No Man’s Land. Logan C. Jones
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No Man’s Land
Poems
Logan C. Jones
No Man’s Land
Poems
Copyright © 2014 Logan C. Jones. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
isbn 13: 978-1-62564-747-4
eisbn 13: 978-1-63087-211-3
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
To Kelli
We would rather be ruined than changed
—W. H. Auden
You must change your life
—Rainer Maria Rilke
Acknowledgments
I thank the editors of the following publications in which the poems below previously appeared.
Healing Ministry: “To Speak of Fire”; “End-Stage”
Hobart Park: “Bach Will Be Enough”
The Journal of Pastoral Care & Counseling: “The Antidote to Pain”; “James and Bessie Tate”; “God Bless You, Mary Oliver”
Main Street Rag: “No Man’s Land”
The Progressive Christian: “Revolution”; “Under a Full Moon on Christmas Eve”; “The Other Advent”; “Elvis Has Left the Building” (originally titled “Elvis is Dead . . . Really”)
No Man’s Land
The old farm house seemed huge,
mansion-like in all its secrets and
out-buildings with their weathered boards.
His room was upstairs
where it was hot and musty,
bathed in a yellow haze of light.
An old trunk kept his gas mask,
cartridge belt, and helmet.
The helmet carried a dent
from a sniper’s bullet
or so the story went in the family.
These war relics made for great battles
in the backyard where we would climb out
of the trenches, going over the top
into No Man’s Land. Artillery shells would
burst overhead as tanks led the assault.
There would always be a mustard gas attack
which would leave us stricken and
flailing on the ground where we would
end up laughing. These battles
were epic and we never ran out
of tobacco sticks for rifles.
Our casualties always got up for lunch.
My grandfather was a sergeant
in a machine gun company
with the American Expeditionary Force
in France.
I never heard him speak of his war
and I never speak
of mine.
The Antidote to Pain
for Shannon Davenport
The antidote to pain is not anesthesia.
The antidote to pain is poetry.
And poetry takes time and space
and silence and dreams.
But before there can be poetry
there has to be stories:
stories of hunger
of craziness
of shame
of a father long dead
of healing the sick
of casting out demons
of taking a stand
of finding a long forgotten path.
But before there can be stories
there has to be mercy,
sweet
life-giving
mercy.
Questions at Mid-Life
What am I hungry for?
What is missing?
What am I seeking?
What do I need?
Where can I find it?
Do I want to be healed?
More:
Why am I ashamed and embarrassed by my own neediness?
Why do I try to hide it?
When will I stop living like I have something to prove?
Why does mercy have to be so hard on me?
Why do I feel so unworthy at times?
Why do I settle for crumbs?
Rilke said, Live the questions.
Well, screw him.
Preparing for the Moon Rise
In the late afternoon
time of the fading sun,
I watch six hawks
glide on high currents.
With quick movement of their wings,
they soar up and down, right and left
with intent and delight.
Later in the evening,
I realize what they were doing:
They were pulling the moon
from its sleep and into the sky
to bless the world,
and even me.
I never knew the moon
needed help.
Maybe we all do.
Revolution
Nobody likes it
when the summons comes from God.
Certainly not Judas.
Everything changes with God.
Turned
up-side down,
and inside out,
this becomes that; that is now this.
The first become last.
Children enter the kingdom.
Demons are cast out.
The