All things without, which round about we see, We seek to know, and how therewith to do; But that whereby we reason, live, and be, Within ourselves we strangers are thereto.
You are neither here nor there, A hurry through which known and strange things pass As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.
Saturday, the first weekend in April, snow fell thick all afternoon. A recording of Bach played from the living room stereo.
As I cleaned the kitchen, I remembered a conversation from earlier in the week. After a long thirteen-hour day, my co-worker asked what kind of books I’ve read recently. I shared a few titles. She replied, “Oh, wow, you read the classics. I only ready modern fiction.” It stung a bit. And I wanted to defend myself from being considered a fossil. The truth of the matter is that I do, in fact, read old books. And I enjoy reading them. But it does make conversations with people difficult.
I closed the dishwasher door and pressed the start button. I thought of another moment in the week. While troubleshooting a video looping file for a 42-inch display screen, I remembered how hungry I was that day. During lent, skipping one meal a day is manageable. Even if it was a long day. But it was more than “to keep/the larder lean. . . ” as Robert Herrick wrote in his poem “To Keep a True Lent.” [1] He concluded: “To starve thy sin,/Not bin;/And that’s to keep thy Lent.”
Another recollection while cleaning the kitchen. I read Geoffrey Hill’s translation of “Lachrimae Amantis.” [2] Hill’s poem was featured in an anthology. When I searched the public library system for his book Tenebrae I came up empty. (Not to be confused with his poem by the same name.)[3] Yet it seemed appropriate to consider “Lachrimae Amantis” on Passion Sunday.
At this dark solstice filled with frost and fire your passion’s ancient wounds must bleed anew
“Lachrimae Amantis” by Geoffrey Hill
There was some leftover oatmeal at the bottom of a pot on the stove. As I cleaned the kitchen, I finished the rest of the steel cut oats with a sprinkle of brown sugar, almonds, a dozen raisins, and a tablespoon of yogurt. Is this breaking a lenten fast? Maybe I shouldn’t have added the yogurt. I washed it down with cup of black tea. Then proceeded to wipe down the stove top and counter. The oats and raisins reminded me of a poem by Dylan Thomas. The poem contains no Latin and no “thys.” Just the “oat and grape.”
This Bread I Break[4] by Dylan Thomas
This bread I break was once the oat, This wine upon a foreign tree Plunged in its fruit; Man in the day or wine at night Laid the crops low, broke the grape’s joy.
Once in this time wine the summer blood Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine, Once in this bread The oat was merry in the wind; Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.
This flesh you break, this blood you let Make desolation in the vein, Were oat and grape Born of the sensual root and sap; My wine you drink, my bread you snap.
Cloudy, wet, cold, and windy. Weather report? Or state of the soul? Friday, I left the office to catch the street car in order to take the last train out of the city. But the street car seemed off schedule. I picked up my two bags of work gear and hiked through the city streets to discover that the East St. Paul Avenue bridge was out of commission. Orange cones and barricades blocked both ends of the bridge. That explained the dilemma of the street car. No bridge. No street car. At that point, the bags carried felt twice as heavy as when I left the office. I headed north on foot to the next bridge and made it in time to board the train home.
For a moment, as I stood outside the Milwaukee Public Market, home seemed so far away, if not out of reach. The invitation of home a distant sound. Once on the train, I reread a poem by Bei Dao. I read it earlier in the day, but sought to pick up the thread and continue digesting the poem. But in my fatigue, I skipped ahead a few pages and read a poem by Gu Chen. In that poem the speaker reports that his dark eyes seek the light.
After a few attempts at reading, I closed the book and watched the landscape pass by the window. I thought of a Lenten reading from Soren Kierkegaard: Christ sought followers not admirers. And John Donne’s meditation on the Scripture passage: they took My Lord away. Donne proposed that often “you yourself cast him away.” He offered that his followers diligently “seek him, . . . and seek him with a heavy heart, . . .” My mind pondered these thoughts. Do you want a comfortable life? An easy life on your own terms? Christ invites followers to something more.
The Risk by Marcella Marie Holloway
You take a risk when you invite the Lord Whether to dine or talk the afternoon Away, for always the unexpected soon Turns up: a woman breaks her precious nard, A sinner does the task you should assume, A leper who is cleansed must show his proof: Suddenly you see your very roof removed And a cripple clutters up your living room.
There’s no telling what to expect when Christ Walks in your door. The table set for four Must often be enlarged and decorum Thrown to the wind. It’s His voice that calls them And it’s no use to bolt and bar the door: His kingdom knows no bounds of roof, or wall, or floor.
So, it is Fat Tuesday.[1] Meaning it is almost Lent.[2] In Milwaukee. Meaning it is Pączki Day.[3] And the office fun committee made sure those special Polish pastries are available for staff in the lunch room.
Not from Milwaukee? Not Polish? A member of the fun committee smiled and said, “Everyone is Polish on Pączki Day.”
01. I totally blew it; regarding giving up beer and coffee for Lent.
02. But that last bottle of beer looked really lonely…
03. so I drank it down on the first day of Lent…
04. and followed it by a cup of coffee the next morning (second day of Lent).
05. For almost an entire week no ale nor coffee was consumed…
06. then last Thursday I had a coffee before a meeting…
07. and three cups of coffee the following Saturday morning with friends I hadn’t seen in almost three years…
08. and I stopped half way through a second cup of coffee this afternoon.
09. Oh, bother, Lent reminds me of how weak I really am.
10. I guess that’s the point.
Coffeehouse Junkie 