This Poem was Submitted By: G. Donald Cribbs On Date: 2004-08-10 09:15:09 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Maundy Thursday

Timor mortis conturbat me Rippling algae drifts across the creekbed like stigmata from the body of the world. I have come to listen for deer hooves digging into the soft saturated earth. In the hillcrest I spot the muscular umberture of four prancing and angular does. I can nearly smell their moist noses, their hairy hide, eyes darting ferociously. I straddle a fallen trunk massive enough to have rooted itself in the stream on its side. Perhaps laid down in oblation, the moss shroud sealed by stones rolling over the sandy bottom. Stripped of its bark the tree is threadbare as I in the amber sunlight spackling the water rushing by me. After an hour of repast I climb back onto dirt, push back through thorns and trees to the wheat field and come upon a deer skull. I turn it over and peer into its eye sockets where insects happily feast like apostles on the manna of brains and bits of skin flesh still matted to bones. I pull the lower jaw free like a wishbone and count ten teeth on each side and eight on the crest. I think of where the rest of the deer has gone, my hand cradling underneath the lower jaw as if the deer were feeding straight from my palm! There is no laud or Tenebrae here, no palm branches passing  over missing tongue and throat. I feel my own jaw and this is what I know: the pull  of tendon which snapped as I lifted this jaw  from its skull has clenched  The Word, His Eucharist, from my mouth as surely as the body lifted up from this world, finding a wheat field to fill the space between soul and bone.

Copyright © August 2004 G. Donald Cribbs

Additional Notes:
[Latin]: "the fear of death confounds me". Maundy Thursday is the day before Good Friday. I wrote this poem after taking the walk described on that day several years ago while I was in college.


This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2004-09-07 15:25:49
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Dear Don: It is the last day to critique and vote, and still I have not written my response to this poem. It entered my consciousness like an arrow to the heart. I have been replaying "Timor mortis conturbat me" mentally as I've worked in the flowers or done other needful tasks over the last few weeks. I've thought about this poem and been affected by it on a deeper level than usual and yet found it hard to reply. I guess it sinks so very deep for me that I am almost incoherent, for the words I want escape me every time I try to write to you. Everything about this poem is so visceral, so *real* to the reader (at least this reader) that I felt as if I'd experienced this along with you, and it becomes part of my own thoughts, imagery and even dreams. There are deer which have frequented our property this spring and summer -- and when I've seen them since reading this poem this poem and its stirring, sensuous, spiritual message are evoked, like a particular piece of favorite music which expresses the ineffable to me. What more can I say than to thank you for your incredible presence here, your willingness to share your inner life and perceptions. We are all the richer for it, and touched by the grace which reaches out from your writing and experiences which have inspired them. I feel my own jaw and this is what I know: the pull of tendon which snapped as I lifted this jaw from its skull has clenched The Word, His Eucharist, How exquisitely you express the continuity between the Word and all the manifested world which He made and continues to hold together. And "draw" the connection so that each may enter into its circle. from my mouth as surely as the body lifted up from this world, finding a wheat field to fill the space between soul and bone. Some of the most mystical and illuminating lines I have read anywhere. Magnificently done. My gratitude, Joanne


