Tag Archives: Storytellers

Fantine: A Poem

Fantine
by Joel E. Jacobson

When Fantine falls
into the snow, incapable
of making herself
worthy of even the poorest
men, we pity her,
beg her not to sell
her teeth; then
we practically
kiss the feet
of Val Jean
when he swoops in
and snatches her
from the claws
of Javert.

When the harlot
falls before Jesus,
wipes away
the city muck
with her face,
we’ve already
judged and locked
her out–
and we already know
that Jesus
will forgive her
if we’ve been
reading along.

What we don’t know,
sitting at the dinner table
in awkward, interrupted
silence, is the aroma
of forgiveness, wafting
about her empty,
alabaster jar.

___

This is the final installment of the Storytellers project. Keep your eye out for the chapbook this fall!

Mosaic: A Poem

Mosaic

by Joel E. Jacobson

I am a wine glass,
melted down
gently blown
and etched
into a limited
edition of one.
Fill me
with the most
expensive wine
and throw me
against the wall.
Break me into
expensive dust
because I can’t
see God anyways.

I am a wall,
framed in
insulated
dry-walled
textured
to look new,
pleasing
to the eye
complementary
to the art
hanging from
drilled holes
and plastic
anchors.
Plant
a sledge
hammer
in the middle
of my chest.
Rip down
my facade
bare my bones.
The builder
must have been
mistaken
in putting me here.

When God is dead
to me, your cupped hands
bear me, a mosaic
of dust and shards
and nails soaked
in red wine, they
hold me
until I can stand,
until your hands
are full of holes.

___

“Mosaic” is part 8 of the Story tellers project.

Becoming Art: A Poem

Becoming Art
for T.W.

by Joel E. Jacobson

The picture won’t paint itself.
The idea won’t self-reveal
without forcing itself
through the prism of the artist.

Thick, grieving strokes black out
the self (a penciled-in outline)
and the subsequent colors,
however sad or beautiful
are no longer sensible or appealing.

What it takes to sit there
and let each brush be felt
each piece be placed
until the picture holds depth.

Things used to inspire eventually expire,
end up in the back corner of a tired thrift store
on sale for 25 cents. It becomes difficult to tell
which is heavier,

the dust or the paint.

___

This is the sixth installment of the Storyteller project. Here are the other five: 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5.

Oil for the Lamp: A Poem

Oil for the Lamp

by Joel E. Jacobson

The parable of the 10 virgins couldn’t happen today because cell phones run on batteries. We’ve heard the stories of those who forgot their phone charger but still stayed up late texting and facebooking, checking defining their status, and others’. I too will shop ‘til my phone drops and then drop myself into a dead sleep, salvation. If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is awake to hear it, it must not make a noise.  Because they are not here in front of me, there are no tornadoes or tsunamis or economic crises; there is no knock on the door, no parents demanding I wake up, nobody sweeping me off my feet or out of my bed, and there surely isn’t a buzz telling me I must read this important text because the batteries are dead. Plus, I’m not a virgin.

___

I don’t write prose poems very often, as it seems I have a hard time making them work. But it seems that this poem was demanding to be prose. What works? What doesn’t? Feel free to discuss!

“Oil for the Lamp” is part 5 of the Storytellers project. Here are parts 1, 2, 3, and 4.

A Jar Full of Gold: A Poem

A Jar Full of Gold

by Joel E. Jacobson

The old man spent his life
saving nuggets for the jar.
Before he went to sleep
every night, he counted
what he earned that day
and listened to the rich melody
of his exponential wealth.
He remembered how he came
by every ounce of gold
(either by not spending
or spending significantly
less than he should have)
and chose one coin every night
to hold in his sleep like a child
holds his favorite stuffed animal,
though he never outgrew
his gold. The man died
in his sleep, grasping one
tarnished coin as if he was
trying to smuggle
a little contraband from now
into the country of tomorrow.
It was his favorite because
he didn’t have to spend it
on that one family
vacation when they all
ordered water instead of wine.
No wonder he showed up
on the steps of eternity
missing both a hand and a heart.
His children, meanwhile,
massaged the rigor mortis
and the coin from the corpse’s
hand. The rope was already tied
and the jar already hoisted
when they tossed the last
coin in with others,
as if wishing at a well.
Accounts settled, they made
the servant apply the blindfolds
and supply the sticks
( broom handles, actually)
and spin them dizzy
(to the other side of the room)
so they could whack
at the gold their father
never let them touch.
While they played piñata
with themselves in the corner,
the servant took down the jar
and walked into the night,
a soft, syncopated jingle.
One boy thumped something
blindly, harder when he heard
the screams. In the morning
the servant returned empty handed.
He sifted through the pile
of unconscious bodies.
The boy on bottom, the dead one,
had removed his blindfold.
The rest left theirs in place,
content with the feel
of crunching glass
and gold raining
from the ceiling.

