at mass (before it was Oppressed)
Nearly two weeks ago, I posted the poem Oppressed on this blog. That stark, dripping poem, written 28 April 1998, was actually a revision of another poem I've never shared with anyone. The revision was an attempt to be rid of all unnecessary words. I was in a minimalistic phase at the time.
For comparison's sake, I want to post the much longer original version here and get your feedback. This original had a different title, "at mass," because it was written on 25 December 1997 (Christmas) while I was attending Roman Catholic mass in prison. Our choir performed that day - and I apparently wrote this poem while the priest was delivering his homily.
Perhaps it's not as "perfect" (or at least "finished") as the Oppressed revision. But, for what it's worth....
at mass
25 December 1997
9:20 a.m.
The night is bright
Its moon drips upon us
Down on us
Like Chinese water torture
The day is dark
Seething
Stark
And sun
Our son
Shines upon us
Down on us
Condescending
Unapprehending
Like the third degree
If we are cannibals
Let us eat
With relish
Mustard
Catsup
The other eleven
God is great
A grape ape
A slave like one of us
Slave of all of us
And who is greater
Than his creator?
Day is night
And night is night
This day
For comparison's sake, I want to post the much longer original version here and get your feedback. This original had a different title, "at mass," because it was written on 25 December 1997 (Christmas) while I was attending Roman Catholic mass in prison. Our choir performed that day - and I apparently wrote this poem while the priest was delivering his homily.
Perhaps it's not as "perfect" (or at least "finished") as the Oppressed revision. But, for what it's worth....
at mass
25 December 1997
9:20 a.m.
The night is bright
Its moon drips upon us
Down on us
Like Chinese water torture
The day is dark
Seething
Stark
And sun
Our son
Shines upon us
Down on us
Condescending
Unapprehending
Like the third degree
If we are cannibals
Let us eat
With relish
Mustard
Catsup
The other eleven
God is great
A grape ape
A slave like one of us
Slave of all of us
And who is greater
Than his creator?
Day is night
And night is night
This day
Posted by Jesus Crisis at 5/13/2008 8:57 PM 
Categories: Religion and Philosophy, Prison, Poetry by JC
Categories: Religion and Philosophy, Prison, Poetry by JC
"nobody calling on the phone,
'cept for the pope maybe in rome"
http://youtube.com/watch?v=B4CRkpBGQzU&feature=related
this one is VERY different. it's still got sense of oppression to it, but more religious in nature, whereas the revision is more universal.
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Thanks, mb! And you pinpointed the song that inspired my line!
Joan Osborne sings,
"What if God was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make His way home"
That year, I'd received Prince's 3-cassette "album" Emancipation in a box from home. And on it, Prince (who was then known only by his androgynous symbol) did a cover version of that Osborne song. This was also around the time that he was performing with the word "SLAVE" written on his face, because of his battle with Warner Brothers. And so he sang the song this way:
"What if God was one of us
Just a SLAVE like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make His way home"
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That was a great observation that Mary Beth made. I was thinking along the same lines. I love that song. I was taught from an early age that we are all capable of good and evil, and in that way we are God-like. We have two very powerful forces to contend with. Drawing this out to it's logical conclusion, God is within each of us, therefore doing harm to another person is more than offensive to God, it is an aggression toward the Creator himself. (No, I don't believe in creationism. I think that Evolution is a far greater miracle.)
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Excellent point... an offense toward humankind (who, according to the Bible, are made in God's image) is, biblically speaking, an offense toward God.
As Jesus said in Matthew 25:40, "And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."
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Hmmm... this poem is more personal, I think, than "Oppressed"... I get a sense of (very) bitter irony in this one. The way you play with the wording of sun/son and upon us/down on us, and then imbue the "cannibal" stanza with the wry, twisted humor of "eat/with relish/mustard/catsup" (a reference to eating the flesh and blood of Jesus)...and then tie it all together with the day/night stanza at the end...
surely a reflection of the state of mind you were in at that time. Which is down and which is up? Which is dark and which is light? Which is day and which is night? Although they are surely two different poems, as you say, the core idea is the same... but this is the version I like the best.
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Wow... I'm glad I posted it then. Perhaps in the other one (the revision) I was guilty of (paraphrasing Ferlinghetti, from his "Populist Manifesto") paring my poetic fingernails, refining myself out of existence. But I didn't realize it at the time. Interesting that both times I've posted alternate versions ("Hi, Cuckoo" being the other), folks tend to prefer the more personal original, while I felt I needed to revise out the personal. Guess there's a lesson in that for me....
Thanks, Sir Minister!
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I actually get this one. How can I analyze the cannibalistic eating of one's god? The wafer, the blood, the sun god the moon? This one is just between us because I think you, me, the Aztecs, etc. and all the bloody rites.
