Threshing Floor: February 2023
π¦ How are things thawing for you?
Poems: Avian Music Festival β Thomas Carpenter; The Game β Ava Hixson; #68 β Michael Thomas Jones; These are the Golden Days β Kate Myers; The Lordβs Brimstone β Sarah Prince; Variation on the Tune of an Ex-Slave β Lou Southworth (Adapted by Gregory Soderberg); Walking to Aroma β Grace Taylor; Trad Waifu β Anonymous; Warmth β Anonymous
Essays: That Hideous Strength Review β Jeremy Abegg; The Octopus β Judah Wolff
π§ Poems π¦
Avian Music Festival
I heard the music of feminine wings sing three notes, seeking for the response to her call. The bird glides here and there, playing music with her fellow street musicians. She has good fun with the soloists on street lights, pairs of poets on power lines, and phonetic fiddlers on fences, but none are the one. A male responds in imitation, but she can tell it's not her true counterpart. That guy is more the Kanye West than the Louis Armstrong to her Ella Fitzgerald. The school-birds take the spotlight, a cacophonous children's choir, delightful in its own way... As a scream sirens from above, I see the local hawk take a terrorist dive, crashing into the festival, scattering all to the four winds.
Thomas Carpenter
The Game
The still blue swimming pool Frozen over by warm summer dew Crickets chirp, mocking my skill No king, no queen, but a court still βFifteen, Love!β calls my enemy So thatβs the name unto me? Partner in a battle most tense A smiling contention in a green fence Strike this match, no fire appears Strike again, no longer my peer. A neon sphere, a vile yellow Its bouncing voice, my failure bellows βThirty, Love!β voice of hatred hushed I wish he would not call me thus.
Ava Hixson
#68
searching the night maze. cast a net across the sky to catch stray angels.
Michael Thomas Jones
These are the Golden Days
The dauntless dawns, the staying rays That sing of summer, not yet come.Β Clouds scud grey skies over low dark hills Shadows guard bright finger drawn snow drills.Β Cβest le monde.Β Where light dances dumb.Β The land lies dark on our golden hours; summer springs out of surreal bowers. Veins of green will shoot and furl from Snow white shadows falling in hilled curls. Lovely Palouse, you are a beautiful girl Basking under gracious Winterβs stingy sun.Β Come now, rise in February lenten white,Β A bride waiting for Springβs lengthened light.Β
Kate Myers
The Lordβs Brimstone
Listen, those who hear, To the story I have to tell. My mind convicts me in my sleep, It shows me stories from long ago. Stories that no one hears, no one knows, Stories that are long forgotten, remembered only by the past. As I closed my eyes in deepest slumber one night, My mind awoke with new thoughts, I was in a town full of people, Unholy, unrighteous they were, Heedless of the Lordβs commands. I sat in my house with my husband and children, Thinking nothing, doing nothing, for I was in a dream, Then it came to me, as if in a vision, My husband is Lot and I am his wife. This was the normal life of this family, but I felt impending doom permeating my dream. I felt compelled to actions not my own, Exploring a house I did not know, Then I realized I was trapped in a body, Forced to see things that Lotβs wife has seen, Experience emotions that her own heart felt. My husband left the house to sit by the cityβs gates, And somehow I knew we were in Sodom. Time passed by as nothing, as I was in a dream, And Lot brought back with him to the house two men. They had an aura of holiness, as if from the Lord. They ate with us and talked with us, and by nightfall fell doings began. The evil men of the city called to Lot, demanding from him his guests to fulfill heinous crimes. He offered our daughters, but they would not take them. He pleaded with them to go away, but they refused to leave. Finally, the holy men took it upon themselves to secure our safety, and commanded us to get out. Leave this city with us! They cried, For the Lord would judge this place. He has mercy, though, and is letting you leave unharmed. Time passed in a hurry, for I was in a dream. We took our daughters, and left the house in secret. We were given one command, Forbidden from doing one thing. We must not turn back, Must not let our eyes behold the fall of Sodom, Or else we would be severely punished. We ran from Sodom, as fast as we could, And the thrill of the chase was in my veins. I began to hear sounds, as though things were falling from the sky, I could hear fire, roaring, as though the world was burning. I could hear screams of desperate people; they could not escape the wrath of the Lord. In my real mind I knew what was coming, I knew I would be turned to salt. But I could not resist, no, for I was in a dream. I could only act as Lotβs wife acted, in the story of the Word. I began to turn my head, fighting