December 17, 2022

Rita Mae Reese

ON THE PROBLEMS OF EMPATHY

1
Twice a year the orphans come.
Like Job’s children, pawns in a bet
made with the Devil.

2
You and your mother watch
from the porch as Father Whiskey’s car
rolls up the long dirt drive.
The orphans inside ignore the fields,
the cows, the pond, the patch of woods.

3
When you were younger,
you begged for a brother,
or even a sister.

4
What should you say to an orphan?
You think of your mother’s
habitual prelude to sympathy:
“There’s nothing easier
than burying other people’s children, but …”
The orphans are beyond sympathy.

5
Sympathy being one of the problems.
How far does it go?
Not quite to the horizon.
Not even to the trees beyond the pond.

6
The orphans, their still-breathing,
lye- and cabbage-smelling bodies,
are also a problem.

7
Father Whiskey with his lazy eye
thinks a good Catholic family
with only one child is both
problem and solution.

8
One eye looks at your mother.
The other looks at God
looking at you.

9
Sympathy requires action, or at least words;
empathy is a private affair,
which is nevertheless a basis for community.
However the distinctions are imprecise and need further work.

10
Father Whiskey sees God looking at you as if
—if you believed in the Creed, the Holy Ghost,
and all that he has tried to tell you,
if you could even look a statue
of Mary in the eye—
then you could reach out a hand,
lay it on this boy’s scrubbed forehead,
make him your brother.

11
Later, in college, in a winter of mind and place,
you will read Edith Stein’s
On the Problem of Empathy.
Now though she is of no help to you.

12
You stand on the front porch
and wait for the miracle
to begin in your shoulder
and travel down through your fingertips,
the way you’ve heard lightning
tries to escape the body.

13
In a few months there will be different orphans.
Then the time comes but no orphans.

14
Years later, in a city where you can’t speak
the language, you will pass a woman
sitting on the pavement, a burnt-out shell
of a woman holding an infant. The infant is sleeping,
on his head a robin’s-egg-blue bonnet, spotless.

15
Your problem is you feel too much, or not at all.

16
Their grown bodies move past you.

from Rattle #45, Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

__________

Rita Mae Reese: “Once on a road trip to Atlanta, Georgia, I came across a copy of The Habit of Being, the collected letters of Flannery O’Connor. Then, I had no faith to speak of, not even in myself. In one of the letters, O’Connor wrote to a friend: ‘If I live long enough and develop as an artist to the proper extent, I would like to write a comic novel about a woman—and what could be more comical or more terrible than an angular intellectual proud woman approaching God inch by inch grinding her teeth?’ I return to O’Connor’s stories and letters again and again, each time recognizing more of my comical, terrible self and—more surprisingly—the seeds of faith.” (web)

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December 21, 2019

Peter E. Murphy

GRAND FUGUE

After the hospital released me with a warning,
I walked around this busy city that hadn’t noticed
I’d been missing, me and my reconstructed heart,
so full of gratitude I wanted to kiss every light
that flashed GO, forgive the ones that said STOP.
And when I felt the earth throb under my feet
I remembered the subway below where commuters
were training themselves to work and what it felt
like to be that useful, which I will never be again
until my living will kicks in and a young doctor-to-be
pulls out my organs, examines them, and puts them back,
leaving one out to see if anyone notices, the way I did
in boot camp after taking an ancient carbine apart,
getting busted, threatened with court martial and firing
squad and Vietnam. The sun is working overtime,
shimmying its vitamin D all over the city. Its light
reflects off the granite walls of a magnificent building
whose cornerstone says it was born in 1844,
the year nitrous oxide was first used to sweeten pain,
though too late for Beethoven, who, enraged after
becoming deaf, drove the audience mad when he came
up with his fifteen minute car crash, the “Grosse Fugue,”
where the violin and the two violas and the cello
rip their bows across the screaming catgut
so atonally, no one wanted to listen to it.
Wouldn’t his heart break from joy if a patron set him up
at Weeki Wachee to watch through the great glass wall,
mermaids breathing underwater from air hoses so obvious
you can’t see them? His whole universe would shimmer
as waterproof women swirl through the bubbles
of the sunlit spring, smiling at him, waving their colorful
spandex tails like batons. In my anesthetic dreams,
I too breathe underwater without drowning.
I flap my arms, kick my feet, try not to remember
how blood spilling out of the body congeals
on the hospital sheets so a minimum wage worker
in the basement laundry can put a whopper and fries
on her kid’s dinner plate. There are a million birds
in this city I hadn’t heard till now, each of them tuning
their instruments, each of them singing, I am alive.

