Jennifer Merri Parker

History Lesson by Amtrak
.............................

Crossing Arizona, from the comfort of the lounge car seat
aboard the Southwest Chief, I sit here, staring out at Pueblos
while a red-skinned man in rhinestones
tells the story of the scenery
as if he’s been repeating it for centuries on end.
His craggy voice is crackling through the intercom, just barely
loud enough to hear above the sleepy rumbling of the train
and mumbling of the passengers ignoring him,
their chatter filling gaps between bored silences and snores.
This portion of the journey, marked by names that ring familiar
in my Yankee-educated ears, he tells us got its eponym
from noble savage sisters who were boarded up in schools,
enculturated, civilized, Northeastern style, and how
on coming home, they had no native names or words left in them,
but called the colored canyons after two New England towns,
their icons ever after for the beautiful and good,
for surely no great spirit could create a world as well
or tell its creatures what in it was worthy and deserving
or manifest a destiny as perfect and enduring
as well-taught, Western, white-bred titans could.
I hear him cough and pause to take a drink of bottled water.
We’re coming to a stop; the payrolled Indian is finishing,
and hanging up the microphone, preparing to get off,
to catch the next train back across the state.
It makes me think
perhaps he’s like the Dutchman, somehow cursed
and bound forever to traverse these badlands, unsurprised,
until some native daughter comes
to call his pride to life
and change back all the names he’s memorized.

Letter to a Prisoner of Conscience
.............................................
Here I sit with wrists and ankles never chafed by chains
and try to learn from books of bloodshed centuries remote
and listen to the Abel-cries that seep out of the guilty ground
as if there were no lessons left in any living throat
or scars could show us more than open, festering wounds denote.
How long have I been busy with my scholarly pursuits?
How long have you been waiting till I saw you in your cell
and traded well-fed diffidence for dissident resolve
or shook the smug assurance of my academic spell
to make at least a small attempt to get to know you well?
Forgive this sinful simpleton for questions never asked
while under the influence of narcotic luxuries,
and school me in the suffering that brought us to this pass
that I may never pass its like again without unease,
lest any call me casual about these casualties.
Teach me the anatomy of tyranny and force
with text drawn from the pages of your spirit and your flesh.
Tongue-lash me with the truth and trust that I will be more just,
although each blow might slash my tender naivete afresh,
just so it cuts me ultimately from the tangled mesh.
But be my friend--deliver me from well-established lies
and comfortable delusions that have kept me here at rest
while powers and principalities above and here below
put all our best ideals and idylls daily to the test
and neighbors, both unknown and known, were brutally oppressed.
Here I sit with wrists and ankles never chafed by chains,
my skin and remnant innocence exposed as I prepare
to share this scarifying knowledge, taste the painful core
of hot, compressed, compassion and the burden that you bear
to face the cruel, uncaring, and the merely unaware.

After Babel
...............................
In firelight I see us, shadows of our future selves,
beside ourselves with awe at what we'd done and might yet do,
and surely as we dreamed of prizes, grandeur, and prestige,
we never questioned that we were among the chosen few.
A little later on, and we are all somewhat mundane,
intent on keeping house, on keeping well, on keeping young,
and some on keeping heads above the water, keeping sane,
but most on keeping going, unrewarded and unsung.
We once believed in miracles, but now we call it chance.
We once believed in answers. Now we live, resigned to doubt.
We once believed in overnight success and great romance,
And now we know that these were never what life was about.
It never was for dynasties or deeds of great renown--
to make a splash, to make a mark, to make a lot of noise--
but always for the qualities that quietly resound:
the steadiness, the readiness, the balance and the poise.
And we, if we were arrogant, can argue we were young
but now know better. Nonetheless, if anybody asks,
Were we--these safe, dull people--truly once the chosen few?
we answer, yes we were, but for the lowliest of tasks.

