The mind that comes to rest is tended
In ways that it cannot intend:
Is borne, preserved, and comprehended
By what it cannot comprehend.

(Italics, mine.)

This is why meditative silence—a rest from all our explanations—is as essential to the Christian meeting that Mr. Berry avoids as it is to his own experience of wilderness. Such silence makes room for the holiness of Divine presence—as an indication of our deep faith rather than as evidence of its articles and creeds. What explains does not sustain. Next week, I would like for us to consider what this silence might be like, should we find it in our meetings.

For now, this last poem concludes with a verse that reflects upon the indivisibility of true Sabbath and this silent rest.

Your Sabbath, Lord, thus keeps us by
Your will, not ours. And it is fit
Our only choice should be to die
Into that rest, or out of it.

Inclination

Irony appears as a type of judgment in the Old Testament and casts its shadow on many that inhabit the ancient page. Irony is apparent only when our perspective forcibly changes and the chaos of things line up in a fateful way.

In my own life, irony casts a shadow after sudden, thunderous blows create a breach in the backdrop of what has been daily granted. The following poem is an account of one such alignment.

Inclination____________

When I read
how long the poet
took to finish her poetic deed
I want to hide beneath the rocks…
My inclination is to be done.

In culinary art
it is the same—
my wife forgetting how
others at a table will linger…
Her inclination is to be done.

Although our son died
days before being married
being buried close to a man
whose name is also Done.

Sling Shot

This poem is based on two incidents that occurred in childhood. The first is a thing that happened to me when I was twelve. The second incident is something I did soon after because I did not want to be a boy who was tortured by other boys. I despise the shame both acts of violence continue to plant in the deep inside of me .

.....

..

Sling Shot


1.

It was a small cruelty measured against
the ovens and camps
of contextual time—but

I saw cold Nazi ice in their eyes
the instant before
the hot spear of a cigarette
burned into my arm—first

one branding
followed by another


2.

and then another.

I cannot escape the thicket
we wove ourselves into

throwing stones at Stephen
as he was walking home.

I took off my coat. I gave it to Paul.

I aimed at a puddle—
wanting to startle and to be cheered.

I threw a rock that ricocheted
into His temple.

Jeremiah Walks the Streets of Clearfield

I often think of a game we played as children. Children learned this game at school and played it at recess. It was called, SIMON SAYS. A leader would issue his commands under the authority of someone named Simon:

Simon says, raise your hands!
Simon says, sit down!
Simon says, look to your right!

And we would all raise our hands, sit down and look to the right. The catch would come sooner or later. The leader would tell us all to stand up and whoever stood up was declared out. He was out because this time the leader did not invoke the authority of Simon.

I suspect there are religious origins to the game. Perhaps it began as a rather fun way to catechize Catholic children as to the importance of the Pontiff (Simon being Peter's original name), or—more likely—as some sort of Protestant parody. Whatever the case, it is now a game the Latter-day Saints take too seriously. We have, of course, baptized the dead practice and given it a new name. We call it, FOLLOWING THE PROPHET.

How well our own children have learned to play the game is illustrated in an old talk President Spencer W. Kimball gave. He spoke of attending a meeting and sitting on the stand. He noticed a group of boys sitting the front row behaving strangely. In unison, the boys would cross their legs, pull the same earlobe, rub their foreheads, and then cross their arms. On a sudden, President Kimball had an epiphany of sorts—“they were imitating me!” He went on to caution leaders to be careful of their behavior. I want to caution those boys now that they are no longer boys.

This is not the sort of obedience the Lord requires of us. We do not look to mortal men and copy what they do. We do not wear dark blue suits because certain other men wear dark blue suits. We do not speak in church with the legal cadence of a vocal strut because a favorite apostle did. We do not replicate handcart treks only to return home and turn our back on the poor and needy of this world.

