Jesus, tired as he was from the journey, sat down by the well. It was about the sixth hour. When a Samaritan woman came to draw water, Jesus said to her, “Will you give me a drink?” John 4:6-7
You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.
Thirsty, the Water asked of the woman Who came to the well in the day’s heat, “A drink, please,” though she, a Samaritan, Not caring if it seemed indiscreet.
“But you have nothing by which I may draw Water for you. Though it’s clean, still it’s deep.” He pulled me with questions as if to call Me out of the depths, rouse me from sleep.
Yet thirsty I was and to Water spoke: My heart leaked with words, confession poured out; Faith ebbed and pooled till my suspicion broke To flood me with joy as love soaked my doubts.
And drinking, I am filled, full as the sea Because of the water who thirsted for me.
Randall Edwards 2022 Artwork: James Tissot (French, 1836-1902). The Woman of Samaria at the Well (La Samaritaine à la fontaine), 1886-1894. Opaque watercolor over graphite on gray wove paper, Image: 10 5/16 x 14 13/16 in. (26.2 x 37.6 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Purchased by public subscription, 00.159.69 (Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 00.159.69_PS2.jpg) #gospelofjohn#thepoetrypub#poetry
Today’s is the last day for the November Poem a Day Challenge. Day 30’s prompt is appropriately, Endings.
I use it to wrap up a series of poems I’ve written over the past two months which have drawn their inspiration from the book of Job. This poems is based on Job 42.
You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.
The prompt for Day 25’s November Poem a Day Challenge is “feasting.”
This sonnet is about the feast at the home of Mary and Martha recorded in Luke 10. I’ve been thinking about Jesus’ parable of the talents in Matthew 25 where Jesus says that to the one who has, more will be given. I’ve also been thinking about the end of the book of Job when all his fortunes and family are restored as if that were a reward or a do-over. I’ve been a bit unsettled by the passages. I think I’ve found my way through them, and I try and articulate where I’ve landed in this sonnet.
I’ve been playing about with the word “rest,” and how in English “rest” can mean “to be comfortably at ease” or “to recover” as well as that which is “left over” as in “all the rest.” Have a look, and let me know if rings true.
During the summers of my teen years, I would camp with my youth group at Carolina Hemlocks Campground. Our church’s beloved pastor grew up in the area, and he loved reading a collection of mountain tales collected by Richard Chase, titled, Grandfather Tales. One of the stories that was a particular favorite was a “hunting story” titled, “Skookin’ Huntin.” Hunting stories, like fishing stories, are themselves “tall” tales.
After college, I worked as a middle school drama teacher. (Yes, there’s always drama in middle school). I taught these in a unit with language arts and North Carolina history teachers. In fact, I told these stories in dialect so much that I would get marks on my teacher evaluations for my poor pronunciation. Or as I mighta said then, ‘proNOUNtsiashun.
November 28’s November Poem a Day Challenge is “nonsense.” I’ve taken “Skookin’ Huntin'” and worked it into a poem. This particular hunting story is a nonsense story because it is all backwards.
You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.
I’ve travelled this world all over:
House to barn, down to the gate,
Upstairs, downstairs like a rover
Until true love changed my fate.
Rode my mare to a valley town
That sat way up on a hill
Where little roast pigs ran around
Squealing, “Who’ll eat me? Who will?”
Come to a house made of cornbread—
Its sides, shingled with flapjacks,
Knocked on the woman with my head
The door swung and knocked me back.
That mean old woman offered me
A glass of bread and a penny.
“No thank you Ma’am, if you please”
Told her, “I just had any!”
Went and looked for my brother’s place;
A house that’s easy to find,
Sits alone in an empty space
With fifty like it beside.
A house high up, there down below,
A log cabin made o’ brick,
Where in a field he’d scratch and hoe
The corn he’d fished from the crick.
That’s when I saw Jenny, my love,
I knew she must of missed me.
Nailed the door down and windows up;
So I strowed in through the chimney.
Directly, I throw’d my hat on the fire,
Thoughtfully stirred up the bed,
I sat right close, her eyes admire
s’Far from her as I could get.
We played cards (some say it’s a sin).
She drawed hearts, me diamond’s love
‘Bout that time her old man come in,
And he drawed himself a club.
So I run’d home, run’d out a there,
Said, “I won’t see you never;
The old grey mare that’s mine, is yours;
I’ll be back for it forever.”
That very day life changed for me
The girl I’d chased ‘round the bend?
One I thought I was chasing? She?
Finally, caught me in the end.
after “Skookin’ Huntin’, Richard Chase, Grandfather Tales: American-English Folk Tales (1948) (Richard Chase, February 15, 1904 – February 1988). Alt. Randall Edwards 2021
(transiens) “passing over or away,” present participle of transire “cross over, go over, pass over, hasten over, pass away,” from trans “across, beyond” (see trans-) + ire “to go” (from PIE root *ei- “to go”). Meaning “passing through a place without staying”
I’m catching up a bit on the November Poem a Day Challenge.
with backward mutters of dissevering power 