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Ampersand
poems
by D. S. Martin
Ampersand
Poems
The Poiema Poetry Series
Copyright © 2018 D. S. Martin. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Cascade Books
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-4769-7
hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-4770-3
ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-4771-0
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Names: Martin, D. S. (Don), author.
Title: Ampersand : poems / D. S. Martin.
Description: Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2018 | The Poiema Poetry Series.
Identifiers: isbn 978-1-5326-4769-7 (paperback) | isbn 978-1-5326-4770-3 (hardcover) | isbn 978-1-5326-4771-0 (ebook).
Subjects: LCSH: American poetry—21st century.
Classification: PN6110.R4 T87 2018 (paperback) | PN6110 (ebook).
Manufactured in the U.S.A. 03/06/18
In memory of my father,
Ernest William Martin,
(1921—2017)
& of my mother,
Margaret Marie Martin,
soon to depart.
The LORD who created must wish us to create And employ our creation again in His service
— T. S. Eliot — Choruses from ‘The Rock’
&
& (Ampersand)
What I love about the ampersand is its compactness
& the way it’s open to new & unexpected possibilities
almost forming an eternal figure eight but not quite
for when the sentence seems to be over
or approaching its end the ampersand appears
like the first of a hundred thousand well-armed angels
emerging from the backseat of a Volkswagen & improbable hope
erupts like a new sunrise sharply piercing the skin of dark night
with radiating shards of light
& despite the smug sleep of the ninety nine sheep
when the wanderer’s gone the good shepherd appears
with it draped across his shoulders & the lost coin
is swept from the cobwebs
& the prodigal stumbles home where his father watches
& waits & refuses to lose hope scanning the horizon
for his returning son & then he grabs the hem of his garment
& runs & it’s then we recognize the continual pattern
of conflict & resolution of estrangement & reconciliation
& even of death & resurrection
a pattern that is by no means inevitable but woven
like the arms of a twisting ampersand
into the fabric of the universe
The Twelve
I — Matthew
Yes I knew Matthew
the best tax collector Capernaum ever had
I know that sounds more like an insult
but it’s true It wasn’t his fault
his skills were in demand & Herod
was willing to pay a good price
He wasn’t like the rest Rome usually employs
vermin sell-outs whose pockets clink
with the fishy stink of dishonest scales
like a monetary meat-cleaver that hacks us
When he threw parties he didn’t notice
the wealthy tisk-tisking his guest list
swelling with the names of the hoi polloi
even those unable to pay their taxes
I was one of the so-called sinners
at his retirement party when he left
his business to follow Jesus I laughed
when I heard his young rabbi tell the Pharisees
It isn’t those who think they’re healthy
who are eager to get well
II — Bartholomew
Can anything good come from Nazareth from the sticks
from that dotless hick-town on the edge of the map?
I get you son of Talmai the one John called Nathaniel
Nothing like that would drop in our laps round here
How can anything good come from Nowhereville
from somewhere even lower than where you’re from
from the wrong side of the tracks the under side
of a stone? Philip knew you well enough
to find you studying alone under your fig tree
knew well enough you weren’t mocking prophets
or balking at his mind so answered
your wonder Come & see
I get you Bartholomew No one could fool
you No naked emperors could pull
invisible wool over your eyes & so it’s all the better
that you were there to watch angels
up & down Jacob’s ladder that you saw
the Christ ascending to the skies
III — Philip of Bethsaida
When my friend questioned me about Jesus
I’d said Come & see but now realize
that eyes open gradually
that I’d had to start with cloudy shapes
of men like trees walking like
that man from my hometown peering
through the spittle
When the Greeks said We want to see Jesus
I grabbed Andrew fearing my brittle
thread of insight would snap