Unfortunately, the last two or three generations of Latter-day Saints are finding it difficult to put away childish things and to mature in their faith. There is no dictum in scripture akin to the refrain of that well beloved Primary song, “Follow The Prophet.” The verse closest to it—“whether by my own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same”—must be understood in conjunction with Joseph Smith’s caveat: a prophet is a prophet only when he is acting as a prophet. A mortal man’s voice is the voice of God only when God is putting words into his mouth—which is the best definition of revelation I know of.

In the temple we covenant to obey God and while this would include that of God resident in men, the distinction is nevertheless an important one. In the Bible and again in the Book of Mormon, we are repeatedly told not to put our trust in the arm of flesh and insofar as we put our trust in a man or in quorums of men that is what we do. That being said, it is not necessary to ignore the teaching of a favorite Primary song. We can keep the refrain of this song in its place of preference as a well-established motto if we deepen our understanding of its counsel as we mature. But this is exactly what we have failed to do.

Why is it important for us to mature in our understanding of what it means to follow the prophet? The answer to this question is found in understanding an event that both the Bible and the Book of Mormon refer to as the provocation (Psalms 95:8; Hebrews 3:8; Jacob 1:7 and Alma 12:36). This event occurred at the foot of Mt. Siani. The people of Israel were invited into God’s presence. Instead, “they removed and stood far off,” telling Moses to go and speak with God and they would listen to his account of what God had to say when he returned from the mountain. Moses went into “the thick darkness where God was” alone (Exodus 20: 19-21). Israel’s refusal to follow Moses into the thick darkness that hid the divine presence angered the Lord. We are told that, “the Lord in his wrath…swore that they should not enter into his rest (Doctrine & Covenants 84:24).” As a result, that generation did not enter into the Promise Land. Moses later lamented, with reference to these things, “Would to God that all the Lord’s people were prophets (Numbers 11:29).” That is to say, a mature understanding of the dictum required Israel to follow the prophet up the mountain, to speak with God themselves, and thus become prophets themselves rather than relying solely on a human ambassador.

If we are the descendents of ancient Israel, we need to beware the sins of the fathers—especially this sin. More and more we seem to be saying to the President of the Church and to other brethren, ‘you enter into God’s presence and speak to God for us. We will stay far back and listen to you.’ The problem with this attitude—and it was the same with the fathers—is that we don’t really listen to them either. We heed instead the common platitudes that all of us employ to fill in the gaps between inspiration. Sooner or later, Jeremiah walks the streets of our hometown and delivers the Lord's dreadful message:

“I have had it with ‘prophets’ who get all their sermons secondhand from each other. They make up stuff and pretend it’s a real sermon. They preach their ‘everything-will-turn-out-fine’ sermons to congregations with no taste for God.” And then he asks the real difficult question which brings us to the topic I need to address. “Have any of these ‘prophets’ bothered to meet with me, the true God? Bothered to take in what I have to say? Listened to and then lived out my word? (Jeremiah 23: 30-31, 16-18, Eugene Peterson translation, The Message)”

Let me repeat Jeremiah’s question, “Have any of these ‘prophets’ bothered to meet with me?” The true topic that I need to address, the topic that all these words are but a preface to, is that of meeting. Jesus said that whenever two or three come together in His name, “there I will be also.” We come together on the Sabbath—at least in theory—to meet with the Savior. But that is not the reality I experience. In my experience, we come together to meet each other, to glad-handle and slap one another on the back, to exchange our myths about ourselves, to honor and praise one another. This is the audio-visual of our meetings.

And what a noise we make of it! We fail to acknowledge the ancient truth that Habakkuk taught, that when we coming into the divine presence, “all the earth should keep silence before him (Habakkuk 2:2).” We fail to heed the advice of Eli to Samuel and silently pray before meeting, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” We’re not listening—not to the Lord anyway. We are correlating, setting appointments, talking about home improvements, stress at work, and the ignorant Christians meeting down the road. We are greeting visiting authorities, commenting on how we all look in our new garb, anything but communing with the Lord. In all of this we are removing ourselves from God and standing far off, telling others—none too seriously—to speak to God and we will listen to them.

