(FOUR QUESTIONS
A poem for the Fourth Sunday in Advent
Christine Hemp
I. JOHN THE BAPTIST
It seemed fitting, my wearing the mantle of prophesy. People touching
my itchy robe, expecting honey light to beam them over the seared stones
of suffering. I liked the desert and the terrible sun. It exposed everything--
even my own misgivings. Finally I hid in a dark cave to listen.
The walls murmured. When I finally stepped into the light, the twisted
trail was straight. Then I heard other voices— crowds had trekked
across the barren land to find me. I led them to the river. It offered up
its coolness and begged to be married with fire. So I broke
the water with my cup and poured it over head after bowed head,
shouting out imperatives. (Even before my mother saw my face
she knew I was meant to be a heart-turner.) That fat, sleepy river kept me
sane. It told me time was reflection only, past and future pressed
into that light. Now is all we have, it said. Oh, I knew that. I was good
at waving my arms, scattering vipers like a cloud of locusts. People listened.
The scary part came later when my words and gestures ignited
a different fire: It burned my sandals. I feel it now in my aching head.
I wasn’t prepared for this—lying alone in the shadows, hearing second-hand
about the lame and lepers. My question is not “Why me? but “Why him?”
II. GABRIEL (from Tupelo Quarterly)
I squeeze myself into Time. It’s tight
like a little coat or a skin I’m much too big for.
I do it, though, for Spaciousness – for the Light
I bring with me. Her eyes at first blink with tears,
her pupils wide, and in them I can see the door
of history: the tree she springs from—the sheer
audacity of that branch growing beyond her womb
into memory, blood, and bone. Before
I raise my hand I cannot help but see a tomb
as well; it’s why I’m here: That gyre
of Time. Prepositions cannot explain or
place the “where” or “when” of that Fire
who sent me. It’s all a gift, and what I bring
has no relation to “being good,” that poor
imitation of love. Horns, halos, or even wings
are not my story, though there are those who
try to make it so: Me on the immaculate floor
holding a white lily I am said to carry through
the corridors of temples, ancient paintings.
But she sees beyond all that. At her core
she’s at home within her flesh, sustaining
calm when the spark ignites. She holds her belly,
opens her mouth. I tell her something more
about the seed, the fruit. All she does is stare at me.
In our brief exchange, I taste her fear,
but she does not flinch. “Yes,” she says. (Lord--
how much joy and sorrow can a human bear?)
III. MARY
so my heart began to rappity-pat. oh oh oh. like how i always imagined
making love might be.
then a sudden a flush of birds and the olive trees outside my window
rattled in the wind.
i rose but did not see
a thing. then a wing.
i thought it was a lark
but then a sudden flash – as if i were looking dead
into the sun. i was like— oh, no. another wing!
we never talked out loud. we didn’t have to. he read
my thoughts. this was no lol matter, understand.
he knew my heart’s confusion.
in our private bubble every feeling, every question, every word,
bounced off the curve inside. in one second
my life went from dreaming about life
to living it.
no more wondering about the secret crevices, those dark places
where love comes home. the song i’d sung that morning
had shifted keys. i was no longer
a girl.
the man i’m supposed to marry i hardly know, but even he
is wary of the weight i carry. he steps gingerly around the mule and helps me off
when i get tired. i know he’s afraid to touch me.
but i’m finding out that surrender is not about giving
up. it’s giving in
to what that wing
told me i would do. sometimes now at night
when the crickets call i feel the kick
of something bigger
than a night of love, a baby’s name. fragile and immense. my knees begin
to shake and then i breathe and breathe again. in and out in and out, each time
in greater bliss.
omg… will everything turn out ok?
IV. JOSEPH
I’ve always been good at following directions.
House plans, for instance. I can see the shape, make
allowances for framing windows, hanging doors.
I always give the time it takes for good mortar to dry.
The structure of this plan, however, is beyond me.
No hammer or plumb bob will help. So I’ve packed us up
and we’re headed down the road. I have to say I’m glad
to leave. My neighbors whispering behind my back,
“Old Joseph! Couldn’t wait, could he?” The boys at the shop
turning tactfully as I plane a board, shavings curling
toward the east. And yet— and yet— I agreed
to go ahead. That dream I cannot shake. Now Mary’s
shapely breasts so full and ready I can only blush.