from Rattle #45, Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

__________

Peter E. Murphy: “December, 1971, a month before Bloody Sunday, I was hitchhiking through Londonderry, too drunk to realize it was a war zone. When my ride ran a barricade, soldiers lifted their automatic weapons and opened fire. A week later in Limerick, I met Bahá’ís. They said it was a new religion. I said they should disband before they start another holy war. They said they were building a social order centered around world unity. I said if you believed in alcohol instead of God, I might be interested. Four months later I woke up in a gutter in Cardiff, Wales. Later that day, I attended a Bahá’í meeting in Newport, the city where I was born 21 years earlier, and enrolled. Call me corny, but it was a second birth. My experience with the Bahá’í Faith has been one of transformation, which I hope is reflected in my poems.” (web)

 

Peter E. Murphy was the guest on episode #22 of the Rattlecast! Click here to watch …

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March 5, 2015

Kenny Williams

ROSEMARY LAMB

The heaven of the gods that are not God
is never big enough. It’s always filling up
with smoke, the greasy breath
of sacrifice, which gods alone can take as food.
Our Father gave this business up
to stink up our bright booths
of plush and gold. The server serves
the slaughtered lamb, the lungs
the expanding sky. I sing while I can.
The palace of the gods is always adding on.
And if you glut yourself on smoke
you’ll live forever and forever
is an end to the story of the gods,
the start of all that’s come before,
sheer prolog to the puff.

from Rattle #45, Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

__________

Kenny Williams: “I’m an animal by nature, an animal-eater by design, a pagan by sensibility, and a Catholic by conversion. The phrase ‘of faith’ seems to me highly problematic. Like the word ‘Christian’ nowadays, it could mean anything or nothing. To call yourself a ‘poet of faith’ is a dangerous move, something like calling yourself a saint or a genius, but since I’m playing by the rules, and since I take the Catholic dogmata as my model of reality, and since I take the unfashionable view that art is a useful tool by which the audience (that brilliant goofball) may deepen its appreciation of the predicament of being human within the all-demanding context of objective truth, i.e. reality, I call myself, quite possibly in error, a poet of faith.”

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March 4, 2015

Linda Whittenberg

ESCAPE

Every once in a while one of the neighbors
comes by, rope in hand, looking for horses
that got out. Predictably, ours go for the hay
in Lisa’s barn.

There are few hazards nearby, so, mostly,
no harm is done, but I did have to replace
a cranky lady’s birdfeeder after Doc
went after the millet.

No halter, no bit, no restraints, unfenced
space to explore, smorgasbord of green delights
to cruise—sometimes we hate to round them up
from enjoying the sweet taste of freedom.

The thing is, we can imagine such freedom 
for ourselves—no bank account to keep filled,
no day-timer, no obligations—only an open gate,
time and space waiting for us.

Who knows, we might go around the world
or at least to Africa or India or take
a coast-to-coast road trip, or go live
on the Cook Islands for a while.

But, I suspect, we’d miss the familiar,
behave like our mule, who,
after he’s shown he can outsmart us if he wants,
enters the open barn door on his own.

from Rattle #45, Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

__________

Linda Whittenberg: “I began writing poetry after retirement from Unitarian Universalist parish ministry. I find it has been a natural outlet after years of giving sermons. Now, my practice is to begin each day long before dawn, when, in the quiet, I can reflect and write. Like so many have said, sometimes I don’t know what I think or feel until I write it. The practice of rising early and going directly to my writing desk has produced a large number of poems, enough for the three books I’ve published and for a meditation manual I’m assembling for the Unitarian Universalist Association.” (website)

