Volume 1, Issue 2
Transcription
Volume 1, Issue 2
Vol. 1, ISS. 2 2 the St. Sebastian Review a queer Christian literary magazine Vol. 1 Iss. 2 First Day of Autumn, 2011 3 CONTENTS Autumn 2011 Cover St. Sebastian Sheltered by Swans {Grant Hanna} Editor’s Note 6 A Last Minute List of Instructions For Brendan on a Theme of Departure {David-Glen Smith} 7 The Boy’s Room {Michael J. Berntsen} 8 Worrying {Eleanor Bennett} 10 Witness {Lori Lamothe} 11 an excerpt from Bagoas {Stephen Mead} 12 The Mystic in a Rage of Verse {James Robison} 13 an excerpt from Christmas Morning {J.D. Isip} 14 Sleep Anywhere {Eleanor Bennett} 16 The Water Ghost {Henry Alley} 17 Contributors 20 4 The St. Sebastian Review is an LGBTQ Christian literary magazine, founded to give voice to a community often disenfranchised and unheard. We exist as a forum within and from which LGBTQ Christians of any denomination can engage both critically and compassionately the culture in which they find themselves. We are purveyors of fine poetry, fiction, nonfiction essays, and visual art from among the LGBTQ Christian community and its allies. Carolyn E.M. Gibney, Editor The St. Sebastian Review is published bi-annually, on the first day of Spring and the first day of Autumn. Manuscripts of poetry and prose, and submissions of visual art accepted via email to [email protected]. Details: http://www.stsebastianreview.com/Submissions.html. Copyright © 2011 the St. Sebastian Review. 5 Editor’s Note This coming Sunday, I'll be attending a service at a local UCC church called "Drag Queen Gospel Brunch." I know; I'd never heard of such a thing either. From what I hear, the morning will begin with a service in which the pastor, a straight woman, delivers her sermon dressed in drag. This will be followed by a mocktail-infused brunch in the church basement, and crescendo back up to the sanctuary where Serenity Jones, a drag queen member of the congregation, will lead us in rousing choruses of gospel numbers. When I learned about this event, it occurred to me that it had been a long time since I'd really wanted – as in, decorated the date on my calendar with several different-colored Sharpies – to attend anything happening at a church. Often, going to church is just hard. Rather than being the sacred, joyful experience I believe church is supposed to be, services end up hurting my feelings, highlighting instead some of the painful rifts I've experienced as a queer who grew up Christian. A few years ago, I was at a Rufus Wainwright concert in Central Park. About three-quarters of the way through his (marvelous) set, it started to rain. Then it started to pour. Even so, I didn't see anyone leave, not even after he'd played what he said would be his last song. Drenched as we were, we wanted an encore. It didn't take much yelling and clapping to get the man back on stage. He returned, in true Rufus fashion, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, and started to play Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." In the rain, we stood there singing. On my left were a couple of young men who looked like they could've been Abercrombie models holding on to each other tightly. On my right was an older gay couple with their arms entwined, huddled under a Hello Kitty umbrella. And there in the dark, in the downpour, in the middle of Central Park, listening to the soaring voice of Rufus Wainwright joined with all of our voices, lifted upward in an earnest but firm "Hallelujah," the thought struck me deeply for the first time: "How could God be displeased with this?" I remember that moment sometimes, when I'm downhearted about the state of my relationship with my family, or feel my muscles tense at the thought of going anywhere near a church. How could God not love something so vulnerably beautiful as all the queers singing "Hallelujah"? How could he not love the likes of Serenity Jones, dressed in her Sunday best, leading sad, discouraged people like me in the great old gospel songs, leading me, in fact, back to the church that I came from, and of which, God help me, I will always be a part. Carolyn E.M. Gibney Editor First day of Autumn, 2011 6 A Last Minute List of Instructions For Brendan on a Theme of Departure Afterwards, son: when silence fills every room of the old house. Trim back excess wicks of the kitchen candles. Wash out one off-white sheet for me to wear as a shroud, with hands clasping a blank book and a milkweed branch— supplies for long wintery days as I sink into my final bedding of shrub land and grey prairie, as I listen to field mice furiously burrow overhead, making their nests in horse tail grass, and tall razor weeds. Finally, fold up these words. Carefully rend the paper into multiple scraps. Release them into a scattering flock of syllables, into random words trembling across the brief horizon line, the thin new division that now lingers heavily, yet temporarily between you and me. David-Glen Smith 7 The Boy’s Room T he carpet quaked beneath the Reverend’s heavy footsteps as he followed Mrs. Hebert to her son’s room. He tapped upon the Clean Up After Your Dog and Men’s Restroom signs on the door, making a metallic ring that thundered in Mrs. Hebert’s ear. “You allow him to possess stolen