"Ontological" by James Frederick William Rowe

Editor’s Note:  This poem and the notes that follow it are well worth the time it will take to read critically.  For a primer on Saint Anselm’s ontological argument for the existence of God and the arguments of various philosophers against it, see http://www.iep.utm.edu/ont-arg/.

Ontological

James Frederick William Rowe

I will fill myself on the flesh

Of an imaginary fruit

A glorious apple

Plucked from a precious Tree

On a perfect isle

And think myself wise

I have not erred

Anselm,

     Anselm,

Would that you were bishop of Glastonbury

Then in sight of Avalon

That Touranian monk

Could not have chided you

Naive of legendary islands

And what do you know of thalers

Upon bureaus or elsewhere

You, a Benedictine?

Leave it to a Prussian Protestant

To insist upon sola fide

When we have reason also

Reason which renders

So sensible infinite notions

We cannot comprehend beyond what we can experience?

You have never uttered a word of truth

Committed to such a narrow view of proof

Transcendental though your idealism be

And indeed reason which demonstrates

Existence a perfection

The absence of which

The greatest cannot admit 

Assuring reality to that conceived

And granting proof to the divine

Anselm,

     Anselm,

It is no wonder you are a saint

For your miracles were woven in life

Deducing necessity from a potential

That all must grant

By thought alone establishing what must be

Poet’s Notes:  Ontological is my tribute to St. Anselm of Canterbury's ontological argument for the existence of God, which I so happen to favor, alongside Aquinas' argument from contingency (the third way) as demonstrating a rational proof of God's existence. 

I began this on the subway, and with a certain degree of difficulty, I continued it later. Specifically, I had a difficult time figuring out how I'd end it but eventually I decided to make the last two stanzas reflect on the argument itself, rather than playing with the attempted refutations proposed by Gaunilo of Marmoutiers ("that Touranian monk") and Immanuel Kant ("a Prussian Protestant"). Throughout the poem, the philosophies of the argument and of its refutations play the central theme.  For ease, here is a breakdown of all the references organized by stanza:

            Stanza 1: Guanilo's "perfect island" is referenced here, blended with the Biblical imagery of plucking from the Tree of Knowledge. In other words, I am suggesting I am willing to accept the ontological argument here, as evidenced by the stand-alone verse "I have not erred".

            Stanza II: Anselm was archbishop of Canterbury, an English seat, but I imagine him as more prepared to immediately deal with Guanilo's argument if he were archbishop at Glastonbury, the legendary grave of King Arthur, and so "then in sight of Avalon / that Touranian monk / could not have chided you / ignorant of legendary islands". Avalon also hearkens back to the first stanza's reference of apples, as Avalon is the "isle of apples".

            Stanzas III and IV: Here I deal with Kant's famous rebuttals to the ontological argument, where he suggested a hundred thalers on a bureau are not given existence by being better than their non-existence. Kant also thought that God is known through practical reason, or he said in the preface to his Critique of Pure Reason, “I have therefore found it necessary to deny knowledge, in order to make room for faith." This declaration is found in my "leave it to a Prussian Protestant / to insist upon sola fide [faith alone] / when we have reason also" and goes on to criticize in the next stanza Kant's transcendental idealism, which suggests we can make no metaphysical claims that are transcendent of possible experience. 

            Stanza V: In this stanza I take up Kant's "existence is not a predicate" argument but do so only by ignoring it. A long proof demonstrating why existence is indeed a predicate did not fit into this poem's structure, and so I didn't attempt to make a refutation; rather I just went with the idea that Anselm is right.

            Stanza VI: The poem concludes with the suggestion that the real miracle of St. Anselm's life is the creation of the ontological argument, which uses pure reason to deduce the existence of the perfect being. Though I think the argument sound, I nevertheless recognize that being able to show something exists from mere argument is indeed somewhat out of the ordinary.

Aesthetically, the bulk of the poem consists of stanzas six verses in length, aside from one stand-alone verse. Two of them include my repetition of Anselm's name, the second indented, which I thought was appropriate given that this is a "love letter" to Anselm's achievement. 