OMG forget that I wrote this comment. There is no song about the pope, or the phone unless you can find a U2 or Beatles song that matches. Can you?
I feel the anxiety of Inquisition in this and dungeons where sun and moon never reach. Merry Christ Mess...or is it Christ Mass? lol
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Interesting that you bring up the Aztec rites and Spanish Inquisition - two sides of the torture coin, in a way.... On a number of levels that coin fits well the mood, moment, and mindset of this poem.
And as for the whimsical middle part of your comment, two songs come to mind:
"Honey, disconnect the phone"
- the Beatles, "Back in the U.S.S.R.
"The Pope smokes dope every day."
- John Lennon, "New York City"
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i like this version. think it has more power. plus some nasty insinuations.
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And I was thinking folks might not like this as well....
Thanks, Smith!
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We don't usually gravitate toward darkness, as we compare light and darkness with truth and lies. We think of ourselves as being the children of light, but sometimes we just want to dwell in the darkness. Sometimes we want to hide and just let time pass. I love the cannibal reference with relish, mustard and catsup. The other eleven being the perceptions of reality, alternate realities, self image, internal balance, independence, strife, romantic love, the shadow of self, illusions, life and death, and synchronicity? I don't know...just my impression...
The pope wears ruby red slippers...does he click them together and say, "there's no place like Rome"??
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I appreciate your response, Susan - and am intrigued by your elucidation of the "other eleven." Cool... and I think right on the money. Thanks for opening another dimension of this for me.
As might be obvious, I intended that section to be somewhat ambiguous and open to interpretation.
"The other eleven" could be seen as condiments on the Christ Mass, as a sort of continuation of the list of relish, mustard and ketchup.
But the intentionally vague punctuation also allows this possibility:
Let us eat
(With relish
Mustard
Catsup)
The other eleven
In this case, "The other eleven," which could also be the so-called disciples, are the main course, tasted, taken in, eaten, and subsequently judged by a "beast" they can neither apprehend nor completely comprehend.
The number eleven also connotes a bit of imperfection, incompleteness - as though some part of the "twelve" (a metaphor for more than just the 12 specific New Testament "disciples") is somehow lacking or missing.
It also suggests, somewhat obliquely, that I am one of the twelve and referring to the rest of the "congregation" as "The other eleven" (both in the specific sense of that particular chapel on that day - and in the bigger sense of the so-called Christian "body" at-large) - almost as though I am Judas....
This is interesting in light of some of my personal historical context: I had just written and around Christmas that year produced my musical play For All Have Sinned, which was a sort of defense of the disciple Judas Iscariot - a sympathetic portrayal of him as well-meaning, much more "in tune" with Jesus' plan than disciples like Peter (who had to be rebuked often, as in "Peter, put away thy sword"), and quite unreasonably misunderstood. Being convicted of a crime I did not commit, I identified greatly with Judas, who actually helped Jesus carry out his plan of dying to save the world - though he was vilified by the other disciples who had tried to prevent Jesus from going through it. If anything, they were the betrayers, while Judas was the helpful assistant.
The other "disciples" in this case, could have been the other prisoners attending mass at the time - some of whom were very judgmental of those convicted of rape. Never mind that I was innocent of that crime and those other inmates had actually committed real crimes - I felt that, like Judas, I was being judged despite being more righteous than my judges.
Bear in mind that this was very early in my incarceration - before I'd taken the time to get to know many of my fellow convicts, and before I'd given them an opportunity to get to know me. There was much more mutual respect in later years.
Perhaps I also identified with Judas because I felt I "saw through" the mass - and knew that if others knew my true feelings about it, they would regard me as a sort of Judas, despite my feeling that I knew better than they what "God" required of me... and that part of what was required was for me to see things clearly, apart from any dogma, and through any censer smoke.
There are more interpretations, too - but if I go into them all, I'll be here forever.
Great comment, Susan!
You expressed well the metaphorical possibilities of "The other eleven" and got me thinking about other aspects - and you also made me laugh with your reference to the Pope. Now I'm going to have that image in my head all day. "There's no place like Rome. There's no place like Rome...."
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Thank you JC for providing an explanation. Although I always liked English Lit class, I paid more attention to the Sciences. So, I do appreciate all the comments here and am learning so much from all you guys! You all truly are awesome and so kind! There is truly some brilliance on this page.
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You're welcome. And thank you!
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Reminds me of Thomas Hood piece:
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work—work—work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
"Work—work—work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work—work—work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch—stitch—stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
"But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own—
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!"
"Work—work—work!"
My labor never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread—and rags.
That shattered roof—and this naked floor—
A table—a broken chair—
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work—work—work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work—work—work—
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
As well as the weary hand.
"Work—work—work,
In the dull December light,
And work—work—work,
When the weather is warm and bright—
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
"Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch—
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"
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Wow... I was unfamiliar with Thomas Hood and this poem. Thank you for sharing it, Susan!
