When A Tree Presents Itself

Exploration of word and silence in search of the yamadori--collected bonsai--a poem and a tree in the wild. Bonsai, forest road, combining trail and word--this day of working wonder takes what uncertainty gives, on its way to becoming what is found there--new by fact and necessity.



IF A TREE PRESENTS ITSELF

Won from the street of the word,
I glimpse how it is in translation.
Not knowing how to find you in there
or how to go back another 100 years,
not knowing those words are yours,
not knowing which words.
Your words, not the work
of some committee.

Such a tree discovered in the wild.

The book came in the mail.
The poet came and left.
Little trees with big trunks
and all this weather.

Me on my way out of town.

Eyes frozen in telling wonder
sacrificing for a tape recorder.
I have to work, too.
Drop me a line sometime.
In speech like mine
it all starts by stopping,
starting again going sideways
little stutter steps
backwards and forwards
trackless like the woods
in poems sung a century later
before appearing on the other side--
no understanding--
none--how it all came to rest,
or turned into word and way.
How I see all of this from listening to her.
A kind of sideways drift

without dwelling there.
That's one way to never lose it.
Living out what's never been written down
but only told.
Living in a town where I don't live.

Jim Bodeen
1-9 November 2015

Klipschutz, poet on the road,

klipschutz comes through Yakima on his way to Walla Walla. He's reading from his new book, talking poetry and reading at Inklings Bookstore on his way to see Charles Potts, poet and mentor of many, and these poems give witness to this journey. A video of the entire reading is also available on YouTube.

After the Resurrection of William Tyndale

TRANSLATING THE READER
AFTER THE RESURRECTION OF WILLIAM TYNDALE

But, of course, is some kind of code
for one like me.
Would I not be seduced by truth?

Truth would settle me,
a discussion of truth,
put me in the room,

so to speak. Speaking
truth. And the old pastor,
wily, does find the moment,

keying on love,
knowing what I need most
to hear. That was 40 years ago,

and just that fast,
he's been gone so long,
and while he's speaking to me,

now, I can call him up,
but I can't speak, even
after being handed this word.

And so it is that I find
William Tyndale, holy man
on the run translating the word,

(while driving in my truck,
mind you, listening to music,
wondering). How did William Tyndale

give us those words
in Ephesians? I already knew
didn't I, how new it was!

But I couldn't guess what
until I looked, and here it is,
crossing time, ...but let us

follow the truth in love...
True wonder of word,
given. The man who

would be stripped
of his calling by the world,
shows me a softer

way to stand, handing me
a more difficult way to walk.
Following truth,

more believable for any
in any time. And so it goes,
still, the modern man says.

Following...then,
comes from the printers
in 1534. In English--

And then
that committee convened
by the King--

We have an opportunity here...
to strike, to be bold, yes,
to speak--to speak truth

in the name of our Lord.
Did they, in that moment,
forget or remember, to love?

At the same moment
that English gives us Hamlet
we learn to speak emboldened.

These words will be enough
for one like me, given as they are,
by one who understands.

The truth to speak
for half a lifetime, a privilege
taken and carried,

a kind of ploughman
taken from his roots
and given a pen--released

now, to the humbler,
more difficult place,
500 years and more, after

the execution. Needing
now only to follow,
living it out that way.

Jim Bodeen
1 November 2015

First Bible for Ploughmen: Letter to Wm. Tyndale

Dear Ron,

From the early days of Sigmar at Central Lutheran, once off-handedly responding to me, from Ephesians: "...but speaking the truth in love..." You know it that well, too. Ephesians 4:15: "But speaking the truth in love, may grow up into him in all things, which is the head, even Christ:" That 'even' being italicized by some spell-bound editor, being charged in under-stated humility. This, as you know, from the King James Bible, 1611. The RSV, and new RSV changing one word, "but" to "rather." What fine work, committee, members! You kept the power of the language. And Sigmar, was he chiding me at the time? I can't remember, but he gave it to me, and he gave it to me in love. He was chiding me—and using the truth up front to suggest I be more loving. But speaking the truth in love. But of course you know me well enough. You see me coming. I’m up to something else. Here it is. I've been reading the William Tyndale New Testament, 1534 edition, with corrected spelling. This, too, is background. And somewhere in the back and forth of my mind, I got to wondering, How does Tyndale, translator on the run, translate that verse? How does it come down to us for the first time in English? Tyndale has been resurrected in our day. Tyndale translates: "...following the truth in love..." For the first time in English! That's what it was, how it is. And you know, Sigmar, that wily coyote Icelandic man of all the beyond. That verse never left me, a stone on the trail. I could hold it in my hand. Of course I love, speaking the truth in love, and those translators, in that moment. and I love it more, too, knowing this morning that it came from Tyndale almost 100 years earlier. ...following the truth in love...I imagine that committee at table, looking at those words, “…following the truth…” We have an opportunity here, my brothers, we might step this up a notch towards higher ground—we might speak truth—in love, of course. Tyndale was but following himself following Christ. Let us be bold. Unfair? Crooked listening on my part? Insisting that it be my way? Let chips fall where they will. William Tyndale instructs me across time. Crucified man resurrected. My wheels have come off by now, as you know, Pastor Ron, my friend who prays for me. Who else would I share this with now? I hope your day includes some rain for this parched earth. Rain here. This is a p.s. also. In Spanish, it's also stunning: Mas bien, al vivir la verdad con amor...Do you like this little shift: Even better, mas bien,--to live--al vivir la verdad/the truth...With love then, in love, following, doing my best. Truth out. Jim 