__

This is part four of the Storytellers project. Part 1, 2, and 3)

Knowing: A Poem

Knowing

by Joel E. Jacobson

A boy walks down to the lake,
leaving the others, the talkers,
back in the echo of a dusty chapel. He
makes his way to the far side
where the embankment rises
several feet and sits down.
He fingers a small, rough rock,
comes to know its sharp edges
and gently flips it, counting the skips.

A man died this morning.
Not his dad, not the strong, gentle giant,
but a weak man, a sick man,
a shadow of a man
who refused to acknowledge
that he was dying, dead.
The dead man’s son was there
in the chapel when he got word
and drove home without really saying
goodbye. The rest of them sang songs, and
took communion, not really understanding God
on the morning a father died.

Another rock. Four, five, six…
A small trout flips from the water,
nips a bug, and dives back into
the shallow depths of the little camp lake.

There are only two types of fathers:
living and dead. Sure, there’s the drunkards,
the absent, the violent, the fill in the blank
but they’re a hollow existence in the eyes
of their children. It seems the good ones
die first, but find a way not to.

The dining hall bell rattles birds
from the trees, sharpness from morning’s chill.
The boy can hear the girls squawking–
small wonder the fish ever leapt at all.
He climbs to his feet, the dirt clinging
to his jeans, to his canvas shoes.
A small trail of pebbles plop
into the water. The boy
takes his time walking back
knowing a little more
than he understands.

___

This poem is part three of the Storytellers project. (Part 1, 2)

Hired Man and His Boss: A Poem

Hired Man and His Boss

by Joel E. Jacobson

Work is inevitable
the inspired and the sloth
must punch the clock
on the docks fishing
in the vineyards picking
or simply sticking around
the town square waiting
for work to fall
like crumbs from a table.
✡
I’m the best you have–
the first in, last out,
most integral asset
for your business.
Yet, I’m nothing
more than a voodoo doll,
a pricked puppet
thrown away at the end
of every cursed day.
Can’t you see
what I’ve done for you?
Wash the scales
from your eyes
and reward me
with what I deserve–
not him, not him
who came in
at the last minute,
picked the dead and rotten
off the ground
and handed it to you
as if worthy.
✡
That light rising
on the horizon,
the light that within
weeks fades
the papers framed
in cheap plastic or wood
that light is the sound of
those you never had time for,
those who gleaned a poem
with smashed grapes
and the waning minutes
of day.

___

This is part two of the Storytellers project. See part one here.

A Samaritan Woman Sitting at Jacob’s Well: A Poem

[EDITED: revised on 6/10]

A Samaritan Woman Sitting at Jacob’s Well

by Joel E. Jacobson

A puddle of water
looks like a muddy mess
until the breeze feathers
the surface
and, like a light touch
on a water glass,
leaves a  .

Speaking in metaphors,
bringing to light her secret
story of man after man after–

We too
often don’t know
the voice of God
until he has
passed us by, us
hiding in the dry
well of our own selves:

Eventually he says,
“I am he” but mostly
we see smudged prints
on the glasses
stacked in the sink
waiting to be washed.

There is water.
Look up from the dishes
and see the fields,
the thirsty hearts.

____

Our church is currently doing a sermon series titled Storytellers, which explores both the stories Jesus told and the stories that he lived. I’ve decided to write a response poem to each sermon, so below is a draft in response to the first sermon (direct link to mp3) which explores the story of the Samaritan woman at the well (John 4:1-42). I will compile these poems into a chapbook at the end of the summer. Of course, this is a draft so I welcome any comments and feedback. As always, thanks for your time!