"sepulcher" by Ross Balcom

sepulcher

within

the sepulcher

you soar

your coffin

winged

borne by

winds eternal

black

the sky

numberless

the stars

galaxies

scythe-strewn

tribes

of the dead

welcoming

you

fearful 

stranger

everlasting

friend

--Ross Balcom

Poet's Notes: One of my favorite words is "sepulcher"; in fact, I frequently slip it into casual conversations. (Neighbor:  "Hi. Nice day, isn't it?" Ross: "Yes. Sepulcher.") I suppose it was inevitable I would write a poem with this title.

"Maui" by Terri Lynn Cummings

Maui

Terri Lynn Cummings

Coral reefs of light smile

while morning paddles her feet 

in sapphire’s swell and 

daubs the breeze with plumeria

Waves sway the hour

strolling over shelves of sand 

swabbing shells with salty rags 

until they catch

Voices claim the bay 

like a village of boats 

slapping oars on silver

filling nets with sunshine 

For now, I lie banked

dew dripping from palms

sleep drifting 

toward the isle of you

  

Poet’s Notes: Mother Nature wears her best lei, scarf, skirt, sandals, and perfume on this Hawaiian island. Whenever I trade a cold winter week for the warmth of Maui, splendor floods my senses. Nothing is better than the balance of bliss and serenity found when I simply sit and breathe. 

"High-Bouncing Ball" by James Frederick William Rowe

High-Bouncing Ball

James Frederick William Rowe

The quarters I once begged

From a reluctant grandmother

Oft-refusing

Now jingle in my wallet

Detritus from the wages

Of the intellectual labour

By which I win my bread

Now no permission is needed

To turn the latch

To hear the clanking descent

Amidst the plastic capsules

Of its tight-packed fellows

To be retrieved by

Clawing fingers

Plucking my prize

From out the steel door

Securing what I desire

At a price of twenty-five cents

All my own

I'm a grown man! 

Poet’s Notes:  My grandma would only rarely give me quarters to buy the grocery store toys. As a consequence, my unsatisfied desire for these stupid little toys has given me all the reason in the world for me to waste my money on crappy, throwaway baubles as an adult. The reason? I'm a man, and it's my own damn money, and I can have my high-bouncing ball if I damn well please! 

This poem was more or less completed on the subway and is simple and straightforward. I revised it twice before I exited the subway and only tweaked it a little bit when I returned home and put it on the computer.

The structure of the poem is not special. The last verse is set off from the rest to underscore its declarative nature as expressive of why I actually do this. Beside high-bouncing balls, I have collected little figurines, cap shooters, bracelets, rings, and other garbage. Sometimes I give them to my students. 

"the dolls" by Ross Balcom

the dolls

you will see her

sobbing

seized by grief

she cannot bear

BARBIE

kneeling graveside

one glance from her

will tell you

KEN

is  buried there

--Ross Balcom

Poet's Notes: With Ken out of the way, Barbie is available. Now ROSS makes his move....

Editor’s Note:  Go get her, Ross.  Meanwhile, enjoy this:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dRn3DYydAQ.

"Acquired Taste" by James Frederick William Rowe

Acquired Taste

         For William John Rowe

A deep and early memory

I can recall it vividly:

The darkness of the night

Robbing the transparency of the window

So that our own figures

Reflected when we gazed without

The pine table

Rustic and antique

Set for supper, spaghetti

And my father's glass of wine

My pinkie finger

That is the one that dunked

At my mother's protests

Into the brim of the glass

The crystal glass from which

I yet still drink

I snuck a taste before my hand was grabbed

The silten dryness of fermented grape

Despicable to the tongue

Of a three year old

I still don't care for red wine

-- James Frederick William Rowe

Poet’s Notes:  This poem is written in dedication to my father, William John Rowe, who died in January 2017 from cancer. It recalls my second oldest memory of him, which came to mind when I realized I am still not much of a red wine drinker at all.