the urge, but not able to resist. My head swiveled round, my feet halted, and I beheld the destruction of Sodom. My feet became firmly rooted in place, and I could feel my body turning to stone, But I could not prevent this devastation. I was doomed to die this way in a dream, Doomed to the fate of this womanβs life, Doomed to watch Sodom burn. It was day, but it seemed like night, The Lord had darkened the sky. I could see, through my eyes of salt, balls of fire falling from heaven. There was utter devastation everywhere; I wanted to scream, But my thoughts and words were trapped in the consequences of my curiosity. Buildings fell, people died, Their screams ran through my ears. The streets were on fire, animals were lowing, And the Lord was getting his revenge. He would not stop the flow of his righteous anger until this city was wiped from the earth. As the fire burned hot in my vision, and tears were streaming down my face, I awoke in fear, and screamed aloud for the horrors I had witnessed. I turned my face to the morning sun, and cried hot tears for the burning of Sodom. Then I prayed to the most holy God, I prayed to repent of my sins and ask that my soul be spared from the judgment of Sodom. My dreams take me places, Dark places in the night, They show me memories no one remembers, Show me the Lordβs truths through people of the past. That night they showed me the anger of the Lord, And his brimstone that brought justice to the wicked city of Sodom.
Sarah Prince
Variation on the Tune of an Ex-Slave
The brethren wouldnβt stand for my violin, Which was all the company I had most of the time. They said it was full of all sorts of wicked things, And that it belonged to the devil. And it hurt me a great deal When they told me that playinβ a fiddle Is a proceedinβ unbecominβ to a Christian in the sight of the Lord. So I told them to keep me in the church with the fiddle if they could, But to turn me out if they must, For I couldnβt think of parting with my old-time friend. They turned me out and I reckon my name isnβt written in their books Here any longer, But I somehow hope it is written in the Big Book up yonder In the land of the golden harps Where they arenβt so particular About an old manβs fiddle. And I know, friends, you wonβt think hard of me And give me the cold shoulder for loving my fiddle These many years. I sometimes think that when you go up yonder and find my name To your surprise in the Big Book, Youβll meet many a fellow who remembers the old fiddler Who played βHome Sweet Home,β βDixie Land,β βArkansas Traveler,β βSwanee Riverβ And other tunes for the boys who were far away From home for the first time. And some of the fellows will tell how the poor, Homesick boys listened to the fiddle during the long winter evenings Until they forgot their troubles So they could sleep as they had slept Under their mothersβ roofs at home. And theyβll talk over the days When there was no society for men like us out West: When there wasnβt any Bible, and hymn books were unknown, When playinβ poker and buckinβ faro were the only schoolinβ A fellow ever got. When whiskey ran like water And made the whites and indians crazy When men didnβt go by their right names And didnβt care what they did And when there was no law, And the court was the man who carried the best six shooter. And when they have talked over those early days, the fellows will say: βWhereβd we all been and whatβd we all done in the mines, But for Uncle Louβs fiddle, Which was the most like church of anything we had?β For the boys used to think the good Lord put a heap of old time Religious music into my fiddle, And the old-time religious music is good enough for the old man Whoβs done some mighty hard work in 85 years. But I forgot the work Iβve done And the years Iβve lived When my bow comes down soft and gentle-like And the fiddle seems to sing the songs of slavery days Till the air grows mellow with music And the old-time feelinβ comes back, And I can hear familiar voices that are no more. There are things a plain old man canβt tell in words, And there are feelinβs that wonβt fit into common everyday talk like mine. When thereβs plenty of rosin on the bow And the playerβs feelinβ fine And the fiddle pours out great torrents of music That calm down till he hears the bob whiteβs whistle And the rustlinβ of the corn, And the whippoorwill and mockinβ bird Come to sing for him. And he forgets what he ought not to remember And he wants to make everybody glad, Then it is that a plain man has feelinβs he canβt describe. But he knows heβs happier and better, And his next dayβs work is easier. He has a smile and a kind word for everyone he meets, And everyone has a smile and a kind word for him. The world is heavenly to that man, And his feelinβs are nigh on to religious β¦