This week I’d like to continue my thoughts as to why we are such an irreverent people—to continue to explore the question of why it is our meetings so often go bad with spoiled Spirit. I’d like to consider why it is that we still refuse the Lord’s invitation to meet with Him, only to draw to the far back of meetings and commune with each other instead. This exploration will, I trust, challenge some of our basic assumptions of what is—or ought to be—at the heart of Christian discipleship: Why it is that we continue to play a child’s game. Why, for us, following the prophet does not translate into going up into the thick darkness where God is, but means instead, “you go and we will listen to you.” Why it is that after He has gone, we turn to others and listen to them instead.

Midnight Mass

As an introduction to the broader Christian world in which I also live, move and have my being, and to all problems ecclessia as well, I add an entry from my journal.

......................................................................................

December 25, 2005-Christmas

Christmas Eve—quite late when I climb into Tim and Brittany’s car and the three of us drive to Salt Lake City to attend Midnight Mass in the Cathedral of the Madeleine. A dark and comfortably cold evening with a trace of snow still on the ground, we park a few blocks up the hill from the Madeleine and enjoyed our walk down to South Temple. We stand in line about half way up the western steps. I have not attended Midnight Mass since the Christmas we lost Benjamin and I went with Barb and Ben’s brother Mike to Saint Joseph’s in Ogden.

This evening, those who wait for the doors to open are bathed in a moist, wax-yellow light from above the cathedral doors and the lamp poles as well. The confused, indistinct shadows cast by the barren branches of trees are magnified on the walls of the surrounding buildings as on the Cathedral. This gathering is mostly young people with an indistinct spirituality, uncertain as to how it should express itself, shifting slowly in the cold. One young man swears in what seems to be a customary effort to impress the chicks, but shrinks back into himself when a young lady glances his way, raises an eyebrow and says nothing. Her rebuke, however, is without lasting power and—as a forgiven man—he is soon smiling again.

There is some whisper about a need for tickets, but it is the devil stirring among us and when the doors are opened a half-hour before midnight, we are made welcome without requirement. The lighting inside the cathedral is subdued. Proceeding down the aisle, it seems that we are to be a people who walk in darkness.[1] It is not unpleasant: from behind the chancel screen (the veil of the temple, in Catholic iconography) a chamber orchestra and choir fill the heavenly vault with the holy music of Christmas. The sounds are delicate as snowflakes and then instantly change into almighty power thanks to the organ trumpets behind and above us--a power that causes the rafters—indeed, the entire superstructure—to tremble, tremble, tremble.

The aisle pews against the wall are tiny—sitting two, perhaps three if you are young and skinny. About two-thirds of the way to the altar, Tim and Brittany take one and I take the pew behind them—sitting next to a young man who has taken the trouble to come by himself—which I believe to be a sign of his sincere heart. I am thankful to share our worship and begin Christmas alongside of him. Turning, I look about.

Catholics who are members of this parish entered some time before us—I assume by another door—and have taken the center pews. Youth is no longer the dominant trait. Indeed, there no longer is a predominate trait. This is something I find truly marvelous about Catholic worship—people from all walks of life, social status and color, wearing all manner of dress coming together to worship—tonight, to welcome the tiny newborn Son of God into our midst. Who are we—I wonder—who make requirements and set standards for those who want to gather together to worship with us? And what would shock many Latter-day Saints more than to witness this stillness—this quiet reverence, though children abound here too. Obviously, casual clothes do not necessarily hinder communal worship, while the kind of obsessive attention to ornamental dress manifested by some us will. We often lose the point—those gathered here have not.

