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This poem from a few years ago was linked on Tumblr and just blew me away with the beautiful language and the emotion. Stunning, powerful condemnation of intolerance from Lot's wife's POV.
I showed it to Eleanor -- who'd never heard of Lot and the pillar of salt his wife was turned into. Or Sodom and Gomorrah. I'm glad she isn't growing up with the baggage my Catholic upbringing gave me, but I do wish she knew about stories like this as reference points if nothing else. The Bible's so interwoven into the language that she'll be missing so many allusions. Or maybe she won't because no one in her generation will be using them either.
Do you remember when we met
in Gomorrah? When you were still beardless,
and I would oil my hair in the lamp light before seeing
you, when we were young, and blushed with youth
like bruised fruit. Did we care then
what our neighbors did
in the dark?
When our first daughter was born
on the River Jordan, when our second
cracked her pink head from my body
like a promise, did we worry
what our friends might be
doing with their tongues?
What new crevices they found
to lick love into or strange flesh
to push pleasure from, when we
called them Sodomites then,
all we meant by it
was neighbor.
When the angels told us to run
from the city, I went with you,
but even the angels knew
that women always look back.
Let me describe for you, Lot,
what your city looked like burning
since you never turned around to see it.
Sulfur ran its sticky fingers over the skin
of our countrymen. It smelled like burning hair
and rancid eggs. I watched as our friends pulled
chunks of brimstone from their faces. Is any form
of loving this indecent?
Cover your eyes tight,
husband, until you see stars, convince
yourself you are looking at Heaven.
Because any man weak enough to hide his eyes while his neighbors
are punished for the way they love deserves a vengeful god.
I would say these things to you now, Lot,
but an ocean has dried itself on my tongue.
So instead I will stand here, while my body blows itself
grain by grain back over the Land of Canaan.
I will stand here
and I will watch you
run.
By Karen Finneyfrock
I showed it to Eleanor -- who'd never heard of Lot and the pillar of salt his wife was turned into. Or Sodom and Gomorrah. I'm glad she isn't growing up with the baggage my Catholic upbringing gave me, but I do wish she knew about stories like this as reference points if nothing else. The Bible's so interwoven into the language that she'll be missing so many allusions. Or maybe she won't because no one in her generation will be using them either.
Do you remember when we met
in Gomorrah? When you were still beardless,
and I would oil my hair in the lamp light before seeing
you, when we were young, and blushed with youth
like bruised fruit. Did we care then
what our neighbors did
in the dark?
When our first daughter was born
on the River Jordan, when our second
cracked her pink head from my body
like a promise, did we worry
what our friends might be
doing with their tongues?
What new crevices they found
to lick love into or strange flesh
to push pleasure from, when we
called them Sodomites then,
all we meant by it
was neighbor.
When the angels told us to run
from the city, I went with you,
but even the angels knew
that women always look back.
Let me describe for you, Lot,
what your city looked like burning
since you never turned around to see it.
Sulfur ran its sticky fingers over the skin
of our countrymen. It smelled like burning hair
and rancid eggs. I watched as our friends pulled
chunks of brimstone from their faces. Is any form
of loving this indecent?
Cover your eyes tight,
husband, until you see stars, convince
yourself you are looking at Heaven.
Because any man weak enough to hide his eyes while his neighbors
are punished for the way they love deserves a vengeful god.
I would say these things to you now, Lot,
but an ocean has dried itself on my tongue.
So instead I will stand here, while my body blows itself
grain by grain back over the Land of Canaan.
I will stand here
and I will watch you
run.
By Karen Finneyfrock
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When I was a teenager I read a quote from Gregory Bateson, the American philosopher. I wish I had kept a copy so I could quote it back exactly, but it was something like this:
"When I was growing up, my father read to us from the Bible every night at the dinner table so that we would not grow up to be ignorant atheists." [emphasis his]
I loved that. It's actually what inspired me to read the entire Bible before I finished high school, and I've always been grateful that I did so -- and also that I got to spend time in my teens around intelligent, educated people who were into liberal theology. In fact, I've recently been thinking about reading it again (though I'll skip the begats this time, yegads) I've never been a believer, then or now, but I do agree with Bateson that exposure to Biblical texts is important (at least in the West) for cultural literacy.
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So true.
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Think the reason I never got the 'baggage' was I somehow got the idea my Children's illustrated bible was a storybook. I still love to read certain bits of the bible as just that: stories. Same as Bulfinch, Edith Hamilton, etc...
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Powerful poem, beautifully written and making a very good point.
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I can't find the original one, but it was black and white illustrations, as it was printed on pastel colors throughout, roughly dividing the book out in parts.
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I remembered it vaguely and when I saw it on my tumblr ( about 4 times over :D) it brought tears to my eyes.
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