POEM FOR A DOLLAR!
Creative Strategy # 13: Ask for the sale.
This is either A) A great idea, or B) dumb C) a neat trick to get you to subscribe.
Normally I charge a buck a poem. But here’s one whose freeness will expire in a week.
GOD & THE HOOTENANNY
This can't be happening can it?
I'm standing on a riser behind the altar
of an inner-city Detroit church
with my white suburban Catholic folk-rock group
surrounded by black choirs
in silken gowns of gold green blue & purple
& Lord are we singing
singing together singing heartily singing
a gospel song with great fervor
which all available evidence suggests
goes like this
I LIKE CHERRIES!
MANY CHERRIES!
& I WILL BE
THE SLING OF GORY CIRCUMCIZED!
Because the bald fact is we do not know this song
We have never sung this song
It has not come within humming distance of our repertoire
We do folk masses
We do polite Catholic renditions of theology in song
Give us a How Great Thou Art
& we are in our element
But nothing in our devout singalongs
has equipped us to handle
the chorus that our suburban ears
assure us goes like this
I LOVE PAREEE!
I LOVE PAREEE!
& A WILD SEED
A KEYHOLE STORY WINTERIZED!!
It's impossible
The black choirs that stand
on this half-moon of risers
seem to know & love this song
They sing it from their bellies
& by the third verse even we
have adopted their irresistible
Dip & Step & Dip & Step
reverent but in-the-pocket shimmy
as our words blossom to the rafters
Or should I say "our syllables"?
Because we can only brace ourselves
to smile at the congregation
& mumble our best-guess translation
IF I BURY
MARRY BARRY
OR LUCY
THE QUEEN OF HAIRY OTHERWISE
What must the choirs around us think
of our feeble babbling over their shoulders?
How could anyone not know this gospel standard
by heart? Are we stupid?
Are we like their touched cousins who drool
at the thanksgiving table?
We can't help it We had no rehearsals
It was a Midwest Gospel Ecclesiastical Hootenanny
& we were the token invitees
& now we are caught in this whirlpool
of music so gut-punching beautiful
so trance-inducing earthy
yet somehow lighter than air
that we can only surrender
to this tsunami of devotion
& strain to wedge the words into our own vernacular
I LIKE PARROTS
EMPTY PARROTS
BUT IDOL SEED
THE MEAN OLD GOALIE COMPROMISED!
& wretches that we are
we know that's not right!
The cognitive dissonance
mixed with the horrifying shame
overwhelms us as the organ swells
the choirs sweat
& we have only a bridge
to collect our wits
to feverishly translate translate
Holy God!
"THE MEAN OLD GOALIE COMPROMISED"!?
Did we really sing
"THE MEAN OLD GOALIE COMPROMISED"!?
Oh shit--Here comes the chorus again
Maybe Rita knows the words
She's a librarian!
Oh hell no--she's looking at me
in a whiter shade of panic
She's in trouble if she tries to lip read
because I am about to sing
IN OUR PARISH
LUSTY PARISH
POUR ON MY SEED
LEAKING OLD LAURIE PULVERIZED!
& to this day I remain convinced
that it was only by the pity of a higher power
with a wicked sense of humor
that our ears were finally opened
our suburban minds were blown
& the walls of our tight-ass vernacular crumbled
as holy tongues of fire descended
upon our khaki souls
& our humbled mortal voices finally took flight
& joined our darker brethren with renewed gusto
in the suddenly obvious chorus
IF I PERISH
LET ME PERISH
FOR I WILL SEE
THE KING OF GLORY
WHEN WE RISE!
—Patrick O’Leary
Brilliant. Loved it!