One would not expect to find the Holy nestled there!
Such moist and glowing flesh. I’ve never been a visionary
nor someone called to lead. Nor am I a vessel
like this girl whose face could light the sky. I guess
the closest I can get to what I feel is the song of the saw
singing timbers into working parts. Each cut-off piece
will make a bigger story. But I’m worried. All along
the road people have been telling us the rooms are full,
that some folks are bedding down in barns. In my dream
I saw my clumsy feet walking down this very road;
her water broke with mules and horses standing by.
Tonight we’re buying time. While she’s asleep my tears
could fill a bowl. It’s not sadness exactly or even fear,
but tenderness so huge my eyes ache from what
I cannot see. For if this is true – really true – what then?
______________________________________________________________________________
EPIPHANY
by Christine Hemp
I. HEROD
I must admit at first it threw me,
competing with a portent. (What fools
would treasure light instead of might?)
Such naiveté: Scholars trekking here
smitten with a star or some convergence
of the cosmos. Yet another fire to put out.
I sent them on their way, their caravan rife
with herbs I could have used myself. Camels
balking and desert horses restless
in the night. Meanwhile that star hummed
like a lute, vibrating on a frequency I coveted
but couldn’t always hear. I slammed the door,
closed the shutters. No way would light
make shadows out of me. My wife said,
“No worries. They’ll be back;
anyway, what child can match your currency?
Your death squads? The bricks of that
new Temple? And Rome behind you? Get real.”
I pulled her close, forgetting which wife
she was (nine? ten?) and glad to have her.
Weeks later, when those wanderers failed
to return, I glanced into my looking glass.
The eyes staring back at me were nothing
but blank gold coins.
II. PERSIAN PRIEST
Alignment was everything to us and we’d not seen
the likes of such a heavenly body before. We found it
strange that Herod was more keen
about a baby than a star. My colleagues didn’t know
(nor did I) what we’d uncover on that trip, but we agreed
it wasn’t just astronomy. We prayed
for signs and followed what we saw.
Before our journey to the birth, gifts once came
with their own requirements and obligations.
To give, really, was to ask
something of someone else. But soon it was revealed
that our largesse was dwarfed by geography
more expansive than our charts could plot. In offering
our little hills, we learned that mountains sometimes
move. Giving no longer means a ledger.
Afterwards I dreamt I saw a despot
licking dust, so we steered our lathered horses
clear of Herod and his plans. And even though the sand blew
in our eyes, we kept our course for home. Everything
was different: Constellations no longer
pointed out the path. We gave up gazing
at the stars for answers. We were haunted
by an ember burning deep inside us.
III. JOSEPH
By the 12th day I’d sorted out the census
and repaired the door on the rented house.
Mary was tired after all the moving, the bags
under her eyes eclipsed only by her radiant smile.
She saw things I could not. Strange dreams
loosened in my head and I couldn’t pick
apart the waking from the sleep. I was trying
to follow what I’d heard when a band
of travelers came to our door. Foreign men,
smelling of balsam, cinnamon, and cloves.
They rode sleek Arabian mares with nostrils
big and pink as blooming flowers. Camels
carried boxes for my boy—well, not exactly
mine, but mine to tend. Mary seemed to be expecting
them. She lifted her young face, quieted the child,
and said, “Please. Come,” motioning with her free
hand. Her confidence exposed my awkwardness.
The men spoke softly in a different tongue,
but when they saw the boy they all fell silent,
their soft and cultured hands held gently
over his head. Then I offered tea and we accepted
gifts – essential oils and nuggets
of the finest gold. We knew we’d have to hide
it all, but we thanked them all the same.
Finally I staggered off to bed, the muffled
voices of the men rising and falling in the night.
I couldn’t sleep. Those shafts of light
which brought the shepherds and the sages? To me they looked
more like daggers. A piercing of the heart.
With every utterance of praise I could hear its opposite.
I dreaded what this story asked of me. And the child.
He was like a jewel himself; every time
I touched him a light stabbed
below my belly, as if the pain of birth
were asked of men as well as women. I didn’t tell
a soul, but I could see the travelers felt the same.
Those days were filled with findings. After fretful sleep
I’d wake with a jolt. It would come to me again – like I’m opening
a shiny package over and over. My calloused hands
tremble still from what I held.
