Poetry and Prose by Writers’ Workshop (2015)

The Writers’ Workshop is a group of church members and friends who meet about once a month to work on their writing together. The workshop provides a safe place for people to develop their own voice through poetry, fiction, and non-fiction prose. Over fifty people have attended the Writers’ Workshop since its inception in 1992, and everyone is welcome to bring something they have written that they can share with the group.

These group members displayed the following examples of poetry and prose as part of Faith & Arts Sunday 2015 (February 8, 2015): Jim Cartwright, Fritz Fritschel, Donald K. Johnson, Jean-Paul Klingebiel, Kathryn Klingebliel, Carol Langner, and Rebecca Woodland.

five lines of anatomically incorrect punctuation

in the frame

inside the kingdom of sentiment

A Creed for 2015

Ode to Terns

Musings

Family History

Because I now have nine grandchildren and four and one-half great-grandchildren, I am writing these booklets of family history and publishing enough copies for all my progeny.

By the fourth grade in school the young ones will have a class project to find these names and dates. The stories make their ancestors real.

Here is a PDF with the full chapter on the life of my mother, La Wanda Ida Engel.

Pastor Don Johnson
February, 2015

Eulogy for Barbara

About the time my father-in-law died, I heard a story which captures the activity of this gathering. It came to me as a Jewish story, but it can fit any group which assembles at the death of a loved one. Here it is:

The family patriarch, owner of a vast textile business, died and family and friends gathered. All were engaged in telling stories of the deceased, except for a withdrawn teenager sitting against the wall. After a while, a look of comprehension passed over his face. “I get it. All of us here are like a piece of Grandpa’s cloth. There is a hole in the middle where he used to be. With our stories, we are stitching around the edges of that hole so it won’t unravel, so we can hold the fabric together even though the hole will remain.”

One imagines this kind of fabric, radiant with colors which shift over time as threads are added or disappear into the overall texture. In this metaphor, our separate existences are brought together, woven on a loom through the interaction of time and life. — or life in time.

We here are the fabric within which Barbara lived her life. She was a part of that fabric, as are we, a fabric with threads all woven together. In traditional weavings, the warp and weft threads interact in cross-wise patterns to produce functional textiles. Contemporary weaving has come off the loom to become sculptures with threads that are knotted, tangled, twisted, snarled, parallel, cross-wise, diagonal, oblique, entwined — just like our relationships. Color and light are now major elements in such art, as the threads can be transparent, translucent, opaque, harmonious or discordant, saturated or pale.

We are all palettes with a changing array of color and light, some more or less predominant – the reds of our passions, the blues of our moods, the greens of our peaceful moments, the yellows and oranges of our playful, energized activities. We sometimes judge that certain colors “don’t go together” but the poet suggests otherwise: “All colors are the friends of their neighbors and the lovers of their opposites.” (W.H. Auden)

Barbara was a colorful thread in our joint weaving – her interests, experiences, personality traits, skills – we can all provide examples of her colorful life. I think of many things – isolated splashes of saturated color in her living room decor, beautifully appointed dining tables with food arranged as paintings, her love of old movies with stunning stars in equally stunning wardrobes, her love of music, opera arias especially; her wacky sense of humor. Barbara was a life-long enthusiast of picture making – painting in various media, selecting and arranging images in collage, putting words into whimsical poetic juxtaposition. Her room was full of brushes, tubes and bottles of colored substances, papers, glues, scissors, pencils, pastels and colored pencils. Her capacity for friendship and her empathy were seen in the beautifully rendered eyes of her sitters in oil portraits. She also encouraged others in their own artistic ventures and was thrilled with their successes, exhibits and sales.

Barbara especially resonated with the work of the Impressionists. Their use of color, color in light, color and light, suggests the quivering reality of the energy of life which Barbara sensed. This is an art in which even the shadows are rendered, not in grey or black paint, but in colors – deep blues, violets, ultramarines in varying shades. Renoir once said, “One morning, one of us ran out of the black, it was the birth of Impressionism.” Black, white, and every hue we can see in the visible spectrum have been variously employed to evoke what might lie beyond the death of the body. Nikos Kazantzakis, author of Zorba the Greek, suggests that we each create our own afterlife — “You have your brush, you have your colors, you paint paradise, then in you go.” If so, we can all keep our brushes loaded with brilliant color, as did Barbara.

