Shingled Stiles of Gray and Brown

Poem for David

kmcinnis — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 14:02:40 +0000

raising the boy

till my forearms

cradle his legs,

and the sweat

of our brows,

necks, and hair

mingles

into a solvent,

liquefying

inhibition

into a pool

at my feet,

I consider

Saul and Jonathan

mingling the blood

of the Philistines

in hard,

battlefield embraces,

each grinning

and weeping

to find the other

still alive,

or old Isaac

inhaling

the delicious,

earth-odors of his Esau,

caressing

the red hair

of his pride,

and I stand,

grinning,

weeping,

inhaling,

caressing

the boy,

wordless,

stilled by

the rhythm

of my own

easy swaying,

our unified

breaths,

and the

devastating delight

of the oneness

between

fathers and sons

(2011)

Lemuel

kmcinnis — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 18:10:04 +0000

I barely remember my maternal great-grandfather; I might have seen him in person two or three times in my life. My mental image of him comes from a “family legend.” At some point my grandmother was apparently behind me watching me walk and told my mother that I reminded her of her dad.

__________

Mama’s

mother

said to

her that

in our

walking,

mine and

Lemuel’s,

although

parted

by the

ages,

yet still

we were

the same:

toes out,

striding

high and

wide, as

though to

stay the

mud from

soiling

our shoes

of white.

(2010)

Directions Concerning His Bones (Hebrews 11:22)

kmcinnis — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 14:29:49 +0000

Hebrews 11:22 is a passage about Joseph’s remarkable faith in God. Can you conceive of a faith so forward-thinking that it would cause you to use the precious minutes of your deathbed to instruct your sons to re-bury you in the land of God’s promise? Joseph’s view of God’s redemptive plan was more encompassing because he stood–by God’s grace–on a higher peak of faith.

__________

not in

Egypt,

boys, nor

Goshen,

land of

father’s

latter

sojourn—

but plant

me deep

in ground

the Lord

himself

has named

for one

who brawled

with him

till dawn—

case me

not in

coffin

wood, so

even

tongueless

I will

taste the

blood of

Canaan,

to be

spilt by

Yahweh

in his

fury

for the

rising

of the

day of

one whose

beard will

drip with

fragrant

oil from

God’s own

horn of

choosing—

(2009)

Eugene Fuqua

kmcinnis — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 14:19:11 +0000

I have known about Eugene Fuqua (pronounced FEW-kway) as long as I can remember. He was my dad’s best friend growing up. His short life story is like something out of Flannery O’Connor: tragic, dark, and sinister. And his name is just absolutely perfect.

__________

If Eugene Fuqua had lived,

he’d have been sixty-five this year

(same as my father,

his childhood best friend,

who did not make it to sixty-five either,

on account of cancer).

But his car went off a bridge in Clio, Alabama,

and he drowned at sixteen.

His mother always suspected foul play.

(2009)

Walk Then In

kmcinnis — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 14:12:13 +0000

The concept of complete forgiveness overwhelms me. That what you used to be is now virtually forgotten by God and replaced by the complete opposite. This must be the basis for all Christian worship.

__________

walk then in

traitor to trader:

whiskey for wine

beds for bread

guilt for gold

(2008)

Eternal Weight of Glory

kmcinnis — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 14:06:28 +0000

This is a dual story of family suffering. Several years ago, a family in our church lost their baby daughter to an infection as they served on the mission field. As you could imagine, that event still radically affects that family’s daily life together. They will never get over it, at least in this life.

I started thinking about their unrelenting sorrow and my own family’s experience with an unrelenting thing. While my family’s own suffering at the hands of autism is nowhere near the level of pain that our friends suffer, it is still something that never goes away.

Anyway, the comparison got stuck in my mind and this is the outcome.

__________

some time ago

we cried as one—

brother

and sister

had lost

their joy—

the girl

cut down,

willow sapling

felled

as buds

burgeoned—

and the

unbearable load

of leaden sorrow

pressed down

like stones upon

the chest—

to cry:

“more weight

and let me die”

would be

in vain,

for there

are no

more stones

to weigh,

for they

have all

been used

for this—

the quarry

now a vacuum,

an vacant room

used only

for weeping . . .

and then

some time before

we cried as one,

my sister

and I,

as joy was

interrupted—

the boy

was

alone,

lost

in a wood,

yet blind

to trees

surrounding—

and the

throbbing

burden

of unrelenting

minutiae

pressed

down

like an

unwanted

palm upon

the shoulder—

to shrug

and flail

against it

would be

in vain,

for there are

many hands

to weigh—

waiting their

patient turns,

steady for

the days

to come

(2008)

Romance Economist

kmcinnis — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 13:52:56 +0000

The phrase “romance economist” actually appeared in my brain in a dream when I was about 23 years old. I just thought it was the greatest idea so I tucked it away for some later use (I knew not what). When I became a famous poet, it just seemed logical to poemize the concept.

I’ve admired Ezra Pound’s “The River Merchant’s Wife: A Letter” for a long time. The Asian twist here probably comes from that.

__________

he, peasant grandson

of peasant grandsons,

tied embroidered sash tightly

round employer’s waist,

using ancient knot,

inspecting rich linen garment

for creases—

many days ago

he had found her:

peasant granddaughter

of peasant granddaughters,

in village far up mountainside—

she of beetle-black hair

and modest movements—

and made arrangements,

his search complete—

now through opening

made by silk curtains,

he glimpsed her walking

in best finery

to place of meeting—

he did not speak to him

of beauty of match

or of bargain of price—

nothing was permitted to sound

but murmur of drops on stone floor

(2008)

Interruption

kmcinnis — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 03:26:45 +0000

The theme of my Christian life has been “rescue.” Time and time again, God has interrupted my dullness with something far better than I could have come up with. God’s grace is unexpected, which makes it even more gracious, I think.

This is my favorite poem, if I may say so.

__________

it gave no thought

to can or if,

but only that—

and so it waited

for the windless column,

the vacuous swath

that would provide

its emissary

with its needed path—

and then,

from lofty height

and chosen branch

a single needle

was released—

it punctured atmosphere

with no displacement,

efficient as a medalist—

and down

past shingled stiles

of gray and brown,

and just before

it reached the ground

a fox was cornered

by this hound—

a sly insect

(an ant who thought

himself the master

of the piney wood,

controlling destiny

with half-a-dozen

minute steps

per moment)

cavalierly stepped upon

the center of the all—

and time, unbreathing,

stood agape

while when flowed into now,

and all the days

of careless living ceased

as gentle flora pierced

the ruby thorax of the ant—

and now,

a tintype still enfolds

this unexpected scene,

where life has flown

and picture finds

its place in history tome—

but then,

unexpectation

laid its sleeve card

on the felt,

and with the sudden violence

of a rescued drowner’s gasp,

the riven, beatless heart of

six-limbed Lazarus

was quickened

to the full

(2008)

Americonfession

kmcinnis — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 03:19:57 +0000

From a Christian standpoint, it’s hard to live in the United States. Our freedom and prosperity have made it easy to be soft and uncommitted. This is a short lament about that.

__________

Why does blessing always seem

To turn to fat? I cannot dream

Of time when boon did not transform

To bane and ease to swollen form.

(2008)

In the Winter

kmcinnis — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 03:16:05 +0000

I love winter. Puts a spring in my step.

__________

in the winter

I want to walk

out-of-doors

through

dry and shuddering

fields alone

or with a boy or dog

beside me to tousle,

wind to my face,

diagonally,

toward the back corner,

tufts of wiry grass

like clods underfoot

(2008)