A poem for the Fourth Sunday in Advent
Christine Hemp
I. JOHN THE BAPTIST
It seemed fitting, my wearing the mantle of prophesy. People touching
my itchy robe, expecting honey light to beam them over the seared stones
of suffering. I liked the desert and the terrible sun. It exposed everything--
even my own misgivings. Finally I hid in a dark cave to listen.
The walls murmured. When I finally stepped into the light, the twisted
trail was straight. Then I heard other voices— crowds had trekked
across the barren land to find me. I led them to the river. It offered up
its coolness and begged to be married with fire. So I broke
the water with my cup and poured it over head after bowed head,
shouting out imperatives. (Even before my mother saw my face
she knew I was meant to be a heart-turner.) That fat, sleepy river kept me
sane. It told me time was reflection only, past and future pressed
into that light. Now is all we have, it said. Oh, I knew that. I was good
at waving my arms, scattering vipers like a cloud of locusts. People listened.
The scary part came later when my words and gestures ignited
a different fire: It burned my sandals. I feel it now in my aching head.
I wasn’t prepared for this—lying alone in the shadows, hearing second-hand
about the lame and lepers. My question is not “Why me? but “Why him?”
II. GABRIEL (from Tupelo Quarterly)
I squeeze myself into Time. It’s tight
like a little coat or a skin I’m much too big for.
I do it, though, for Spaciousness – for the Light
I bring with me. Her eyes at first blink with tears,
her pupils wide, and in them I can see the door
of history: the tree she springs from—the sheer
audacity of that branch growing beyond her womb
into memory, blood, and bone. Before
I raise my hand I cannot help but see a tomb
as well; it’s why I’m here: That gyre
of Time. Prepositions cannot explain or
place the “where” or “when” of that Fire
who sent me. It’s all a gift, and what I bring
has no relation to “being good,” that poor
imitation of love. Horns, halos, or even wings
are not my story, though there are those who
try to make it so: Me on the immaculate floor
holding a white lily I am said to carry through
the corridors of temples, ancient paintings.
But she sees beyond all that. At her core
she’s at home within her flesh, sustaining
calm when the spark ignites. She holds her belly,
opens her mouth. I tell her something more
about the seed, the fruit. All she does is stare at me.
In our brief exchange, I taste her fear,
but she does not flinch. “Yes,” she says. (Lord--
how much joy and sorrow can a human bear?)
III. MARY
so my heart began to rappity-pat. oh oh oh. like how i always imagined
making love might be.
then a sudden a flush of birds and the olive trees outside my window
rattled in the wind.
i rose but did not see
a thing. then a wing.
i thought it was a lark
but then a sudden flash – as if i were looking dead
into the sun. i was like— oh, no. another wing!
we never talked out loud. we didn’t have to. he read
my thoughts. this was no lol matter, understand.
he knew my heart’s confusion.
in our private bubble every feeling, every question, every word,
bounced off the curve inside. in one second
my life went from dreaming about life
to living it.
no more wondering about the secret crevices, those dark places
where love comes home. the song i’d sung that morning
had shifted keys. i was no longer
a girl.
the man i’m supposed to marry i hardly know, but even he
is wary of the weight i carry. he steps gingerly around the mule and helps me off
when i get tired. i know he’s afraid to touch me.
but i’m finding out that surrender is not about giving
up. it’s giving in
to what that wing
told me i would do. sometimes now at night
when the crickets call i feel the kick
of something bigger
than a night of love, a baby’s name. fragile and immense. my knees begin
to shake and then i breathe and breathe again. in and out in and out, each time
in greater bliss.
omg… will everything turn out ok?
IV. JOSEPH
I’ve always been good at following directions.
House plans, for instance. I can see the shape, make
allowances for framing windows, hanging doors.
I always give the time it takes for good mortar to dry.
The structure of this plan, however, is beyond me.
No hammer or plumb bob will help. So I’ve packed us up
and we’re headed down the road. I have to say I’m glad
to leave. My neighbors whispering behind my back,
“Old Joseph! Couldn’t wait, could he?” The boys at the shop
turning tactfully as I plane a board, shavings curling
toward the east. And yet— and yet— I agreed
to go ahead. That dream I cannot shake. Now Mary’s
shapely breasts so full and ready I can only blush.