In preparation for an ikat weaving, the warp threads are tied in various bundles in order to be dyed into colorful patterns. It is in the weaving process that the relationships are revealed, the colors and patterns of the fabric unfolding as the weaver throws the shuttle back and forth. It is a work in time, as are our lives. And so we strengthen the areas around that hole in our communal fabric, keeping the raveling at bay and participating in the construction of an altered web of relationships. Barbara remains firmly woven into the fabric of our lives, adding colors that are yet more luminous as we find her anew in our reminiscences. Perhaps that hole in the center can be rewoven by the gossamer threads of our shared memories.

Weave our varied gifts together, knit our lives as they are spun,
on your loom of time enroll us till our thread of life is run.
O great weaver of our fabric, bind all of us in one;
dye our texture with your radiance, light our colors with your sun.

Let Streams of Living Justice, ELW 710
text: William Whirls, b. 1934. music: Gustav Holst.

Carol Langner
October 2014

English Language

“Wants pawn term dare worsted ladle gull hoe list wetter murder inner ladle cordage honor itch offer lodge, dock, florist. Disk ladle gull orphan worry putty ladle rat cluck wetter ladle rat hut, an fur disk raisin pimple colder Ladle Rat Rotten Hut.”*

Caleb first heard this version of the fairy tale in an English class; he was hooked on language–and literature, though he didn’t recognize it then. He was so entranced that he remembered some of the lines for decades afterwards. Yes, it is true the teacher in his first writing class had a tremendous influence even before he heard the fairy tale; her voice captivated him, and so he registered for a lower level Shakespeare course she taught. Then Shakespeare–especially the poetry between Romeo and Juliet–captivated him. While he enjoyed his chemistry and political science courses enough to consider those fields as majors, he continued taking English classes. Here he “heard” as he read Paton’s opening lines of a “road the runs from Ixopo into the hills.” Austen’s writing of the known, widely accepted idea, that a single man newly arrived in the neighborhood was in need of a wife captivated him numerous times; he reread Pride and Prejudice each time. He remembered not the author nor the title, but the language: “Es war ein satter, ruher, leisegluender Oktobertag.”

He cut out a series of “Pogo” which depended on suprasegmental phonemes to carry the double entendres, then shared them with the professor of the History of English Language course he was tasking at the time. Pogo illustrated other aspects of language as well and delighted Caleb with its imagery and symbolic cartooning. Perhaps his favorite was Kelly’s mole, a blind member of the swamp community whose words were written in gothic text face. He also loved Kelly’s takes on Christmas songs “Deck the Halls” and “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Someone really ought to publish the complete works of Walt Kelly he thought to himself.

Caleb eventually became serious in his study of English literature, with period survey courses followed with some focus courses on writers and genres. In the Chaucer class, he received a nickname, “the clerke,” when Professor McKendrick greeted him by quoting the couplet from Canterbury Tales, “Gladly wolde he learne and gladly teache.” Eventually Caleb focused on the Victorian period in English literature, particularly the somewhat disparate areas, the novels of George Elliott and the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins.

So he eventually declared English as his major and finished his BA.

---

*Kevin Rice, Anguish Languish Page, http://www.justanyone.com/allanguish.html#_Toc505953306; found on 10 November 2011. Original source according to Rice is Howard L. Chace, Anguish Languish, Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, Inc., Copyright 1956 by Prentice-Hall, Inc. Further statement by Rice on web site: “Copyright law explanation: This work was copyrighted by Prentice-Hall in 1956. According to United States Copyright Law (specifically U.S. Code Section 17) ‘§ 304. Duration of copyright: Subsisting copyrights1, (a) Copyrights in Their First Term on January 1, 1978. (1)(A) Any copyright, in the first term of which is subsisting on January 1, 1978, shall endure for 28 years from the date it was originally secured.’ Since 1998 minus 1956 = 42 years, the copyright expired 14 years ago. COPY THIS ALL YOU WANT. I would appreciate a link to my page as recognition of my effort in putting this page on my site, but that’s up to you.”