Lou Southworth (1829-1917) β Adapted by Gregory Soderberg
Walking to Aroma
One day a week I pass through the gate, Past the grey-bearded guard at the checkpoint, Along a fence line that cannot stand straight, Its wired body bending and out of joint. I step into a swirl of student traffic, Backpacks bobbing, phone-fixed eyes, For a time I join this demographic But Iβve kids and not classes β itβs just a guise. I pass a bus stop, it seems, every few feet, A school like a barracks with guards and bars, Hadassah hospital is across the street, Its gateway swallowing, vomiting cars. To my right the ground is ragged and torn Where workers are laying a light rail line, The immediate view is rather forlorn But beyond, how the Dome of the Rock does shine. Piles of piping and rebar scraps Litter the active construction zone, The temporary fence is near collapse Tree limbs lie on altars of stone. I notice a man just a few feet away Kneeling on a tasseled and dust-covered mat, Surrounded by ruins of limestone and clay He looks up to heaven, then bows his hard hat. It was dry and hot on this sun-blistered day, His sweat seeped through his reflective vest As he squinted and panted and struggled to pray In his rebar, rubble, and prayer rug-paved nest Nearby a backhoe bites into the ground And stretches its neck like a swan, It rumbles and swivels noisily round But the kneeling man prays on. He lifts his helmeted head once done, Rolls up his rug and glares at the sun, Walks through the rubble to rejoin his men While the backhoe growls and bites again.
Grace Taylor
Trad Waifu
Golden haired girl, of gentle heart. Her hands so skilled, in every craft esteemed; Her knitting, fine, as though by magic gleams. A beauty to the world, indeed, a work of art. Her cooking too, with flavors rich and bright; Its savory delicious flavors summon smiles to my face. And so although with gentle hands, indwells might, Manifesting outward with skill, patience, and pace. Yet lovelier still: her spirit, meek, though strong; A gentle soul that glows with creativity and grace. While quiet and subtle strength to her belong, The love of Christ shines through in constant embrace. And so my lady, with heart and hands so fair, I love you my dear, you're a treasure beyond compare.
A husband to his wife
Warmth
A stranded sweater for me; an elvish tunic for you; and an English jumper for fatherβ designs from the North, from the Isles, tokens of beloved places weβve never been. Colors interlocking, lacing over-under each other, a dense and hearty weaveβ something thicker, a balm against winterβs biteβ cables like chainmail, something like armor to shield you from winterβs whip. These are treasures stored up for the still and slow times, the bare and chill times, salvaged from summerβs long-drawn days, knit slowly, exactly, taking care to remember nature: pinecones, thistles, earthen hues,woven-in whorls of wind,Β and billows of honey-smoke wafting from an old friendβs pipe.
A wife to her husband
π§ Essays π¦
Review: That Hideous Strength
I feel required to give the reader a fair warning. You should not read this article if you have not already read through C. S. Lewisβs space trilogy. Do not spoil such a wonderful story for yourself. However, if you have already thoroughly enjoyed this wonderful series, than please, read on.
I recently finished That Hideous Strength for the first time. It's the third installment of C. S. Lewis's space trilogy, often times referred to as the Ransom trilogy. But now that I am done with the story, I feel like I am saying goodbye to someone. Like I am saying goodbye to a friend after sharing a bit of life with them. After traveling to a new and exciting place with them. With Ransom, I discovered the unique wonders of Hrossa, Pfifltriggi, and Sorns in Malacandra. I cheered him on as man fought the unman, first enduring monotonous torture and later besting him in hand-to-hand combat. But most of all, I marveled when Ransomβs greatest adventure, the final showdown between insanity and deep heaven, took place on our little blue planet. And now that all is put right, I wave goodbye to Ransom and his jolly house. But now, I feel like I am saying goodbye to a lifelong friend.
The comparison is striking. In a story, I have all the comforts of a particular author; I get to admire the grace and grit that makes their writing unique to them. Yet, this love I have for a good story is not so different from the type of love I share with anyone I might call a friend. If I were to describe it, it's the type of love that longs for a deep discussion with a friend whose advice I trust: the type of conversation that holds the night hostage and fights into the early reaches of the morning where little else is welcome. But a gripping story is always welcome at that time, just like a good conversation with a close friend.
