Mormon Poetry!

[JeremyOrbe-Smith]

There's a great post over at By Common Consent about Gilda Trillim's early-20th-century LDS poetry. Fantastic stuff:

My Turn on Earth by Gilda Trillim

I sing in praise of the High God!

Material Father.

Embodied Mother.

He that weeps.

She that worries and cries.

Praise Him!

Praise Her!

For they stood and said, “These!”

Praise them we are these!

“And these will be made these!”

And lo.

And lo.

There was a place.

There was a space.

Where matter was not yet matter.

Unorganized.

Wandering.

Here and there ascatter.

(The Spell)

Knot it.

Bind it.

Fasten it with glue.

Hold it.

Twist it.

Into a matter stew.

Shrink it.

Crush it.

Until it’s just a tittle.

Pack it.

Stack it.

Until it cannot wiggle.

Until . . . ?

Until Bang!

Until KaBoom!

Expanding space

Extending time

And then there was light.

And it all seemed quite right.

The children gathered round to watch

the great unfolding.

‘Patience,’ said Father.

‘Patience,’ said Mother.

And then a swirl soft lit appeared,

Of stars thick spinning through the cloud,

Then another and another graced the expanding mere,

As light through night serenely plowed,

Then for joy the sons cried at a universe made,

And in ecstasy daughters clapped and sang,

For the foundation of delight was in matter laid ,

And from that beginning all that would later emerge sprang,

‘How long?’ his children begged and pled,

‘Before our warm bodies completed stand?

What wait, before complexity will widely spread,

That we may in doughy matter gently land?’

‘No one knows,’ said God, ‘What the future holds,

But we must watch and wait until it all unfolds.

Great is Their wisdom!

Mighty is Their watching!

Praise His mighty patience and Her forbearance!

For the universe spins as it must spin,

with matter in motion,

the laws are set,

and waiting and patience ,

are also Godly acts.

For not until consciousness enters the worlds,

can They be heard and Their hand be raised.

For moving matter from those

courses to which it has been set

requires mind,

and mind matter.

And every act an agent.

And for every agent an act.

But lo, what horror did wetness unfold!

For substance found swift ways to replicate,

And thus began generations untold,

For suffering—pain undergird the second estate,

For through blood, semen and terrors thick rife

Complexity crawled mad in to the universe,

Growing, adding, emerging quickening life,

Bringing blessings though in curses immerse,

Then wept daughters and cried the sons at sere

Earth’s monstrous demands in blood and tooth,

‘Is there no other way?’ wept mouths tight in fear

And Father answered, ‘Will you know the truth?

If freedom complexity and creativity will reign,

Matter must face its existential bane.

Then star bringer held up his hand

And God nodded

Mother bid him rise

Stand still sweet parents swift and bright

Holding back darkness, wielding light

For I have found the Apollonian way,

No need for messes, wet with clay

No blood, no semen, or menstrual mess

No offal, sickness, age, distress

Make it craftily designed and certain,

Forget this grassy, slimish, verdan’

Here’s how . . .

(And the children listened as he spoke)

Tick tock tick tock

Turn the steel precision gear

Now wind up the iron clock

Metal to metal, key to lock

Torsion, tension, forces shear

Tick tock tick tock

I will teach you how to walk

Set courses given, never veer

Now wind up the iron clock

All is determined, never ad-hoc

All to metronome adhere

Tick tock tick tock

Set with pulley, tackle, block

Let all in lockstep-click appear

Now wind up the iron clock

Toward exact prediction flock!

And every outcome engineer!

Tick tock tick tock!

Now wind up the iron clock!

A lone figure walks in the distance, His head bowed,

As the machinist unfolds blueprints

Exact and precise and shows his devisings.

The figure knells and wonders, Is a less cruel way possible?

Can this cup be replaced?

Can complexity emerge from other than freedom,

variation, inheritance, selection?

Is the machinist right?

Is there another way?

The contriver in the distance can be seen

waving his hands and building a scale model

of a universe engineered to be set, certain,

no slop, all is measured and precise,

fixed, so that no surprises enter in.

Where all is arranged from the beginning.

And once in motion it starts to spin—

all ends are determined and from

the beginning laid.

While the Bringer with tinker toys played and stacked,

Another looked at heaven’s ecologies,

At life manifold, diverse within spheres,

Turning, emerging, knots in knots folding,

Living things striving upward creative,

Evolving, ascending, to new rife forms.

Who would enter this chaos? Pinning forms,

Spirit and matter joined, new made and stacked

Together, forged by bold acts creative,

To enable celestial ecologies,

To embrace topological folding,

So severe as to rupture holy spheres?

Alone to deftly hold those spinning spheres

Crashing, in sins of many confounding forms?

Who would stand to embrace such bleak folding?

Such a cross to bear! Against the world stacked!

On whom the fate of all ecologies,

Would rest? Who can dare be so creative?

As to fashion salvation creative

And reckless, to transcend all mortal spheres?

To save meek creaturely ecologies,

And those of keen humans whose godly form

Strains among its temptations sharply stacked,

And who against nature’s lien is folding?