James Cartwright

Revelations

Electricity. Chemistry. As the first act of Porgy and Bess progressed, these sensations filled Kingsbury that night. Crown was played by a tall, muscular, beautiful man. Equally svelte, Bess radiated her attraction to him, in spite of her loving Porgy. Feeling himself more similar to the quiet Porgy than to Crown, Caleb glanced at Belle near the end of that scene. Belle glowed, her eyes fixed upon the stage.

‘I can never be Crown. Belle can love me, but I’m only Porgy, Ultimately…. Ultimately she will have to sacrifice a large portion of what she wishes for, wants, deserves, to stay with me.’ As he mulled about these reactions, he realized that he wanted Crown just as much as Bess–or Belle–wanted him. He wanted a man, strong and beautiful. Sorrow flowed through him. The promise had not been fulfilled. He had kept all the conditions–an honorable mission, courtship, temple marriage, consummating that marriage, participating in the Church, living honorably and chastely; and he felt no more physical, sexual interest in Belle or any other woman than he had felt from the beginning.

For the next four weeks, Caleb mulled upon his relation to Belle. Repeatedly trying to disprove his realization at Porgy and Bess, Caleb saddened. Later in the semester, writing papers for his final classes and grading papers dragged him further.

“Something’s the matter. What is it,” Belle finally asked one evening.

“Nothing.”

After a short silence, Belle said, “Something’s bothering you. You’re silent, sullen at times. We….”

“There’s nothing the matter!”

Within the hour, Caleb offered, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It is not your fault. Please forgive me.”

“Please tell me what’s bothering you.”

`”I can’t, at least not yet. Maybe later. Go to bed. I’m staying up later to do some writing.”

Belle awoke at 3:15, found Caleb’s side of the bed empty, and saw him asleep on the sofa in the living room of their apartment.

She retrieved a flannel sheet from the linen closet to cover him. ‘Where have I failed? she questioned and returned to the bedroom. Though she wished to sleep, instead she pondered her question in various forms. Have I been too sloppy with the housekeeping? Have I become unattractive? Have I put too much emphasis on my own classes and teaching.

The following Sunday morning just prior to leaving for church, Caleb said, “I need to talk with Dad. After dinner, I’m driving up to Draper. If you wish to visit your family, you can drop me off and take the car on into Salt Lake. I’ll telephone you at your father’s when I’m ready to go.”
“Are you going to discuss this problem with?…” and paused, remembering his anger. “Why couldn’t I just go to Draper with you?”

“I need to spend some time alone with Dad. No Mom, no you, Dad and me alone. Maybe later, I’ll tell you.”

Belle opted to stay at home in their apartment in Provo. Caleb got into the car and drove to the freeway leading to Salt Lake City. He arrived at the family home about three o’clock in the afternoon. ET and Emma had finished dinner and the dishes and were sitting in the living room, each reading in silence. The sound of a car entering the driveway on the far side of the house caused them to look up at each other. Both faces revealed the same questioning. CT got up, walked into the dining room to look out the window when Caleb opened the kitchen door.

“Knock, knock. Is anyone home?” he asked as he entered.

“Caleb! It’s good to see you. Is something the matter?” CT asked, walking toward Caleb.

“Naw. Just wanted to see you for a bit. Hi, mom,” he greeted her as Emma walked into the kitchen from the dining room.

“Caleb. It’s so good to see you. Where’s Belle?” she asked concern creeping into her tone.

“Belle decided not to come. She had papers to grade,” Caleb said, knowing this could not be the real answer as Belle would not be grading papers on Sunday even if his statement were true. “I offered her the chance to drive on in to Salt Lake City to visit her folks, but she decided to stay at home.”

“Why didn’t she want to visit with us?” CT questioned.

“Oh, it’s not that. I told her I was coming to see dad, that I needed to have some time without anyone else. Sorry mom, but this is just dad and me.”

“I no longer keep secrets from your mother,” CT asserted.

“You won’t have to for long,” Caleb answered. Then after a pause, “Let’s sit down for a spell first and catch up.”