Partum
......................
I'd resigned myself with meekness to the things that pass away,
as the dewdrop turns to vapor, as the kindling turns to ash.
Why did you drop like a stone into my stillness, with a splash
that would echo here and haunt me, since I know you cannot stay?
I would keep you here forever, if my will had any say,
would distill you in a crucible and drink your spirit hot.
I would spill you into every gap in me where you are not
till my density had differed by however much you weigh.
And as long as I had consciousness, I'd never be alone.
Nor would you (you see it isn't only me for whom I care).
We would both live in each other and would love and be aware,
and would know each other as we've only dreamed of being known.
But I see it would be selfishness in me to make you bear
being forced into abeyance, even by a loving bond.
God forbid that I should hold you back when so much lies beyond!
I release you to that richer life that I cannot yet share,
but I pray you won't forget me in the time till I am there.

Contemplation of a Silly Question
...............................................
If I were a tree, what kind of tree
would I be? Not a steely magnolia by any means;
neither tough nor tenacious,
nor deep of root, nor strong of limb,
nor florid--if deciduous,
then only by default.
I see myself a conifer,
A Charlie Brown Christmas tree,
small and inglorious,
weighed down by a single bulb,
bolstered by a baby-blanket,
meant to be bright
with decor, yet somehow
the more melancholy for my adornment.
But nearly bare and barren,
dropping needles from my boughs
and bowing deeply like a supplicant,
I am as proud in my humility
as any strapping oak could be
and arch my sapling back, subservient
to love that at once kills
and makes to die worthwhile.
and if I make them smile, thumbsucking
saints and ancient infant magi,
maybe I’ll be storied, like the legendary dogwood;
maybe I’m enobled, like the old and rugged cross;
and maybe where they toss me,
desiccated, when my season ends,
in time, some weak, new, green thing
will spring up to conquer all.

Ode on a Stubborn Stiff Upper Lip
..........................................
Don't you tell me you're not budging,
dear curmudgeon! Must I tease the
tears you're grudging from your eyes?
Woe is me! Why don't you know it
after all we've been together,
and the storms of mine you've weathered;
can you feign surprise? If you're grieving,
won't you show it? I won't mind--I want you weeping!
Lock your aches up for safekeeping only if
I fail your trust. But to protect me from your feelings
would be foolish and unjust,
when I have pulled out maudlin hairs,
cried rivers, given lions' shares of suffering to you.
To cry behind your hands, to hide,
is stinginess personified when I so long to
be of use, and surely I am due!

Arizona
......................
The desert blooms occasionally with prickly forms of life;
and Christ, our best refreshment, goes, mirage-like, far ahead
while, parched and faint, we wonder why we ration what we need.
Let’s eat and drink and bathe. We are not dead!
Not yet, we are not cracked and dry and barren like the ground,
so why this deprivation? Why this hunger that we hate?
Why this monastic service to the sky, the sun and wind?
I’ll spread my picnic here and end the wait!
But wait—the dying sun, the desert breeze, the bleeding sky
bring on the gentle night to cool the burning of my brow.
A thousand votive candles light the grand cathedral hall,
and I know you are praying—even fasting—for me now.
And now, beside the fire, the sparks fly up and light my eyes
so that I can see you present with me in this arid place;
and Christ is crowding near to draw us into his embrace
while the desert blossoms, lush with love and satisfying grace.

The Lesser Prophet
..........................
I am disenchanted, or perhaps
between enchantments,
wondering whether magic that I never did deserve
has deserted or forgotten me
and whether it's worth trying to proceed
on my own steam,
my mundane and paltry strength and thready nerve.
Or should I say the dreaded
words of weakness and surrender,
should I tender resignation to the truth of my great need,
shall I end up dashing feet against the rocks
of my own hubris
or be lifted on the wings
of something greater that I serve?
I am disenchanted with myself
and my short memory.
Was it only yesterday that I was hidden in a cleft
while the fire, the quake, the whirlwind
and the whisper were at work,
and I shivered, thinking, "I alone am left"?
Return me, broken, shamefaced, to the wildness of Damascus
and knock me from my high horse
just as often as you will,
but never cease to speak to me,
my Source, in that sweet, still, small voice
that my voice may grow even smaller still.

Poetry by Jennifer Merri Parker, copyright 2000. All rights reserved.

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