February 27: Poet of the Week, Robert Morgan, "Holy Cussing"

My son hits me every time he hears me swear.  Doesn't matter whether I say "hell" or "shit" or [insert your favorite curse word here], if my son is within earshot, I know I will quickly feel a hard slap on my arm or back or whatever part of my body is within reach.  It's not a love tap.  It stings for a good half hour afterward.

I enjoy swearing.  I know it's nothing to be proud of, but a good curse word at just the right moment gives me a great deal of pleasure.

Robert Morgan, the Poet of the Week, knows a thing or two about swearing.

Saint Marty better get his ass moving now.  He has a class to teach tonight.  Son of a bitch.

Holy Cussing

by:  Robert Morgan

When the most intense revivals swept

the mountains just a century ago,

participants described the shouts and barks

in unknown tongues, the jerks of those who tried

to climb the walls, the holy dance and laugh.

But strangest are reports of what was called

the holy cuss. Sometimes a man who spoke

in tongues and leapt for joy would break into

an avalanche of cursing that would stun

with brilliance and duration. Those that heard

would say the holy spirit spoke as from

a whirlwind. Words burned on the air like chains

of dynamite. The listeners felt transfigured,

and felt true contact and true presence then,

as if the shock of unfamiliar

and blasphemous profanity broke through

beyond the reach of prayer and song and hallo

to answer heaven's anger with its echo.