High Church
 

High Church

I was unwritten. I was unsworn.
You’d see that after a moon in my hut.
We found him one weariless day at the end of the village where I was born. My young sisters scurried away. I did stay. He could not see me at first, so I lay down, spread dirt on my belly and waited a while. I made cakes of red earth and well water I carried, dressed his cuts and parched brow until beclouded eyes suddenly poured on me, teeming wise.
The hours bleated away like goats to the damp slaughter dust.
He spoke through the long uncertain slumber.

*
(My faith dragged me across the desert.
The beliefs I trusted to separate me
from the rage
cracked my sleep, left me here to die like a staked goat.
No amount of water or milk can quench my thirst.
I'm alone with piss and a clenching gut,
spiny shrubs, viper skins, vulture shit.
Left to die, all I have
is the old man's spite—
my final spit at God
though God cares nothing for my spit
just as he cares nothing for yours.
I enticed the mysteries I thought
separated me from the boiling knots—
the bloated, the intelligent, the insane
the last in the train—)

*
They flocked without cease just to take us in. Held their wives close.
After a moon and a sun, the elders asked me to carry his axe to the iron smith. I did so. Not my bread, nor my milk, could awaken him to me. I washed him with sand, frankincense, and herbs. Did not bleed for a blink, those crisscross gashes were burnt. They told me he crusaded, but I did not believe. In the end, he said “Mother”, I laughed “This is no mother’s breast” while I gathered his palms and face near. “Lambs,” he said, “Roses of Jericho”. He drank with abandon and deep.

When winds turned, I laid him down at the high end of the village. He said he’d return, lest he circles the desert again. He had writings in verse on his palms, and I did understand, in that barbaric tongue, that no burial keeps men unloved.

Hi John,

I struggled to grapple fully with this. It seems very dense, and the prose sections probably don't help in terms of density. It might be worth inserting some line breaks into them to see how it affects the density and pace. I feel like there's probably an interesting poem here, but it would take a lot of readings to find that, more than should be necessary.

Anyway, I hope this undetailed feedback helps in some way. Feel free to ask any questions.

Trev

Thanks for reading and trying, Trevor. I shouldn’t have posted this here. I know it isn’t the type of poem for the Sphere. Sometimes I’m impulsive.

I don't see any problem posting it, John. Maybe someone else will be able to offer a more useful critique. I aim to give it another look within a few days and post again if I have anything worthwhile to add.

All the best,

Trev

Thanks, Trevor. We’ll see.

Hello, John,

This piece initially gives the impression of a prosimetrum, but once fully read, it reveals itself more as a blend of free verse and prose poem. There's a lot to admire here—the quasi-spiritual tone, the sense of exile and return, and the textured landscape of belief and desolation. The writing evokes mystery, but I think the narrative could benefit from more streamlining to help readers better situate themselves within the story and more easily track its characters and their arc.

Toward that end, a few suggestions:

• Consider beginning with the third sentence. The first two lines—“I was unwritten. I was unsworn. / You’d see ... my hut.” —introduce an added layer of abstraction that might lose readers early on. Beginning instead with:
  
  “We found him one weariless day at the end of the village where I was born...”
  immediately grounds the reader in a clear scene and gives us traction.
       
• In the second section, the line “just as he cares nothing for yours” feels like a sudden break in the voice or focus. Since the “you” hasn’t been clearly established elsewhere, this line may add more confusion than insight. You might consider trimming or rephrasing.
       
• Stylistically, a small note on punctuation: In American English, commas and periods typically fall inside the closing quotation mark (e.g., “Mother,” rather than “Mother”,). Right now, usage seems mixed—this could be easily smoothed for consistency, depending on your target audience. And as an aside, British styling uses single quotes, with the comma or period after the close (e.g., ‘Mother’, …).

Altogether, this is compelling work with a richly evocative tone and spiritual resonance. I hope these small adjustments and others you might think of help you bring even more clarity to the piece’s already considerable power.

Cheers,
...Alex

I liked this John. Seeing more each time I read it.

The first voice brought back memories of Whistle Down the Wind, an early ‘60s film where some children come across a fugitive sleeping in their barn and mistake him for Jesus.

That connection may have led me off in entirely the wrong direction, but I read the second voice as that of the Christ figure forsaken by his father.

And the third voice seems to return to the first, more female, offering succour and an understanding.

I especially liked “The beliefs I trusted to separate me from the rage cracked my sleep”

Thanks, Alex and Joe for tackling this one. I know it’s a lot. I will use the notes and suggestions when I revise.

Thanks again.