5 November 2015

LETTER TO WILLIAM TYNDALE ON THE RUN

I’m one of the ploughman, Dear Father,

one of those listening from below across time,

writing in the margins of the sustaining word

passing through you. 1534 Ploughboy Edition,

passed on from hand to hand, used,

this inscription on the inside cover

in black marking pen: Dear Cousin Patty,

This is the most beautiful miracle of a book—

read the Intro for some surprises—

I think of you often and smile.

Much love, Jack.

Timothy 1: 6; Matthew 19.

How’s that for an introduction?

I.      Some words of yours that have survived—besides the New Testament
      the King’s Committee took credit for and made famous:

As you addressed us, Dear Reader, may I in turn address you,
Dear Father.

May all your words taken out of context here,

for they are lovely compacted—show only the work of love.

The dangers you knew, that took your life, long past, yet…

Language remains in trouble, but it’s more profitable, now—

They lock up young black men in prisons.

Listen to you! “…let the finder of fault

consider the Hebrew phrase or manner of speech

left in the Greek words.” You’re talking to me,

here, across 580 years, give or take.

You talk of translation “…the kingdom of heaven,

which is scripture and word, so locked up…and locked out…

that he that reads or hears it, cannot understand it.”

You write, “…person for person, number for number,

and an interrogation for a conditional.”

Mainstream in any age, along with your light in margins:

“…me thinketh it better to put a declaration

in the margin, than to run too far from the text,”

all the time calling me, most dear reader.

That Confession in the priest’s ear

is but man’s invention, still provokes reaction

is certain, and amends not to God in works,

but to my neighbor, whom I have hurt,

evidenced by our hanging heads,

our evolution remains apart from practice.

II.

For the end of the commandment is love

that commeth with a pure heart.

It is easier for a camel to go through

the eye of a needle, than for a rich man

to enter the kingdom of God.

I’m one of the rich, Dear Father,

your book arriving by plane and truck.

You have not had good press.

You have never had a better one.

Direct language. One, David Daniell,

after saying, True Christianity always releases,

writes, longer answers are more complicated,

and every change Tyndale makes

is more than defensible, it is correct.

“Working alone and in danger,”

with the driving mind of Paul.

Father stripped of all, skin scraped clean

of committee by committee,

you are the house under the house,

your words to us. But a ploughman—

Skin-Scraped-Clean, named again Morning Breath.

You wouldn’t recognize us today,

Man-On-the-Run, Father,

We’re undercover, but we’re not pursued,

surrounded as we are by so many words

we don’t know which one to follow.

Your every day directness arrives fresh every day.

You say, Be not afraid of every shadow.

The Authorized version says,

Be not afraid with any amazement.

Tyndale: He that can take it, let him take it.

Both the repetition and the garden.

Why, then, more than history?

Why, then, the silence?

Because it is the Tyndale Bible not the King James.

This is how we receive your testament.

Because it is written on the run and in danger.

Because it is written from love and in faith, not committee.

Because it is the house under the house.

Because clear sentences show he knew how.

When James gives Bible revisers the Bishop’s Bible

as foundation, he guarantees a coat of Latin

washing over Tyndale’s English—“One of the main reasons

for fearing you, Tyndale, right here—a safe distance disappears.

David Daniell shows how this happens.

David Daniell is closer to me, than you,

in ordinary time, but the two of you  

come to us from sky time.

If it’s Latin you like, Tyndale is not for you, Daniell says.

Your Bible, William Tyndale, comes from one mind, not a committee.

Because of the beloved vernacular.

An English equal to connect us to God.

Word-making walk with Jesus.

Word on the road for men of the road.