“Well, come into the living room.” Emma said turning back toward the dining room and its connection through the front hall to the living room.. CT and Caleb followed her. “I was reading The Mill on the Floss.”

“How far into it are you?”
“Not far; far enough to see that Dorothea is quite smitten with Mr. Casaubon. I think that’s his name. Does she remain so worshipful?”

“Oh, I think you’ll come to admire her more than your words suggest you now feel towards her. But she is a bit worshipful, isn’t she,” he added. Turning to CT, Caleb asked, “What have you been doing today?”

Well, after the priesthood lesson was so disappointing, I decided to explore the subject beyond the manual. Sure it asks some appropriate questions, but it offers simple answers, and the instructor never goes beyond the manual. There are so many questions available on the topic, and I for one would like to explore those questions. As it is, priesthood meeting is so boring, I wish I could skip it.”

“Tch, tch,” Caleb teased. “You’re getting to be a bad as me.”

“As bad as I,” Emma inserted. “You’re an English major. Haven’t they helped me teach you grammar?”

“Oh, Mom. We no longer speak as ‘Victorians’ did in the early part of the century. Dictionaries and grammars are more descriptive of the language rather than the old fashioned prescriptive approach. And yes, there are still some standards,” he added before Emma could argue her usual response.

A little later, Caleb stated, “Dad, please come with me in the car for a ride.”

“Really,” Emma interrupted. “I can give you some privacy. Don’t you trust your mother?”

“That isn’t the reason. I trust you,”Caleb answered. “I just want us to be uninterrupted and able to focus on topic.”

Caleb and CT left through the kitchen back door, got into Caleb’s car. He backed out of the driveway and drove north to the road stretching from the main part of town east to the mountains. Caleb turned right and followed the road till the pavement ended at the last houses and continued onto the dirt road which turned south and climbed the side of the mountains to the bench created by ancient Lake Bonneville. At one of the wide spots in the road, Caleb turned the car west to face the valley and stopped.

“Dad,” he began. “I’ve stewed over this for weeks and still do not know how to begin to say what I want to tell you.”

“Caleb,” CT began, “I’m afraid I don’t want to hear what you have to say, but…. Please, go on. It has to be important, so tell me what’s the problem.”

“I feel disconnected. I’m afraid you and Mom, and Ellie won’t love me when you hear what I have to say.”

“Caleb, we will love you. We may not always agree with what you do and how you feel, but we love you.”

“I’ve come to realize that I need Belle to divorce me.”

“Why? You aren’t having an affair with another woman, are you,” CT asked, knowing that Caleb was innocent of that.

“No, I’m not having an affair with anyone,” Caleb answered stressing the last word. “I… I don’t love her. Yes, I do, but not that way. I can’t give her what she needs and wants and deserves. I don’t love women; I can’t imagine having sex with a woman. When we do, it’s fake; it’s torture.”

“Caleb,” CT began then paused. “Caleb, I know…. I know how difficult this is. You can make it anyway, in the marriage, I mean. As you may know, your mother and I are not very…, not very…. Stop and think. Maryell is five years older than you. Emma wanted a son, begged me for a son.”
“Did you ever fall in love?”

“Yes. Do you mean with your mother? Yes, I love your mother, but….”

“Did you ever fall in love, romantically, feeling sexually attracted to another?”

“Yes, I did…. But we never acted upon our–or at least my desire.”

“Would you tell me about this love?”

“I…. I’ve never said a word of this to anyone. I don’t know if I….”

“That’s okay. Maybe sometime in the future.” Then after a pause,“why did you marry Mom?”

“I moved to Draper with my father. Some time later, Emma visited Aunt Mary and Uncle Brigham and came to church on that Sunday. I just knew when I first saw her that I would marry her. So I courted her and married her. We’ve had a fairly good life. That’s how I know you can make your marriage work.”

“I cannot love a woman that way, the way she deserves, the way I deserve. It’s too lonely. Marriage to Belle leaves me more isolated than when I was single. I cannot get close to any man at church or in school out of fear that it may go too far or that he may feel I’m sexually attracted and be offended. I have women friends, but they don’t–they can’t–fulfill my social need.”

“I don’t seem to understand why you feel this need. I understand loneliness, but it’s just something you learn to live with.