Its style and the slavelike conditions it describes make me think it was written in the 1800s - but sadly, there are far too many folks still toiling in a state of semi-slavery (or a more-than-semi-state) today. Tragic... and often sanctioned (and even encouraged) by "religion."
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I like this version a lot. It grabbed me right off on the first reading. And it was for pretty much the same reasons the Minister stated in his comments above... so ditto here.
I will say it is dark, but it made me smile at the end... because I was picturing you sitting there writing it bored as Hell during the sermon trying to make some sense of something that seemed to have not made any sense... irony...
Anyway.. that made me smile...
You better not let this one get away John, this is a "keeper".
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After reading the comments this morning I find it strangely interesting that I posted my comment above before reading the Minister's comment. To write this poem while singing in the choir in prison in a Catholic Christmas mass and have the word cannibalism in your head reminded me of the body and blood of Christ that the wafer and the wine symbolize. Also the sun and son reminded me of the sun god of the Aztecs
that sacrificed hearts torn out of bodies to their god. It seems that the minister and I were on the same page reading your Christmas mass poem. And at the time you wrote this I believe you had either been turned down for parole by the parole board or were about to be given six more years of hell in that unholy place. A very destructive year for the spirit of Jesus Crisis, wasn't it? But you managed to survive, write and learn and it is time to let the world know as you are doing, what it is like for one's spirit to be involved in religious rites in a prison setting. I know that music always was with you and still is when you remember the past. Yes you have to continue to get on with your life but nobody can take away from you the memories and poetry you wrote and still are writing that deals with the story of your life and your memories. So here's a toast to you and to your life and liberty. I can read between the lines.
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Thanks, Chris!
The priest was Father Furey - the kindest minister of any sort I've ever met - but also an 80-something year old man who gave very boring sermons. Wish I could find my "other" journal - the one where I described my activities of each day - it might add an interesting dimension.
Glad you think it's a keeper....
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Yes, I prefer the revision.
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Thanks, Lady! I thought the revision was better, too, I suppose - that's why I revised it, and why I posted it first - though I do miss elements of the earlier one (like the third degree). Perhaps I would prefer the longer one, however (albeit with a slight revision), for a public reading - largely because the things I like most about the Oppressed version would be difficult to convey audibly. I thought about lengthening the revision ever so slightly to incorporate a tad more of the orginal into the revised form, which I rather like.
An interesting context - somewhere in between the two versions I was taking a "Creative Writing: Poetry" class via correspondence (with professor Steven Lynn of Ohio University). In a way, I feel that class, though I did learn something from it, ruined me as a poet for a season. He ripped to shreds some of what I thought was my best work. And I found myself writing things or revising things to please him (plus I was used to getting As in every class - and couldn't bear to get a lower grade in, of all things, poetry). His influence was responsible for my period of trying to remove all but the most essential words from my poetry. Sometimes that temporary tendency led to not-bad work (as in Oppressed and Prison Scene, both of which - interestingly enough - you've regarded favorably). The class wounded my confidence, however - got me thinking I wasn't cut out to be a great poet. And this, along with a simultaneous rise in postive feedback regarding my music and theatre writing, led me to largely abandon poetry (for about a decade, with few exceptions) and devote my creative efforts to musical theatre, songwriting. and (much later) blogging.
Not until John Cage Engaged and Uncaged came out of me spontaneously a month ago did I begin to feel I could write decent poetry again. And since then, I written more and more that I feel pretty darned good about (though I haven't been posting this new work in my blog, as much as I long to, because the publishers with whom I've communicated seem to prefer unseen work).
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it's funny how we let the opinions and deeds of others affect us so much.
i've been having a similar problem lately with all the writing homework my therapist gives me. it's assigned. it's something i feel i have to do because she thinks it will help me overcome my grief. in a way she's right, writing about these things can and has helped me overcome grief, but she wants me to do it in such such a structured way, that i find myself starting these pieces and then abandoning them.
i have never lived my life in a structured way, i'm more free form. what comes out of me when i write for myself is free form, or structured in a way i feel is right at the time.
now, having said that, i do prefer the revision of this poem. perhaps because because it speaks to me in a more personal manner than this one does. i have never had a personal crisis of faith with regard to religion.
i also like the visual aspect of the revision, because i am so visual in my own life.
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I tend to write free form first - then I start to think, think, think - and sometimes overthink.
Though (or because) a large part of me feels its better to overthink than to underthink....
Funny that last week's Free Will Astrology warned me to not overthink....
In a way, it's easier for me to post old things here - then I have an excuse if people don't like them - or if they flat-out suck. "Well, you know, they're really old, before I was this poetically evolved. You'd love my new stuff." Fact is, some people might like my new stuff less... LOL. But to be honest, I do believe I have a better poetic sense (and broader palette) than I did then. And I suspect (and hope) that in ten years it will be better and broader still.
