Bad Poetry: Sychar

(Pre-scheduled to pop up on Saturday afternoon.)

Why is "Bad Poetry" this web site's tag for verse writing that is (a) deliberately bad, or (b) memorable (after the author's lifetime) as outstandingly bad, or (c) my own? I don't think my poetry is all that bad. I doubt any future readers like the Petras will include my verses in anthologies of the very worst poetry written in English. I have, however, seen better. For a simple nonverbal explanation of why this school exercise is Bad Poetry, compare it with a piece of Good Poetry inspired by the same Bible passage, the third of four prizewinning poems on this page: https://www.newyorkencounter.org/2020-poetry-contest . The better poem has no verse form to speak of. It's one of those things I believe might better be called short essays rather than poetry. But it's better prose than the sestina below is poetry.

At the time (early eighties) I felt that this exercise in form was Timely. What I really didn't like, that was going on in many churches at this period, was that groupiness and "politicking" had displaced the spirit in which the New Testament was written, such that (a) women were demanding recognition as church leaders, and (b) men were hesitating to concede it to them. I lost some respect for both sides, but more, of course, for the greedy guys. 

In Islam there's a longstanding undisputed tradition that a woman teacher can be an imama but can't serve as imam in a mixed group, anyway, because if she were standing in front of men during prayer, the sight of her body moving in ritual prayer would distract the men. In some Christian churches that rule had been established, too, as a reason why women weren't invited to preach from the pulpit, although preaching from the pulpit did not involve ritual body movement and the pulpit hides most of the body. But in other churches women were invited to preach from the pulpit. Women were employed as "teachers" and "ministers" of all sorts. Sometimes their more active ministries of teaching and counselling involved more actual work than the official pastor's ministry of officiating at a few specific ceremonies. Sometimes, though not often, they preached as many sermons as the official pastor did too. Yet these women were, as a matter of church policy, paid substantially less than the official pastor because they were women. And in these churches we still occasionally heard the whine about how women ought to want to stay out of the pulpit because they might distract the men.

Were we to conclude that male preachers never distracted women? Or didn't it matter if they did? A quick survey told me that male preachers at the campus church weren't doing a lot of distracting; the women students and recent graduates I knew found men in the congregation much more distracting, such that few if any of us ever noticed the preachers, a lot of old married men. But those preachers' being old and married subtracted from their "physical resemblance to Christ." He was neither. 

So...in order to have been divorced five times, the Woman at the Well outside the town of Sychar must not have been very young. Probably she was older than Jesus was. Probably she was not in the habit of considering men in a purely spiritual way. In the Roman Empire older women were notorious for their raunchy conversation. So I wrote about her.

(Why "John the priest"? Then as now, "John" was the name most often given to men. No allusion to any other Bible character is intended.)

With my pailful of grievances I used

To trudge the dusty path to springs of water,

The villagers at dinner, I alone,

Free from their ravens' tongues and owl-round eyes.

I'd dabble my parched hands in lukewarm heaven.

So had I come, the day I heard his voice.

I tell you there's no thunder in that voice,

No more was that face one a painter'd use

To sketch the gods and sainted folk of Heaven.

Like any common man he asked for water.

My fancy painted leers in those deep eyes,

Where no leer was. Because we were alone.

Yet I was safe with him as if alone.

I gave him what he asked for; but his voice

Seemed merry; there were sparkles in his eyes.

He said, if I had guessed to what high use

That pail was put, I'd have asked him for water,

And he'd give me the water well'd in Heaven.

I chaffed, "I ask not water well'd in Heaven

So much as home-sprung water, so, alone

At home, I'd have, and need not carry, water."

A priest crept into that thin drifter's voice:

"Such bargains with strange housewives aren't my use.

How would the deal look to your husband's eyes?"

Then I saw all my sins mirror'd in his eyes

And knew him for a prophet sent from Heaven,

My camouflage of persiflage no use.

I felt like some caught thief who stands alone

Against judge, law, and townsfolk. But the voice

Bade me tell my companion, take my water--

All this he knew, yet he took thought of water.

I pounded home, in despite of the eyes

That had seen me trudge out, and the cold voice

Of John the priest who'd set me against Heaven

As opposite. I came back, not alone.

I think he might have said I'd been of use.

His living water's not taken the thirst for water

From Sychar, yet. And still I see those eyes

Each time I dip my pail, and hear that voice...