Ways of Reading the Bible ghazal, by Marie Deer

Marie Deer wrote this ghazal while on a retreat with Women Writing for (a) Change Bloomington, at the White Violet Center for Eco-Justice at Saint-Mary-of-the-Woods College near Terre Haute, Indiana.

Turns out that her father was born in Terre Haute, although she herself had never been there. Instead, as a child, she lived in Congo, where her parents were Baptist missionaries. Marie eventually married a Persian German Jew; we have a mutual friend who (in his doggerel) refers to their two sons as "Congolese Persian Baptist Jews." I like the reminder that identity is recreated with each generation (often in unexpected hybrid ways). I think they might more accurately be called "Hoosier Congolese Persian German Baptist Secular Jews"  – but I might just be getting presumptuous here about other people's identities. (Indeed.)

Marie spent time during her childhood as a scribe for her father, Donald Deer, who was translating the Bible into a Congolese trade language, Kituba, and perhaps other African languages, too (see the comments to this post for more information). Every so often she listened to a favorite family LP of Alice in Wonderland on the phonograph, too. These are the kinds of childhood activities that form the ideal curriculum for an aspiring poet. Marie's father recently celebrated his 8oth birthday.

So, for your pleasure, another wonderful ghazal, along with an image of a hieroglyphic Bible. (Wish I had one of those.)

Ways of reading the Bible ghazal

Under the covers; at breakfast; out loud: so many ways of reading the Bible.
I look back on my childhood: a life full of days of reading the Bible.

In Strasbourg, high in the air in our newly walled-off living room,
I am a ten-year-old girl whose patience frays at reading the Bible.

On the overstuffed green vinyl chairs we inherited from the Danish consul
My family of four takes turns, sings, and prays while reading the Bible.

We are completely conscientious; no verse or naughtiness, no paradox
Or lineage gets skipped. These are the outlines my father obeys in reading the Bible.

After our family has read through the Bible at least twice all together, I take it
Upon myself to read it alone. I dawdle over Revelations in my forays into reading the Bible.

On the hostel bus I argue with the children of fundamentalists. It was inevitable.
In our family we believe that they cheat and skate through the maze of reading the Bible.

It is our daily bread, our morning routine that in that time seemed leisurely
Before catching a seven-ten bus. Just routine. No applause or bouquets for reading the Bible.

A book full of books. A volume of riddles, histories and transformations.
We both revered it more and held it less sacred than others who laze through reading the Bible.

I'm sorry my children have grown without a family reading routine. It wouldn't have hurt.
If I had it to do again, we would, as they nibble, kibbitz and graze while reading the Bible.

The Book of Ruth. The Book of Esther. Lamentations. Some favorites.
I thought it was daily life and not just a phase, this reading the Bible.

My family singing, reading, praying. My family each with a book. Taking turns reading.
This is Marie's ongoing lifetime memory slideshow that plays of reading the Bible.

God ghazal, by Marie Deer

My friend Marie works with words in many ways: as a writer of novels that no one yet reads (she is a big fan of NaNoWriMo: National Novel Writing Month, each November, and has participated in that for two or three years); as an editor of textbooks and other scholarly writing (she is fluent in several languages, with a linguistics degree from a certain university in New Haven that will today go unnamed); as a writing coach, coaxing those who need to slog through sometimes intimidating projects; as the keeper of a blog; and as a poet.

She is also a fiercely brilliant word gamer, a worthy opponent for anyone daring enough to take her on in Scrabble, Lexulous, Boggle, or other word games, both on-line and at the dining room table. (Serial Susan has been her gaming friend, and it is rumored that Marie has taken down a few noted professional deconstructionists in her day.) I can't do it, I'm hopeless at such things once the heat is on: I need my word games to be very slow and contemplative, as I am apt to go down a rabbit hole and forget that I'm trying to beat either the clock or anyone but myself.

Anyway, that is a long introduction to the piece of writing I am posting today. Marie recently went on a Women Writing for (a) Change Bloomington weekend writers' retreat, and she focused on a favorite form, the ghazal. She's been sharing some of her ghazals the past few days, and gave me permission to post. I think they are very remarkable. I'm happy to serve as her literary agent if there are any book publishers out there looking for a next great poet. (I am also happy to represent my mother, Joyce Kennedy, whose extraordinary manuscript of poems about Shakespeare's female characters, Will's Women, needs a publishing home.)

There is a pattern to the ghazal. Without cheating and reading about it, can you discern what it is?

God ghazal

God has a place, surely, somewhere to be, at least some little nook for God.
And God has a shape, pentagod or octagod or something, or how could I look for God?

In the spaces between us, that's my line, that's my God-is-love theory, so weirdly
I'm always careful of those growing and shrinking spaces, alert and on the hook for God.

God being every gender of course, he/she/they are multidomestic and omnieverywhere,
Mr. and Mrs. God I call them, sitting them down as I tie on my apron and cook for God.

Mr. and Mrs. I call them, serving them all kinds of healthy-as-sin organic wonderful
Goodies they've never seen and they marvel. I'm putting it all in a gaudily illustrated book for God.

For nobody else would I cook and clean and work like this. I've even learned new stuff.
You wouldn't believe the workshops and tutorials and classes I took for God.

Things get in the way, obviously. Kids, work, husband, parents, you-name-it. But sometimes
I just have to broom them all out of the way, get out my little schedule, and rebook for God.

Life gets knotted up. I lose my way. My shoulders and back are tight and I frown.
Life gets knotted up and I have to take it all and undo, unstitch, unhook for God.

People are running everywhere. Max far away, Michel in a book, Felix online.
I want to scoop them together and show them what I've done and say see, look, all that I undertook for God!

Mostly I need to sit in this corner, that corner, some corner somewhere where I can close my eyes.
Sit in a corner, say I am Marie, this continues true, no matter what I forsook for God.