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March 3, 2015

Sherrill Vore

NPR REPORTS

The voice is clear and light
in weight.
She is young
and sitting, I think,
very still.
Another woman translates.
The rhythm of sounds goes back and forth
creased and neat
like hands folding towels.
When did she hear that the bus had been blown up?
asks the interviewer.
She smooths out the details of her morning—
the chores done after her husband left,
before the news came.
There is so little work, she says,
and there is the baby
so they had hoped that it would be all right.
But eighty-two are dead today
and will not be policemen in Baghdad
or fathers
after all.
What will she do now?
they ask,
thinking it a reasonable question.
There is a beat of silence as she sees
clearly
the days stacked one upon another before her.
She begins at last to cry.
I reach out my hand and touch the radio.
No one speaks at all.
The unfilled airtime spills around us,
and then
they turn to other news.

from Rattle #45, Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

__________

Sherrill Vore: “As a professional in Christian education I spend a great deal of time trying to help people name the ways in which the tumble of daily events in our lives intersect with the story of faith. For me, being a person of faith means that I try to remember to practice attentiveness. And then I try to use what vocabulary I have to speak of patterns and mystery, pain and wonder and, finally, of hope. Poetry—both my own and others—helps me do that.”

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March 2, 2015

Laurie Uttich

SOMETIMES PETER, BUT NEVER PAUL

It’s ridiculous to still believe in God:
to say the word Divine and feel it blush
purple in that place where you still wake at night.
But there it is, its hand heavy on your head.

To say the word Divine and feel it blush
on your tongue, a woman much too old to believe:
but there it is, its hand heavy on your head.
Prayers rise in the dark, ghosts of those you love

on your tongue. A woman much too old to believe,
but still you call the names of saints you knew.
Prayers rise in the dark, ghosts of those you love.
Mary, Teresa, sometimes Peter, but never Paul …

you still call the names of saints you knew.
And sometimes when you do, your grief grows gills.
Mary, Teresa, sometimes Peter, but never Paul:
there’s no sense to any of it at all.

But sometimes when you do, your grief grows gills
and purples that place where you still wake at night.
There’s no sense to any of it at all.
It’s ridiculous to still believe in God.

from Rattle #45, Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

__________

Laurie Uttich: “Every week, I sit on a hard pew and I say the words I learned as child, many of those words spoken first by Jesus … a teacher, a healer, an activist, and, for me, a savior. I believe in activism. I believe in living as Jesus taught: feed the poor, house the homeless, care for the imprisoned, speak for the marginalized. I believe Jesus wouldn’t ask for immigration papers or drug tests or care if two men loved each other; and I’m often troubled by the label ‘Christian’ and the way it has come to mean intolerance and, sometimes, hate. I am also weak and worry at times what others think of me—my smart, cynical friends who find my beliefs to be at best ‘quirky,’ and, at worst, a construct I’ve created to feel better … something I should have outgrown by now, especially as an ‘academic.’ So, while I may at times stay silent—as guilty and ashamed as Peter who denied Christ three times—I am a Christian and, hopefully, a bit of a poet. It’s more difficult to communicate how my faith affects my poetry. It shows up unexpectedly, and it’s not always welcome. I once wrote an essay about what it means to be a writer and I realized that as a child I found God on a white sheet of paper. It would not have occurred to me to leave it blank. On good days, it still doesn’t.” (web)

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February 27, 2015

Colette Tennant

STARDUST

I don’t like it when scientists call me a carbon-based life form
it makes me sound like a pencil smudge on my writing finger

a really bad child at Christmas
clumps left on the oven floor when an apple pie runs over

a suspect’s fingerprint
coal a million years from diamonds

an accidental piano key
mascara tears

a Goth kid’s hammer-smashed fingernails
an Ash Wednesday forehead every day

the leftover eyes of a slumped jack-o’-lantern
a snow pile in a Cleveland parking lot late March

a hurried tattoo
bathroom graffiti

an orphaned chimney sweep
a heap of autumn leaves, colors all burned to ash

from Rattle #45, Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

__________

Colette Tennant: “I am a professing Christian, an imperfect but forgiven lover of Jesus, the dearest bread, the sweetest wine. I can find the Garden of Eden story in almost any piece of literature I teach. I like quoting what Francis Schaeffer replied when someone asked him what he would say if he had one hour to tell them about his faith. Schaeffer replied, ‘I’d listen for 59 minutes and talk for one.’”

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