Jim’s Barn #6 Series, Pastel, by John Cummings
Valparaiso, Indiana
(Two dudes lean against a tailgate, one smokes)
I want to be a saint.
Why do you want to go and do that?
Always have.
About all I want is to be human, you know not too fucked up. Holding onto a wife, gussying up my house, maybe buy a boat.
Yeah saints are kind of fucked up, I guess.
I don’t want to be like them.
Sure, you don’t, you want to be well rounded and soft with a boat.
I want to keep the fire in my head.
_________________
Craig Goodworth
Review by Jared Pearce
I don’t know if this is a found poem. But I really don’t care, either, because the last line is so perfect.
Review by Massimo Fantuzzi
Going on from there, he saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John. They were in a boat with their father Zebedee, preparing their nets. Jesus called them, and immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him. Matthew 4:21-22.
And there you have it, the tailgate of life we all lean against. Until the call (or push) to leave our boat, that boat that means job, security, family business and heritage, but also hobby, haven, dream. A saint (of any faith, or of no faith for that matter) is not a mere follower. Answering “yes” to a call (internal or external) is not enough. Matthew 19:21 is very clear, If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. It’s about being fucked up. It’s about following the long, hard, uncharted path, against odds, against reason, against laws; it’s about risk, putting one’s whole life on the line. Matthew 14:29, And he said, Come. And Peter went down from the boat, and walked upon the waters to come to Jesus.
Good news, however, neither we nor our two dudes have to pick one way or another: the 20th century has happened! In it, all manner of human endeavors, from literature to architecture, art to psychology, theatre to science and music, have established beyond all doubt that there is, little yet inevitable, a fire of sainthood in all of us because, to put it plainly, we are all, in our own way, regardless of lifestyle, ambition or call, truthfully fucked up – it comes with the ticket. We only have to remind ourselves of that, occasionally.
Review by Zeke Sanchez
“Valparaiso, Indiana” has echoes of Beckett. I like Beckett and so I like this. It’s a fact that people will on occasion talk like this. It is also happens that the second character will on occasion respond like in this poem. Yes, and sometimes the responder might instead say, “What are you smoking? You’re talking crazy.” In this case the first speaker agrees that saints are kind of fucked up. He recognizes the second character’s wish for a normal life, but he prefers to keep the fire in his head. I suppose this “fire” can live in the heads and hearts and chests of strivers of all types: political activists, religious dreamers, poets, combat soldiers, heroes who die trying to save babies.
Review by Dave Mehler
This simple, unassuming little piece spawned several other poems, or at least a previous incarnation did that included the question, ‘What about your shit pants fear? What about that?’ If that’s any test of a poem’s worth, then this piece has some. I find it personally amusing that fire in the head as a definition for saint sounds similar to Emily Dickinson’s test for discerning true poetry: If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?” — Emily Dickinson, Letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1870)