upon holding a prayer book from 1863
upon holding a prayer book from eighteen hundred and sixty-three
The old prayer book nearly singes my fingers,
so burning is the devotion in the prayers
of my ancestors chanting in their Sunday dress.
Seated in good wood pews
amid the smell of incense and cedar wood,
they believe the surety of heaven at the end.
Speculate roses will nestle in snow
like male members, but sweet and pink,
alive in the white cold.
The sun will shine while the snow drifts,
the moon will join the sun in the blue.
Laws of nature need not be obeyed.
The sabbath-keepers hope for paradise.
Pinned up in their Sunday best,
like trussed turkeys,
they chant the prayers they know by heart.
Lucy Simpson
Seattle
12/23/2007
Comments
Pinned up in their Sunday best,
like trussed turkeys
All sorts of irony there....
I swear I know this feeling
hopefully not too heavy. All those clothes had to be uncomfortable.
Lucy, who remembers reading that men had rods in their jackets to keep their backs straight. Yikes!!!
I think anyone raised in religion and abused, would feel this. It was a prayer book from my husband's family, episcopal. My family was Catholic. I still feel my throat constrict in formal church services. I like choral religious music and Quaker meetings for worship as well as yoga and Buddhist meditation, but a traditional Christian service feels stifling to me. My dad was active in the church. I think that explains it.
Lucy
It certainly does. My step-father is very active as well, they tried telling me I was lying about his angry streak. I put the bruises on my own arms. That was the very last straw.
my father was a "saint." ewww.... Saint Pederasty, I think he should be called. Thanks Lavender for commenting on the hard-hitting stuff. You are good one.
Lucy
Speculate roses will nestle in snow
like male members, but sweet and pink,
alive in the white cold.
This stanza could almost stand alone I think.
Beautiful, Lucy.
thanks Renee. This was my favorite stanza in the poem too.
Lucy