All poems copyrighted © Noel K. Anderson

    Prelude

I saved a flensed parchment,

burn-bordered black and brown,

carrying a song of partial translation

that begins “I was not my own.” 

Scholars took it on loan,

reconnoitered it for grammar,

then presented their findings:

An indecipherable stammer.

But I am not displeased by the inelegant quiz;

I am happy to keep the song as it is.

       Whitman

In urge, I emerge

By means of confident,

Self-indulgent courage.

My swelling is my telling

A song of myself.

Reverberant reflections of

My face in the river–

Oh, who from this race

Of the wretched

Can me deliver?

I stretch my skin—

Elastic, electric—

Bow down to the water

To receive the god’s kiss

And I am rapt,

I am drown.

     Call to Worship

    Allons!

From creaking pews, stale-stinking of old hymnals,

From the old banker, overdressed and overheating,

    curling his toes in the ends of hard, polished shoes;

From sad remembrances of harsh words

    which make it hard for Mrs. Loftmore

    to look Ms. Will in the eye (it is not that there is not love,

    but there is not even a hint of affection here)

    Allons!

From intellectual narcissism–

   the preponderance of self-importance

   inflamed by insightfulness;

From Gucci loafers and ties by Hermes;

From deluxe calfskin bibles and the purveyors

   of religious trash–the dumbed-down defalcations

   of the J-E-S-U-S club:

     Allons!   

From waterless clouds drifting double-minded,

   unstable in all their ways;

From pharisaisms of righteousness and self-authentication;

From flagging zeal and flogging soul;

From spiritual flatline–the cumulative mediocritization of

   pietism forged from comfort:

    Allons!   

From the cults of achievement as the cult of inertia,

From love of luxuries as the spite of pleasure,

From the false peace of partial awareness as the pride of enlightenment,

From vile, cancerous gossip as weak, fearful reticence:

    Allons!   

Let us go then, you and I,

faith-filled, star-struck, short and shy,

away from what was, what was not, and what might have been

forward boldly on toward what is not yet seen.

Our lives and lines are freely free,

windblown, wind-bound, slavery.

We go–go on–God-called, call-drawn,

From earthly enthrallment we go on,

freely free through humble obeisance,

fueled by fire in the Spirit’s adjacence

living new life in heavenly nascence,

Come sinners:   

    Allons!   

Prom

But children, tuxed and tailored,

Hot feet tripping through the fertile field

    of women’s eyes askance.

To be sure, such steps do not edify

this desultory dance.

Gentle gowns hide hungering hearts

And swollen hormonal fires.

The flames that lick both heal and stick

Beyond these belles and choirs.

One day, we may yet live the dream

beyond this predilection,

As you and I submit ourselves

To Love’s divine correction.

Confession and Assurance

Slain by the bright warmth

of autumn tree litter,

the man in the big, brown hat

covered his tightened lips with a cool palm.

The assault of light on mortals

can only be endured by the most heartless.

Dispassionate aplomb amid such a riot

of color is to deny food to the starving,

drink to the desiccated,

aid to the beaten Jew on the road to Jericho.

“How dare you,” you say, “compare such sin with

failure to appreciate fall foliage?”

And I must confess, yes, the Spirit speaks

in many colors, and the colorblind of this world

cheat themselves of the glory of red

(the truly colorblind tend to see red).

“Manage!” say they who mean to manage well

but how they manage to sift leaf from color

I can never tell.

I would be slain, and lie beside the man

with the big, brown hat.

Until we should remove our hands and smile outright,

and together agree in the goodness of God.

Driving in New Jersey

In New Jersey

We drive backroads

between winter’s gothic elms.

Past fields of bronzed stubble

beneath skies of pink-orange glory smeared into turquoise.

We drive, fighting the distracting yammer of adolescent, sexual prowess.

Red, gold and green lights sans Christmas sentiment–

we are distracted by distractions of taillights–

Rebel truckers in rude pickups, 

Our ghost of past-away youth

runs these fields

hand-in-hand with a charmed lover–

laughing, breathing deeply–

eyes wide open, most aware

But we make our turns

or take our turns

slinging curses and gasping impotent fumes

at slower lights ahead

and faster ones behind.

Young Pharisee

He hides his face in pretzel-postured agony:

    Limbs wound up, knotted, pinned together

    in cruciform introversion

while a fire in his head

gnaws his spine spineless.