But a good story provides much more than a new conversation and repeated ideas. It often provides a serrated edge by which you can sharpen your mind to see that the world is far more beautiful than you ever thought it could be. How a phrase can turn words on a page, simple materials like ink and paper, into vivid violet splatterings on a fiery orange sky across a glassy sea on the eve of the night where heaven finally comes to kiss the earth. You launch into a world that is bright and sunny and bold and brave. A reality where villains slaughter, heroes sacrifice and the day is won by the efforts of mice and men alike. In a good story, you're not seeing a world remade to be wonderful and exciting. You're just seeing how exciting and wonderful the world really is.
Just like a good friend, the effect that a good story has upon you is not easily forgotten. It can not be ignored as you progress through life and it is certainly not neutralβevery story can be a new pair of glasses by which you can see the world more clearly or even a kaleidoscope where the magic of creation becomes apparent where it was previously unseen. But not all stories are kaleidoscopes; some of them are guns, effective tools carrying within their words thoughts and ideas that can poison a mind or rip it apart. So make sure you donβt accidentally look down the barrel of a gun that you thought was a kaleidoscope. And if it becomes necessary to look down the barrel of a gunβto read a dangerous bookβdo it with a sober mind and extreme care.
A good story leaves a crater; it directly causes a tidal wave of emotions and imagination. Itβs shocking, surprising, lovely, and delicious. But most of all, a good story will challenge youβit must challenge you. It must challenge you to fight sin with greater vigor and love all that is lovely, pure, or admirable with greater fervor. It will bolster you with witty quotes and stand by your side with pointy truth when a mad world comes crashing through your door. And the magic of storytelling is owed partly to this: a good book will uphold these standards without you even realizing itβwithout it ever breaking its form.
How do you know when youβve read a good book? Well, youβll know it when the story is over, for it is only at the end of a truly good book that you feel it: the sudden tingle in your fingers spread quickly up your arm, through your shoulders, eventually saturating your chest. That cool clear air of fresh creativity fills your head with a quick flash of all the fond memories shared on each page of the conversation, from the cleverest of quotes enjoyed to the deepest of questions asked by the reader and finally answered by the author. For a moment, you exist within a state where imagination runs more than wildβit runs right into your world in one beautiful, blissful moment. A moment quickly followed by a desire to maintain or rejuvenate that elusive bliss. But this feeling is a unique blessing only enjoyed when finishing a good book. You will not experience it again when you make your way back to Malacandra, nor when you watch Ransom be covered with Peralandrian flowers. But do not worry and do not grieve this reality; this gift of a feeling was meant to be enjoyed, not reproduced. Though you may change in all manners of ways as the years on this earth lay siege upon your life, the memory of that first encounter with that unique beauty will always remain sweet.
With all this in mind, yeah, I enjoyed That Hideous Strength. It was a good book.
Jeremy Abegg
The Octopus
The octopus, ancient and venerable, keeps watch over the seafood counter of the asian market. His arms, tendrils of an age long past, grasp, suction onto the glass walls of his tank, crusted with algae and the detritus of a thousand eons. His years have been nothing but waiting for his end and keeping his fellow aquatic denizens in check, seeing them come and go, heads clubbed in with wooden dowels and table corners, butcher paper coffins restraining their briney odors. He had hoped he would die within a few weeks of his arrival at the seafood counter, a light karate chop from a light-tan hand rending the contents of his rubbery brain-pan asunder. He wished for his eldritch appendages to be sliced in tender sashimi with a perfectly engineered carbon steel blade and devoured the ivory teeth of ravenous japanophiles. I stood and pondered the octopus a while, and he, I. He is the grime-crusted arbiter of the fish tank complex, and I an oddity, a foreign curiosity. This chubby, pale 10-year-old has no meaning to him, except as a potential executioner. Meanwhile, the horror of age and inevitable suffering pierces my skull and enters my brain like a bullet, and I feel nothing but slight terror and unease at the sight of this leathery monstrosity. My mother ushers me out of the market into the 95-degree California weather. The octopus watches me go, and I wonder if he will meet his end before I do. Probably not.
Judah Wolff
π¦ Spring break coming up soon? Then you should definitely take some time to write and submit!