December 29: Lynn Emanuel, "Whites," Frodo

I didn’t get a chance to post a poem for P.O.E.T.S. Day last night.  I had a friend from New Zealand come over for a visit.  Let’s call him Frodo.  Well, Frodo, my wife, and I spent the evening visiting and playing the game Life.  I don’t like Life.  However, I couldn’t talk Frodo and my wife into a movie.  I even suggested Annie Hall and Stranger Than Fiction, two of my favorite films.

Anyway, I thought I’d give you a poem today.  It’s not quite Christmas-themed, but it is by a poet named Lynn Emanuel (“Emanuel” is Christmassy), and it does mention the Savior.  And it is a great poem.

Saint Marty dedicates this poem to Frodo, his atheist friend from Down Under.

Whites

The scar, the moon, the blind man’s cane, the gluey soup of barley,

the bread, the milk, the chalked concoctions that coat the ulcer,

the blind man’s eye, the banker’s long, pale, trembling fingers

poking at the family ledgers until even the neighbors come by

to get a look at folks so relentlessly unsuccessful.  The tubers,

the roots, long and damp and weeping, the nurses’ noses stuck

into our business.  Weevils in sacks of spoiled flour,

grandmother’s feet pared with a paring knife, Dulles, Eisenhower.

Glaciers’ paunches, slow and heavy, the body of the Savior

on the altar wall, in the tub upstairs, Pierre, the naked sailor.

My friend's feet aren't quite this big