Who will stand to face staid fate’s unfolding?

Against dark evil’s relentless creative

Disillusionment, fierce against us stacked?

Search high and low among heavenly spheres,

Hunt among all conscious, sentient forms,

For one to hold tight the ecologies,

Willingly, lovingly, ecologies

Thick wrapped with matter and spirit folding,

Able to embrace hallow living forms,

And perform an act, holy, creative,

Beyond that which as yet emerged in spheres,

Endlessly spinning or in fell worlds stacked.

Who made the ecologies creative?

I. Send me therefore folding into spheres,

Where I will free willing forms, saved well-stacked.

“No don’t send him send me! Send me. Send me,” ticked the Tock,

I can engineer this with certainty,

such that none will be lost.

For every gear will turn as turned,

and every piece in place,

completing the whole

with exactness,

well designed,

ablely constructed,

fit to all existence’s need.

And all outcomes sure.

And then the tick-tock man of morning light sang:

Brood on blood spilled in thick fetid fluids that drain,

in a broth of anguish lapped by tongues wet—

Slick behind bone teeth made to tear, crush, set

within flesh made to feel every rush of pain.

Watch razor claws that leave wounds spelling bane—

not quick, nor merciful—a constant threat

that mad suffering will never abet—

Leaving on existence naught but a stain.

That fate on creature, will thus fall to us,

and alone will our bleak children fall dashed,

smitten by nature’s relentless cunning.

Think hard what cruel gains come of such a thrust,

where all we love can be cut and slashed—

Leaving us from mortal fears ever running?

Father/Mother in answer wept,

Since in complexity is freedom,

and machines made, even of

sweet biology are still machines.

We chose He that chooses life

over overt design.

We chose flourishing over

mandated determinism.

And they chose the life-giver.

And the intelligent designer was angry and kept not his first estate.

And Mother and Father gathered their children around them and said:

A Trilobite of order Redlichiida,

evolved into an Asaphida,

Though they all went extinct

Their time on Earth quite succinct

Permian seas still contained some Proetida

Fish arrived in Devonian Oceans

With fins they could use for their motions

For limbs, hands, and feet

Are for Godlings quite sweet

And allow them to apply crafty lotions.

Amphibians soon came upon lands

And in doing so formed little hands

They could hold onto walls

And make squeaky calls

Meeting all their terrestrial demands

Reptiles next appeared on the scene

(Some shaded a glorious green)

The dinosaurs bold

Or so we are told

Also had quite a wonderful sheen

After a meteor strike in the Yucatan,

That smashed an alluvial fan,

The dinosaurs died,

‘cross the world wide

Bringing joy to a small mammal clan

There once was a Therapsid from Nantucket,

Who evolved into a thought bucket,

Finally stood on two feet,

And with spears hunted meat,

Using language all the better to thunk it

Two alone stand and watch,

Hand in hand, waiting, wondering.

Could the machinist be right?

Could the way of the gear’s precise turning,

engineered with care, laid out in set

exactitude without play—smooth running,

machines clicking and clacking forward

in righteousness, humming sweetly, into a

shiny and grinding future been

better in the end?

Many have followed him after all.

She turns to him,

“They will worship him when they get below.”

“I know.”

“The designer God.”

“Yes.”

“Omnipotent.”

“Yes, working though consciousness has its limitations. Much better the myth of the God who can engineer any end.”

“Omniscient.”

“Yes. In a deterministic world if you know the initial conditions all else follows. There is great comfort in such a system.”

“Omnipresent.”

Looking down and spreading his arms he answers, “And here I am that I am. An object. Made of matter like them.”

She laughs, “Yes. Like them. Our children.”

“They will build machines great and complex.”

“It’s what they do with them that matters.”

“Yes.”

“I wonder, will they care for the world? Will they know the time that went into that cactus? That flower. That snake, that bird in bright plumage a half billion years in the making? Will they treasure the emergence?”

“We shall see.”

He looks across the expanse, “Existence is hard.”

“Yes.”

“We must prepare them for it.”

“Yes.”

“We are not machines.”

“No. But emergence has its pleasures.”

“Yes.”

Sperm, egg, wet cells, sticky fluids spilling, sloppy, silly things

slide across membranes inexact, error prone

accidents of selection slip, flesh swings,

through channels forming rough and brittle bone,

genes slip and slide through motions mostly right,

but cough and jerk from time to time, hiccup trip,

springs unwind, chemicals push through and fight,

splashing nonsense far and wide, loosing grip.

But from the grass the cheetah bolts, relentless.

Clear eyes focused on motion swift, fleeing.

Fleet legs stretching, back—a coiled spring, exactness.

Retractable claws in air stretch, seizing.

Chaos from below; quite a messy show,

But from above; bides beauty’s steadfast flow.

The children want the parents to hurry things along.

Evolution works at its own pace, selecting from

among the random variation, passing it on though

time, slowly. There are many false starts. Much waste.

The children become impatient.

Can you not by force move things forward?