This Poem was Critiqued By: Wayne R. Leach On Date: 2004-08-27 20:04:49
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.88000
Don, a most emotional and professionally prepared read. The imagery is great, the story with its message of life and death, bold and vivid. Very enjoyable, notwithstanding the sadness evoked. I gave pause for a brief second at this point: "I straddle a fallen trunk massive enough to have rooted itself in the stream on its side." ...but, on re-reading it found it worked perfectly well. At first, I tried to connect the final prepositional phrase with "fallen trunk" to locate it, then realized it was intended "to have rooted...in the bed of the stream". Maybe I was just a wee bit slow on this, eh? ;>) Truly a nice piece, and I found nothing else to give me pause, so... write on. Thanks for sharing this scene and journey with us. wrl
This Poem was Critiqued By: James Edward Schanne On Date: 2004-08-23 11:39:14
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.77778
I really like the ending seven lines on this, and enjoyed the poem I've always considered a walk through the woods as something redeeming.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2004-08-17 11:49:31
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Timor mortis conturbat me Well, yes the fear of death has confounded all mere mortals, before and after Dunbar but yours is a fine addition to the literature of the enormous subject. Rippling algae drifts across the creekbed like stigmata from the body of the world. perhaps - something like blood or emission or excretion from stigmata? The word stigmata itself seems to solid a wound to “float” even, metaphorically. I have come to listen for deer hooves digging into the soft saturated earth. In the hillcrest Lovely I spot the muscular umberture of four prancing and angular does. I can nearly smell their moist noses, How does one “nearly smell?” I think one does or does not. Perhaps – I imagined I smell or I think I smell? their hairy hide[s], eyes darting ferociously. [the narrator’s or the deer’s} I straddle a fallen trunk massive enough to have rooted itself in the stream on its side. Perhaps laid down in oblation, the moss shroud sealed by stones rolling over the .....wheat field and come upon a deer skull. I turn it over and peer into its eye sockets where insects happily feast like apostles on the manna of brains and bits of skin This is a lot like my poem recently posted on the poeticlinkweb Swimming with Fishes The silver goldfish I bought at Petco went belly-up last night. Even more translucent now, it rests under the bougainvillea swaddled in gluttonous swarms of teeming angels who furiously reshape fins and gills into primordial mulch - glorious resurrection Don, are you certain you were not unconsciously influenced by my piece, or is it just a matter of “great minds” thinking alike? ….of the deer has gone, my hand cradling underneath the lower jaw as if the deer were feeding straight from my palm! I knew him, Horatio - neat picture! There is no laud or Tenebrae here, no palm [fronds] passing over [absent? For the meter?] tongue and throat. I feel my own jaw and this is what I know: the pull of tendon which snapped as I lifted this jaw from its skull has clenched The Word, His Eucharist, from my mouth as surely as the body lifted up from this world, very visceral and interesting description finding a wheat field to fill the space between soul and bone. "finding" – seems soomhow the wrong word somehow but I can suggest anything else Splendid piece, Don ark the tree is threadbare as I in the amber sunlight spackling the water rushing by me. After an hour of repast I climb back onto dirt, push back through thorns and trees to the wheat field and come upon a deer skull.[perhaps –the skull of a deer?”i I turn it over and peer into its eye sockets where insects happily feast like apostles on the manna of brains and bits of skin flesh still matted to bones. This is a lot like my poem I pull the lower jaw free like a wishbone and count ten teeth on each side and eight on the crest. I think of where the rest of the deer has gone, my hand cradling underneath the lower jaw as if the deer were feeding straight from my palm! There is no laud or Tenebrae here, no palm branches passing over missing tongue and throat. I feel my own jaw and this is what I know: the pull of tendon which snapped as I lifted this jaw from its skull has clenched The Word, His Eucharist, from my mouth as surely as the body lifted up from this world, finding a wheat field to fill the space between soul and bone.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Jeff Green On Date: 2004-08-16 01:33:53
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
6th stanza "spackling?" should it be speckling or sparkling? I looked up spackling and found only the drywall compound. I would like speckling more. Reading the poem's last sentence as punctuated is a run on. "I feel my own jaw and this is what I know: the pull of tendon which snapped as I lifted this jaw from its skull has clenched The Word, His Eucharist, from my mouth as surely as the body lifted up from this world, finding a wheat field to fill the space between soul and bone." The lines are fantastic. I would drop the punctuation and just break the lines, for the most part, where punctuated. I like the poem. You have tied the images together well. The way they repeat through the poem reenforces the theme. The use of spiritual terms to described the natural and natural language to describe the spiritual works well. The contrast sharpens the images. Very well done.
This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2004-08-15 21:56:38
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Good one. ?A bit long. But nevertheless enjoyable. I liked the descriptive tones you gave to this piece..."like apostles on the manna of brains." How did you come up with that/ ? A first I thought it would be a piece on how to kill a deer. I'm glad you didn't. Although I am a meat eater I cannot kill anything bigger than a fly. Nice entry into the piece. I'm glad that you cleared up the Latin. I was never good at that. Thanks for posting.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2004-08-12 13:12:20
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Don, I've made this point recently in a critique of a poem by Brenda, and you've given me an opportunity to expand on that here. Sorry that you take on the bulls-eye for this one. :) The middle section of the poem shows a sentient being representing the observations of his senses in langauge - not much more, in my view. Sure, the fact that you are working in language, uses poetic devices, raises it somewhat from the mundane, but it's still . . . beaver work. This is the section I mean: have come to listen for deer hooves digging into the soft saturated earth. In the hillcrest I spot the muscular umberture of four prancing and angular does. I can nearly smell their moist noses, their hairy hide, eyes darting ferociously. I straddle a fallen trunk massive enough to have rooted itself in the stream on its side. Perhaps laid down in oblation, (this line is the exception) the moss shroud sealed by stones rolling over the sandy bottom. Stripped of its bark the tree is threadbare as I in the amber sunlight spackling the water rushing by me. The rest of the poem is of another order - a man's work. We see a sentient being taking the data of his senses and passing them through his creative imagination, which he has as a special being created in the image of God, and re-ordering, making metaphorical leaps, CREATING in its primary, most powerful sense. Here it is: After an hour of repast I climb back onto dirt, push back through thorns and trees to the wheat field and come upon a deer skull. I turn it over and peer into its eye sockets where insects happily feast like apostles on the manna of brains and bits of skin flesh still matted to bones. I pull the lower jaw free like a wishbone and count ten teeth on each side and eight on the crest. I think of where the rest of the deer has gone, my hand cradling underneath the lower jaw as if the deer were feeding straight from my palm! There is no laud or Tenebrae here, no palm branches passing over missing tongue and throat. I feel my own jaw and this is what I know: the pull of tendon which snapped as I lifted this jaw from its skull has clenched The Word, His Eucharist, from my mouth as surely as the body lifted up from this world, finding a wheat field to fill the space between soul and bone. See the difference! I sure do. This is POETRY, and fine poetry indeed. You've help me crystalize some thoughts on poetry, my friend. Gee, i think it's not much more (and a lot less) than Coleridge's thinking on the imagination in Biographia Literaria - which i go back to for more crystallization. Sorry, friend, for using you as my "target" here. Best, Mark
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