paraphernalia?” asked the Reverend. “Tim thinks they’re funny,” she responded. The Reverend’s eyebrows rose into his hair. “I suggest your husband fix his sense of humor. Theses signs clearly allude to the queer lifestyle. The dog sign bespeaks of the homoerotic obsession with the sphincter. And pretending his bedroom is a male lavatory is simply obscene, not to mention very dangerous.” Opening the door, the Reverend immediately looked down, shook his head, and slightly hissed, “What I don’t see are any clothes on the floor. Telling.” “He’s always been a neat boy.” “Extremely telling.” Boys who enjoy Mrs. Hebert’s eyes twitched. As the Reverend aggressive female stalked every inch of the boy’s room, her left hand music often folded a small note pad into itself. Its pages began to empathize with disintegrate from the pool of sweat gathering in her unfulfilled, palm. feminine desires. “Usually, when a young man only has He needs to listen Superheroes on his walls, he does so because it’s a safe to healthier artists. way to fantasize about men. These posters have to go,” he said, staring into Batman’s blank eyes. “Wall decorations are indeed the most difficult because you shouldn’t revert to cars, guns, and pin-ups. Even movie or music posters are problematic. I’d suggest 3-D art or reprints of safe, classic art. Something architectural, like Escher’s ‘Relativity’ perhaps.” Mrs. Hebert relaxed her left hand to take notes. The Reverend sat down at the desk and began clicking through the files in the boy’s green laptop. He pulled out earphones from his coat pocket and plugged them in. Several minutes passed without any words, merely faint groans from the Reverend’s throat. Mrs. Hebert’s heart gradually followed the rhythm of the keyboard’s quick, harsh chatter. As the Reverend twisted the chair to look at her, it screeched, prompting Mrs. Hebert to stand at attention. “Your son downloads mostly female musicians. I’m not familiar with Sleater-Kinney, but Dig Me Out must be a reference to analingus. Boys who enjoy aggressive female music often empathize with unfulfilled, feminine desires. He needs to listen to healthier artists. I suggest the classics. Tchaikovsky, Barber, Schubert, and the like.” He paused to lick his lips. “Now, the lack of pornography suggests that he worries about anyone discovering his sexual preference. Most heterosexual 8 teenagers proudly display the debauched images they acquire. Homosexual gays, however, are like thieving locusts. They never forget to cover their indecorous tracks.” “We once found him sneaking a video from Tim’s porn collection if that helps.” “Tim has a porn collection?” The question reverberated through the entire house. “Oh. Oh dear. I mean I . . . uh . . . he . . . Oh my.” “Listen, Mrs. Hebert, because this statistic will shock you. Ninety-three percent of children whose parents own salacious materials become sexually voracious by the age of twelve. Even if your husband’s vulgar collection is purely heterosexual, your son could still enjoy fifty percent of what he sees. If Tim has mostly lesbianic videos, your son might not enjoy what he sees, but put two and two together and realize if women can have fornicative relations without a man then men could have coital intercourse without a female. You must ask your husband to discard his lewd materials immediately.” She nodded. “Good. Now, let’s discuss how to gay-proof your kitchen and living room. I think you’re really going to love my recommendations. To be honest, Mrs. Hebert, you should’ve called me years ago.” Michael J. Berntsen 9 Worrying Eleanor Bennett 10 Witness Normally, Inquisitorial tribunals were supposed to hear witness testimony against the accused and base any verdict upon such testimony, but in this case the only witness called was the accused herself.. . In the end, Cauchon would convict her on the cross-dressing charge. —Joan of Arc, a brief biography The voices always stood off to one side and when I turned to look at the light head on it swerved out of vision at the last second, blinding. You say I’m mad because I cut my hair short, wore amour into battle—yet the king before believed he was made of glass, had iron rods sewn into his clothes so he wouldn’t break. You want me to kneel before you and dial the precise combination for femininity— drape my virginity in white, ravel out my hair and let you climb until you reach satisfaction. Listen: before the next feast you will burn my body three times, sweep my bones into a sack and hold it under running water. Listen: tomorrow lightning will tattoo its image across the executioner’s chest. In every dream you will wander lost in a landscape of nightmare. Lori Lathome 11 from Bagoas Now we are dissolute. Now evaporative spirits rain up, and how shall I find you? Look. Snow is falling, its wet feathers prayers of spring, and I was only sleeping, some seer in fever, but what do these words mean when your arms are so close, when this tent has their heat, and outside there's just the heavens? Come, my lord, the men have struck water and I must say nothing of all that I dreamed. Stephen Mead 12 The Mystic in a Rage of Verse She refuses to discover anatomy in the whorls of a jonquil. She is a force on the beach writing, a demiurge