The sacred dwelling itself raises all kinds of issues within and without me. I know one sister who will dismiss this place and the experience I'm having here with contempt—if for no other reason than the gargoyles atop the buttresses of the cathedral, which she believes represent the demons within. Others think the holiness I am feeling here is nothing more than a slight of hand, architectural and imaginative counterfeits of the true Spirit. But, contrary to Hugh Nibley’s assertions, holiness cannot be achieved in that way. Holiness is the providence of the Spirit and cannot be effectively counterfeited. I have concluded that holiness of Spirit exists independent of all rivalry. It can—and does—bless the worshipping heart in schism—and without sanctioning anyone’s debating points. As I look about, seeing what is reflected in the countenance of my fellow Christians, I whisper quietly to myself that the Spirit is in this place.

There is still another sense to the Spirit indwelling here—something I've never experienced in our Mormon chapels, but at times I have found in the temple. There is an air of expectation—a look of anticipation fixed on these countenances. We are caught up in the story—participating characters in the play that will be enacted here. This is not a new experience of the faithful for me—a new way in which we become believers—but it is a rare one and I am delighted that it is a part of this Christmas! For the moment, we are the shepherds here, the magi and the inhabitants of Bethlehem. Or perhaps we are the ones who dwell in darkness, on the other side of the Gentile coast, and our light is about to come. And that is what comes—a tremendous, radiant light, beneath the trumpets of the organ.

In this new light, the Bishop has gathered with his entourage—and with them the image of the infant Christ. The congregation arises and sings “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” as the Bishop begins the procession down the center aisle. As they progress, the light sweeps forward before them, like a mighty wave rushing ashore, and by the time the infant child is put into the Christmas crib, the cathedral is engulfed in light. The feeling of joy is palpable throughout the sanctuary—joy is passing through every heart and all faces are aglow. My young friend next to me is moved to tears.

We all take part in the prayers, the hymns and responsorial with enthusiasm—I along with the rest, although I omit saying portions of the creed. Frankincense fills the sanctuary. Throughout the Divine Drama, the Word is incensed, the Host—His Holy Presence—is incensed, and we are incensed as well. Sitting, standing—all is done in praise before the infant king who’s light we welcome into the cave of this dark hour. Bishop Niederauer’s homily—much of it having to do with poor—is profound and deeply moving. When members of the congregation turn and greet one another—a part of the Mass since Vatican II, I believe—I embrace my young friend, something I found quite awkward to do the last time I attended Mass, but now I do so fully and sincerely. He is my brother Christian tonight without divide and a false sense of distant elevation.

We stay to the exact end and then walk outside into a strong, cold wind and cloudy night sky—but a new star is visible nevertheless. We speak merrily about our experience, as do others. All about us are midnight pedestrians, walking up the steep hill from the Cathedral—each a transubstantiated Magi or shepherd returning home for a few brief hours of sleep, each with a heart pulsing peace throughout the Body.

Later, having climbed into bed and pulled the covers over me, before I drift off to sleep, I remember a moment early on, when Timothy—studying the mural behind the altar—turned to me and whispered, “Is that the Father supporting His Son upon the cross?” Suddenly, the enormity of the Incarnation overcomes me and tears flood my pillows. I can only thank God for what has shone and what has been shown.
______________
[1] Matthew 4:16

The Last Supper

When a brother or sister stands in meeting to say they know spiritual truth beyond a shadow of doubt, it is not only doubts they avoid with their fiction but shadows as well. If you live within the shadow of Mormon and want to be thought of as a spiritual soul there is no easier path than to feign certainty. The Prophet was himself agitated by this quirk in his followers. We sense his frustration when he puts a red-hot query to the Elders in Kirtland: “Why are you so certain about all things when all things are so uncertain with you?”

Here is a problem for florescent-light-saints to think about: there is no shadow or cloud or shade of meaning in the temple of your worship. But God is often depicted in the Bible as a cloud that overshadows us—a being that provides us with necessary shade. Clouds and shadows and bowery by their very nature provide ambiguities to our experience as well as a sense of mystery. And mystery is the last thing a Know-It-All want to sense.