Just a little stir of the pot?

To hurry things along a bit?

Must consciousness be the only influence?

Just a little stir of the pot,

would make the stirrer culpable, so

must consciousness be the only influence,

as matter in motion does what it will,

Would make the stirrer culpable? So?

Bodies need to find joy,

as matter in motion does what it will,

with spirit to guide it to new ends.

Bodies need to find joy,

true, and claim those courses

with spirit to guide it to new ends.

But spirit needs a consciousness if it is to find expression

true, and claim those courses

shadowed by force and law.

For a spirit needs a consciousness to find its expression

in the courses through which matter flows

Shadowed by force and law,

constrain all, even I,

in the courses through which matter flows

from consciousness to consciousness.

Constrain all, even I,

so through soft influence I push,

from consciousness to consciousness,

my work to do,

So through soft influence I push

through you to put matter into motion,

my work to do,

only though you.

Through you to put matter into motion

all my glory, all my love is expressed.

Only through you

can the pot be stirred at all.

And so the children watched as things unfolded, emerged,

what wonders they beheld as things blossomed into being.

“Look, that Toodon goes upon two legs!

Its brain is large? Will it be our home?

Wait and see my children. Wait and see?

But no, a meteor strikes and all hope ends.

But on that planet,

in that galaxy over there,

is that language?

On that one, hands?

On that far planet,

song like those in the heavens are sung?

There! There is an orb where intelligence reigns,

where behemoths use their trunks for tools,

then fashion more of rock and stone.

Will that do? It’s not like you in form, but it will do.

See they love and talk and sing like angels too?

Consciousness is there. Is it not? Can we go?

Patience my children, wait and see, perhaps for another,

but not for you.

Then . . . what’s this? Little insectivores develop little hands,

Their eyes are focused straight ahead.

We watch as selection does its work,

on variations, random

threads, passing down generations of

these tree dwellers

chattering free.

Cross your fingers. Hold your breath.

A promising beginning sure.

Sociality makes their brains to grow,

their repertoire of sounds

and gestures grow and mount.

Can it be so? They seem familiar.

Their tail grows smaller, the brain gets larger.

Please, oh please. Let the tail go. Let it go!

Let it go away.

And it does. Down from the trees they come

and soon walking

develop a smooth and careful gait.

They hunt.

From rocks

they hammer tools.

One of the children cries:

“What a piece of work is protoman! how noble in reason!

how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how

express and admirable! in action how like an angel!

in apprehension how like a god!”

Are they conscious

in just the right way?

Are the categories in place?

Can they reason, can they feel?

Can you touch their minds dear

God? Can you thus enter now

and influence the universe?

And there, in Earth’s glades,

A male and a female

Human squat across from each other.

A gourd of red ocher in the male’s hand,

Each dip a finger,

into the bowl.

And each to each apply a stripe,

down the other’s face.

A decoration.

And act of love,

making art.

And consciousness entered in.

In just the right way.

Edited May 30, 2012 by JeremyOrbe-Smith

[volgadon]

After reading that first part of the BCC post, I call bunk. None of the names or titles match anything. Unless solid evidence is providence, I feel safe concluding that there never was a Gilda Trillim.

[JeremyOrbe-Smith]

SHHH

...

Edited May 31, 2012 by JeremyOrbe-Smith

[mrmandias]

It sounds like a Mormon Maya Angelou.

Not a compliment.

[JeremyOrbe-Smith]

I'd describe it as more ... mm ... Borgesian.

Compliment.

[volgadon]

I'd describe it as more ... mm ... Borgesian.

Compliment.

It definitely is Borgesian.

[The Nehor]

To quote Stephen Fry:

"I can't pretend to be much of a judge of poetry. I'm an English teacher, not a homosexual."

[volgadon]

To quote Stephen Fry:

"I can't pretend to be much of a judge of poetry. I'm an English teacher, not a homosexual."

Which of course is doubly ironic.

[DBMormon]

I once knew a Mormon named Norman

He worked at a hotel as a doorman

he paid a full tithe, had multiple wives

and lived his whole life as a poorman

- anonymous

[DBMormon]

^

I

I

I

I

I

[Robert F. Smith]

Incantatory

nicieties aside, You talk

pure mumbo-jumbo

September morning,

Excalibur and breastplate

were found by design

Moroni whispers,

and golden leaves rustle:

Autumn Equinox

Made sure your calling

and election? O.K., now

take out the garbage.

Your hot prospects for

baptism do not include Saints

Alive in Jesus!

[DBMormon]

I like mine better!

[Robert F. Smith]

I like mine better!

So you like limericks (I loved yours!), and I like Haiku. So?

[mfbukowski]

I forgot about this thead, and re-found it by chance. My contribution, with apologies to William James:

This love

this life

these colors

these senses

this peace

the cry of babies

and protests of teens

then white dresses,

navel, bones, muscle, Priesthood

blessings of kingdoms, powers and dominions

then the roses,

Oh- the roses!

And only words to say it all,

steak and onions on a plate

and only the menu to say it.