ablaze and browned in August heat, making the cosmos not aright, but again. I am about repudiation of the void, she says, an opening of ends. With me all is weaponized and I refute haze to cast hard lines of light. The waters are a complete gray, she says, beneath my fishing osprey. My forests I name blue and the shark will say, “This eye is stone, this flesh scours. I kill.” Lavender moths will drop as leaves or rise on gusts of steam, a target on each wing. I am not who am, but emulate in scars of black on white the asterisks in the snowbright sand, tracks of His passing texts. I give what will suffice. I’ll caulk fissures between sense and non, do violence to the link of event and consequence. Abide nothing but the photo-real, hear nothing but the tape transcribed. The green grasshopper, black locust, these machines will still tick and clatter in my pastures by a stream still made iodine by His sunset. I’ll report in the terms of a contract litigated and signed: Is. But to absent yourself entirely, (she says) is to be already dead. I must say what nobody yet knows, even me. James Robison 13 from Christmas Morning What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams? Wallace Stevens I Satisfaction of skin, uncovered, uncaring, glowing, and white As the souls of Saints who rose hours before to scurry Across hard tar and streetlights, in the pungent morning mists— Touched with aromas of coffee and skin and fresh cut pine— And a calloused hand raised toward heaven, on his pillow, Scatter all thoughts of divine intervention or power of prayer. He dreams in pieces, like frames of a film: a baby cries And, behind his eyes, he sees the sound wake the world, And, then, there are kings, then cows, then angels, then carols and lights Strung through green pine trees and Charlie Brown’s sad jazz That takes Charlie and his thoughts to Bethlehem— Jazz like life, caught between birth and death, joy and grief. A morning’s mind, caught between birth and death, joy and grief, As the sound of the street, the hum of cars, December’s cool steel air Invading the natural and warm spaces of sleep—he wakes. VI Heaven, they say, has no winter or want Or sleepy, mornings-after with cream in our coffee— There, it is always summer, always warm Always the temperature of contentment, a languid Flow of good after good, like pissing in a pool. It is, they say, like returning to our mothers’ wombs And, in that, it is delightful, like a dream— Dreams, though, end at dawn, run quickly from memory. Heaven does not end, but is, and ever shall be A realm of clouds too supple and translucent To hold Ella Fitzgerald’s happy, heavy voice up Or keep Billie Holiday’s head from falling through cirrus. Heaven, with perfect gold streets and high arcing cedars Would be a crass backdrop to Charlie Brown and his tree Or Christmas morning with a man and a man in sheets. 14 VIII He hears, “Hark! The herald angels sing, Christ Is born…” Suddenly, the morning and their bodies are covered By release, the warm and shiny bells of children’s voices outside Bundled in scarlet wool scarves, singing… We exist between moments, he thinks, moments Of wonder at a winter black sky and a Star, Of kisses that taste both sweet and uncertain, Of Christmas mornings, all mornings, of trees and lovers— Birds sing to us at night, the moon Assures us that lonely is eternal, but friendly, We trace a Hand in each touch Of smooth pebbles at the river, or a dog’s loving tongue, And the question of God, of purpose, of us Dissipates in the wake of an embrace, a baby With her head sunk in the cleft of your shoulder, asleep. J.D. Isip 15 Sleep Anywhere Eleanor Bennett 16 The Water Ghost Y ou feel you have the right idea. A dead woman now, sober at last, you go back to the small place in your past like the ghost of Emily did in her own in Our Town. Your son, legally blind since birth, is twenty-five now, and you from the perspective of death are watching yourself walking down the steps into this summer home on the water, a house which you are planning to sell. This is a middle moment back then. You have not yet quite taken hold of your life, but you soon will. The whole place is ensconced in darkness, and as if to compensate for your uncertainty, your son immediately takes off his coat and starts playing at the old piano—in the moonlight, which is flashing up from the bay. There is no comfort he needs now (although you can think of many instances in the past when he did), because his lover—another man—will soon be arriving and they will be sleeping together under your roof for the first time. The child who was so bald-faced, who was so ragged in his gestures, is moving on ahead as well. There is a quiet severance going on as he plays, and you, as the person you were then, turn on the electric lights for your sake, which causes all the furniture to jump into view (it is cast-off, higher-end Salvation Army stuff, worthy of a summer home). Meanwhile Jason, your son, is perfectly easy, and even knows—and has said so—that it is high tide tonight. This is the moment you revisit as a ghost—as in the story, “The Water Ghost,” which you used to read to him from Ghosts, Ghosts, Ghosts when he was a child—perhaps his favorite story—this ghost, this you, carries