WE CAN STILL SEE becomes a spontaneous chant by Yakima
Storypath/Cuentocamino: : ICED TEA SOLIDARITY CEREMONY AT YAKIMA AIRPORT
Storypath/Cuentocamino: : ICED TEA SOLIDARITY CEREMONY AT YAKIMA AIRPORT: WE CAN STILL SEE becomes a spontaneous chant by Yakima Faith Action Network, an interfaith statewide partnership in Was...
ICED TEA SOLIDARITY CEREMONY AT YAKIMA AIRPORT
LINES FOR JANE ON SOLACE,
LEFT ON THE PORCH,
Guadalupe-like
Guadalupana.
Warm-robed woman
of the margins,
syllables surfacing
re-surfacing a Dylan
soundtrack
lowland lady with the
sad eyes
shouldn't I say
something to her?
Solace defined is a
rich harvest
of comfort and
pleasure in the grieving.
When Terry gave me
Consolations
a one-word title of
on-word histories
I missed these rich
roots tapping
into oft-told stories
told slant.
Something about the day, Solace.
Something about the day. Rosemary
passed, comforted by her daughter, Rachel.
Remember my magic trick
at Jane & Terry's, breaking chains
binding my two index fingers?
Cy, her husband, was the magician,
and I'll see him tomorrow.
Clay woman, Sculptured Solace,
Rabbit Girl-God,
permission to weep,
permission to laugh.
Late 13th century Old French, solaz,
pleasure, entertainment, enjoyment,
bang!--assuage sounds downright onomatopoetic
after the sexual thread. Let them reconcile?--
we're learning to talk here, first thought,
best thought--earlier in the day--
do your ears get cold--ha, ha,
I've listened to those jokes all my life.
I got old but the jokes kept coming--
earlier in the day, before the ICE flight
arrived from Phoenix, this being Thanksgiving week
(I'm keeping a new notebook on Gratitude and Food,
62 days in) I prepared a Tea Ceremony
for those counting, waving to, affirming,
lives of asylum seekers and undocumented
arriving and departing Yakima in bus and jet.
Our Japanese friend Mayu's teapot
brewing the same green matcha her parents drink
each morning in Yokohama. It was steaming!
18 degrees in our yellow triangle.
I made a movie. Froze my knuckles,
Sister S--froze my knuckles filming
a painted yellow line. When you carry
the camera, good things happen.
I sliced pumpkin bread to complete
a Eucharistic meal, do rabbits, Solace,
like pumpkin? Do you even know
things like that? How earthly you are
remains a question. Those tea leaves,
though, they reached Japan
via Facebook, and Mayu liked seeing
her tea pot, too. The movie
is six minutes long. Did the tea leaves
reach those women in chains?
Last week we were cautioned not to chant
because it might put the deportees
in danger climbing the stairs. Our leader
told the suits, Those leg chains you put
around their ankles put the people at risk.
Do you mind if I curse? Some chicken shit
at the airport had them pull the big
fuel truck painted with the letter N
in red in front of us so we couldn't see!--
creating a chant, We can still see you,
over and over. I blew Michael's whistle
in his absence. Solace-Goddess!
Are you still there? When you see this movie,
stay to the end. Your story connects
to Plum Village--Jane told me so.
We've read Thich Nhat Hanh together,
Jane and I. Karen has the calendar
in the bathroom--Drink your tea!
The woman drinking tea, back turned
to Swift Air, spent three years at Plum Village.
Earline is her name. She says,
This is the way Thich
Nhat Hanh drinks tea.
See for yourself, staid comforter, Sister Solace.
Teach us to burrow and be brave.
Jim Bodeen
Happy Thanksgiving
26 November 2019
LEFSE MAKING'S RED THREADS
RED THREADS OF LEFSE MAKING
for Robert
Sanders
This is a photo taken inside of a Lutheran Church
in rural North Dakota at the turn of the last Century.
This is the lutefisk of forgetting.
The people are gathering in the Church basement.
This is the lefse of remembering.
This is a photo of my mother
rolling everything out on the table
covered in flour. She is re-covering
all that can be rolled into cinnamon.
Mom's friend, Emmy, joins her,
they're gathering in Mom's Seattle kitchen.
Vonnie helps them rice potatoes.
Karen and Lena have driven over the pass.
The man with the lefse stick surrounds himself
with children in white aprons. He sees
when potatoes need to be turned on the griddle.
He threads his way through each child.
These are the bakers in Mom's kitchen.
