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clcouch123

In conversation, I prefer Christopher. My mom named me after Christopher Robin, after all. In writing, I use “C L Couch” (or, more simply, “c l couch”) because the form is genderless and also frankly easier to use. I have awful writer’s cramp. I am an educator more or less retired, more or less due to disability. At present, I live in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania (USA). My writing here I mean to be occasional and also devotional. Either or both. The banner and profile photographs are by my friend and peer Debra Danielson. More of Debbie’s work to be enjoyed is at debradanielson.org. Thanks to each of you and both and all for coming to my blog.

psalm whatever, a song about parenthetic people

psalm whatever
a song about parenthetic people

parenthetically speaking, there
are too many people pushed aside
who live as virtual (meaning actual,
not electronic), veritable
slaves in body, looking forward to
nothing because there is no hope of
the freedom of
self-determination

this is not abstract—there are slaves

do not miss this

those of us who do not matter or
who might be enemies of
more powerful people

as slaves they will not matter
beyond their usefulness in
the buyer’s interest in labor

and after that cannot be realized
they will not matter ever
again so is the attitude
of the thief of stealing lives
and the thief who buys

there are others, too, not so
obviously sold but
captive all the same

if I asked you what all this meant
I think you’d have an answer
not because you’re criminal

but because you’re thoughtful
you know of slavery of the past
and of the parenthetic people
who subsist, persist today
and not so far away

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Psalm 6

Psalm 6

Lord, why must the world
suffer? why must we
suffer? why must I? self-

centered questions but fair
for it doesn’t seem right
that in a cosmos of choice
if ruled over by you

that suffering should be so
intense or exist at all—why
is this so? well, of course
there’s choice, and it is

ours; it has to be
since we are not puppets
of the divine but must
make choices that matter

and so choice itself must
matter—with real form
and consequence

or else this is a game
and God must be a sadist

and it is not
and God is not

we have an open life
with liberty to choose

(and if not, then not: that is
the consequence
of the power lent the world—it
can be wondrous or horror-filled)

and that’s it, I guess: suffering
is real because it has to be

4

Jacki K Challenge, memoir with image(s) and metaphors

Jacki K Challenge, memoir with image(s) and metaphors

https://i0.wp.com/whatwillmatter.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/Self-Reflection-6x8-e1357761321318.jpg

(www.whatwillmatter.com at Google Images)

The painting might be depicting the story of Narcissus and Echo, but I can think of no better way to think of the self as through reflecting into glassy water. And the art looks like the pre-Raphaelites again, a favorite school of mine.

The Song of Myself by Christopher Whitman (by me)

The title is an homage, of course, a
Metaphoric salutation to the great
Transcendentalist, who also was
A correspondent in the Civil War, up
Close to the blood-washed fighting

Do I see myself as a war? I do not
But rather see myself as a struggle in
Stillness, like the water in a pre-Raphaelite
Painting—reflections on reality were
Important in that school; they are
Important to me now

I reflect and, as best I can, marvel at the
Metaphor so wondrously used by Paul
In his assertion that we see through the
Glass darkly for now—and like a dim
And frosted mirror, I see myself as best
I may, while on this side

The song about myself, then, that I might
Sing, is one of dissonance—I don’t know
If Whitman heard any of his words set
To musical notes and then performed—my
Song would be entirely syncopated and
In minor keys, a monstrosity of jazz, a
Movement barely born when he wrote
About the war and then about you and
Me

https://i0.wp.com/thumbs.dreamstime.com/t/american-old-brick-house-small-neighborhood-seattle-39647908.jpg

(www.dreamstime.com at Google Images)

You know, it’s impressive what you can search for while at or with Google Images. First, I searched “the self.” Then I searched for “a small house” and then “a small brick house,” because that’s what I was really looking for. And, I’m sorry, I selected two images because self and small house were too compelling to enter into competition.

My Small House

I lived in a small house after
Being born in a hospital since renamed

The photo above is neither mine nor
Theirs (the other members of my
Family), although the resemblance to the
Actual look is surprisingly close, because

I view this house only in memory now
And for some many years: a red-brick house
With greenery in front, behind; a pointed
House too small for four brothers and Mom
And Dad , and then my sister arrived—so

We were not there so long—and yet this
House is my earliest memory box; take
Off the top by grasping at the point, and see
Inside images of my father reading, my
Mother cleaning, and the me I saw
Once within a mirror, after coming home

From the hospital again—four, now, and
Having fallen onto the hard floors
(Wall-to-wall carpeting would be next,
For sure) and splitting my four-year-old
Forehead open: in this image, I see me

Head bound up, wearing my favorite
Shirt (I don’t know how I know this), red with
A seal stitched on the front and balancing
A ball upon his circus nose

Wound and red and balancing—metaphors
Too soon worked out in the troubled new
House

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Psalm 5

Psalm 5

What can we say to you, Lord,
That you really want to hear?