and trails water with her wherever she goes. Seaweed is in her hands. The ocean has saturated her garments. She is so sodden she can give onlookers pneumonia, and although you do not do that, your grief feels so spectacular that you emit tracks of tears at every corner of your chosen recollected life. Someone is at the door of the summer home—your niece who has brought down a harp on a kind of trial basis. She has brought it from many miles off, knowing of your emerging interest. It is called a Gothic harp and has nineteen strings. Suddenly Jason’s, your son’s, music has stopped, and you consider how, as the ghost, that fifteen years from now, you could and will have your own special vocation—you will sit in operating rooms and change the very pulse of other human beings. In paper hat and light-blue clinical gown, you will feel the notes of the harp sounding in your body—notes which will heal others, as they lie there under surgery. It is called entrainment. The Dutch scientist back in the seventeenth century was right—what he had discovered when he put two swinging pendulums side by side and they coordinated themselves is true also of music and a beating heart; the notes reorder the circulation. In this sense, even Handel can work magic on human tissue, on pulse, causing an eventual and real resurrection of the body. But now in this summer home, watching yourself at the brink of your career, you know that this apex of achievement will not be enough 17 to keep you alive. The niece leaves and your son’s lover soon arrives in her stead, and suddenly you observe yourself alone at that window and you pattern out within you all the loneliness that comes from having a son who will be happy sleeping with a forest ranger lover, that comes from having comforted a child who depended entirely on you for many years but is now flying, or getting ready to fly, like a spirit out of the summer home, which will soon be sold. But here you are at that waterfront window looking at the high tide, as you revisit in memory a classroom, fifteen years earlier. That is, you watch yourself remembering, in that moonlight scene, with Jason having finished at the piano, back to another moment. You’re with Jason again, and he’s ten years old and crying. Even though he’s been through this many times before—a first day at school—he’s forgotten he’s different than the rest. He’s unsighted, as they would say in those days, and he will have to follow what goes on during each subject very, very slowly. He’s In this sense, even Handel can realizing this again, after the summer. He’s work magic on human tissue, on crying, and you comfort him, as his mother, pulse, causing an eventual and and your hands are strong. You say, “You’ll go real resurrection of the body. back to the Lighthouse for the Blind and they will help. I’ll drive you myself after work.” You say this, because your husband, Bill, is no good at compassion right now. He’s busy advancing a cartoon corner in syndicated papers, and it is becoming quite the thing. It’s called "Don’t Even Go There". The classroom is filled with the smell of old books, some of them on faraway shelves, each volume a different color in a binding that was popular many years prior—bumpy, as though it were gooseflesh. You comfort Jason and you feel superior, just to relieve the moment of seeing tears coming from your son’s blinded eyes. Superior because you’re there and your husband isn’t—a sliver of emotion which becomes like a needle of chastisement later, because you will start drinking, beginning with yellow bottles of wine which have Beethoven on the label, when you decide to change jobs at last and become the woman you intended to be. Then you will start dressing in green. Even your nightdress will be that color. You will feel gauzy and you will go back to college, eventually to a special school for harpists in Montana, and you will learn to play, starting with a lake as your audience and later patients and eventually even corpses. At first, the notes will help you get through recollected moments of pain like this—with the autumnal light coming through the windows of the classroom, with the teacher conspicuously absent, because she wants to give you time alone with the child she could not console during regular hours. But Jason will find his way at last. Will eventually end up working at a state library, translating the classics into Braille. He will be all genie-like energy and even have his own rock band on the side, 18 playing wildly at the piano. He will even be able to make people bob up and down to “I Love You Like a Ball and Chain.” So you have come back now as the water ghost of a woman who jumped from a bridge fifteen years later, at the height of her career as a harp therapist. She was sent to drug and alcohol treatment in a green nightdress in northern nighttime Seattle. She was mad as any bedlam beggar, and they all threatened her in that particular wing of the hospital with sending her to an institution. Because at last she could not endure memories like this one at the summer home. She could not be contained in her hospital room, she insisted on playing her harp. Where was her harp? She—you—called Jason and told him to come and get you—and it was