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RE working with the professor - I think o'er the long run working with people & workshops is good, but for the immediate period it can smash perspective. But o'er the long run you get some gauge, signposts, a measure of progress, confidence...
I am in a dry dry poetic period. Only a couple written so far this year. Seems since Smith's made me happy I have a lot less about which to write. Misery was my muse.
My best thots now come while I wash the floor (an hour long endeavor). They used to come while driving, but I no longer drive.
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Good points!
I think you're absolutely right - the professor smashed my perspective/compass and even confidence - but in the long run, that got me out of a poetic rut of sorts, made me a more capable poet today - less prolific, perhaps....
And misery seems to feed my best work as well. Though it sometimes seems I write well when happy - it's usually an illusion, a sign that misery is lurking beneath my public persona....
I used to get great thoughts while driving. Now I guess I play too much NPR and too many CDs in the car. Perhaps I should turn it off - like I do the TV at home.
May your dry period find an oasis (but not of misery) - and may it not last the more-than-a-decade mine did.
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I loved both versions. The pared down version was excellent. I love your economy of words. In poetry every word should matter and sometimes people overexplain what they are trying to convey. Your poems, however, long or short, are quite complex. Reading this version gave me more insight into the other version. The way you compare Christmas, the season of light coming out of the dark, with a darkenss that you were not going to escape anytime soon, if ever, in your mind at least, was brilliant. For those not familiar with Catholicism, Jesus was probably, maybe, born in summer. December 25 was chosen, as so many other Catholic traditions are, to embrace pagan rituals, and influence pagans into embracing Christianity. Also, it is fitting that the Light Of The World, be born at the darkest time of year as the earth is travelling toward light out of darkness. I love that you share your poems and insights into your time in prison with us. You are an inspiration to anyone who has been through a soul wrenching experience. You know I often compare your experience to mine. It strikes me over and over that I suffered an unspeakable single event, but, I was "free" (no pun intended) to begin the healing process immediately. I am now seven years into my journey of healing. If I had to be held back at day one for eleven years, I just don't think I could stand it. It seems to me that you began your healing in the middle of the storm. It boggles my mind. Time is a great healer, but among other things, the system attempted to take that time away from you. I think that in many ways you reclaimed time from them.
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Thank you, Tara!
Perhaps we will always bear the scars.
I can't help but recall these words from Shakespeare's Othello: "I could heartily wish that this had not befallen but since it has, mend it for your own good." This has been my philosophy, although at certain times I'm better at doing so than at other times.
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Duh! I just now "got" your poem! Suffice it to say interpreting poems is not my strong point! Sorry. My brain works in mysterious ways...LOL Anyway, I love you guys and love to read your opinions on these poems. I only know what I like and what they represent to me on a personal level apparently!! Thanks for enlightening me!! You guys ARE good!! JC, you're awesome because you never criticize even the ignorant among us (meaning myself) I'm not being critical of myself, but I do know when I am in over my head!! Hey, I'm learning something here! That is a good thing!
Peace & Love,
Susan
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personally, i love what you had to say about this piece. it was a more unique perspective than what the rest of saw, but was, in its own way, very similar.
i especially loved your other 11, and this "The pope wears ruby red slippers...does he click them together and say, "there's no place like Rome"??"
i'd like to give you kudos for alternative thinking
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I love what Susan had to say about it, too. Gave it a fresh look and opened our minds a bit regarding the piece.... There are a hundred possible interpretations and not a single comment so far has been off the mark. Even when folks seem to disagree with each other (as when Smith seemed to prefer "at mass" and Lady preferred "Oppressed") they each have valid perspectives. That different people can get different things from this and still dig one or the other and have something cool to say makes me feel that the poem has done its job in engaging folks and inspiring thoughtful and heartful responses.
Your responses have enhanced my own experience of the poem. So thank you!
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An ominous poem. I know exactly where I was that day. In Texas with my family for Christmas...not knowing it would be the last I had with my mom before her passing in 98. God is the great creator but he doth taketh away too.
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Strange how oblivious we can be to what's about to happen in our lives. Sometimes we dance not knowing something horrible is coming. Sometimes we cry not knowing something fantastically beautiful is coming. Perhaps the best we can do is make the best of the present moment - love and live, thrive and give, create and soar, and hopefully not bore.
Peace, my friend....
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We all are living in our NOW not knowing what the next day will bring. Do you remember where you were on 9/11? I was in a classroom at LCCC from 9:00 a.m. until noon, teaching a class called a Panorama of Spanish Civilization. Like JC I have been looking through old journals and notes and found the notes I was giving to the class on that morning that had a terrible effect and, indeed, changed our world a lot. I didn't know until the class ended that the towers in the World Trade Center had fallen so I am going to write what I was telling the class that morning on a new blog.
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