Jim Bodeen

Spring, Summer, Fall, 2015

            

North Dakota Rural Roots Journey October 2015

Waking in Williston, North Dakota, is not the same as waking—or entering, the small town of my childhood. The return is made possible through two cousins, one elder, one a peer. Bowbells, North Dakota, County Seat of Burke County, the place. We enter through Highway 8, late October, after harvest. Camp in City Park where there’s a Donation Box, not a registrar. We’re in the Lutheran pew of my childhood on Sunday. Surprises everywhere.

Our family left Bowbells in 1956. I was 10. The back and forth gives way to this one. Family. Worship. Farm. Town. Exile. Return. Home, where they have to take you in. Or not. The split life between the poem and the inherited faith. What it looks like now.

HiWay2 the Lonesome Road to North Dakota

HiWay2 The Lonesome Road to North Dakota.

US2. The lowest number. Hiline in the Mothership.

Travel across Montana the way it was
and the way it remains.

Two Lane, cross-studded American history.

Contemporary disturbances.

Storypath/Cuentocamino is a dirt road, off path,
blessed way. It's been the back and forth road weaving
the family story of roots and exile. The story
to a small North Dakota town that continues
to direct a life in wondrous ways. And HiW ay 2,
well, those who know it, know.
This is an invitation to listen and ride. 

Walking with the Man Walking

RUNNING INTO TWO BOYS ON DIRT BIKES

ON THE EDGE OF MY HOME TOWN

WHO ASK ME WHAT I’M DOING

I was a boy here.

I was younger than you.

Younger than you and your friend.

I didn’t have a dirt bike.

I had a bike though, and a BB gun.

I lived in this town when I was ten.

I’m 70 now.

We picked Juneberries in Tasker’s Coulee

where we had family picnics.

I remember asking Mom:

Are there Juneberries in Tasker’s Coulee, Mama?

Grandma’s house was a safe house.

I’d go there when I was mad.

I’d go there other times, too.

Do you have a place to go?

These shrubs around the park,

they’re kept up,

but they’re old and gnarly.

They were here when Narveson boys

lived across the street from the park

and we used to cut our way

into and out of the park

with jack knives, breaking branches

and getting jabbed and stuck.

I was a boy here.

We lived across the street

from Bethlehem Lutheran Church

where I was baptized,

and after we moved away,

they rebuilt it.

All of my memories were in the old church.

Jesus was a man with a beard

walking on green flannel board

mounted on a tripod.

Even then he was a walker

and he walked around the world

following the Sunday School

teacher’s hand.

There are no memories of the pastors,

but it became clear what they said

about taking the name of God in vain.

It was the worst thing,

and we learned about words in God’s house.

Everything about Jesus made sense to me.

Jesus loves little children.

And what he said,

You are the light of the world.

If Jesus loved us,

God knew our every thought.

I was all right with that story.

It made sense that God knew.

Because everything wasn’t right

on our side of the street,

in our house, I bet what I believed

believing this to be true.

Dad was sick with this disease in the blood.

He couldn’t take the cold. North Dakota winters

froze the blood where sickness lay.

Alcohol would make it go away

until it made it all worse.

He would cry out, God damn it.

He would scream, Jesus Christ.

He would cry to our Mom, too.

Lucille, God damn it, I can’t take it.

She would heat water on the stove

and they’d sit in the kitchen.

Mom would put Dad’s feet

in water, and dad would swear to God

and Mom would cry and say,

Wayne, I don’t know what else to do.

Everything Dad said went

against what the preacher said.

I didn’t believe Dad was wrong.

I don’t think he ever took God’s name in vain.

I knew the pastor wouldn’t believe it,

but I believe Dad was talking to God.

Praying the best he knew how.

I had to keep that inside.

Who would believe a 7-year old boy?

Sometimes I couldn’t believe it myself.

That was between me and God

and it was always between me and God.

I never quit believing in that one.

That’s where I found God’s calling too.

God was never afraid of how Dad talked.

He knew Dad’s way to prayer.

How a man calls out to God

must be one of God’s wonders.

Do you know about Willow Grove?

You walk the Great Northern tracks to get there.

Cross the first gravel road.

Stay on the tracks. Trees to the east.

Those stones. Indian graves.

I’d smoke Indian Tobacco.

Sometimes we’d light small fires

and send smoke signals.

We were Lakota. My friends and I.

We were Mandan.

We sent smoke signals to God.

God sent smoke right back at us.

Jim Bodeen

17 October 2015

Bowbells, North Dakota

City Park

WALKING WITH THE MAN WALKING,

the navigator shows

the walker what he can’t see

walking the way

Jim Bodeen

23 October 2015

THE NAVIGATOR

            for Karen

She shows the driver

what he cannot see

Sometimes she drives

Jim Bodeen

23 October 2015