Talons of eagles

grip his raisin heart

as flames lick his back,

popping him around on his chair

    like spit on a skillet.

Patience hovers above his head,

gentle and white-winged

looking for a place to land

     If only he would keep still.

The Choler    

All around we see people with so much more–

treasures that credit only envy to our account.

We remain in our debts.

I tie my collars in many bright colors.

I strike the table and cry for more;

I plod along, but no plow-down sillion shines;

no blue-bleak embers gash gold-vermillion

though I fall and gall myself.

There were sighs, before my whines did dry them.

I dub the dim-lit mirror all blasted, all wasted

and pray for the waters to part–

to be vomited onto Nineveh Beach.

Will wrinkled, aged hands still fold and breathe

and dry the wine of my golden years with sighs

too deep for words? 

I strike the table and tie my colors.

Pour out the wine; we’ll be fine.

Rilkean Tears

I saw Rilke in tears

that rolled rich as golden honey

on that noble face.

That the soul should so swell–

should creep up wet to the windows

and spill out in streaking rills–

through the indignities of the noisy air

like the vanquished prophets of Ba’al

on the sun-drenched slopes of Mt. Carmel,

weeping, pleading for their lives

as they approach splayed finality

dispelled by a slow breath.

Crossing   

We look west from the hills like shipwrecked sailors

descrying the golden land of a promised horizon.

Children play at the river’s edge,

pointing dirty fingers over the water.

Dewdrops swell on the wild grass

yearning to cross the river.

Rocks held onto the morning sunlight

like travelers with precious baggage,

happily anxious for adventure.

Even shrubs seemed to stretch out leggish limbs

To cross over, to walk the gift of land

would fulfill the sweetest dreams of childhood.

             Let all cross

        Let all be crossed

Watch with caution–

at any moment all living things may pull up

their roots and meander to new land–

all yearning, all straining–all anxious to receive

The fulfillment of a promise made good

Wild blossoms swell toward the west

Children play at the river’s edge

Pointing dirty fingers over the water.

The people’s hearts flutter in pure thoughts

Of new beginnings and a clean slate.

One heart waits in the shadows

accompanied by an old, old friend,

who shares the shade as well,

The shadowed heart

watches the sunset

through milky skies

over the golden lands.

             Let all cross

        Let all be crossed

    If only I had but a sail!

The captain goes down with the ship–

down to the depths

of the water’s black pressure.

Here the shadows gather;

one ancient friend

prepares a new promise

of light and breath at the surface.

The Holy Emporium

They were just taking care of business:

providing a service for reasonable profit,

helping out-of-towners and yabbos from the sticks

accustom themselves to city life

while cleaning up for purification rites.

It had nothing to do with the emperor, but

he called it an emporium, claiming

the business  was his own (as he was

the only son of the owner).

They called him gentle, but he made a whip

out of some rope and cleared the floor;

He yelled orders as though he owned the place.

We asked for authorization

for his outburst, and he said

Tear the place down and I will

rebuild it in three, short days.

Impossible!  we scoffed,

He’s nuts–it took forty-six years to build. 

We could hardly destroy it in three days even if we wanted to.

                      Some of his friends cringed and cowered.

We do not blame them. 

None of us could forget what he said.

They finally got him, though,

razed his temple of a body to the ground,

no stone left unturned or stacked:

ashes to ashes dead.

Three days later, he walked among us

rebuilt, reborn, restored–-

transformed, said his friends.

Then we remembered his words about

rebuilding the Emporium in three days,

and it has been a holy terror ever since.

 

Tinsel   

Within a tall, nearby pine

A stray strand of tinsel hangs on a limb

Catching the wind and the sun’s blinding rays:

A tiny strobe flashing in glorious trim.

I considered the light reflected by that spot–

A miniscule sun contained in a point–

Now shining, now darkened, now cold, now hot

Like a fickle believer whose faith is disjoint.

My heart, like that spark, may shine as a speck

Now on and now off–inconsistent in time

But I too have moments–even I may reflect

The flashes of glorious light most sublime

Which first shone forth from that ancient tree

Reflecting a love that redeems you and me.

Sorrow Dogs Sin

With grateful hearts we thank your Grace

That sorrow dogs sin like greyhounds arace.

For though the pains enlarge our guilt

Our hearts, as yours, by sin are spilt.

Is it not right that we should feel sore

When our deeds drive the nails through your hands once more?

And should we not cower in shame of each act

That brings the cat-o-nine down on your back?