after midnight. You even called your husband who had taken to permanently convalescing in a nursing home in the south of the city. His cartoon column had gone all to smash, and he’d taken up day carpentry and had wanted to come back into your lives just when all went to smash again when he fell brutally from a ladder. He had gone right into a hawthorn tree. So here you are in a room in what they call Treatment with a capital “T,” and the attendant brings in a half-filled glass and a pill, but you refuse it, tip everything over in fact, and are suddenly out the door of the hospital. Attendants are running after you like bats out of hell, but you manage to elude them once you are out on to the street. You find the main thoroughfare with its random, lit cars. You instinctively turn south, and are aware, only then, with the rushing of the traffic, that you are in your green nightdress. The bridge faces you up ahead—so very high. It has the watchtowers, and the special green signals that belong to those spans that divide in half for the passing of the tall-masted boats. You lean on the railing and consider. Consider how you spent fifteen years rebuilding your life after that moment of losing Jason and gaining a harp in your summer home but you have lost everything now, because you drank over all those accumulated moments you did not want to revisit and so you sky-dive down in your emerald nightdress, and, crashing below the water, become a water-ghost. Who returns to that summer home anyway. Jason’s lover is talking loudly—a broad-faced, narrow-hipped man from Idaho—and you let them laugh together in the bedroom while you watch yourself go to the picture window fronting the cove, and, as though serenading the cove, pluck a few strings of the newly arrived harp in the moonlight—utterly tuneless, for you know nothing yet of the instrument at this point—and advance, darkly, to that second at the railing of the bridge fifteen years from now, knowing that the only way to redeem yourself is to revisit instances like this, asking for forgiveness, and hoping through some kind of process which parallels the Dutch scientist's pendulums, that the resurrected people of your memory will sense your heartbeat and allow their own, if for only a moment, to go into accord. Henry Alley 19 Contributors Henry Alley is Professor Emeritus of Literature at the University of Oregon. His most recent novel, Precincts of Light, was published last year by Inkwater Press. He holds an MFA in fiction and a Ph.D. in prose fiction from Cornell. Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a photographer and artist who has won contests with National Geographic, The Woodland Trust, The World Photography Organisation, Winston’s Wish, Papworth Trust, Mencap, Big Issue, Wrexham Science, Fennel and Fern, and Nature's Best Photography. She is the youngest artist to be displayed in Charnwood Art's Vision 09 Exhibition and New Mill's Artlounge Dark Colours Exhibition. Michael J. Berntsen is a Ph.D. graduate student at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, where he teaches Literature and Creative Writing. Grant Hanna is an illustrator and known homosexual living on Boston's North Shore. In "St. Sebastian Sheltered by Swans" he attempts to visually address the ambivalence of being a gay person of faith by incorporating two black swans (a species which forms lifelong male homosexual pairs) into the traditional iconography of St. Sebastian. To explore his work further please visit www.granthanna.com. J.D. Isip's poetry has appeared in DASH Literary Journal, Loch Raven Review, Diverse Voices Quarterly, and Thirty First Bird Review. His play, WISER, was published in the anthology In Uniform from Slash Books. He is a doctoral student and English Teaching Assistant at Texas A&M University – Commerce. Lori Lamothe has been published in Alaska Quarterly Review, CALYX, Seattle Review, Blackbird and other magazines. Her chapbook, Camera Obscura, was published by Finishing Line Press. Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer, and maker of short collage films. His latest project, a collaboration with composer Kevin MacLeod, is entitled "Whispers of Arias," a two-volume CD set of narrative poems sung to music. (“Bagoas” is part of “Whispers of Arias,” and can be heard at http://soundcloud.com/stephenmeadart.) James Robison has published many stories in The New Yorker, won a Whiting Grant for his short fiction, and a Rosenthal Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters for his first novel, The Illustrator, brought out by Bloomsbury in the U.K. He taught for eight years at the University of Houston's Creative Writing Program, and was the 2011 Visiting Artist at The University of Southern Mississippi. David-Glen Smith’s work has appeared in various magazines including: Assaracus (forthcoming Jan. 2012), The Centrifugal Eye, ffrrfr, Houston Literary Review, Lady Jane Miscellany, Louisville Review, Mid-America Review, Saltwater Quarterly, Slant, and The Write Room. In addition, a recent print anthology titled Ganymede - Unfinished accepted two of his poems. Recently, he and his partner welcomed a baby boy into their lives. For more information visit: http://davidglensmith.blogspot.com/. 20