We should not be impressed with what the Pratt brothers referred to as artificial light. I am more than content to dwell in this cloud of unknowing—to know things within and not beyond the shadow of doubt—perhaps just to sense them—and to appreciate the shade of our Sabbath bowery—the tabernacle given to us in our journey across time.

.......

The Last Supper_____________

Some are for shadows
well-intended shady areas—
meaning men must

whisper
walking where
the light of God is indirect:

the way the Word
became flesh

the way the Word planted
becomes a tree

in the soul of man

the way tortured limbs
become evergreen

how it is
when Jesus gestures
saying

this is my flesh
and this

the blood of it all.

The Testimony of Wrath

As the wind words began to propose judgements soon to come upon the earth, Enoch also heard another voice coming from the bowels beneath him--a pained and weary lamentation. Just so, Joseph intuited that this voice would become a dissonant chorus as soon as his own words faded away. Then were we to hear the voices of thunder, lightening, tempest, quake and strange tide. These we are told constitute The Testimony of Wrath.

The Testimony of Wrath
________A Vision of Enoch, Seventh from Adam_______

“Deep is calling to deep
by the roar of your cataracts,
all your waves and breakers
wash over me.”
Psalm 42:7

There are intrigues that surge from the wounds of the sea,
hauntings that vie for the soul.
There are movements that wash
from the center of Sidhe*—dark that is part of the whole.

There are voices entombed in inanimate things:
Virbrato, Tremor and Fire
There are spirits aloft
on God’s breath as it flings

chants from the Core of the Pyre.

* An old Irish word pronounced Shee or the world of nature spirits.

Creel

Creel____________________________


If Spirit is still and small—if a wisp of wind will do—then live a simple and unadorned life and do not be taken in by the thunder of your own mountain.

It is better to live level with the sea and weave life like a creel—a basket that is not as deep as you.

It is your soul that is threatened by the coming of every winter’s night and grace is a peasant thing. It is the small bit of halibut you savor by the fire.

10/16/06

Note: I am unable to post the lines of this poem as they should actually appear. If someone would like a copy of the poem as it should scan, one is available.

A Slight and Singular Grace

A Slight and Singular Grace


for Sarah Wheeler



“If you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night
that your cried unto me in your heart…." Doctrine & Covenants 6:22

Of three, this one was difficult,
keeping all of the doors closed
never returning her “I-Love-You”s—
his capacity remaining a mystery.

Carefully she lays herself down
beside him, praying where he
has at last fallen asleep.
This closes the distance a bit…

Still, she yearns for returning words
the way poets do when they cannot find
them and they begin to groan their
way around the barricades. Something

stirs in him. He turns to her, opens
his sleepy mystery-eyes, and says
the love words. As if God in His own
distance has said, “This will have to do.”

4/22/06

Rachel Weeping

Not that I endure so very well. Angry poems are difficult to read and absorb, and I’ve written a few. The images for this poem come from the Biblical story of the Passover, our family time together with Ben before the lid on the coffin was closed and then the actual burial—the descent into the ground, which to my everlasting regret I can only imagine. In this poem, I equate the lid of the coffin with the doorpost in Exodus, upon which the children of Israel were to put the blood of the lamb and thus save their children alive. I am also interested in the ambiguity that exists between
Isaiah's concept and the Book of Mormon view of God’s outstretched hand. Bejamin's mother's hand reaches out in love, but what of God's? Does His hand reach out to strike us again and again or to save?

The poem recalls a bitter moment but not a lasting one. It’s necessary to acknowledge anger and resentment and offer the tumult to God. He can take it. He knows our true feelings anyway and only an honest soul may hope to experience the healing intimacies of the Spirit. No matter the trial, God will not accept hypocrisies. We cannot come to Him pretending that we feel anything other than what we truly feel.


Rachel Weeping___________________


Beneath a bloodless lintel
between the pristine post
his mother’s hand is outstretched
still and laid upon his ghost.

