In Poetry
by Pamela S. Wynn
Pamela Wynn is Adjunct Professor of Writing, Poetry, and Theological Interpretation at United Theological Seminary of the Twin Cities in New Brighton, Minnesota. Significantly shaped by her childhood in the Piedmont and Atlanta Coastal regions of North Carolina, her poems integrate her experience of life with her faith. Author of Diamonds on the Back of a Snake (Laurel Poetry Collective, 2004), her poems have appeared widely in national and international publications. She has received two Pushcart Prize nominations. She can be reached at pwynn@unitedseminary.edu.
My Dream About God
“You do not believe,” said Coleridge;“you only
believe that you believe.” It is the final scene in
all kinds of worship and symbolism.
—Thomas Carlyle, Heroes and Hero-Worship
the luxury liner sails the open sea
sliding beneath the edges of dark
waves choppy, turbulent
the crew shows no concern
we dance the samba, flamenco, and fandango
dine on delicate sweet lobster
smoked salmon, flan di ricotta all’ aglio dolce
drink Chardonnay
box, swim, run
play shuffleboard, tennis
bingo, poker, roulette, blackjack, slots and craps
not one of us noticed
the captain walked ashore last port
the laughing gulls’ loud, strident call
the sea of ice
the noise of the crash
taking on water
the ship lists to port
deckhands leisurely lower lifeboats
hordes simply jump ship
in the dream
I know it’s only a dream
still I am frightened
—I never learned to swim
for Lucille Clifton
Belief
On the marshy shore of a summer-heavy lake
we spot the familiar blue heron.
Close by, a king eider
—uncommon in this place--
with its blue gray head
and yellow-to-orange knob
at the top of its bill.
My friend claims the sighting
a good omen for her trip.
The eider startles takes flight
stiff rapid wingbeats and lands safely
on the other side of the lake.
Not so long ago a bridge fell from the sky
—no portents of any kind that day.
The dead were dredged from the river
as we, the living, spoke in hushed tones
of how we almost took that route.
Newscasters tallied the dead.
Some preachers quoted Revelations.
Others spoke softly of mysterious ways.
These three things are certainly true:
one, I breathe easier when numbers add up;
two, when my friend drives away in her car
I’m alone once again; three,
the eider remains motionless
while the heron spreads its wings soars
circling higher and higher
till heaven opens its doors.
Back Roads
Not knowing what one is looking for is pure agony.
Gao Xingjian, Soul Mountain
Cares stayed and stashed
in the trunk of the car, I drive
back roads winding
through rolling fields, one
indistinguishable from another.
I come upon a man on a tractor
hauling hay and slow
my car to a crawl—farmers
seldom hurry to reach
their destination. He turns
on a narrow, dirt lane,
a quick wave, something
akin to a salute, as I
sing along with Tonio
who woos sweet Maria
—la fille du régiment--
an orphan adopted by a regiment
of soldiers, each of them doting
and devoted to her care. Opera
—implausible tales,
a torrent of extravagant emotion.
Is that what draws me to it?
Lost in the story, my tires
hit gravel. I stop
to consult a map. A postcard
falls from the folds into my lap
—young Audrey Hepburn
with short cropped hair
and bold glance back
at the one who follows.
I step out of the car.
A red-tailed hawk
perches on a fence post,
eyes fastened on the brush
that borders the field’s edge.
Taking flight his wings
flap slowly, heavily.
He glides upward, stalls,
dives downward. A breeze,
a shiver, an impulse takes hold
to rush headlong into the trees
and burst into some self
—unafraid, unknown, utterly wild.
I’m not who I imagined I’d be,
though I can’t say precisely
who I had in mind.
A few feet away
a spider spins her web
of sticky silk on a thorny
shrub, a beaded necklace
shimmering in the shade.
Pamela Wynn is Adjunct Professor of Writing, Poetry, and Theological Interpretation at United Theological Seminary of the Twin Cities in New Brighton, Minnesota. Significantly shaped by her childhood in the Piedmont and Atlanta Coastal regions of North Carolina, her poems integrate her experience of life with her faith. Author of Diamonds on the Back of a Snake (Laurel Poetry Collective, 2004), her poems have appeared widely in national and international publications. She has received two Pushcart Prize nominations. She can be reached at pwynn@unitedseminary.edu.
My Dream About God
“You do not believe,” said Coleridge;“you only
believe that you believe.” It is the final scene in
all kinds of worship and symbolism.
—Thomas Carlyle, Heroes and Hero-Worship
the luxury liner sails the open sea
sliding beneath the edges of dark
waves choppy, turbulent
the crew shows no concern
we dance the samba, flamenco, and fandango
dine on delicate sweet lobster
smoked salmon, flan di ricotta all’ aglio dolce
drink Chardonnay
box, swim, run
play shuffleboard, tennis
bingo, poker, roulette, blackjack, slots and craps
not one of us noticed
the captain walked ashore last port
the laughing gulls’ loud, strident call
the sea of ice
the noise of the crash
taking on water
the ship lists to port
deckhands leisurely lower lifeboats
hordes simply jump ship
in the dream
I know it’s only a dream
still I am frightened
—I never learned to swim
for Lucille Clifton
Belief
On the marshy shore of a summer-heavy lake
we spot the familiar blue heron.
Close by, a king eider
—uncommon in this place--
with its blue gray head
and yellow-to-orange knob
at the top of its bill.
My friend claims the sighting
a good omen for her trip.
The eider startles takes flight
stiff rapid wingbeats and lands safely
on the other side of the lake.
Not so long ago a bridge fell from the sky
—no portents of any kind that day.
The dead were dredged from the river
as we, the living, spoke in hushed tones
of how we almost took that route.
Newscasters tallied the dead.
Some preachers quoted Revelations.
Others spoke softly of mysterious ways.
These three things are certainly true:
one, I breathe easier when numbers add up;
two, when my friend drives away in her car
I’m alone once again; three,
the eider remains motionless
while the heron spreads its wings soars
circling higher and higher
till heaven opens its doors.
Back Roads
Not knowing what one is looking for is pure agony.
Gao Xingjian, Soul Mountain
Cares stayed and stashed
in the trunk of the car, I drive
back roads winding
through rolling fields, one
indistinguishable from another.
I come upon a man on a tractor
hauling hay and slow
my car to a crawl—farmers
seldom hurry to reach
their destination. He turns
on a narrow, dirt lane,
a quick wave, something
akin to a salute, as I
sing along with Tonio
who woos sweet Maria
—la fille du régiment--
an orphan adopted by a regiment
of soldiers, each of them doting
and devoted to her care. Opera
—implausible tales,
a torrent of extravagant emotion.
Is that what draws me to it?
Lost in the story, my tires
hit gravel. I stop
to consult a map. A postcard
falls from the folds into my lap
—young Audrey Hepburn
with short cropped hair
and bold glance back
at the one who follows.
I step out of the car.
A red-tailed hawk
perches on a fence post,
eyes fastened on the brush
that borders the field’s edge.
Taking flight his wings
flap slowly, heavily.
He glides upward, stalls,
dives downward. A breeze,
a shiver, an impulse takes hold
to rush headlong into the trees
and burst into some self
—unafraid, unknown, utterly wild.
I’m not who I imagined I’d be,
though I can’t say precisely
who I had in mind.
A few feet away
a spider spins her web
of sticky silk on a thorny
shrub, a beaded necklace
shimmering in the shade.