“It’s too big a hollow for me. I admire your preserving your marriage and family. I am grateful for you in our lives, but I cannot live this loneliness.” After a pause, Caleb added, “Anyway, I wanted you to know. I’ll probably ask Belle for a divorce–or an annulment–come summer. Then I think I have to go to the U to finish my degrees; I don’t know about that yet. I want to make the situation as easy for both of us as I can.”

“I guess you aren’t asking for my approval on this; I don’t approve. But, Caleb, you are my son. I will always love you, and you are always welcome in our home. And I will give you a father’s blessing if you want one.”

Caleb reached across the car seat and hugged his father. CT kissed him on his cheek. Both men cried. “Will you give me a blessing for guidance here, now, in the car?”

CT placed his hands upon Caleb’s head. “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the Melchizedek Priesthood, I bless you in this time of trial. I bless you that the Lord will send his spirit to guide you, so you will know what steps you should take. I bless you with peace in your heart as you follow the spirit’s guidance. I bless you to listen carefully to the words of the prophets in your seeking God’s guidance. I bless you that regardless of your decisions, you will know we love you and want you in our lives. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

On the way back down to the valley, Caleb asked, “What will you tell Mom?”

“That’s a good question. What do you want me to tell her? What do you want me to not tell her?”

“I want to tell her, but I’m not ready to tell her about Belle and me tonight. Tell her I’m thinking of transferring to the U. Don’t tell her anything else. Maybe I’ll come up during the week somehow and tell her about Belle and me. I should tell Belle before I talk to mom, so I don’t know if I can do that this week. I don’t know when I’ll talk to Belle or to mom. I don’t know.”

Caleb drove into the driveway. “I’m not coming in. Please tell Mom I need to get back to Provo.”

CT got out of the car and watched as Caleb backed out of the driveway and drove away.

James Cartwright

Esperar

(Spanish for “to wait” or “to hope”)

The bride nervously clutched a bouquet of white roses and stephanotis in her left hand and adjusted her train with the other. She took a couple of tentative “practice” steps in her five-inch stiletto heels before deciding on a comfortable position.

A rhinestone tiara crowned her elaborately coiffed ebony tresses, exuding an aura of royalty. A few loose tendrils peeked out from the lace-trimmed veil that brushed her cheek and caressed her brown shoulders. In spite of shellac-like hairspray and countless hairpins, her ‘do was beginning to wilt in the relentless tropical humidity.

She waited.

********

I squirmed to find a comfortable position in a not-so-comfortable seat at the airport. Crossing my legs, a worn rubber slipper dangled lazily from the foot whose imprint it bore, revealing well-defined slipper-tan lines. I took a swig of water from a plastic bottle and closed the dog-eared paperback I had been reading.
I needed to save a few chapters for the flight, since it was the only reading material I could find in a language I could comprehend.
I had been waiting quite a while, long enough to read almost half the book.

My travel companion offered to watch my scuba gear and other bags so I could walk around and stretch my legs before the long flight. Final stop: The ladies’ room. The mirror reflected a woman I barely recognized ~ a sun-bleached nest of hair juxtaposed against a copper face punctuated by icy-blue eyes. I blinked and looked again. In just a week my appearance had drastically changed, due to an overdose of sunshine and seawater. Heat, humidity, and perspiration precluded any possibility of wearing make-up. Closing my naked eyes, I leaned over the sink and splashed my face with cool tap water, letting the droplets trickle down my thirsty skin. Running damp hands through my hair, I opened my eyes as I exited the restroom towards my waiting luggage.

I couldn’t believe what I saw. Like an ice sculpture, a statuesque young woman appeared frozen in place near an agent-less check-in counter. All alone, she stood motionless in full wedding regalia, unaccompanied by her groom, bridesmaids, or family. Solo. No entourage. No luggage. Not even a carry-on or handbag. Just a bouquet of white roses and stephanotis. The hem of her gown showed signs of being dragged in the dust.

Her haunting eyes darted around the airport like a frightened animal. Was she looking for someone or something? Or was she escaping? She remained in the same position as if paralyzed ~ not typical behavior of someone on the run. She spoke to no one. No smile crossed her quivering lips. Fear and uncertainty permeated the air around her. Something was amiss.