But at the closing of the door
love’s angel must passo’er.
And when the door is put to sod
ask of Almighty God:

Whose heart is harder still?

Our Souls to Take

Members of my faith community tend to see themselves as actors rather than props. That we are to act and not merely be acted upon is axiomatic in the Book of Mormon. As a result, we dismiss the notion of fate. Such positivity does not hinder God. Like everyone else, we are frequently taken to places where we would not go. The fact is that we are acted upon in ways that easily dismiss our ability to control our fate. This is when our inclination to act is to be most valued. In such moments our Christianity is weighed. But first we must brought to the mature realization that we are all vulnerable to sudden, catastophic revelations of what we must endure.

Our Soul to Take__________________

“Does not the potter have a right over the clay?” Romans 9:21

We resist Romans—
those winds and spirits
that take us where we would not go.
We are able to dress and gird ourselves.

Still
when we wake
into a trinity of storm

a layered Pentecost of water
come down from heaven
upon this jagged imposition

we know this is not where
we laid ourselves down to sleep.

Our souls have been taken to sea.

One Year Ago I Danced

I thought I would share with you my own John Muir moment that I recorded in my jounal nearly one year ago:

October 27, 2005

One of those great displays of weather, of such a spirit that our spirits are made to exclaim (in paraphrase of the Gold Bible) 'the God of Nature dances!' I saw the sky turn gray and then darken through my window in Salt Lake City and thus enticed, I was soon out the door and driving north on the Interstate.

Forty minutes later, when I pulled my car into the Nature Conservancy, the sky above was ominous—deeply laden with battleship clouds. I was not a quarter-mile out on the planks when the wind willed itself into a maelstrom, creating erratic currents in the air about me. Soon the clouds were all a-tumble and every drop of rain that fell to earth passed through a multitude of misdirection. It was “surf’s up!” to the hawks and the crows that rode upon the chaotic tides in obvious delight.

But as to human company, I was alone among the dry reeds and with fog closing in about me, I was unable to see more than a quarter-mile off. My soul therefore gave way to exuberance and to folly. I raised my arms as if they too were wings. I dipped and banked and made my own swooshing sounds. I called into the vortex of the storm, “O Lord, you are a majestic God!” I sang with full throat and pretended to conduct the squalls with my walking stick. In my mind, I was upon an English moor and the hound was in the sky. Then the wind cleared a small path across the marshes, and out there in the distance—surrounded by mist—was the pavilion. I was now in Japan and beyond the structure, the haiku of a poet’s pond! But there was no time for the digressions of Zen. Once again the mists renewed their shroud and I was carried away in the Spirit and put back upon the moor.

I was a frenzy myself—somehow the wind had found its way within me, poured its wildness into my veins and my blood was alive with it. I spun with the maelstrom like a dervish, and sang and danced and sent my praises aloft. It was a fullness-of-times out there, a coming together of all my life’s blessings—the dearest moments relived. I realized that throughout my life God has been breathing into my sails, choosing my adventures, plotting a homeward course.

I drove home intoxicated. M—did not know what to make of me when I finally came through the door.

A Poem In Two Senses

I remember when I first heard about Evelyn Wood’s Speed-Reading course. It was as if someone had proposed rape—every book to be poked into and tossed aside: slam, bam, thank-you ma’am. No one in my home would ever have countenanced such pillaging. Poetry teaches courtship—a love affair with words—and it is the words that woo. I never look into a book that does not smile sweetly in return and suggest that we spend a lovely day together. The pages all turn slowly and I enjoy the texture of their flesh and the perfume of the printer's ink. I turn the open book over and put it a little above my waist as I lay my back to the meadow, clasping hands behind my head and closing my eyes. In silence I ponder the wonderful thing the book has just said to me before turning to her again.

______________A Poem in Two Senses______________

A poem is partly a puzzle
a problem to be solved
or put into the cold case files:

turn the page prematurely
and the ancient curses are in place.

This is a poem in one sense.

