( via / via )

Hymn.

"Because the fact of the matter is: We did not have to be here." —Naghmeh Sohrabi via

"The predominant tone is that of a dark, almost nihilistic comedy, milking the grim absurdity of Seneca’s protracted, agonizingly verbose attempts to end his own life."

"My Grandfather's Church Goes Up

God is a fire in the head
          — Nijinsky

Holocaust, pentecost: · what heaped heartbreak:

The tendrils of fire · forthrightly tasting
foundation to rooftree · flesh of that edifice …
Why was sear sent · to sunder those jointures,
the wheat-hued wood · wasted to heaven?
Both altar and apse · the air ascended
in sullen smoke.

      (It was surely no sign
of God’s grievance · but grizzled Weird grimly
and widely wandering.)

     The dutiful worshippers
Stood afar ghast-struck · as the green cedar shingles
Burst outward like birds · disturbed in their birling.
Choir stall crushed inward · flayed planking in curliques
back on it bending, · broad beams of chestnut
oak poplar and pine · gasht open paint-pockets.
And the organ uttered · an unholy Omega
as gilt pipes and pedals · pulsed into rubble.

How it all took tongue! · A total hosannah
this building burgeoned, · the black hymnals whispering
leaves lisping in agony · leaping alight,
sopranos’ white scapulars · each singly singeing
robes of the baritones · roaring like rivers
the balcony bellowing · and buckling. In the basement
where the M.Y.F. · had mumbled for mercies
the cane-bottom chairs · chirruped Chinese.
What a glare · of garish glottals
rose from the nave · what knar-mouthed natter!
And the transept tottered · intoning like tympani
as the harsh heat · held hold there.
The whole church resounded · reared its rare anthem
Crying out Christ-mercy · to the cloud-cloven sky.

Those portents Saint Paul · foretold to us peoples
fresh now appeared: · bifurcate fire-tongues,
as of wild winds · a swart mighty wrestling,
blood fire and vapor · of smoke vastly vaulting,
the sun into darkness · deadened and dimmed,
wonders in heaven · signs wrought in the world:
the Spirit poured out · on souls of us sinners.
In this din of drunkenness · the old men dreamed dreams,
the daughters and sons · supernal sights saw.
God’s gaudy grace · grasped them up groaning.
Drought parched within them · pure power overtaking
their senses. Sobbing · like sweethearts bereft
the brothers and sisters · burst into singing.
Truly the Holy · Ghost here now halted,
held sway in their hearts · healed there the hurt.

Now over the narthex · the neat little steeple
force of the fire · felt furiously.
Bruit of black smoke · borne skyward
shadowed its shutters · swam forth in swelter.
It stood as stone · for onstreaming moments
then carefully crumpled · closed inward in char.
The brass bell within it · broke loose, bountifully
pealing, plunged · plangent to the pavement
and a glamour of clangor · gored cloudward gaily.

That was the ringing that wrung · remorse out of us clean,
the elemental echo · the elect would hear always;
in peace or in peril · that peal would pull them.
Seventeen seasons · have since parted
the killing by fire · of my grandfather’s kirk.
Moving of our Maker · on this middle earth
is not to be mind-gripped · by any men.

Here Susan and I · saw it, come
to this wood, wicker · basket and wool blanket
swung between us, · in sweet June
on picnic. Prattling · like parakeets
we smoothed out for our meal-place · the mild meadow grasses
and spread our sandwiches · in the sunlit greensward.
Then amorously ate. · And afterward
Lay languorous and · looking lazily.
Green grass and pokeweed · gooseberry bushes
pink rambling rose · and raspberry vine
sassafras and thistle · and serrate sawbriar
clover and columbine · clung to the remnants,
grew in that ground · once granted to God.
Blackbirds and thrushes · built blithely there
The ferret and kingsnake · fed in the footing.
The wilderness rawly · had walked over those walls
and the deep-drinking forest · had driven them down.

Now silence sang: · swoon of wind
ambled the oak trees · and arching aspens.

In happy half-sleep · I heard or half-heard
in the bliss of breeze · breath of my grandfather,
vaunt of his voice · advance us vaward.
No fears fretted me · and a freedom followed
this vision vouchsafed, · victory of spirit.
He in the wind · wept not, but wonderfully
spoke softly · soothing to peace.

What mattered he murmured · I never remembered,
words melted in wisps · washed whitely away;
but calm came into me · and cool repose.
Where Fate had fixed · no fervor formed;
he had accepted · wholeness of his handiwork.

gain it was given · to the Grace-grain that grew it,
had gone again · gleaming to Genesis

to the stark beginning · where the first stars burned.
Touchless and tristless · time took it anew
and changed that church-plot · to an enchanted chrisom
of leaf and flower · of lithe light and shade.

Pilgrim, the past · becomes prayer
becomes remembrance rock-real · of Resurrection
when the Willer so willeth · works his wild wonders."

—Fred Chappell via

Tennyson’s Lotos-Eaters (1832).