Let the sorrows thereby overflow

That the pains we cause you yet, we should know

And hear our prayers steeped in abject contrition

For complicity in the inhuman condition.

But lest faith be turned by absorption with shame

Remind us how you have rescinded all blame

And graciously lead us to follow your call

Enjoying your death for us–once and for all.

Humble Parrish

Meddling heavily with winsome

wisps of colored ribbon

fails to improve motions

made under the gentle caress

of cool breezes.

The colors fly, twist and wave

light and sound meld through their

ethereal warp and weft.

Icy air at the end of an unrelenting, hot August.

I do not spin as I am spun.

The sirens in blue silk gather on the patio in the

gold, golden light of early sunset.

Their limbs harmonize in a purity of song and flesh.

Salmon clouds swim in cerulean skies

and the light-of-all-colors casts down the crown

of the crown of all Creation.

My life, too, is an animate oblation.

Big and Special

He does not know I watch him;

His secret motions are seen only by me.

The fluttering fingers at the eyes and mouth,

the compulsive repetitions, the permanent

expression of lost confusion–his

world and little monologues are alien to me.

But he knows he is being watched.

His jerky, sidelong glances know I am here

though he can not figure where.

I am looking at him from above and

I am loving him with my whole heart.

Two teenage girls pass him with malicious smiles,

replete in fulgent vainglory.

Who can compete with their superiority?

Would that I could absorb their hatred

That they too may watch him from above

and read his secret motions,

and love him with all their hearts.

Following Dad

Dad drove the Saturn;

I followed alone in the family car.

He was born here; he takes short cuts

to prove his status as an insider.

I watch him brake and signal

and take care not to follow too closely,

for though slow and steady, he is unpredictable;

I never know if or when he will turn.

Sometimes he will not signal until he is halfway through a turn, and I must adjust.

Quickly or hesitantly, I must follow.

He knows where we are going–

our arrival

will be knowledge

soon enough for me.

The Yoke and the Plow

Blisters, cream-colored, fix my hands

To the wood on either side of my heaving chest.

Sweat sears the worn handles of this ancient plow.

The leather strap across my naked back

Catches the sun in a single stripe.

I dare not look back;

There is too much furrow ahead

And I cannot risk to lose the bead

I fix on the horizon.

I am hungry, thirsty and tired;

Progress comes slowly through pain.

The demons nag me with suspicions:

    “You don’t know what you’re doing”

    “You’re doing it all wrong”

    “You’re not fit for this work”

    “Leave it to someone better”

    “Your line is crooked–look!”

    “Fool–you agreed to this!”

    “Quit while you can.”

My orders are clear–or were when I started–

The row must be plowed

And I will serve my master.

Brow sweat blinds me

The heat crushes my heart

The solitude contracts around me

Like a dream of madness–

I have but one hope,

One inspiration:  the fix of my stare

Seen dimly through sweat and tears,

The bead, my lodestar

Reveals a face like mine:

Drenched in sweat and tears,

Gasping for breath through the thick air

Of loneliness and abandonment,

Hands scarred and spread on the handles

Of a massive plow on a field between the stars.

The furrow draws the line between good and bad,

True and false, life and death,

But all I see is him and the shouldered yoke

As big as the world.

A tender heart speaks my name

        “Come.”

My soul exults in the word of the Lord

New breath fills my aching heart

My feet dig into the scorched earth

And I press on, press on

For the sake of that face

So distant, so close

Only that I may

At the end of this row

Hear him say: 

    “Well done!”

My course is indefensible,

But the Lord is trustworthy

And he calls.

I will serve him this day;

Sweat and blisters be damned.

Hymn 707

Actually, I’m not sure this is a 707–

it may be a 747–I don’t know, and

I need to get my planes straight.

Can I be sure this plane will stay in the air

if I can’t say what model it is?

So much praise grows out of the wasteful

distractions of frantic activity.

I meant to compose a hymn here

but I’m grounded at 30,000 feet.

But as soon as I say:

Glory to God, Hallelujah!

I am airborne.

          Soli Gloria Deo

I meet and am met in metaline things:

Tears from hearts and hearts with strings,

Angel hair and manna sifted through

    eiderdown wings

Delinquent blessings, sweet arrestings

Glazing cruciform orant pinions

    prone in prayer

Swashing, splaying charismata

   describing a spectrum–a

      spray of praises–

          sentimental overtia–

                Jesus raises.