There have never been so many.
The man counts until he loses count.
The man, who is one of the threads,
knows the lefse will feed the number
of those that can't be counted.
Jim
14 November 2019
You can't fake it in the kitchen
IN THIS PICTURE,
for Karen
six people around a kitchen island
each of them wearing white aprons.
In this picture, an older woman,
mother, perhaps a grandmother,
three girls, and two boys. Two
circular boards and one square,
cloth-covered, rolling pins
and a bag of flour. One of the girls
holds a stick of unidentified purpose
from outside observation. One
can see the eyes of five people,
and the one with his back
to the camera looks to his right.
Nobody seems to be talking,
yet each one seems to be listening
and connected to what is taking place.
At the far end of the photo,
in front of the pantry
are three rows of rolled dough,
but what kind? What is going on?
How does one kitchen photo
tell a love story?
Jim Bodeen
14 November 2019
The Picture on this Post Card
Dear
Senator Murray,
The picture on this post card,
a photo of a photo on the kitchen table.
But what does it have to do with you?
That's our mountain out on the stamp.
Thanks for protecting it. And the poem
on the front: You know Pastor Benz,
beloved caretaker of the planet
along with Elise--and yourself,
thanks too for that. That
Close the Camps image,
that's a pic from my car window
laid out on the table with the poem.
Let's say, this morning,
that everything is prayer,
that we're only expressing our gratitude.
Senator Murray and Pastor Benz.
That's an agenda delivering hope.
Jim
21 November 2019
P.S. Karen still has your tennis shoe on the mantel.
Struggle Sparks
NOTE-TAKING WITH AN I-PHONE
Looking at pictures again,
this one from several years ago.
I'm trying to figure out
why my people
keep pretending Bultmann
never happened, that we
shouldn't proudly proclaim
him as ours. This summer
on retreat, a young Presbyterian
Ph.D, preparing for a life
as a stock broker
before the crash
and studying theology, told
the gathered, Barth,
he's our man.
Jim Bodeen
19 November 2019
ESTOS PRODIGIOS
ESTOS PRODIGIOS
EVEN THESE
I didn't know how
I couldn't get to
the beloved disciple
el mensaje divino
Ustedes nunca van a creer
si no ven señales
y prodijios, te dijo Jesús
Me parece un prodigio que puedas
dormir en este escándolo
Like the song, So rare
Estraño y admirable
Fresh from yesterday
Cold coffee prodigios
Startle me with light
Jim Bodeen
21 November 2019
from The Bultmann Poems
from THE BULTMANN POEMS
Forty-five years liberated, counting
days, confined too, to pews mute
and suffering. Not perhaps, suffering
like the pulpit suffers, delivering
as it so often does, sermons
half-baked, half-hearted,
comfort food. For the
comfortable?
No, they're not my interest.
Nor are those with greater faith
than mine, those already crucified,
asking only to be taken down
from the Cross. No, not them.
Tongue turned back on myself,
I deserved the portion
I've been given. I stood tested
and not alone in my deliverance
waiting for language Bultmann brought.
I had to get there on my own.
Language Bultmann
brought to the laity for liberation.
Language pulpit and pew
knew, and knows,
understanding their part,
this shaving of gospel truth.
How can one refrain from speaking then,
knowing what terror awaits
in compounding moments
for those withheld from Christ,
those thirsting and hungry,
waiting for the confrontation
allowing all that is false in life to fall.
Jim Bodeen
18 November 2019
For a Friend at 90
FOUNDATIONAL WELL-BEING
for Chet at
90
To Time it never seems that he is
brave,
To set himself against the peaks of
snow
Robert
Frost
How it happened we sat that day
at table, and you happened to mention
you were still skiing at 80, I'll call
grace, not luck, for in further listening
there always seemed to belong
to what is brave, and not adventure,
a man I would like to know.
Those long skis for jumping
on your fence can be misleading--
towards achievement, away from character
which roots itself where Time
can't see or understand. We sat.
You said something of trains
and North Dakota. Chet,
you're out there with the stars,
and what you've held, you kept.