One would not expect to find the Holy nestled there!
Such moist and glowing flesh. I’ve never been a visionary
nor someone called to lead. Nor am I a vessel
like this girl whose face could light the sky. I guess
the closest I can get to what I feel is the song of the saw
singing timbers into working parts. Each cut-off piece
will make a bigger story. But I’m worried. All along
the road people have been telling us the rooms are full,
that some folks are bedding down in barns. In my dream
I saw my clumsy feet walking down this very road;
her water broke with mules and horses standing by.
Tonight we’re buying time. While she’s asleep my tears
could fill a bowl. It’s not sadness exactly or even fear,
but tenderness so huge my eyes ache from what
I cannot see. For if this is true – really true – what then?
______________________________________________________________________________
EPIPHANY
by Christine Hemp
I. HEROD
I must admit at first it threw me,
competing with a portent. (What fools
would treasure light instead of might?)
Such naiveté: Scholars trekking here
smitten with a star or some convergence
of the cosmos. Yet another fire to put out.
I sent them on their way, their caravan rife
with herbs I could have used myself. Camels
balking and desert horses restless
in the night. Meanwhile that star hummed
like a lute, vibrating on a frequency I coveted
but couldn’t always hear. I slammed the door,
closed the shutters. No way would light
make shadows out of me. My wife said,
“No worries. They’ll be back;
anyway, what child can match your currency?
Your death squads? The bricks of that
new Temple? And Rome behind you? Get real.”
I pulled her close, forgetting which wife
she was (nine? ten?) and glad to have her.
Weeks later, when those wanderers failed
to return, I glanced into my looking glass.
The eyes staring back at me were nothing
but blank gold coins.
II. PERSIAN PRIEST
Alignment was everything to us and we’d not seen
the likes of such a heavenly body before. We found it
strange that Herod was more keen
about a baby than a star. My colleagues didn’t know
(nor did I) what we’d uncover on that trip, but we agreed
it wasn’t just astronomy. We prayed
for signs and followed what we saw.
Before our journey to the birth, gifts once came
with their own requirements and obligations.
To give, really, was to ask
something of someone else. But soon it was revealed
that our largesse was dwarfed by geography
more expansive than our charts could plot. In offering
our little hills, we learned that mountains sometimes
move. Giving no longer means a ledger.
Afterwards I dreamt I saw a despot
licking dust, so we steered our lathered horses
clear of Herod and his plans. And even though the sand blew
in our eyes, we kept our course for home. Everything
was different: Constellations no longer
pointed out the path. We gave up gazing
at the stars for answers. We were haunted
by an ember burning deep inside us.
III. JOSEPH
By the 12th day I’d sorted out the census
and repaired the door on the rented house.
Mary was tired after all the moving, the bags
under her eyes eclipsed only by her radiant smile.
She saw things I could not. Strange dreams
loosened in my head and I couldn’t pick
apart the waking from the sleep. I was trying
to follow what I’d heard when a band
of travelers came to our door. Foreign men,
smelling of balsam, cinnamon, and cloves.
They rode sleek Arabian mares with nostrils
big and pink as blooming flowers. Camels
carried boxes for my boy—well, not exactly
mine, but mine to tend. Mary seemed to be expecting
them. She lifted her young face, quieted the child,
and said, “Please. Come,” motioning with her free
hand. Her confidence exposed my awkwardness.
The men spoke softly in a different tongue,
but when they saw the boy they all fell silent,
their soft and cultured hands held gently
over his head. Then I offered tea and we accepted
gifts – essential oils and nuggets
of the finest gold. We knew we’d have to hide
it all, but we thanked them all the same.
Finally I staggered off to bed, the muffled
voices of the men rising and falling in the night.
I couldn’t sleep. Those shafts of light
which brought the shepherds and the sages? To me they looked
more like daggers. A piercing of the heart.
With every utterance of praise I could hear its opposite.
I dreaded what this story asked of me. And the child.
He was like a jewel himself; every time
I touched him a light stabbed
below my belly, as if the pain of birth
were asked of men as well as women. I didn’t tell
a soul, but I could see the travelers felt the same.
Those days were filled with findings. After fretful sleep
I’d wake with a jolt. It would come to me again – like I’m opening
a shiny package over and over. My calloused hands
tremble still from what I held.