The poem is divided into two stanzas of ten verses a piece with one verse standing alone to underscore my retained distaste of wine. I wrote this poem rather quickly after I had breakfast one morning and I struggled only with how to describe the exact taste of the red wine. I settled at last on “silten”, as I think the taste of a dry red wine conjures up a deep, earthy taste. It is, as best as I can remember, an accurate description of the wine I actually tasted so many years ago.

My favorite two verses in the poem are the conclusion of the first stanza:  "Set for supper, spaghetti / and my father's glass of wine". I believe this is the only time I've ever referenced my father in anything I've ever written in such a direct manner and I thought it reflected well my desire to do something to mark his death. I also like the alliteration in the first of those verses, which I find pairs well with the second verse. 

"This Moment" by Lauren McBride

This Moment

Sitting beside my garden,

the bills on my lap      forgotten,

    porch              

                              swing 

              slow

                      ing;

too busy this moment

watching bees and butterflies

trading flowers.

--Lauren McBride

Poet’s Notes: I think it's important to let ourselves get distracted from the must-dos in life and enjoy the moment. That being the purpose of this poem, I could stop these notes right now. 

Instead, I will share that in early versions, I changed "bills" to "book" thinking that image would connect with more people. Yet I was paying bills when this poem came to me, trying to make a chore more pleasant by taking it outside, which actually made it take longer, but was infinitely more rewarding.

Editor’s Note on the Poem:  I love the way Lauren placed her words here to evoke the gentle swinging of a porch swing.  Using white space in this way is unique to the poetic art form, something prose simply cannot do.  I also appreciate the double meaning of the title here:  “moment” as in “a snapshot of time” and “moment” as in the “momentum” of the porch swing. 

Editor's Note on the Graphic:  The lady depicted in the graphic is NOT the mysterious and reclusive Lauren McBride.  No one knows what she looks like, not even I.

"hello, river" by Ross Balcom

hello, river

Ross Balcom

1.

hello, river

I greet the waterway

I am a man

arrived at its banks

and I would know

its winding wyrd

2.

I am the lurker

in the cattails

though naked,

I am no pervert

I am 

the Angel of the Rushes

3.

I have the feet of a frog

devolution's gift

for I can swim 

mightily

I am the dripping athlete

at your daughter's door

4.

a job applicant,

I reek of river

I hand you this portfolio

of marsh grass

in the expectation

you will not hire me

5.

fish sing their scales

their glad tunes rise

multicolored suns

the light, the water

this is the eternal 

shimmer

6. 

and shimmer, 

shimmer me

I would be the light

of the river

I would be the dawn

flowing

7.

around every bend

a new me

my serial selves

the river

has multiplied me

ye gods

8.

resolved again

into one man

I walk 

riverside

into sunset

feet big as folly

9.

the ever-changing river

always a stranger

and a friend

greeting me anew

each moment

I call it Hello River

10.

river, hello

Poet's Notes: I wrote this poem after a recent riverside walk.  I dedicate it to the rivers of the world and to all who love them. 

"Epitaph for One So Young" by Lauren McBride

Epitaph for One So Young

         For Michelle, who was willing to hang on until her parents were willing to let her go.

Our tender phrases eased your grief

‘til gathered guests too soon took leave;

all cards and flowers in plain sight

when tearful day met empty night.

Then loneliness consumed once more, 

and sorrow from all thoughts of her.

But please do not remain in pain; 

your daughter did not die in vain.

Her voice grown weak, her frame so small,

yet lessons she did teach to all:

that love endures and life is prized -

though fading from her young blue eyes.

Now all those gathered on that day

will find new meaning when they pray, 

for all those know this world has still

true friendship, love and strength of will.

And all those know within their hearts

the pain that’s felt when one departs,

and joy that’s felt when one is free

of earthly strife and misery.

Please let fond memories sustain, 

for her sad death was not in vain.

Renewed are friendship, love and will

with those who miss her voice grown still.