A poem in the other sense
is a Delphic Oracle rising
from subterranean pools:

pass without payment
the cave of wells
and the pilgrim is in peril

the journey is in jeopardy.

readings are archeological
you need to pitch a tent.

7/2/05

______________

And this too is how we come to scripture, to the writings of prophets, to the doorway of the Muse. Scripture is the divine poetic. A dark, black hole may await any speed-reader who would so pillage heaven and rape the Word of God. Perhaps they know not what it is they do. Abba forgive them then and those who teach them too.

My Father - Part Two

I was born into a poetic home. My father was of a pure Scot ancestory and that is one explanation: the wind carried the brine, the brine went into his blood, and out came a torrent of words. My mother was enchanted by these words, she fell in love with the windy traces of the brouge. Douglas, Sr. would at home lean against the mantle, puff his pipe, and recite Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem, "Crossing the Bar." On other occasions it was "Sea Fever" by John Masefield or a Robert Service poem, and always by heart. At the end of these performances, my mother would break out in applause--each and every time.

When I was born, I was given my father's name. Such a christening is a stigmata of sorts, both a wounding and a blessing--a definite nail in a sure place. After my father died, this name became a sacred thing to me. I would often go alone to the coast and stand by myself, looking out upon a brutal storm and speak our name out loud, as if it were some key word the ocean would accept.

"Douglas......."

I would say it between the pounding waves, the way one takes a breath between phrases of a hymn. I suppose I expected to see an angel fly out of the midst of heaven.

"Douglas......."

I braced myself against the wind--against the breath of God. I wanted the ocean to speak to me as my father once did and tell me the stories one more time.

"Douglas......."

The wind forces me to remember. I stagger back and collapse on the beach, waiting for rhapsodies to rise, for the burning coal to be pressed against my lips, and a melody of words to come forth.

My Father - Part One

My father took me as well to the end of the land—to the vast gray havens of the sea. Always and ever I find his spirit there though he has long since left my simple sight. I need only to walk beneath the cliffs of Half Moon Bay or climb upon the outcroppings of rock into the surf at Monterey to feel the weight of his presence. In those distant days we would sit together on some large piece of driftwood and gaze out upon a foggy sea. He told me his stories of thunderous storms and tragic shipwrecks that once happened all along the California coast. These accounts were vivid incantations and the mind of a small boy easily saw them with spiritual eyes. Such stories—as are told by fathers to their sons—orient us to the universe and put a provident sensitivity into what is happening around and about. My father lived in the depths of things and because he took me with him, I grew up in his world. I began to sense that my tears were somehow related to this ocean brine.

I sometimes get a glimpse his ghost standing beneath a dark and turbulent sky, staring out to sea. His hands are deep into the pockets of his old khaki jacket as he braces himself against the windy Pentecost that blows in with the squalls. He is clean-shaven still, but I remember the intimacies that were permitted me as a child when I knew of a roughness beneath this skin—a roughness that he daily kept at bay. When I was a child, that roughness somehow put a difference between us and connected him to the churning sea. But I am brother to that now. I know the ghost that is looking out to sea is looking not only upon the stories he told, but also on those he keeps to himself. As a young man in the Marine Corps, he spent months upon the deep, living with men who were doomed to die.

Older now than he became, I am sure he owned his own death as I ran off chasing sandpipers. He was looking, as I do now, for the curraugh that carries the soul away.

Immram______________________________

Below the egret of judgment
from this granite outcrop
cormorants launch their dance
into empty space.

Aided by currents
they circle, collapse and climb
above the kelptic web
above the captured wood that drifts.

Like me, they are enamored.
Like me, they are aroused.
But I can only look into the mist
listen for a seafaring psalm

and wait for the coracle to come.

8/8/2002


When I returned to him—the sandpipers having fled and my feet wet and caked with sand —I looked up into the lines of his face. He was so silent and so salty that I thought he stood with God. I trust his silent spirit to the same thought today.