My imagination ran wild. This woman may be a real-life run-away bride! Did she bolt from her own wedding, possibly just before walking down the aisle? Was she afraid of being followed by the would-be groom, their families, or the entire bridal party? Aside from rapid eye movement and her trembling lower lip, the woman remained motionless. Curiosity was killing me. I tried not to stare. She waited, silent and on the alert, for what felt like an eternity. It was at least a half hour…

The doors slid open and a young man slipped inside the terminal. Wearing shorts, a faded T-shirt and rubber slippers, his only luggage was a well-worn daypack slung over one shoulder. Wind-swept sun-streaked hair and tanned skin hinted that he spent a lot of time outdoors. In fact, he looked like a shorter, slightly scruffy version of the stereotypical “surfer dude.” He paused for a few seconds in the doorway, scanning the entire area. The doors remained open, as if inviting the searing heat to come in and cool off. Suddenly he dashed towards the ticket counter, running as fast as he could navigate through the crowds of would-be passengers. He was a man on a mission. A rescue mission.

The ice sculpture sprang to life, then melted in his arms. Well, not exactly. A passionate embrace would have to wait until later. There was no time for romance or even conversation. Synchronized sighs of relief burst into giddy smiles as the bride removed her shoes and grabbed her skirt. Her gown swept the floor as they excitedly scurried out of the airport, hand in hand. Watching discreetly as they silently disappeared into the distance, I half-expected to see a white horse waiting for them. After all, he was her “knight in shining armor,” wasn’t he?

*******

So many unanswerable questions raced through my mind. Was the young man unacceptable to her family? Did her family even know about him? Perhaps he didn’t fit their preferred ethnic, cultural, religious, social, or economic profile. Did his family know about her? Come to think of it, she probably didn’t fit their idea of the perfect bride for their son, but his family had little influence over his choices. If they did, he would be wearing a suit and working in an air-conditioned office in California instead of running off with someone else’s bride in a foreign country.

So where did the couple go? How long had they been planning this rendezvous and escape? Were they happy? Did they ever marry? (After all, she already had the gown, veil, and shoes…).

I’ll never know the ending, but I do know this:

They defied convention, took a huge risk, and gave up everything for love.

I hope they lived happily ever after.

Rebecca Woodland
True story. Cancun airport, mid-1990’s

The Tao of No

(a bit of philosophical meandering…)

In Vietnamese, the word for the numeral zero is “khong,” the exact same word as “no.” It is the word used to hold place value, like zero. So I got to thinking…

Khong has value, even though it seemingly defines an empty space, or zero, or “nothing.” This “no” is essential, has meaning, and our world would not function without it. In Taoism, nothing is something. There is no such thing as “wasting” time doing “nothing.” The empty space and time are just as important and valuable as filled time and space. In fact, they often have more value.

In nature, the empty space (beach or shore) between land and sea keeps the ocean from overtaking the land and what is on the land; it also keeps the land from overtaking the sea. The empty space acts as a boundary, safety zone, margin, and more.

The empty spaces and rests between notes are essential to making music. Without the empty spaces, it would not be music. It would only be a nerve-wracking cacophony.

Written language would be a meaningless jumble of letters and symbols if there were no empty spaces between words, after a complete sentence, or before a new paragraph. Imagine a book with no margins on the page! This empty space helps the brain focus and process what the eye sees on the rest of the page.

Consider the number zero. We may think of zero as signifying nothing and having no value, but would you rather have $10 or $1,000,000? Yes, the zero has value; it is a place holder for the empty space.

Saying No has value. When we say No to additional responsibilities and demands, we automatically create space in our lives, empty space that gives us room to breathe and room to grow and find our balance.

Uncluttering creates more empty space in our homes and in our lives. Empty, unfilled space relaxes the mind and spirit. Open, unfilled schedules allow the spirit to rejuvenate. Quietness—the sound of nothing—stills the mind so we can better hear “the music of the spheres,” the sounds of the natural world, and perhaps, if we listen very carefully, the still, small voice of God.

Rebecca Woodland
April 2014