--Lauren McBride

Poet's Notes: I wrote an early version of this poem years ago for the parents of a little girl who died of brain cancer. Month after month she sadly and tragically wasted away. Everyone in our small church was affected. I was looking for something positive for the family to gain from their loss.  

"Youth" by Terri Lynn Cummings

Youth

Terri Lynn Cummings

He died each night in the bed

whose skin he peeled back for sleep

and dreamed of the girl he wanted 

to please. They hid in a cave 

of branches, sugar on tongues 

and the green kiss of grass

in summer’s free heat. Earth’s 

anchor in the undertow of magma 

slipped through their veins 

to the heart of hands clasped. 

Every smile a curve of the moon

every breath a bud of their bond

untouched by daylight

and the sharp pain of growth.

Poet’s Notes:  I composed this poem as spring was approaching summer, taking a look back to childhood’s innocent awakenings. I remember sharp growing pains that woke me at night – and the sweet pain from liking the first, special boy, which kept me awake. 

"At the Gate of Eden" by James Frederick William Rowe

At the Gate of Eden

James Frederick William Rowe

The cherub with the burning sword

     Its blade alive with undulating fire

     Coursing as a tide of heat along the cutting edge

     Liquid in its smokeless grace

Is the firewall of the Past

And every regret a Serpent

Beguiling us with the fantasy

That we are gods

Who could live otherwise than we had

That if only we had a second chance

     A third, a fourth

That other than what transpired

May have occurred

If only we could eat and edit forever

The history we have made

We should be perfect

A fantasy that fate

Is fungible

That that which is immutable

Could be otherwise

If only we could step back

And try once more

Satan is indeed

The father of lies

But who amongst us has not wished

He could once tell the truth?

Poet’s Notes:  One of my favorite images from the Bible is that of the wrathful cherub(im) placed as a guardian blocking the entrance of Eden. In the poem, I think of it a single cherub holding the sword in hand, as that is how I often picture it in mind, even though the text appears to reference multiple cherubim, and the sword itself as alive and active on its own accord. Whatever the case might be in the Bible, I think it is more dramatic if it is a single entity and so I went with that. Also, I do think is notable that the first angel(s) in the Bible are beings of punishment though I make them something a little different.

In this poem, I take the cherub as being the irreversibility of the past, whereas the Serpent/Satan, who promises that we should "be as gods" to Eve, represents the voice of regret that would have us return to a past and so make right what has gone wrong. Who amongst us has not fantasized about going back and changing something about the past? That is why I conclude with the idea that though "Satan is indeed / the father of lies / but who amongst us has not wished / he could once tell the truth?" 

I wrote this poem in all of five minutes after breakfast. It came to me quickly and required only minor revision. The simple aesthetics see a large single stanza on the main theme with the ending offset in a separate stanza to underscore the recognition of the role regret has in all our imaginations. The indentation fixates on the imagery of the cherub, which I think underscores the blocked pathway to the past and the futility of listening to the Serpent's nonsense. Then again, we can't help but be nonsensical sometimes. 

It is also purposeful that the Eden so represented is the past, as the past always seems a promised land that we have abandoned for a present that is unsatisfying due to our regretful choices. For that reason, maybe the cherub really does represent regret in the Bible, as surely Adam and Eve must have felt for their transgression. Though given that our past actions make us in part what we are, perhaps it is not so bad that the cherub stands there, lest we undo ourselves by undoing the past. It is somewhat of a cliché to reconcile oneself to suffering by accepting that this suffering is a part of oneself, but it does appear to be true that we are what we are because of all of that. The assumption that this is a good thing is not one I find especially convincing, but whether good or bad, it appears true and irrevocable at any rate.  

Poetry Hat Trick for FC Reinhart

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to announce that Frequent Contributor John Reinhart has had three poems published in other venues:

Ariel Chart published "Digging in the Spring"

http://arielchart.blogspot.ca/2017/07/digging-in-spring.html.

Outlook Springs published two of his poems in issue #3: Employee Handbook

http://outlooksprings.storenvy.com/products/19214167-outlook-springs-issue-3-employee-handbook.

