A poet suggested that sin
was created by the Christians,
wrong, of course, but perhaps
just being politically correct
in not naming the Jews as
its creator, or at least
giving it a name and rulebook.
And on the point of accuracy
the poet might have noted
that the Jews created
the Christians, for Jesus
was one of them, a reformer
before Judaism would allow
anything beyond orthodoxy.
All of which is a long way
of explaining why I am
now a practicing Buddhist.
When you got off the boat
you must have been scared,
but getting away from that life
made the fear bearable.
I have no idea how you ended
up in West Virginia, it wasn’t
at all like Lithuania, and Jews
might have had two heads I imagine.
But you all made do, made
a community, invited others
and were tolerated if odd,
and I am certain you wonder
what happened, why now those
or their children’s children’s
children are so willing to shun
others whose only sin, like yours,
was wanting to get away
from horror, from persecution,
from fear, and make a life
in the hills of West Virginia.
You need not apologize, for we
do not expect it, and would
not accept it as freely given.
It is not that you have not
done so much to warrant it,
for that list is long and replete
with all manner of sins.
It is simply that we are not
in a mood to accept an apology,
denied so long, for hollow words
have no real meaning to us now.
And our mood will not change
until you atone for those sins,
for atonement is more than sorry,
it is the work of undoing
and you have so very much
to undo.
For those who cannot see the picture above, please imagine this text is the most hated font of all time*:
There are certain sins
a poet learns never to commit,
whether by teaching or
simply bad experience.
Poetic sins come in many
shapes and sizes, grammatical,
typographical, metaphorical,
or just about any -al you choose.
Bad rhyme is a minefield, unable
to know slant from abject miss,
forced form a train wreck with you
at the controls, blinded by ambition.
But the cardinal sin, the one
for which there can never be
any excuse, mortal to a poem, is
to think you can use this font.
*comic sans, of course.
I suppose I ought to be glad
that no playwright has ever written
about me, for that is a fame that always
seems to end badly, unless it is a comedy,
and that, too, is dangerous ground,
for such plays tread heavily for a laugh.
Consider Shakespeare, and ask
yourself if yo would want to ever be
one of his protagonists, no doubt ending
up prematurely dead, and carrying all
manner of sin and angst to your grave,
while others gather to note your failures.
I suppose I could try a one-man show,
autobiographical, but only if I directed
myself, and even that would be challenging
as I don’t take direction well, but my early
attempts at its creation failed miserably,
as my audience, the mirror, made clear.
The ocean wind swept through the city
a sudden rain washed sidewalk, shop and street,
carried both dreams and sins back to the sea.
For the young child, time slid by easily,
life a campaign that allowed no retreat.
The ocean wind swept through the city,
rattled church windows, so that all could see
the priest stripped of dogma. Christ on pierced feet
carried both dreams and sins back to the sea,
cast them to the waves, as if once set free
both dreamer, sinner would avoid hell’s heat.
The ocean wind sweeps through the city,
whispers to the rich man, “what will you be
at the end of this life, when bitter sleep
carries both dreams and sins back to the sea.
When you are buried deeply in the peat
will we see your face in the turf fire’s heat?”
The ocean wind sweeps through the city,
carries both dreams and sins back to the sea.
an old writer and his words 