Jim
16 November 2019
THEOLOGY OF THE SQUARE INCH
THEOLOGY OF THE SQUARE INCH
Because one steps out
of the Square Inch
it becomes the Square Inch
Sometimes the Square Inch is a circle
Is full of Sunshine and Shadow
Sol y Sombra
The Bullfight Ring
The Ring of Fire
Johnny Cash and Garcia Lorca
It is the Struggle of Life and Death
which is Poetry
Jim Bodeen
6-14 November 2019
The Yellow Rectangle and the Square Inch
THE YELLOW RECTANGLE
painted stripes on asphalt
at the Airport where ICE
flight witnesses are granted
permission to assemble
by the City of Yakima,
remains substantial,
nobody's crowded
and all gatherers must
watch to stay inside
the yellow line. Stepping
back, this morning
to snap a photo of the 14 gathered
to let asylum seekers
know they're not alone
No Estan Solo
painted black on cloth,
trilling whistle between
nuestra oración de despedida,
our prayer of good bye,
I step back, one foot
on the other side of the painted
yellow stripe, catching
City employee's eye,
and he walks from his observation
point beyond the way. No problem,
I wave, stepping back
inside the line. My companions
turn to watch. Did he? they ask.
Cuidado en la frontera,
hermanos, hermanas. Cuideten.
Todo que pasa aquí es sagrado.
It's all sacred, inside this pregnant
space, every gesture, significant.
Jim Bodeen
5 November 2019
LIFE INSIDE THE SQUARE INCH
RESEARCHING THE SQUARE INCH IN RED
PINE
for Barry
The Chinese call the heart of their heart the Square Inch.
Footnote to Song 162, Copper Canyon ed.
1982
The fang-ts’ (square inch) is
the heart of the mind.
Footnote of Song 162, Copper Canyon ed.
2000
The song, too, is new.
Ancient heavenly something
becomes
This rare and heavenly creature
The definition for poetry in our
time
which is all time, it shrinks and
expands
Standing off by itself,
beautiful thing!*
becomes
Alone without a peer
beautiful thing!
A foot inside, a foot outside
of a painted yellow line
La Frontera
The border that doesn't exist
Jim
7 November 2019
*Beautiful thing, from WCW, Paterson,
a personal refrain, dating from 1975
JUST OUTSIDE THE CHAIN-LINK FENCE
JUST OUTSIDE CHAIN-LINK FENCE
AT YAKIMA'S MUNICIPAL AIRPORT
WATCHING AND LISTENING AS MICHAEL,
PHOTOGRAPHER OF DETAINEES AT ICE FLIGHTS,
PHOTOGRAPHER WHO PHOTOGRAPHS
EACH ONE, BETWEEN SWIFT AIR JET N531AU
AND TACOMA DETENTION CENTER BUSES,
AS HE INFORMS NEW WITNESS WHAT'S HAPPENING
They've been arrested for the crime
of seeking asylum
in the United States of America
Jim Bodeen
All Souls Day, 2019
Yakima, Washington
SUNDAY MORNING ODETTA THE SAME THREE
SUNDAY MORNING SONG
Come and go
with me to that land
Come and go
with me
Come and go
with me to that land
Oh, Sunday Morning Song
O, Odetta,
It was faint at first
I ask, Who is that singing to me
I am walking to the bathroom
to brush my teeth
I have turned back the clock
and it is still dark
I'm going to ask the captain
Your voice so clear
Your bright voice
You so beautiful
She is so beautiful
O, freedom over me
Perhaps it was Bultmann's Letter to Barth
dated 11-15 November, 1952
that gives me this joy that one
giving me this joy
Maybe, too, maybe
it was Blind Willie Johnson
with that haunting backup singer
Angeline, his wife,
Can't nobody hide from God,
I'm listening to while riding my bicycle
Such possibility, such Jesus
Come and go with me, ride,
Sunday Morning is coming through
Jim Bodeen
3 November 2019
Saturday Morning
*
Yogurt from sale shelf
Peanut Butter M&M's
Squash Pie spooned whipped cream
Jim Bodeen
2 November 2019
PRAYER FOR RUDOLF BULTMANN
PRAYER OF GRATEFULNESS
FOR RUDOLF BULTMANN
IN A DARK AMERICAN TIME
for Peter Marty
Not apparatus, but illumined condition.
Not apparatus, but illumined condition.
Such necessary brightness, denoting us.
Old scholar, cause and source of my liberation,
exquisite confrontation carrying me
through burned-out deserts of pews,
they said they suffered under your light,
that your brightness dimmed their own.
They wouldn't call it theirs.
In my time they dismissed you all-together.
A footnote to rebuild! Simpler? No.
What could be simpler than, Aha!
Oh no! I'm in for it now! Living now,
how could one ever do it alone?
The Word dresses me out, cadaver-like.
Jim Bodeen
All Souls Day, 2019
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