"Mother Nature’s on the Run" by John C. Mannone

Mother Nature’s on the Run

         After Neil Young’s “After the Gold Rush”

I never thought the Sun,

an orb of gold

light,

          could flare

all the way through cold

space ninety-three million miles

          and singe

our souls in the time of apocalypse.

We were too busy

                              making our own fire

bombs, blasting everything we knew.

          This good earth, stained with blood.

It must have been when the rocks cried

        that the Moon yelled

               at the Sun.

It must have been soon after that—

the gold Sun rushed its fire-light.

Only a few of us escaped

                              the tsunami

fireballing at a million miles an hour,

our silver spaceships glinting

          in the hot star

light.

Mother Nature’s on the run, we’re flying

to a new home in the stars

        but nothing’s new, no nothing’s new

under any sun.

--John C. Mannone

Poet’s Notes:  While listening to Neil Young’s title cut from his After the Gold Rush “album” on YouTube, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1e3m_T-NMOs, I was inspired to write this poem. This kind of ekphrasis, like any other art-informing-art work, has often been a good way for me to defeat writer’s block. Sometimes the music sets the mood, and at other times, like with this song, the lyrics inspire the poem. A clear apocalyptic sense is picked up in the closing lyrics, which I adapt and adopt. The structure of the poem goes to a sense of chaos in the aftermath of an apocalypse and the uncertainty of the unknown. 

"Camouflage" by Sierra July

Camouflage

Sierra July

Though human he was born with blots

Like permanent leopard print

Eyes scrunched, brows furrowed, sweat immune

Words and stones were thrown from fear, hate

Tears bit back, he took to the trees

Shadows hugged him; light kissed his flesh

Thus he fell to Nature's embrace

A home gained, a place he felt free

Still not quitting humanity

Poet's Notes: This is another poem that came about by considering nature's marvels. Watching a wildlife program featuring cheetahs made me come up with a human character with spots. I wanted a realistic tone; with people either fearing or despising said character. The ending came as a surprise even for me. I had the idea to make this completely tragic, but an almost optimistic last line sprung up instead. I'm actually glad it turned out like this.

Editor’s Note:  Taken literally, this poem has an interesting speculative narrative.  Metaphorically, the poem could be interpreted to represent the victims of bullies and anyone else who does not quite fit into society.  

"The Nature of Marriage" by Terri Lynn Cummings

We can never obtain peace in the outer world until we make peace with ourselves.

– Dalai Lama

The Nature of Marriage

Terri Lynn Cummings

A third of what the husband remembered was false.

Memories hid inside, wearing masks

until they stepped into the world

and delivered him to or from himself.

Half of what the wife said waited with no concern.

She simply told herself, Say it. Do it!

yet years had passed before those words inspired

or were nothing more than steam from a shower.

Yet when his memories were deeds that replenished the earth

her actions seeded life from the bed of inertia.

They infused their days with more than dreams

that boiled like water, churning until spent.

Now this man and wife fill lungs with treasure

breathe and savor their breath to the last.

Poet’s Notes:  Sometimes, fingers point blame at another when issues fester within ourselves. If not careful, the term ‘bad marriage’ becomes an excuse and then reality. Recently, a friend laid frustrations at the partner's feet. Insightful dialogue and action dissolved the pressure. This led me to examine my marriages – one had faded but the other bloomed. 

Editor's Note:  I am incredibly lucky in my choice of mate.  Nevertheless, while I do not identify with this poem, I believe many readers will.  I particularly enjoy the uplifting conclusion of this piece.

"Mandala" by Ross Balcom

Mandala

 

The helicopter descends,

its blades a whirling mandala

decapitating Buddhas,

making their heads fly.

I treasure the Dharma;

I have followed it forever.

My head is beautiful;

they call it the Great Lotus.

Smiling, I thrust it into

eternity's whirling blades.

--Ross Balcom

Poet's Notes: Decapitation is the ultimate liberation. Lose your head.