We can praise you, though you
Have a host in heaven for that.

We can’t touch you, so absolutely,
That many choose not to believe.

You made happiness and sorrow;
What can we do to have you happier?

Well, sorrowful, we do believe
That we can act in such a way

To bring you sorrow—maybe a
Reflecting of our own feeling

When having done something wrong or
Or simply receiving the saddest news

Of loss or abandonment. So is
There anything we might do

For you? I’m thinking that there’s
Nothing, but I’m also thinking

I’m mistaken. In free will and our
Discretion, I imagine we can do

Something on our own that pleases you.

5

Psalm 4, a small song of gratitude

Psalm 4
a small song of gratitude

thank you, Lord, and I mean that
this is not hiding or prevaricating

but truth and openness of spirit

I can despair over illnesses and
news broadcasts, matters of
danger at home and away
far away and in myself

leaders cause too much truth
to die, so do other sellers of
our souls—thankfully, not
all who lead or sell

but the world is a twisted
place, and some like that too much

yet, still, I find myself in a
place of paradox with you
for you must teach me how to thank
and then accept my gratitude

as original and honest, and it is

thank you, Lord, and I mean that

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Psalm 3

Psalm 3

The world is broken, Lord of
Hosts, so much so that some

Would think you’re coming soon
With heaven’s military
To smash aggression
And grind indifference into
Dust, establishing a new, just
Place that we will call
A heaven and an earth

The brokenness of our world
Leads us, unjust, toward many
Fallen things further fallen

Those who can, too much, must utter words
Of truth through iron-manacled hands

Others commit to the selling
Of souls: I mean, taking the bodies
Of others and selling them for money
Or the relief of having adversaries gone

We crush our spirits with
What we let go by

Lord, what might lift us, free us
Make us fit for home? Please make me
Readier to act, commit the risk for good

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Jacki K Day Five

A story about a trip with an image from Google to go with.

Once my sister and I drove and rode to Stratford, Ontario. Stratford is a small town west of London (Ontario) and a good ways west of Toronto. During the season, there is a drama festival there. There are several theatres in town, all of which give productions in repertory. So one can see things, many things, in only a few days’ time.

The dramas are world-class. They are reviewed in publications from around the world. Production quality is amazing. Whether in the round or behind a proscenium, set pieces move like magic, becoming places, overall, of many levels for actors’ interactions and actions. I say actions because, when histories or tragedies are given, the staged fighting is visceral and intense.

In addition to after-theatre fare, a reward in Stratford is walking through the town during the day. There are many places to visit. Many stores, of course, some selling products in pewter whose source was Saint Mary’s, the next-door town. But it was the bookstores that really were the treat. There were several and, whether new or used, the variety and quality of inventory was so delightful to ingest.

My sister and I saw a production of The Tempest that we still talk about with wistful fondness. And we talk about our last dinner in Stratford. We were both poor (I’m still poor), but I let Amy talk me into going to an extravagant French-styled restaurant. (Mostly, Stratford has an anglified feel.) She was right about making the investment of money and time. The meal experience was fantastic. Fantastique, I guess.

During this trip, my sister talked with me a great deal about a man she had met and was planning to marry. I didn’t know much about him, since Amy and I were living in different cities; she was busy working after graduate school, while I was busy getting ready to go. But I learned much now and was pleased she was willing to share so much. She also told me how this man reminded her of me. Always something impressive for a brother to hear.

A pre-Raphaelite painting depicting the play The Tempest. The discovery of Bermuda by the English (in a shipwreck-ing storm) was the inspiration for the play.

(www.johnwilliamwaterhouse.com at Google Images)

5

Psalm 2 (and a note below)

Psalm 2

Lord, find me a church
One that welcomes me and
No one like me

One that cherishes who I
Am and who I’m not, who
You are and who you’re not

Our ages, occupations, the
Absence of occupation, our
Injured lives, triumphant lives
Our sorrows and our joys

Yes, our genders, too
And all the tones of skin

The differences and sameness

God made us, after all
And first of all
And is making us, still

A place where can give our
Millions and our mites

Our giving is small, but your sight
And your other senses
Make it pleasing, I think

Help me with a church despite
Myself and what’s happened there
The house of God is where your
People live, and I
Should live there, too

C L Couch

Psalms are songs. Psalms require us. And typically they require God.

So psalms are our songs to God. We read or sing them singly or in the community.

We sing psalms and let them move us how they will. How God might be moved we’ll never know while on this side of things. Yet still we sing. We should.

5

a psalm

Psalm on Sunday

Lord, make me a better person
It’s up to me, I know, to
Choose the better way
To find what has been
Called the straighter path

Here’s a problem, though: I
Like the path that bends

I like the walking adventure
Of not knowing what’s around
Or behind or under or over
The path that curves

And offers subtle mystery
(Sometimes overt)—I fear that

That’s the path for me

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