Cross Current

I lived in northern California until 1996. For nearly thirty years I loved nothing more than to take my children one on one to the ocean and hike along the cliffs of that rugged coastline. I have many good memories of long walks and talks with each of them. I am fond of a particular memory of Ben--our son who died in 1999. One of our favorite haunts was Point Lobos, north of Big Sur and just before Carmel. We were together there many times, but in retrospect one occurence offers itself as a shadow of things to come.

Grief is not a single emotion so much as it is life awry with many conflicting and supplementary currents of emotion. It connects itself to the sea in this way. And in losing Ben, our grief became our cross--itself a conflicted symbol.

Cross Current____________________________________

"For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. But if I live in the flesh,
this is the fruit of my labor: yet what I shall choose I know not.
For I am in a strait betwixt two,
having a desire to depart, and to be with Christ; which is far better:
Nevertheless to abide in the flesh is more needful for you (Philippians 1:21 – 24)."


I might surrender to the tide in my blood.

I could close my eyes and find myself again
standing north of Whaler’s Cove—
watching my beautiful boy unearth the abalone shell.
I would put my arm across his shoulders
and we would walk together
toward the sounds of a watery apocalypse.

Even now I hear the siren music only we would hear.

He would run atop the cavern’d rock
as if to dance upon the spine of a crustacean—
embracing every plume of each exploding wave.
He made sea lions happy and seals paid him homage.
He put their kelptic offerings into his bag
and set them out for study later.

It pulls me out—this tide in our blood.

Almost—the warn sun ignites the fragrant mariposa.
Almost—the brine is in the air.
We could rise with the help of my shepherd’s staff—
But I should be down beside him
waiting for the careful movement of hands
that will extricate every shell that has been buried.


3/14/2002

Irreantum

Our souls look upon the sea--each with a different sense of things. That sense depends on the stories we've been told--the hopes and the fears such tales leave inside of us. When one of our sons died beneath the ice of a river a few days before Christmas, his younger brother was beseiged with night terrors. I wrote the following poem for him.



Irreantum________________________________


The Hebrew thinks the sea a witch’s brew—
a liquid brine flooding the nasal passages
forcefully entering chambers it should not own.
He sees chaos in the crone’s stir of the spoon—
the maelstrom of that awful monster—death and hell.

But sit beside the Irish monk who sits on granite shores.

The waters that come to him—as if the voice of God—
embrace his broken body and release
the deeper, inward transits of his soul.
Put upon the silver skiff, he sails to Western Isles
listening to the hymnal waves—breathing in the windy tide.

If we choose to be a desert people
the deluge will disturb our dreams.

Oregon Poem

Let's begin with a poem I began writing while in Oregon. I had been walking with my wife along the beach south of the Devil's Punchbowl. We were paying close attention to the characters and to their activities. I was hunting for a poem. After returning to the top of the cliff, we came upon a young man sitting at a picnic table reading his Bible. My first thought? I wished the hand of the Lord had rested so easily on me. In other words, I coveted his life: a Jesus Freak surfer along the Oregon coast. (This is all in the imagination of course--what do I know of his life and trials?) But almost immediately another thought hit me:

What is it that we get from studying the scriptures? I think most people would answer saying something like our LDS definition of truth: a knowledge of things--credo--articles of belief. But I don't think this is what my Jesus Freak took from his Bible. The thing that is before doctrine and beyond creed is the subject of this poem.


The Oregon Poem____________________________


The deep down rumble down
is now a Bible on splintered wood.

In wet olive skin
—as if some seal had come
upon the rock—
his eyes fix on
the swell of words.

Once more into the deep rumble down,
he leans his board into his sense of things.

All souls ride upon a sense of things.

--DJD 7/2006

It is our "sense-of-things" that deepens in prayerful readings of scripture--a sense that cannot mature in creeds and doctrines. A prayerful, silent reading of scripture provides a hollow space (that is, a domestic church) where we experience the wind-words blowing through and feel their intonation.